The Trouble With Flirting (2 page)

My mom taught me a long time ago. Their mother—hers and Amelia’s—was a professional seamstress, which is why they’re both so good at it. Mom only ever used her skill to make Halloween costumes for me and William. But because Mom thinks it’s important for people to be able to do things for themselves like cook and sew and clean, she’s made sure William and I have all the basics down.

I think I’m competent, but after Amelia tests me with a few seams, she informs me that my hand stitches should be smaller and tighter and that I have a “lead foot” on the machine.

“I’m not surprised,” she adds. “Your mother was like that too—more interested in finishing quickly than in the quality of the work. It’s no wonder she’s not a professional.”

“I don’t think she was ever trying to be one,” I say.

“Well, of course that’s what she says
now
.”

I decide not to argue the point and glance around the workroom. It’s a small space, with two machines side by side and several windows. It’s super hot, and it’s not even July yet, so I’ve got to figure it’s only going to get hotter over the next five weeks. The one square fan is useless against the flood of sunshine coming in, but Amelia tells me we can’t pull the shades down because she needs the light.

“My eyes,” she says, “aren’t what they used to be,” which is probably true, since there are pairs of reading glasses scattered all over the office, within easy reach no matter where
she might be sitting or standing.

“So how does this all work?” I ask, resigning myself to a lot of future sweating. “What costumes will we be making?”

“We have five weeks to design and create costumes for four different casts,” she says with a weird mixture of gloom and pride. “I’ve already spoken to the directors and have some sense of what they’ll be wanting, but we can’t really move forward until the kids are cast and we can measure them, which always takes a few days. Until then we’ll be hunting up sources, checking through the archives, and figuring out fabrics.”

“How many cast members altogether?”

“Forty-eight. Twelve to a play.”

“That’s a lot of costumes,” I say.

Amelia throws her hands up in the air. “It’s an ungodly amount of work! Hundreds of costumes—most cast members play multiple roles—and they all have to be ready by the same time.”

I drop down onto the stool. “And there’s only the two of us?”

“I’ve done it every summer for fifteen years,” she says, tossing her head. “With only one assistant, just like now. It’s never easy, but it always gets done. Just be prepared for a lot of long hours and hard work.”

“Do you make everything from scratch?”

“Not everything. I buy some pieces and use what I can from the school’s archives.”

“Oh,” I say, relieved. “That’s not so bad, then.”

“It’s still bad,” she says. “We’ll have to alter everything. Teenage girls today are either too fat or too thin. There’s no such thing as a normal body anymore.”

“I beg your pardon,” I say with mock indignation.

I’m just joking, but she narrows her eyes at me and tilts her head back so she can survey me over her long, thin nose. “Don’t fish for compliments. You may discover that no one feels like giving you one.”

“I wasn’t,” I say—which, by the way, is
true
.

“Your body is fine now, but give it twenty, thirty years. Gravity and time do horrible things to a woman. I had your body once.”

“How’d I end up with it, then?” I say jovially.

She just sighs. “Time and gravity get us all in the end,” she says darkly. “Time and gravity.”

Amelia shows me the costume and prop archives under the theater, and then she takes me to her apartment. We drive, since she picked me up at the airport, but she says she usually walks, because her apartment is so close to campus. She works there year-round, running the costume part of the theater department (she also teaches a course on costume design and one on costume history), and rents the place from a building Mansfield owns. It’s in a beautiful, expensive neighborhood—she tells me she couldn’t afford to live there if the college didn’t subsidize it. There are several entryways into her
building, and a fenced-off area with a postage-stamp-sized pool and a cheap aboveground hot tub that Amelia tells me she’s sure is a breeding ground for dangerous bacteria.

The actual apartment is small but clean and neat. Her furniture is simple and generic, but every window has some kind of gorgeous curtain on it—all handmade by her, of course—and the sofa and chair pillows are wildly luxurious, covered with tassels, fringe, and buttons, like something out of a harem.

Makes me wonder if somewhere inside Amelia there’s a romantic soul. You certainly wouldn’t know it to look at her in her white oxford shirt and cotton khakis.

