The Pretty One(2)

“I could be drinking an iced mocha cappuccino right now,” Simon says, referring to my favorite beverage, as he uses his paintbrush to sweep a brown line across the canvas. “Or I could’ve gone to see that new Jennifer Aniston movie.”

I smile widely. Simon hates iced mocha cappuccinos about as much as he hates chick flicks, maybe even more (I caught him looking at a Sandra Bullock DVD at the mall once). The message is clear: he would prefer either of those to decorating the gym. Not that I haven’t been thinking the same thing myself, but I can’t help but feel protective of Lucy, and I don’t want Simon to hurt her feelings. I narrow my eyes and flash him a look that sends a message equally as clear: put a lid on it.

But it’s too late. Lucy is on to us. “Why don’t we call it quits for today,” she says, reaching toward me and pulling my thumb out of my mouth the way a mother would.

I wipe my thumb on my corduroys, embarrassed to have been hacking away at my nail like an eager puppy attacking a furry slipper. As a kid, I sucked my thumb, which is why my two front teeth resemble those found on a walrus. Somewhere near my eighth year, I made the transition to just chewing on my nail and cuticles, but it hadn’t seemed to help my teeth much. My sister never had that problem, of course. She was gifted with two rows of straight white piano-key teeth and entered puberty looking like a poster child for Ultrabright toothpaste.

“This looks great, Lucy,” Catherine says, as if Lucy, not me, were responsible for the floor design. Nearly six feet tall and with an almost constant scowl on her face, Catherine Bellows is an intimidating figure. And the flannel shirts and overalls she is so fond of only make her seem more intimidating, in a Paul Bunyan, lumberjack kind of way.

“Thanks, but you really should be complimenting Megan,” Lucy says. “It was her design, and you guys are the ones who provided all the elbow grease. Bravo!”

Bravo, Simon mouths with a roll of his eyes. Mocking Lucy isn’t a very nice thing to do, but Simon is an ornery guy. It’s just one of the reasons I like him so much. “It does look great,” I say to Simon. “In fact, it doesn’t even look like a gym in here.” What I really mean is: Even though it still looks like a gym, it looks a lot better than it did three hours ago when we walked in.

Our school was built as a private Catholic school. Even though its two stories have been remade to accommodate the CPSA (complete with a dance studio, an art gallery, a theater, and a production room for us techs), some remnants still remain: the giant, stained-glass window behind the old sweeping marble staircase; small, dark classrooms; a bunch of lockers that look like they’re from the Druid period; and a dark, windowless gym.

“I think we should celebrate,” Lucy says. “I’m treating everyone to Slurpees at the Seven-Eleven.”

“Slurpees?” Catherine says excitedly. It was as if Lucy just offered her a new blade for the four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar table saw she got as a gift from her parents last Christmas. “Your sister’s great!” she says to me.

“I’ll meet you at home,” I tell Lucy, obviously underwhelmed by her greatness.

“You don’t want a Slurpee?” Lucy asks nonchalantly, pulling her sleek black sunglasses out of the quilted leather purse that she paid two hundred dollars for on eBay. Lucy always dresses for the occasion, and today she looks like she’s dressed for a glamorous hayride: skin-tight jeans, her new combat trooper boots, and a red T-shirt accessorized with a red-plaid scarf that is looped casually around her neck. Lucy has the looks of pre–Chris Martin, movie star–era Gwyneth Paltrow, but that’s not what she wants to be.

Although more than one teacher has suggested she become a model or do some commercial work, Lucy is a total theater snob. She claims she might eventually consider doing some “film work,” but only after she’s established herself as a serious actress. And no one doubts that she will. She’s that good. Lucy’s refusal to “sell out” and cash in on her beauty only added to her goddess-like status at the school. As for me, key-grip status is as good as it gets.

“No thanks,” I say.

The truth of the matter is that I want a Slurpee more than the rodent wants two minutes with Lucy in the backseat of his ’97 Honda Accord. But I don’t think I can stand watching him and the rest of the techies fawn over my sister any longer.

There’s only so much my diplomatic, bushy-eyebrowed heritage can take.

“Simon and I will stay and finish up. I’ll meet you at home.”

I watch as Lucy tosses her silky hair and heads out of the gym like she’s working the red carpet in front of adoring fans and hungry paparazzi. I look over at Simon, who’s still diligently painting away.

“What was that?” I ask Simon.

“What?”

“I loooove Slurpeeeeeees,” I say in a really low voice as soon as everyone is out of earshot. “I didn’t think Catherine loved anything except that table saw she keeps bragging about.”

Simon half-shrugs. “Yeah, well, Lucy’s popular and nice to everybody.”

“Too nice.” I sit down and my cords feel tighter than they had last week. “Did you see the way the rodent was looking at her? If I were Lucy, I would’ve…”

Simon raises an eyebrow. “Would’ve what?”

I try to imagine what it would be like to have someone staring at me in awe, or at just a part of me, like my boobs for instance. In fact, my boobs are twice as big as Lucy’s. Unfortunately, so is everything else.