My Invented Life (5 page)

“You promised! You said I could have the lead for once.”

“I never said . . . you didn’t . . . I didn’t . . . ” Eva goes pale.

My sister has talent, but even Bette Davis couldn’t fake shock that convincingly, which makes Carmen the liar
here. What game is that girl playing? I barrel into her, pushing her backward hard. She keeps her balance by grabbing onto Bryan. Before I can get in a slap, Sapphire wedges her body between us.

“What’s this all about?”

Eva looks genuinely bewildered.

“I hate you,” Carmen says.

“Carmen?” Eva says. “I’ll quit if you want me to.” Tears stand out in her eyes.

Bryan hugs her from the side, and she struggles away from him. “Leave me alone,” she says. She runs out of the theater with Bryan right behind.

Sapphire has Carmen by the elbow.

“Eva promised I could have the lead,” Carmen says in a low voice, her eyes downcast.

“It’s not hers to give,” Sapphire says. “Show’s over, everyone. Go home. Roz, Jonathan’s waiting for you out back.”

Wild thoughts bounce around in my brain as I slowly drift toward the door. Something about Carmen’s fight with Eva seemed unnatural. Think breast implants, not quite fake, but not exactly real, either.

J
onathan stands outside
holding a white guitar case in one hand. He has a touch of the lonely stray dog about him. It makes me want to take him home.

“Hi,” I say. “Pretty dramatic, huh?”

Silence.

When gossip falls flat, move on to flattery. “You were awesome in there. Why didn’t you read for Orlando?”

He stands like a statue—a monument to indifference—looking at me blankly. Maybe he has the hearing of a monument as well. I’m too unnerved to repeat myself, so I start walking toward town. He follows.

“Orlando’s some rich whitey,” he mumbles after a block or so.

Though the engine warning light blinks red, I keep trying. “I guess. Are you ready for the grand tour?” I use excess cheeriness to cover my confusion.

He nods ever so slightly and shifts his guitar case from one hand to the other. I trot out the usual polite conversation starters. “Are you into sports?”

“You wanna know if Shaq’s my man? ’Cuz I’m black and tall, right?” His jaw sets to a hard edge. He appears to
be clenching his teeth. “Yeah, this here guitar case is where I keep my basketball.”

Do-over. He has a vendetta against the world, I tell myself, not against me personally. He doesn’t even know me.

“That was lame,” I say. “What kind of music do you play? And I’m not assuming hip-hop.”

Jonathan’s smile—if the thing that happens on his face for a few seconds can be called a smile—shakes my confidence. Maybe he knew me in a past life.

“Oldies,” he says. “Anywhere I can plug in?”

The Silo is our local cyber café and teen zone. Before it opened we were forced to hang out at Smelly’s (okay, Shelly’s), a vinyl diner where aerosolized fat particles mingle with countrified Rolling Stones songs. At Smelly’s a cup of coffee comes with a side of fries. I take Jonathan to the Silo. He sets up in the corner while I place our order. When I get back, he’s walking his long fingers down the strings of his guitar. The flint in his eyes softens as he plays.

“Would you hold my hand if you saw me in heaven?” he sings, and right then the tension between us dissolves. I imagine him playing me like that, and my pulse accelerates.

At the end of the song I hand him a coffee.

“Can you teach me to play that?” I say, looking at his lips. All I’m asking for is one little espresso-coated kiss to help me forget Bryan.

“Sure,” he says. He leans toward me, stroking my back with his long fingers.

My invented life is such a happy one. Too bad reality keeps intruding
.

When I ask him to teach me the song, he pretends not
to hear and starts putting the guitar back into the shaggy silver interior of its case. “Please.” I make a playful lunge for it.

“Back off,” he snarls.

My evil girlfriend theory is gaining ground.

“Why did you play me a love song, then?” I say.

“Clapton wrote that song for his dead son.”

“Oh.”

“Aunt S told you to hit on me. Am I right?” he says.

Before I can answer, he marches to the door and kicks the doorjamb. “Stay away from me,” he yells on his way out. After he’s thoroughly gone, I jog home. The cold air plus something else makes my throat ache. I feel repulsive. Sapphire could probably explain it all to me. Unfortunately, I can’t tell her about our afternoon at the Silo because she’s Jonathan’s guardian. At age six, the scarlet
T
for tattletale puts a crimp on your social life. At age sixteen, a bout of flesh-eating bacteria would be preferable.

