The Pretty One(37)

I have always wondered what it might feel like to be cast in a starring role. I imagined that the minute the cast list was announced I would be immediately transformed into a star, parading through school with an almost halolike glow over my head as a wind machine blew my perfectly straight, blown-dry hair behind me. I’m wearing a shiny sequined outfit and (for some reason) twirling a baton. I’m surrounded by secretly jealous well-wishers who I would immediately charm by my grace and modesty. “Oh thanks,” I would say casually. “I was shocked to get the role because from what I heard, you were fantastic!”

Unfortunately, I don’t have a portable wind machine or a flunky to drag it around in front of me. And my hair, due to impending rain, is a giant mass of frizzy curls. And because the jeans that Lucy had assured me were ultracool and extremely flattering are starting to feel tight, I’m at school the day after the cast lists were posted wearing my more comfortable but not nearly as flattering Levis, so maybe it’s a good thing—unlike in my fantasy—no one seems to care that I have landed the starring role in Drew’s play.

And it’s also probably good that I’m not surrounded by well-wishers, because I don’t exactly feel full of grace. Maybe it’s the three doughnuts I polished off the night before, maybe it’s the fact that Lucy acted like Drew had thrown me a bone, maybe it’s the fact that Simon hasn’t returned a single one of my million messages, maybe it’s the fact that I’m not a hundred percent sure I won the part fair and square, maybe it’s the fact that I had to get to school early to finish up my work in the production studio and am currently covered in sawdust and wearing protective goggles that cover half my face and make me look like I’m preparing for an underwater expedition (instead of what I am doing, which is cutting a straight edge on a foot-long board with a table saw), but I am pretty much graced out.

“Hey,” I hear a voice say as I feel someone tap me on my arm.

It’s Drew. I lose my concentration, causing the board to go veering off course and spraying him with sawdust. I narrowly miss my finger and avert disaster by turning off the saw. I turn toward Drew, my heart racing.

“Sorry if I scared you,” he says, casually brushing the sawdust off his black, short-sleeved T-shirt. “I guess I should know better than to sneak up on a girl wielding a…whatever that thing is.”

“Circular saw.” I’m staring at the muscles in his arm. They’re totally defined but not like the gross guys in the fitness-machine ads who drank one protein drink too many.

“I just wanted to congratulate you, since I didn’t get a chance to do it yesterday.”

I look away from his muscles and into his deep blue eyes. I wipe my suddenly sweaty hands across the front of my jeans. “Oh, thanks.”

“We should exchange e-mails and stuff. Anyway, the first practice will be on Monday. I’m not sure what the schedule is yet for the auditorium, but we’re going to be trading off with the other groups. When we’re not in the auditorium, we’ll be in a classroom. And you’re familiar with the performance schedule, right? The performances are the week after the fall festival. There’s one play each night, Monday through Friday. We’re up first, Monday, October sixteenth.”

“Okay,” I reply.

He picks up the board I just cut in half. “Wow, that’s a pretty intense machine.”

“It’s good for cutting long straight edges. And those over there,” I say, pointing to the next table, “are jigsaws. We use them for cutting shapes.”

“Cool.” Drew pauses a beat and for a moment I’m afraid he might just keel over from boredom. Why am I talking about saws when he’s just trying to be nice?

He holds up half of the board and says, “So, you could make this into a star if you wanted to?”

The board he’s holding is actually my homework assignment (which was to make two five-inch clean cuts), but I couldn’t care less. If Drew wants a star, I’m going to give it to him.

I take the board from him and say, “Sure.”

He follows me over to the table saw, standing beside me as I turn it on. I haven’t actually cut a star before, but I have cut a triangle. How much harder can it be? “Damn,” I say, as the blade runs off the wood.

Drew touches my arm, causing a tingle to run down to my fingers. “Don’t worry about it.”

The tingle only makes me more determined to impress him. I pick up the other piece of wood. “I can do it.”

I look from the board to the machine, giving myself a pep talk as I plot out my strategy. I turn the saw on and five minutes later, he has his star. “Here you go,” I say, handing it to him.

“Are you always so determined?” he asks, his blue eyes twinkling. I watch as he touches his finger to a sharp point on the star. I don’t care that I’ll have to do my homework assignment all over. I have impressed Drew, which was well worth it.

Our eyes lock and we both stand there for a minute, just looking at each other. I twirl my finger around a loose strand of hair and pull it across the top of my mouth, like it’s a mustache.

“I guess I should get going,” Drew says. “I’ll see you later, though, right?”

“Later?” I ask, dropping my mustache. I thought he said our first practice was on Monday.

“Danny’s party. Lucy said you guys were going.”