At Face Value (8 page)

“I want to help you, Linus, I do … maybe IM me later?”

Linus shakes his head. “I’m not into the screen thing. Let’s just try to hang out at some point this weekend.”

I nod, and give Eddie a “one minute” sign so I can duck to the bathroom before Drama. Without knowing more about Linus’ situation, it’s hard to predict how I’ll help him. Most likely, he wants to petition Reynolds for a better title (staff writer isn’t the catchiest of terms for college applications). But it could be something more hidden—he could like someone, and want to ask them out. But in that case, I’m not exactly the go-to girl. He’d be better off asking someone else for advice. Unless—I think back to our canoe ride this summer. He met me at my house, packed a picnic, paid for the boat even though I insisted on splitting the cost, and listened to everything I said. When I think about it like that, it feels like we went on a date …

What if Linus—my buddy, my paper pal—likes me? There’s no doubt that he’s adorable and smart and all that, but up until this moment in the girls’ bathroom, with its ugly green-hued lighting and cracked tiles, I’ve never thought about Linus with even a remote romantic interest. But … if there were a guy who could overlook my nose, my giant feature, the unfortunate center of my face, Linus would be that guy. He’s the advertisement for “beauty comes from within.” He’s serious and sensitive and always a little disheveled (like with the lettuce on his shirt, or on the days he’s buttoned his shirt wrong or his socks don’t match). And he just doesn’t care.

Before I can complete my thoughts on this matter, it’s time to go. I do one last check in the mirror—jeans, fitted V-neck shirt, boots, clean hair—and push open the squeaky door. Just like I hoped, Eddie is leaning against the wall opposite the door, waiting just for me.

Weston High is U-shaped, and Drama is held in the small old auditorium at one end of the U. So Eddie and I have the entire length of the school to walk together. The marathon journey produces a whole bunch of looks, a couple of giggles, and one shout-out: “Hey Rox, where’d you get the hood ornament?”

Eddie pretends not to hear this—or maybe he really doesn’t, he’s so wrapped up in his thoughts.

“Care to share?” I ask and elbow him in the ribs.

Care to Share
was last year’s school motto, and Eddie smiles at my use of it. He turns to me and strikes a soap opera stance, clutching my shoulders. “Cyrie, I will always care to share with you.” Then he looks at an invisible camera and says, “Stay tuned for It’s Your Turn to Learn! And other school phrases next …”

He releases his hands from my shoulders. I can still feel the warmth from where he touched me, but I keep moving, past the science center, past the lockers and classrooms and students staring at us. It’s as though the thought of us together is scandalous.

“Seriously,” I say, trying again. “What’s up?”

We’re at the doorway to Drama when Eddie lowers his voice and finally tells me. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. It’s kind of important.” He blushes, again, and looks away from me. “It’s kind of weird to say it out loud … but … I like someone.”

I don’t know what to say. The cold linoleum school tiles spin as I feel my pulse take off. “I see,” I respond, even though I don’t see at all.

“This person … this girl … she’s …” Eddie pulls me over to the corner of the classroom and whispers, “She’s different, right?”

He looks at me, waiting for my confirmation. Then, suddenly, I get it. Right in the doorway to drama class, in the middle of high school, in the middle of Weston, the whole world stops on its axis—he likes me. Eddie Roxanninoff likes me.

“She
is
different,” I say. “But …”

And before we can go any further, Harold Connaught claps his hands and signals that class is starting. “To be continued?” Eddie gives me a special look. A deep look. And a quick hug.

“Sure—to be continued,” I say into his chest. I try to regain control of my body as I take a seat in the semi-circle of chairs arranged near the small stage.

Harold stands with his hands clasped behind his back. His corduroy pants are dark brown, his shirt white, and his ever-popular bow tie red-and-yellow striped. He looks like he should be on the cover of a clothing catalogue, but instead has chosen to grace us with his presence in Senior Dramatics.

“What’s under the sheet?” asks Kristin Murphy, pointing to a covered item on a table in the center of the circle.

“That is the subject of today’s class,” explains Harold. I’m sitting next to Eddie and trying to pay attention while my brain retraces the conversation we just had—could he like me? As of this morning I’d have said the odds weren’t good, but after the walk to class—and the blushing—and the touching—I’d say it just might be possible.

