Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) (56 page)

When the three of us arrive at the diner, we take our usual booth in the back. Brant tells us about this new girl he met in the psychology building and how he’s got this fantasy about her hypnotizing him to do things. When he makes a face to imitate how she’ll look when he’s diving between her legs, I laugh so hard that I spill my sweet tea across the table, soaking Dmitri’s pants and causing him to curse loudly, drawing the attention of nearby tables. In the midst of his tantrum, I sign to him:
Would you mind signing all that? I can’t quite make out what curse words you’re shouting.
That makes Dmitri mouth the very distinct words of
“Fuck you”
before he laughs and throws a tea-soaked wad of napkins at Brant.

When Dmitri excuses himself to the bathroom to dry up, Brant leans over the table and asks me about the girl. I shrug, mumbling and looking away. He taps my hand to draw my attention back to him, then asks what I’m going to do about it.

I frown. What the hell does he expect me to do?

His eyes turn serious—something I don’t see in Brant very often. His lips move slowly:
“I don’t want you to be alone forever. I care about you. You have to do something about this girl.”

I shake my head, dismissing him again. There’s no use pursuing her, no matter the signs she learns. She won’t be able to handle me. They all run away.

He smacks me over the head. I catch his hand, threatening to crush it if he does that again, but he only responds with a superior smirk, leaning across the table. He reminds me that she signed to me, then mimics her by making dumb motions with his hand, ending randomly with his favorite sign:
fart.

I snort and shake my head, the humor not hitting me. The more I think about her, the more frustrated I get. I punch my thumbs into the phone, then show it:

What’s ur point???

I’m too much work.

I’m fucked up dude.....

she’ll run off the second she gets close.

Brant nods.
“Yeah,”
he says slowly,
“she
will
run off because you gave up.”

I glare at him. I start typing again, but Brant’s hand covers mine. He says something else.

Then, I get so fed up that I do something I almost never do: “It won’t work out,” I tell him.

The sound of my voice takes him aback.

My face flushes, angry. I can’t stand talking. I can’t stand not knowing what I sound like. I feel so fucking insecure about it. I remember hearing and making fun of the slurred S’s and the weird vowel sounds that other deaf people made when I was a kid, and here I am, having become the butt of my own childhood jokes. I was such a little shit when I was a kid … when I could hear …

Sometimes, I wonder if this is my punishment.

Brant flicks me in the chin, nabbing my attention. He tells me:
“You’ll never know unless you …”

He thinks for a moment, brow wrinkled. Then, he creates fists with the thumbs poking out between his fingers and twists them in the air.

It’s the sign for “try”.

DESSIE

“I want you to fuck me. Fuck the doubt out of me. Fuck the ex-boyfriend out of my head. Fuck me until there’s nothing in my mouth but your name, over and over again, in screams.”

Her name is Ariel. Yes, like the stupid mermaid. And she’s beautiful. And all the guys stare at her and she bats her stupid eyelashes and she’s the perfect actress. And even when she says a word like “fuck”, she makes it sound like poetry. Her hair is a golden, wavy waterfall of wonder and her face is oh-so angelic.

And apparently she and Clayton had a thing a year ago or so. Yeah. That
mermaid
up there is his type, and that’s a type I will never be.

“Great,” says Nina, the acting professor who never calls anything great or good or lovely, ever. She sits in the audience seats among us, observing Ariel who stands proudly in the acting area awaiting critique. Miss Nina Parisi adds, “You gave just the right amount of care, and just the right amount of nothing to each ‘fuck’. Great.”

If there’s one thing I don’t regret about college acting compared to high school, it’s the sudden permission to read and act from scripts that have an overabundance of the word “fuck” in them. Hell, it’s encouraged. Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck me and you.

And Fuck Ariel. I’ll never look like that. She has the same pretentious glassy-eyed face as my sister Cece, the one that never seems to change when she steps off the stage. Whether standing before an audience or all by herself, the actress acts, the face lights up, and every word that vomits out of those lips is seasoned with pretense and packaged with the pristine care of three weeks’ meticulous rehearsal.

And Clayton wants
that?
I roll my eyes and chew grindingly on my thoughts—which may or may not be my teeth—embarrassed that I ever gave that man the time of day. That beautiful, striking, incredible man. That heart-stopping, slab-of-beef, gorgeous-eyed solid
demigod
of a man.

That beautiful man I signed my name to.

I’m fooling myself, aren’t I?

Nina rises from the seats and crosses half the length of the black box theater we have our acting class in, the heels she wears stabbing the stage floor and echoing off the rafters and the four plain walls. Quietly, she says, “I want you to do that piece again. Bravo.” She faces us, her eyes alight. “Pay attention to the little things she does in this monologue. What she does with her hands. Her eyes, just the story in her eyes alone. The focus she gives to an acting partner who doesn’t even exist. Take notes, people.”

Ariel lifts her tiny chin, stares up at an imaginary beam of heaven-light, then recites her line: “I want you to fuck me.”

Go fuck yourself, Ariel.

When class is dismissed, I gather up my bag as fast as I can and hurry across the black box, only to find Ariel’s tiny figure stopping me at the exit doors. “Desdemona, right?”