When I get home, I go straight to Eva’s room. The door won’t open—a new PD thing—and she doesn’t answer when I knock and yell. Mom is working late. Dad tells me to leave Eva alone. I compromise by writing a note.

Hey, Eva. I’m really sorry about Carmen. Can we talk? Something else happened today. Can we talk, pretty please?

I go outside and peer through her window, the concerned-sister version of P. Tom. She’s lying facedown on her bed. I tape the note to the glass facing in so she can read it later.

When I check the computer, our chat room is vacant. The house radiates quiet like a museum where the only sounds are from the patrons scratching their heads and the dandruff hitting the floor. I didn’t realize until Eva dumped me how many of my so-called friends were actually her friends.

Before I finish sulking, Dad calls me to the dinner table. The T-shirt rock icon of the day is Robert Plant of Zep.

“Serve yourself,” he says.

“Is that texturized soy protein?” I ask, pointing at the MadCowDisease loaf.

“It’s not vegetarian,” Elmo says. “The cow was, though. Before I cooked him.”

I heap my plate with brown rice and a few token Brussels sprouts. Since my experience with the banana slug—eating one on a dare during a field trip to the redwoods—overcooked asparagus, okra, and other slimy vegetables are off the menu. Mom comes in as we sit down at the kitchen table.

“I’m home,” she sings. “Where’s Eva?”

“Hi, Roz. How was your day?” I mutter.

“What was that?”

“Eva’s in her room and won’t come out,” Dad says. “She refused to talk to me.”

Mom makes a plate for herself. Her worry lines are deeper than normal. Dad looks at my heap of rice. “Vegetarians eat vegetables,” he says.

“If only they could breed veggies to taste like Cheez Doodles,” I say.

“A Brussels sprout a day keeps the doctor away,” Gethsemane says. “Any idea what’s up with Eva?”

“She had a fight with Carmen at tryouts,” I say.

As Mom stands up to go to Eva’s room, she glances at my barren dinner plate. “There’s some tofu in the fridge,” she says.

I go to fry some up. At least she bought the firm kind I like.

The phone rings while I’m loading the dishwasher. Mom is still in Eva’s room. She picks up the same instant I do. “Hello?” we say in unison.

“Hi, it’s Sapphire. Can I talk to Eva? It’s about the play.”

“Sure,” Mom says. “She’s right here. Roz, hang up.”

“Bye.” Ever the serpent under the flower, I hit the mute button, move into the laundry closet, and close the door.

Sapphire:
Can we talk about what happened today?

Eva:
I got there late because my friend needed me.

That’s all. I never told Carmen I wouldn’t audition for Rosalind.

(Sniffle sounds.)

Sapphire:
I’m sorry about your fight. If you think the friend emergency threw off your reading today, I’d like to give you a second chance.

Eva, in a sharp voice:
What do you mean?

Sapphire: (Raspy intake of breath)
I mean . . . based on the readings as they stand, I will give the lead to Roz.

The phone slips from my hand and falls into the empty washing machine.

Eva:
Really?

(Metallic echo.)

Monumental.

I retrieve the phone from the barrel and hit the off button by mistake.

No, this is not one of my crazy fantasies. I hop onto the dryer and dance like those sexy Brazilian soccer players when they score a goal in the World Cup. I wish I could call everyone with the good news. But I can’t. For one thing, it isn’t official. For another, it would be in bad taste because of the jealousy factor. A smidgen of empathy for Eva dims the glow of my pleasure, but I brush it aside. Does Eva feel rotten each time she beats me out for a role? I seriously doubt it. Still, when I see her online later that evening, I send her an instant message.

Me: talk to me . . .

Me: pretty plz, with sugar, whipped cream + 12 cherries on top?

Eva: i don’t believe in sugar

Me: melted chocolate then? *kisses her sister’s perfect big toenail*

Me: u r leaving home in a few months . . .

Eva: ok 2moro

Eva: may b

S
ince the scooter craze
ended years ago, I’m the only person in Yolo Bluffs who still rides one. As I zip to school the next morning, a fantasy bubble reading
ROZ, THE NEXT JULIA ROBERTS
hovers above my head. The Oscar statue in my hand feels heavier than expected. I crumple my carefully worded acceptance speech and babble an endless stream of thank-yous into the microphone. When I arrive at the Barn door, Sapphire hasn’t posted the playbill with my name on top yet. My bubble deflates.