“You have your own room to sleep in, but there’s only one bathroom,” she tells me as she leads me around. “Please wipe down the sink after you use it. I can’t stand finding hairs lying around.”

“I’ll try to remember,” I say. “It’s nice of you to let me stay here.”

“I’m looking forward to the company.”

She sounds as stiff as I do, and I wonder if she means it or not. My mom claimed this whole thing was Amelia’s idea, but now that I’m here, my presence seems to be making her uncomfortable.

I unpack in the guest bedroom, which is small and clean like the rest of the apartment, while Amelia boils some penne pasta for dinner. She mixes it with some pesto from a jar, and heats up a box of frozen brussels sprouts to serve on the side.
“Tomorrow the dining hall will be open, and you can eat as many meals there as you like,” she says as we sit down at her small table. “I’m sure you’d rather be with kids your own age.”

“This is nice too,” I say, but of course she’s right. Plus . . . frozen brussels sprouts? On my first night there? Really?

After dinner she turns on the TV and settles down with a cup of chamomile tea to watch
House Hunters International
.

“I’d like to live in Europe for a while,” she says during a commercial break.

“Why don’t you?” I ask.

“Because life doesn’t work that way.”

I really don’t know all that much about my aunt, other than that she’s older than my mother, and thinner and crabbier. Whenever she used to come visit us, William and I would try to keep our distance, because if we got too close, she would grab us by the arm and interrogate us about our studies and extracurriculars, an activity that would end with her shaking her head and pursing her lips in a way that suggested we weren’t performing up to her expectations.

I know she was married once, a long time ago, before I was even born, but all Mom ever said about that was a flat “It didn’t work out.” As far as I know, Amelia hasn’t had a boyfriend since then. Of course, it’s possible she leads a much more exciting personal life than we’re aware of, but after spending today with her, I kind of doubt it.

Which makes me feel tender toward her. Poor Aunt Ame
lia. Stuck in this small, plain apartment, sewing costumes for other people to wear all day long.

So I say, “Hey, maybe someday you and I could take a trip to Europe together.”

“And who do you think would pay for that?” she snaps in response. “Your mother? Me? We’re both barely getting by. Dreams are easy, Franny, but you can’t live on them.”

“Or not,” I say, and we wait in silence for the commercials to end.

When we walk to campus the next morning, I can
feel
a difference in the air: it’s like the school has come alive in the last twelve hours. The dining hall is pumping out bready, coffee-ish smells, which make me glad Amelia scored me a meal card.

“We’ll have lunch there today, right?” I say hopefully.

“
I
won’t be eating in the dining hall,” Amelia replies. “I ate there once, and that was enough for me. I found five hairs in one plate of food. I’m amazed they don’t get cited by the health department. But I’m sure it’ll be fine for you. Kids have stomachs of steel.”

We go to her office, and she puts me to work for the next few hours mending a splitting seam on an enormous stage curtain. The actual sewing isn’t difficult, since I can do it on the machine, but wrestling huge armfuls of velvet into submission is hot, exhausting work, and time passes slowly. The all-female seventies folk music Amelia plays at a low wail
only increases my restlessness.

All morning long I can hear happy voices outside in the courtyard and cars pulling up and doors banging. The students are definitely arriving. When Amelia finally says, “You might as well go—you’re obviously not focusing on your work anyway,” she doesn’t need to tell me twice. I’m on my feet and out the door in seconds.

I stop outside and blink, dazed for a moment by the bright sunshine.

Dozens of kids my age are milling around, greeting one another with squeals of excitement, rolling and hauling luggage across the courtyard, and running in and out of the dorm across the way and the dining hall next to it.

I see a girl grab a guy by the arm a few yards away from me. “You
have
to be Jorey!” she cries. “I recognize you from your profile pic!”

“Carson?” he says. “Carson Bailey?”

“Oh, my God, I can’t believe we’re actually meeting after all those endless IM sessions!” She’s screaming and he’s screaming and they’re both jumping up and down. “You’re like the male equivalent of me! I totally love you!”

“I totally love
you
!”

More screaming, more jumping.

