The Pretty One(3)

“I would’ve told him to keep his perverted little eyes to himself,” I say adamantly.

“Please, it’s pathetic,” Simon says. “He’s obsessed with Lucy, and the closest he’ll ever get to scoring is helping her hang sequined balls.”

As soon as Simon says the word obsessed, my mind flashes to Drew Reynolds, the guy/divine being I’ve been secretly in love with since I saw him on the first day of school my freshman year. I was looking for the production studio and had wandered down the wrong hall, which was crammed full of drama majors, laughing and sauntering along in a cool, because-I-said-so manner. As I stood outside the door to the auditorium, I tried to get up the nerve to ask someone where the production studio was, but I was too intimidated to approach even the lesser-known drama kings and queens. I was praying that Lucy would suddenly appear when I heard a deep voice say, “Lost?”

He was by himself, sitting on a window ledge away from the crowd, an open book in his hands. He had short, black licorice–colored hair, sparkling blue eyes, and was wearing black combat boots, washed-out jeans, and a black T-shirt. He looked older than the rest of the kids, more sophisticated, like he’d traveled in Europe for two years. Immediately, it felt as though there was a knot tightening in the center of my chest.

Ever since Drew pointed me in the right direction, the mere glimpse of him is enough to make my heart beat faster and my hands shake. Even though I know a divine being like Drew will never be interested in someone like me, there’s not a doubt in my mind that if he asked for volunteers to scrape old gum off the bottom of the gym bleachers for the fall dance, I’d be the first in line, even if I had to challenge the entire drama queen population in a kickboxing match in order to get there.

The realization that I might have something in common with the rodent depresses me so much that I heave a big sigh. And I sigh even harder when I notice that some of my flab is hanging over the front of my cords. And the sides. And possibly even the back. “Simon,” I say, as I start chewing on my nail again. “Do you ever think about changing majors?”

“No.”

“You could get into the music program.” Most of us are techies because we wanted to attend CSPA and production is the only major that doesn’t require a grueling audition. But Simon has taken music lessons for years and he not only has a great singing voice, he can play the clarinet as well as the piano. He was even in the chorus of The Music Man last year (because the director begged him to do it).

“Why would I want to change majors?” Simon asks. I’m not surprised by Simon’s response. I’ve always thought Simon enrolled as a theater production major just to tick off his wealthy mother who is totally annoyed her only child, Simon Winston Chase the fifth, is attending a public Baltimore school, especially one that is a school for the arts and especially when he is not even enrolled in the performing arts program.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Don’t you ever get tired of the way everybody around here treats us? We’re second-class citizens.”

Simon puts down his brush and eyes me intently. “Are you thinking about changing majors? I bet you could get into the visual arts program.”

In fact, I would love to change majors—but not to visual arts. No, there is only one major I want, and that’s theater. I fantasize all the time about what it would be like to be Lucy, the star of the show, the beautiful ingenue. I dream about a world where Drew not only notices me, but likes me.

But instead of saying this to Simon, I decide to give him a little demonstration of my (albeit limited) talent. I clear my throat as I get up and walk to the front of the gym, which has been roped off as a make-do dance floor. “If you cared about me,” I begin, melodramatically reciting the monologue my sister is doing in the senior productions. I have run Lucy’s lines with her so often that I know them by heart. “You would’ve remembered him, remembered how he used to smile at us.” I look to Simon for approval and see him trying to hold back a grin as he pretends to ignore me.

“Remember the way he used to tousle his hair?” I continue, only louder. “The way he would run his fingers through it when he was tired or upset? Alas, no! You don’t! You’ve forgotten!” I close my hands and hug my chest, just like Lucy does when she says the line. I’m so in the moment (as Mr. Ted, my drama instructor, would say) that I’m close to tears. “I lost myself and my soul a year ago today.” I place a hand on my forehead and swoon.

“When God carried away our son.”

And then I hear it.

Clap, clap, clap.

I open my eyes slowly and look at Simon. But he’s not clapping. The applause is coming from the back of the gym. It’s coming from Drew Reynolds.

“That was great,” Drew says.

Oh my God. OH MY GOD!

How long has Drew been standing there? I glance at Simon, the only person in the world to whom I’ve confessed my secret love. Simon has stopped painting and is giving me a look that can only be described as pure sympathy with a dash of cringe-worthy embarrassment thrown in for kicks.

“Thanks.” Suddenly I let out a giggle that sounds like an AK-47 machine gun. Simon’s face turns bright red.

“You should try out for a play,” Drew says. A devastating smile follows, which renders me totally powerless.

So I just stand there and gawk at him like the techie geek everyone knows and expects me to be.