“Cyrie, you go first,” Harold says and gestures at me to get up, which I do even though I now have no idea what the drama exercise is about. “Go on.”

Eddie gets up and says, “I’ll go, too.” He gives me a quick wink, to let me know he saw me spacing out and is coming to my figurative rescue.

“Fine.”

Harold Connaught whips the sheet off of the mystery item and reveals … a box resembling an oversized shoe box. “Now—this is where the senses come into play. Step up to the box, place both hands inside, and feel.”

A collective groan from two-thirds of the class. I have no idea, as I approach the dreaded darkness of the box, how much will change when I put my hands inside. But before I do anything, Harold continues.

“Sensory experiences are like memories—you don’t know which ones are important until after the fact. But in acting you’ve got to convince your audience that you’re going through something—experiencing it—for the first time.” He waves his arms around, rolling his hands as though singing “The Wheels on the Bus.” “Again and again, for the first time.”

He motions for Eddie and me to put our hands in the box—which we do, though I can’t help but mumble, “There better not be eyeballs in here.” Halloween isn’t far away, and this is reminding me of those haunted houses where you plunge your hand into a bowl of “eyeballs” that turn out to be peeled grapes.

From the rest of the class I hear a few giggles and one low, but discernible, “better than a bunch of noses.” I look up, about to feel the balloon of happiness inside me pop. In an instant, all the good feelings from finding out that Eddie likes me could evaporate. And why? Just because some idiot makes one little comment? I breathe deeply and say nothing. It’s not decency that keeps me quiet, but Eddie’s eyes locked on mine.

“As you move your hands around inside,” Harold informs everyone, “you’ll come across objects that might feel familiar. But are they?” He holds up a key. “Is a key felt with the hands the same key we see with our eyes?” Eddie and I fight the urge to laugh. Harold Connaught’s fun, but he tends toward the overly dramatic.

I slide my left hand over soft fabric. Velvet, I think, and my fingers find a circular object. A button? No, a—

“I think I’ve got a shoelace,” Eddie says. He’s far enough away from my hands that I can’t feel the lace to check whether he’s correct.

Harold nods. “Cyrie—you find something, too.”

I search for something recognizable. “A giant paper clip?”

“Perfect for clipping your …” A giggle starts from the audience but is silenced by Harold’s teacherly gaze. “Yes, a paper clip.” Just as he says this, my hands find something else: Eddie’s hands. Without changing his facial expression in the slightest, he gives my hands a squeeze. I fight the urge to shriek or climb over the box and grab him.

“And now we’ll add more hands to mix,” Harold says, waving someone over from the doorway.

Leyla emerges with her eyes cast downward, her hair in front of her face, and a sweatshirt around her waist. She glances at me before she sticks her hands into the box, and I give her my
I have a secret now, too
look. She makes her eyes wide and coughs to let me know she understands. It’s great to finally have a friendship where we can communicate without words. Which, I realize, may also be the point of this bizarre box exercise: to experience something without relying on your preconceived notions of what it is.

“I feel a toothbrush,” Leyla says, her brow furrowed as though she’s really concentrating on the task at hand.

“Me, too,” Eddie says. Ever-competitive, he is probably snaking his way around the box to find every item on offer. My own hands flail, bumping into a sponge, a pacifier, something unidentifiable, a sock I hope isn’t dirty, and then, finally, the toothbrush.

I smile, feeling accomplished. Eddie—my crush who reciprocates my feelings—is right in front of me. My genuine friend is beside me. And I too have found the toothbrush. “Got it!”

“Great!” Harold claps and comes closer to us. “Now find the item you’re most attached to and hold it for a second.”

I pause. Stick with the toothbrush, or go back to something else? What if we have to do a skit with the object we choose? The toothbrush will no doubt lead to issues relating to the face, and since there’s no way I want to tread down that road, I quickly flick my hands around trying to find something else. Where’d that sock go?

“Find something meaningful.” Harold roams the class, his voice lustrous and insistent. “When you have it, let me know.”

“I’m looking,” Eddie says. His voice sounds funny. Choking, almost. I look at his face but it gives nothing away. I think back to our “to be continued” conversation. To our hug.

In the dark of the box, my fingers wriggle, hoping to find the limp sock. But instead, they find something much, much better. A hand. And it’s got calluses. From painting. My knuckles graze his knuckles and, just as I think it couldn’t get better, his hand unfurls and grips mine. I’m holding Eddie’s hand. He’s holding mine. I could pass out.

