The Pretty One(4)

“Have you guys seen Lucy?” Drew asks when he realizes that I’m so mentally challenged, I can only utter the word thanks. “I was wondering if she wanted to go over this script.”

Drew, like Lucy, is starring in the senior productions, a total coup for a junior.

“She’s at the Seven-Eleven buying Slurpees for the common folk,” Simon pipes up and rescues me.

Drew lets out a chuckle and scratches the back of his neck. I practically gasp when the bottom of his shirt creeps up. “There’s a Seven-Eleven around here?”

Although our school is a charter school, it is still technically a Baltimore city school, which means that most of us live in Baltimore. The ones who don’t (like Drew, who lives in Towson, so I hear) have to pay to attend. And drive. (Unlike me and Simon, who live about two minutes away by foot.)

“There’s one on Cross Street,” Simon says impatiently. “A few blocks away from the market.”

“Ah, the Cross Street Market,” Drew says, raising his eyebrows in recognition. “I love that place. Especially the kielbasa at Mr. Sausage.”

Simon throws me an odd look, probably because he has been thinking about becoming a vegetarian (to piss off his mom, of course).

I, however, think it’s adorable that Drew likes the Cross Street Market and kielbasa and immediately add it to his ever-growing list of attributes and reasons why (besides the fact that we both have a penchant for black) he’s totally perfect for me. “Me too!” I say enthusiastically. “Have you ever tried the extra spicy Polish sausage? Oh my God! Amazing!”

Simon looks at me in horror, sending me a telepathic message: Warning! Warning! Fat unpopular girls shouldn’t talk about loving any type of sausage with cute popular boys!

I glance nervously at Drew, who just smirks and says, “I’ll have to try some next time I’m there.” And then, instead of leaving, he walks toward the dance floor.

Toward me.

Okay, this is one for the journal. It has already been established that Lucy is not around, so why is Drew still here? Any other guy in his league would have been long gone. It’s especially surprising because Drew isn’t exactly the chatty type. Although he’s respected by everyone for his talent, and all the girls think he’s really good-looking, he pretty much keeps to himself—but not in that creepy neighbor who’s secretly a child predator kind of way. Anything but, actually.

I sigh and make a deal with God, listing all the things I would be willing to give up forever if I could kiss him. Just once. Brownies…Oreos…Coke Slurpees…extra spicy Polish sausage.

“Wow,” he says, admiring Simon’s work in progress. “This is incredible. It looks so…real.”

Twizzlers, Twinkies, Doritos…sweet Italian sausage.

“Thanks,” Simon says. I can tell from the glint in his eye that he’s proud of himself. As he should be.

Drew continues to wander around as though he was in a gallery. I think about what it might be like to walk hand in hand with him through the American Visionary Art Museum, gazing at paintings and photographs and talking about the difference between the imagined and the real.

“You guys are doing all this for the fall festival?” he asks.

“Yep. I’m going to be painting the apples,” I announce proudly, as if that tidbit will so impress him that he’ll ask me to marry him and have his children.

“Megan can draw a great apple,” Simon says a little too loudly, obviously trying to help me score some points. Other than the pity ones, of course.

“Are you guys going?” Drew asks as he puts his hands in his pockets.

I’m looking at his eyes, even though his gaze keeps shifting around the room. I had thought they were just blue, but up close they’re a blue-green, slightly more blue than green. If I were going to paint them, I would use a combination of colors, beginning with a sky blue before adding a tinge of emerald green. “You mean to Mr. Sausage?” I mutter.

“To the fall festival,” Simon says in a labored tone that translates into Snap out of it, dork! This is your big break! You’re talking to Drew. Don’t blow it.

“No, we’re not,” Simon once again responds for me.

A curious expression emerges on Drew’s face. So freaking adorable. “Why not?”

Simon picks his paintbrush back up and twirls it in his left hand. “We owe it to the techies who have wandered these halls before us to stay home and watch our Battlestar Galactica DVDs.”

Drew laughs. It’s not a sarcastic laugh, but a nice, relaxed, hey-you’re-funny laugh. Listening to it is as exciting as watching the curtain go up on opening night. “I don’t blame you. I’d stay home, too, if my mom wasn’t making me go.”

Any other teenage girl, including my sister, would think Drew’s statement is a giant red flag. Not only did he admit that he’d rather be home on a Saturday night than at a school function with his friends, but he also kind of admitted to being a mama’s boy. But I don’t see this as a bad sign at all. In fact, I want to take out my trusty proverbial white flag and surrender to Drew over and over again. But then I remember something.

Lucy already took it from me.





two

extra (noun): a member of the cast with no speaking role who provides background interest in a crowd scene.