In homeroom, Carmen appears to be absorbed by Balzac in the original French. She takes no notice of me when I sit down next to her. She’s wearing a new silver skull earring in her left ear in a desperate attempt to look hip. True confession—I want one too. I restrain myself from asking her where she bought it, though. Mr. Beltz blathers on about college prep stuff completely unaware of the blotch of breakfast matter on his shirt. Maybe I can glean a clue about Carmen’s fight with Eva yesterday. I write her a note.

Sup? You read well!

When Mr. Beltz turns toward the board, I flick the folded sheet her way. She scrawls a quick answer and goes back to her book without looking at me. While I read the note, she wraps one of her long black tresses around her wrist like a bracelet. My short spikes turn away in envy.

Desist your banal chatter
.

I scribble a response.

My father was no prostitute
.

When I slide the paper near her elbow, she knocks it to the floor in what appears to be an accident. The bell rings, and she hurries out without a word.

Eva said she’d talk to me today. I have no intention of letting her wriggle out of it, so I go looking for her at lunch. When I don’t find her among the bevy of cheerleader beauties in the cafeteria, I zigzag through every campus hideout I can think of. She’s in the gym stretching on the barre.

“What’s the deal with you and Carmen?” I say. Small talk is such a time waster.

“We’re peachy,” Eva says.

“More like rotten peaches. Come on. Just tell me,” I say, ignoring every principle of persuasion. Coaxing my sister to talk to me is another PD experience I have yet to grow accustomed to.

“I have no idea.”

Though I know this is a lie, I shake my head in a show
of sympathy. “I can’t believe what she said at tryouts. That’s so messed up,” I say.

Eva gives her hamstrings a short break. “I never told her I wouldn’t audition for Rosalind.”

I recognize progress and tread lightly. “Who had the emergency yesterday?”

“Carrie. She was suffering from a bad-clothes-day-slash-my-boyfriend-is-a-jerk emergency.”

Carrie—another pep squad sylph I love to hate. I reserve my comments about Carrie’s Lands’ End wardrobe and brain-dead boyfriend so that Eva will keep talking to me.

“Maybe Carmen asked Carrie to call you,” I propose, “so you’d miss the reading.”

“She’d never do that,” Eva says. Her voice comes out flat and entirely devoid of conviction. I’m guessing the idea occurred to her, too.

Just as Eva seems about to tell me something, I go and ruin it by sharing my current theory. “Maybe Carmen freaked because of the lesbian thing.”

“You’re so dense, Chub.”

The old Eva would’ve laughed it off.
So true. Carmen’s been jealous since Madonna came into my life, though our affair ended months ago
. Instead she throws a sweaty towel at my face with great force and accuracy. Who is this girl with no sense of humor, and what has she done with my sister? I give up on the diplomatic approach.

“Carmen probably thinks you check her out when she’s naked. That you lust for her,” I say.

Eva charges me and pins me against the mirror. What she lacks in size, she makes up for in athletic precision.
“Wert thou not my sister, I would not take this hand from thy throat till this other had pulled out thy tongue.” Translation? I
am
a tad dense.

“That’s Orlando’s line,” I whisper. “Or were you going to play the male lead?”

The grip she tightens on my neck inspires me to choose my next words with care.

“Unhand me,” I squeak. “I take everything back. Maybe I can find out what’s really going on with Carmen.”

She releases the chokehold. “Okay,” she says. “But keep me out of it.”

After my last class, I motor to the theater to check for the playbill. Nada. A gaggle of confused theater geeks loiters out front. Bryan and Jonathan are talking, or rather Bryan is talking and Jonathan is listening. Sort of listening while edging away. In fact, Jonathan looks like he’d rather be taking a trigonometry test at the dentist’s office. Should I go rescue them?

I hear Bryan say, “Are you adopted? You know because . . . well . . . you’re bla—African-American.” This is all the proof I need that we’re meant for each other. I put my foot in my mouth on a regular basis too, though I don’t usually step in a cow pie first.

Knowing from experience about Jonathan’s volatility, I wait for him to punch Bryan’s nose, which is a little on the pointy side and could use some flattening. Jonathan stuffs his hands in his pockets instead.