I look at Eddie. His face remains blank, like during a soccer game when he’s about to pass and doesn’t want to give away his plan. Am I his plan?

“Have you found your object?” Harold asks.

I’m about to nod or scream or jump up and say
yes, dear world, I, Cyrie, have found my object.
The object of my affections. But I don’t, because right as I open my mouth, Eddie sneezes. He lets go of me, bringing his hands out of the magical box and over his mouth and nose. Thoughtful and sanitary, and yet completely not what I’d wanted.

I wait for his hands to return to the box, which they do (after a brief swipe to his T-shirt), but they don’t touch mine. It was a short-lived but wonderful pleasure.

“What do you have, Cyrie?” Harold’s voice rolls over to us on the stage.

“A sock,” I say, my hands roaming around for it. For some reason, this makes people crack up. Maybe it’s the boredom that comes with watching other people stand around doing silly and pointless Drama exercises, or maybe it’s the unspoken tension I feel standing here.

“And you, Leyla?” Harold focuses attention on her. Everyone stares.

“I …” Leyla swallows and nods, apparently unable to speak. For a second I think she might actually throw up. She looks so nervous, so shy (she hates speaking in class), that I’m filled with empathy for her. I give her my best
it’s okay
look: a furrowed brow and an encouraging smile.

“Squeeze that thing you’ve found,” instructs Harold. “Hold it as though it means everything to you.”

I wonder what Eddie’s got. A teacup? A pencil? Do any of the objects make him think of me? Does he wish his sneeze hadn’t happened? I make a mental note to ask him if he has allergies. One little antihistamine and he’d still be holding my hand. Leyla still looks ill—not quite green, but off-color. Maybe she has the toothbrush. Maybe a button. Part of me feels for her, but the rest of me can’t shake my elation. He held my hand. And it felt right. And he wants to talk to me later.

“Did you learn something from this exercise?” Harold asks, taking his place next to us.

The three of us nod, out of habit. “Totally,” Eddie says. He has a way of being sarcastic enough that kids think he’s funny, but gentle enough that teachers can’t call him on it.

“Definitely,” Leyla mirrors. Her cheeks are bright red now and her eyes are those of a helpless kitten—if helpless kittens also looked like they were going to barf.

“Are you okay?” I ask her, but she shakes her head.

Leyla bolts from the stage and runs in the direction of the dressing rooms—no doubt to the bathroom. Eddie watches, concerned, and looks at me to see what my reaction is. I’m about to ask if I can be excused to follow Leyla, to check on her, when Harold interrupts.

“You can take your hands out of the box now, Cyrie.” He raises his eyebrows. The rest of the class, except Eddie, chuckles at my expense.

I do as he says, finally bringing my hands into the light. I am more painfully aware than ever before that, outside of the dark, private box, my hands are empty.

T
HE ONLY WAY TO
prove this night is happening and not a dream is through the incessant and temporarily blinding flash of the yearbook and
Weston Word
photographers, who are thrilled with the event. Night of Knights is in full swing, with Josh and some of his sporty cronies whacking one another with long, padded sticks, and just about every girl at Weston standing around looking maidenly in flowing pink dresses or empire-waist gowns that they think make them look like Guinevere (but in reality make them look kind of pregnant). Not that I’m one to say anything, because—for some reason in hell and much against my better judgment—I am wearing a princess dress, too.

“See? I knew you’d have fun!” Leyla clutches my arm with one hand and picks up the hem of her long, smoke-colored gown in the other. The truth is, she looks better in brighter colors, but she told me at home that she “doesn’t want to stick out so much.” Yeah, welcome to my world, I’d said as I slithered into the blue number I’d borrowed from my mother’s stash of retro gear. The material gathers across my waist and swoops down in the back, revealing probably more skin than I’ve ever exposed at school, but it fits with my mood.

Exposed.

But happy. After all, drama class ended yesterday with Eddie giving me a wink and checking to make sure I’d find him later to “talk,” and Leyla recovered in the girls’ bathroom without too much struggle. Even though Eddie couldn’t make it over to my house to talk auction, he emailed me:
Chief
—
looks like we need to reschedule our talk
—
you thinking what I’m thinking?
Which left me with palpitations and anticipation. And now we’re here.