The Pretty One(47)

Drew rolls his eyes and laughs. “Man. He cornered me in the hall yesterday. He told me about this song he liked and he started singing it. He’s like two feet in front of me and he’s belting out this song. I could see right up his nose. I didn’t know where to look.” He’s smiling, sort of to himself.

“I saw him singing to Michelle Berkowitz last year.” I shrug, playing it cool. “At the time I thought it was really sweet, but…”

“She’s a friend of mine. She was mortified when he did that. She didn’t want to go with him but everyone was watching and she was too embarrassed to say no.”

“I know the feeling,” I reply.

Drew’s lips curl upward as if…what? Is he relieved to find out that I’m not interested in George? Or am I just imagining that he looks relieved?

“He means well though,” he says, glancing back at his script. The smile or whatever it was is gone and his face is once again unreadable. He looks like he did the first time I saw him: mysterious, emotionally distant, and totally smart.

And just like that, I forget all about George. I’m now thinking: I am at play practice with Drew Reynolds! The door is closed and we have a script that calls for a lot of kissing!

I swallow as my hands start to shake and my knees start to wobble.

“Take a seat anywhere.” Drew is still focusing on the script. “I thought we’d begin by running the lines.”

I settle into the chair nearest my rear end. My hands are shaking too badly to hold my script, so I place it on the desk and keep my hands in my lap where I clasp and unclasp them in rapid motion as I begin to read. I’m so nervous that I actually stutter, something I haven’t done in years. Fortunately, the cool reserve Drew displayed only moments earlier evaporates as he adapts the patience and warmth of Mr. Rogers. After a while I start to relax. By the end, I’m even holding my script in my hands. It’s easy to see why he was chosen to be the director of the spring musical. He’s great. I wish I could say the same thing about me.

“Very good,” Drew says when we’re done. And then he smiles at me.

My heart must be having some sort of spasm because I can barely breath. I quickly set the script back on the desk.

Drew runs a hand through his hair. “I think you’ve got a good grip on your character.”

He doesn’t even know the half of it.

Suddenly, Drew unzips his backpack and starts gathering his things. This can all mean only one thing: Practice is over. Right now, I’m wishing I could fly around the earth like Superman and rewind time, just so I could stay with Drew a little longer.

Speaking of superheros, the theme from Batman emanates through the room. “My phone,” Drew says, yanking it out of his backpack. “Hello?”

In a halfhearted effort to give him some privacy, I unzip my backpack and stuff my script inside, trying hard not to act like I’m listening to his every word, which, of course, I am.

“I’m finished now. All right,” he says, checking his watch. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Give me an hour or so.”

I turn back toward him as he flips his cell shut. I want to ask him who it was and where he’s going to be in an hour but instead I say, “You like Batman?”

“’Fraid so,” he says bashfully.

“That’s a techie thing.” Drew looks a little confused so I explain. “Lots of techies are into Batman.”

“Really? I’ve got every Batman thing you can imagine. Everything but the Bat Alphabet Soup Container.”

I laugh. “The what?”

“Nothing. Inside joke between us…Batman geeks.”

Uh-oh. Does he think I was criticizing him for liking Batman? “You’re not a geek.”

Drew gives me sort of a sexy half smile and I almost lose consciousness.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “You’re all flushed.”

“I can draw Batman,” I blurt as I try to steady myself.

“You can?”

I can’t help but wince. Did I just brag about my Batman drawing skills?

“I took an illustration class and we studied some of the comic artists. My teacher said Breyfogle was the best Batman artist ever.”

Drew’s eyes open wide in surprise and his mouth falls open. “You know who Norm Breyfogle is? I love Breyfogle!” he practically shouts. I think it’s the loudest I’ve ever heard him say anything. Then Drew checks his watch. “Crap, I gotta go. My stepdad is working late and my mom needs me to pick up some milk for the girls on my way home.”

“The girls?”

“I have two little sisters. Cindy is two and Fergie is four. Believe me, I’d rather be here talking about Batman with you than at the grocery store.”

“Me too,” I say. And then I smile from ear to ear.





sixteen

physical theater (noun): a genre of performance that relies on the body (as opposed to the spoken word) as the primary means of communication.

Tuesday. Normally, I don’t consider a meal complete unless it contains some hydrogenated oil, but as of 7:25 this morning when my expensive jeans that Lucy said were ultracool and looked great on me crossed the line from so-tight-they’re-uncomfortable to can’t-zip-them-up, I’ve been on a diet. I’m optimistic that I will be fitting back into my jeans in no time, as the diet I have chosen is pretty strict. I call it the Lucy diet. The premise is simple: I eat whatever my sister eats and nothing else. If Lucy chooses to have a half piece of her whole grain, no butter on it at all toast, that’s what I have, too. Whatever bits of lean protein she packs in her lunch, that’s what I pack, too. Whatever few morsels she eats for dinner, that’s my limit. Needless to say, I’ve only been on the diet for four hours and I’m so famished I can barely stand up without feeling dizzy.