My heart races. I blink.
What does this bitch want?
“Yes, that’s me.”

“Oh, awesome.” Her eyes sparkle. She extends a tiny hand. “Ariel Robbins. I’m the T.A., as you know, and I just wanted to say that I am really enjoying your work in this class. You’re going to blossom with your role in
Our Town
when rehearsals start next week. You give such remarkable attention to nuance!”

Oh, this is just lovely. The bitch turns out to be all nice and crap after I spent the class despising her.
“Thanks.”

“No, really. I don’t say this about many freshmen,” she insists, batting her eyelashes, “but you’ve got a special something, Desdemona. I know real talent when I see it.”

“It’s Dessie, and I’m not a freshman,” I murmur quietly, unable to process her annoying compliments. Really, it’s Chloe’s fault I feel like this; she’s the one who spilled all about the
mermaid
here. It was Chloe and I in the lobby surrounded by cafeteria snacks and scripts while discussing Clayton’s supposedly long history of girlfriends and flings. I believed about ten percent of what she said, tossing the rest into the rumors-and-embellishment bin.

“Oh! Yes, of course,” says Ariel with a feathery chuckle. “I was told that. I’m so silly. Transfer, yes?”

“Right.”

She smiles warmly. That smile lasts for about four seconds before it turns to ice. “So I heard about the song, Dessie. At the piano bar.”

I swallow, steeling myself for whatever it is she wants to say. “Song?” I prompt her innocently, but knowing exactly what she’s talking about.

“You sang a song to Clayton. Clayton Watts,” she clarifies, tilting her head so all that angelic, blonde hair drifts to the side like a curtain of snow. “I don’t mean to step on any toes, or to come off any certain way, but … just friend to friend, woman to woman … you need to be warned,” she tells me, her eyes soft and glassy. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but—”

“I’m usually of the mindset that it doesn’t matter what I hear,” I retort as politely as I can, despite the sharp edge to each of my words. “I judge a person based on how
I
think of them, not others.”

Ariel’s sweet smile hasn’t left her face, though it tightens considerably at my words. I’m not fooled. Of course the ex would want to scare everyone else away from Clayton; this bitch just doesn’t want to picture his sexy lips anywhere near mine. Possessive, much?

“You are a very sweet person,” she tells me, and despite how I’m feeling, I can’t tell whether she means it or is just being snarky. “I wish everyone had as open and caring a mind as you. Well.” She tightens her smile yet some more. “It was certainly a pleasure. I have to be off now to help grade Phonetics papers for the voice prof. Have a nice day, Dessie! And …
do
take care,” she adds. “A rose always looks lovely from a distance, but their thorns will
prick
you just the same. It’s in their nature.”

With that, she dives back into her little river, her legs turning into half a fish, then flitters away.

I spend the afternoon alone, bitterly eating Ariel’s words and spitting them out of my mind. She’d totally do well to have a sea hag rip
her
tongue out. No, I didn’t get a text from Victoria, nor did she answer when I knocked on the door to her dorm four separate times. Sam wasn’t there either, presumably at the library or something, so I enjoy a dinner alone in the University Center food court. My meal is a half-wilted salad with nine-thousand calorie dressing. Boy, have my standards plummeted. If my mom and sister could see me now …

My dad would probably cheer me on and laugh. He was always the cool one in the family who encouraged me, even when I had my five-year-long tomboy phase in junior high, which completely humiliated my sister. You wouldn’t be able to tell from looking at me, but I’m actually quite handy with a switchblade. I also know how to tie eleven different knots and am not afraid of mud—which I always made fun of my sister for, considering stage makeup basically
is
mud that you put on your face.

When I’m back at the School of Theatre for my Wednesday evening lighting crew shift, my heart rate is so high, I seriously feel like I might faint before I reach the door. I don’t know why my confidence is so finicky; it’s blazing one minute, dead-cold the next.

I push through the door of the auditorium.

Clayton is seated on the edge of the stage.

Alone.

He doesn’t look up. He seems intent on staring at the seats. Surely he isn’t avoiding looking at me.

I force myself down the aisle to the stage. When he
still
doesn’t look up at me or acknowledge my existence—even with me clearly being in his peripheral view now—I give up, sitting on the edge of the stage too, but keeping quite some distance between us.

I fight an urge to fruitlessly say hello, then roll my eyes at how dumb I am.
I shouldn’t have signed to him. I had no idea what I was doing.

I still don’t.

“This is just
lovely
,” I mumble under my breath, picking my nails despondently.

“What’s lovely?” comes a voice from behind.

I jump, turning around to find Dick standing there.

“Hello, D… Dick.”

“What’d you call me? Just kidding.” He sits down between us, legs dangling off the stage. I wonder if he was saving up that joke; I can picture him practicing it into mirrors. “Some guys switched around, since I had openings for more people Monday and Tuesday. So, it looks like our Wednesday crew is now … just you two. Which really means it’s just you, Dessie.”

“Just me,” I echo.

“And you’ve been cast in
Our Town
as Emily,” he reminds me unnecessarily, “and they will be starting rehearsals next week.”