I move through the throng, with no particular destination in mind. I’m thinking that if I can just connect with someone who seems nice, then maybe she’ll introduce me around and I’ll have people to eat meals with. I’m not going to spend my
entire summer hanging out with Amelia.

I feel funny, though: I’m not one of them. But I’m
sort of
one of them. But I’m not one of them.

Like that.

I spot a girl who’s struggling to get through the dorm door with two large bags. I race ahead to grab it and hold it for her. “Thanks,” she says as she moves through. “That is
so
nice of you.”

Some other kids are coming out of the dorm, and because I’m already holding the door open, I’m stuck there holding it for them, too. Everyone thanks me, but no one stops to talk.

There’s finally a break in the traffic, so I let go of the door. I step back without looking and almost collide with a slim boy with large brown eyes who instantly says, “Sorry!”

“My fault,” I say.

He shakes his head in friendly disagreement and slips around me to get into the dorm. I decide to follow him in and see what it’s like inside.

I step into a big lobby that’s dominated by an industrial-looking stairwell. There are bulletin boards running at eye level along all the walls, which are already filled with notices, most of them of the
ONLY GIRLS ARE ALLOWED ON THE THIRD FLOOR AFTER 9 P.M.
variety. I wander past them and then through an archway into an enormous common room with a bunch of sofas and armchairs, a row of vending machines, a piano, and a TV.

No one’s hanging out in there: kids stick their heads in and
say “Nice!” or “Ugh,” depending on what they think of it, but they all move on, eager to unpack or explore more, I assume.

I head back out toward the stairs, thinking maybe I’ll sneak up and see what the actual rooms look like. I get to the bottom of the stairs at the same time as two girls with lots of luggage, and I move aside to let them go up first.

“Thanks,” one says, with a distracted glance my way. She’s tall and skinny, with light brown skin, wildly corkscrewing black hair with gold glints that’s currently being held off her face by a wide headband, and enormous dark eyes framed by chunky glasses. She’s wearing black lace-up work boots, denim shorts, and a narrow tank top.

“No worries,” I say.

The taller girl at her side halts. “Franny? Franny Pearson?”

I whip around to get a better look at her. She’s pretty, with thick, dark layered hair and big blue eyes. And I totally know her. “Julia? Oh, my God!”

Turns out I can squeal with the best of them.

I know someone here!

Or at least I
knew
her, back in eighth grade. I haven’t seen her since then.

“I can’t believe it!” She drops the bag she’s carrying and lets go of the handle of her rolling suitcase so she can throw her arms around me. “Why didn’t I see your name anywhere? You didn’t join the Mansfield Facebook group!”

I hug her back. “Yeah, that’s because—”

But before I can explain, the other girl is asking, “How do
you guys know each other?”

Julia releases me. “We went to middle school together, but then we went to different high schools and kind of lost touch. But I should have guessed you’d be here, Franny. You were always one of the best actors.”

“So were you,” I say. “But I’m not actually here.”

The other girl raises her eyebrows. “You a ghost?”

“I mean, I’m not in the acting program. I’m working here this summer—helping my aunt. She’s the costume designer.”

“Oh.” There’s an awkward moment of silence. Then Julia says, “Cool. Wish I could sew.”

“Yeah,” the other girl says. “Me too.” She nods up the stairs. “Where are you staying? Here in the dorm?”

“I wish. No, I have a room in my aunt’s apartment.”

“My name’s Vanessa, by the way.”

I introduce myself and say, “Can I help you guys carry your stuff up?”

“Yes,
please
.” Julia instantly hands me a bag. It’s covered in Burberry plaid. “Have you seen the dorm rooms yet?”

I shake my head.

“Julia and I started talking outside and then realized we were in the same room,” Vanessa explains as we all struggle our way up the stairs, their rolling trunks making a
thunk, thunk, thunk
sound on each step. “We don’t know if it’s just the two of us or not.”

We reach the second floor. There’s a locked door to get onto the hallway and a sign on it that says,
ONLY BOYS ARE AL
LOWED ON THE SECOND FLOOR AFTER 9 P.M.
!

“What do you think they think changes after nine o’clock at night?” I ask, nodding toward the sign. You can hear voices from behind the door and see some blurry movement through its smoky glass panes.