The Pretty One(50)

“How did you know?” he asks.

“I recognize Breyfogle’s work, and I knew it wasn’t him.” I open my backpack and pull out the best of the one thousand Batmen I had drawn. “I have something to show you, too.” I place it on the desk in front of him.

He places his comic book next to it so the two images are side by side.

“That’s amazing,” he says. “Did you copy this from something?”

“What?” Geesh. I wasn’t that desperate. “No!”

“I’m sorry—I just…it’s so good. Why aren’t you a visual arts major?”

I swallow back a thick wad of pride. “I was just playing around. I thought about Batman and imagined a scene where he had to kick some butt, and that’s what I came up with.”

“I’ll show you how I draw Batman,” he says. As he reaches into his backpack, my heart skips a beat while the muscles in his arm flex and release. He grabs a pencil out of his back pocket and draws a stick figure complete with a triangular cape. He draws a bubble above the character that says, “Will you be my Catwoman?”

Is his Batman flirting with me? Is Catwoman code for girlfriend? I’m confused and excited at the same time, but I’m determined to play along. “Catwoman? I thought she was evil.”

“Well, she’s a villain, but they kinda, uh…”

“K-k-kinda what?” I stammer. It’s really amazing that I’m still able to speak at all, because I feel as if something is wedged in my throat.

“Well…Batman gets all goofy around her.”

He’s getting red in the face so I stay quiet. Even though I find it hard to believe that Drew, who always seems so cool and collected, is actually capable of feeling such a simple mortal emotion like embarrassment, it’s possible. After all, I hadn’t pegged him as a Batman guy either.

“So, what do you think?” Drew motions toward his drawing. I know he’s teasing me because of the twinkle in his eyes.

“It’s not bad. I like the cape…you just need to fill out the legs a little. Maybe the arms, too. And the face.”

“You’re right. He’s a little scrawny.” Drew says, chuckling. “So where did you learn how to draw?”

I clear my throat in an attempt to calm myself. “I’ve taken a lot of art classes. Lucy was always taking drama and dance and I think my parents put me into art because I wasn’t really into anything else. Or at least, I wasn’t really good at anything else.”

“What made you decide to study theater tech?”

How can I admit to Drew that the only reason I was a techie was because it was the only major that didn’t require an audition? That if I had an ounce of my sister’s talent I would have been a theater major? “I don’t know. I didn’t put that much thought into it.”

“But you like it, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking about my dioramas and designing sets with Simon. “I guess I do.” Oddly enough, I have never considered that before. It didn’t seem to matter whether I liked it or not because I didn’t have a choice.

“Well, I think you’re really talented.”

Drew smiles at me. I’m staring at his lips. They look so soft, and experienced. It seems like a heated moment where something could possibly happen and I’m hoping with every fiber of my being that it does. I’m looking into his eyes and he’s looking into mine and I feel I’m about to melt when the unmistakable sound of George Longwell’s soprano singing voice comes wafting into the room. “What good is a field on a fine summer night if you sit alone in the weeds? Or a succulent pear if with each juicy bite you spit out your teeth with the seeds?”

We both laugh and his hand gently rubs the back of my shoulder. It’s a relief from the tension, if not the ending I hoped for.





seventeen

chewing the scenery (noun): a completely hammy and over-the-top performance.

For some people a long, long, long time means months, maybe even years. For George Longwell it apparently means nineteen hours.

I’m walking to third period (stage production with Mr. Lucheki), trying to remember my discussion points on whether the light board operator is more important than the sound operator (which pretty much boils down to whether it is more important to see the play or hear it), when someone yells, “There she is!”

Just as I’m about to escape into the theater, George throws himself down on his knees in front of me.



“Megan, you are a rose

With a perfect nose

I know you are afraid

Of the love we could have made

But patient I will be

As I am sure you will eventually see

That I was meant for you

And you were meant for me.”



George pats his heart twice (as per usual) and stands up. “Next Thursday.” He kisses my hand for emphasis. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

I’m distracted by the appearance of Catherine’s friend Laura, who has stopped in the hall to watch and is smiling at me from ear to ear, nodding encouragement. “I have to go to class,” I say, stepping around him.

“Thursday night, Megan!” George calls out.

I want to tell him that I can’t go, that in fact I don’t want to go out with him at all, ever, but I can’t bring myself to say the words.