The Pretty One
Authors: Cheryl Klam
For my sister, Jenny Guttridgeâforever the pretty one
Thanks to Esther Newberg, who will always be the first person I pick for my team. Thanks also to the amazing Claudia Gabel, whose energy, enthusiasm, and talent never fail to inspire and astound me. And mega-thanks to Brian Klam, the funniest writer in the world.
one
starstruck (adj): captivated by famous people or by fame itself.
The rodent is staring at my sister Lucy.
In the rodent's defense, it's hard not to stare at Lucy. Actually, it's a phenomenon similar to rubbernecking; only in this case people don't stare at my sister because she looks like a car wreck. Men, women, children, animals, and zygotes (I'm guessing) can't take their eyes off Lucy because she is absolutely, undeniably perfect. Like airbrushed “men's interest” magazine kind of perfect.
“Herbert?” I say, since his real name is Herbert Rodale and I only refer to him as the rodent behind his back.
The rodent doesn't answer. He's either ignoring me or so deep in fantasyland he doesn't hear me.
“Herbert!” I shout.
This not only gets Lucy's attention, but the attention of the techie geeks who, like me and the rodent, have gathered to help Lucy turn the gym into a “magic apple orchard” for the fall festival. We attend the Chesapeake School for Performing Arts in Baltimore (otherwise known as CSPA), and the fall festival is the school's lame imitation of a homecoming dance. But unlike in a real high school (where I've heard everyone goes to the dances regardless of their position in the high school popularity hierarchy), only the drama, dance, music, and art majors (well, about half of the art majors) attend the fall festival. Us techies stay home and watch
Mythbusters
on the Discovery Channel.
“Herbert,” Lucy says sweetly as she puts her thumbs in her belt loops and hikes up her low-rise Sevens. “Megan wants you.”
The rodent looks as if someone has just slapped him out of a trance. “What?” he says, wrinkling up his long, pointed nose as his little beady eyes dart around the room.
“This needs to be hung from right there,” I say, shaking a “magic apple” (also known as a red-sequined Styrofoam ball) and pointing to a spot on the wall behind him.
“Yeah, okay,” he mumbles. And then he goes back to staring at my sister again.
I should be used to guys ogling my older sister as if she were a Victoria's Secret model holding the newest Sony PlayStation. It happens no matter where we go.
Lucy and I are the only kids in our family and she's the oldest, born eleven months before me. Since Lucy is tall (think model), gorgeous (think bathing suit edition of
Sports Illustrated
), and blond (think bathing suit edition of
Sports Illustrated
model with golden flax hair spun by silver-winged fairies), I like to joke that she used up all our mom's Scandinavian genes, leaving me with Dad's Mediterranean ones (think bushy-eyebrowed president of some country you've never heard of). But although my heritage may explain my stature, thick dark hair, and olive complexion, it's not responsible for my oversized hooked nose, my nonexistent cheekbones, my oversized chin, and last, but definitely not least, my buck teeth.
Life is so unfair. Which is why I toss rodent the ball, hitting him in the head.
“Ouch,” he says, rubbing the place of impact.
“Sorry,” I grumble.
My aggressive behavior and sour expression have not escaped the notice of my sister, who takes me by the arm and leads me away from the group. “What are you doing?” she whispers.
Even her voice is melodic. Jesus.
“It was an accident,” I say defensively.
Lucy peers into my eyes (brown with a little hazel mixed in, my one and only reasonably good facial feature), and I can tell she's trying to read my mind. In spite of our physical differences, we grew up as twins: wearing the same blue pinafore dresses Aunt Erma sent us every year for Christmas, getting our pictures taken together at Honeygo Photo Studio, and being toted around in a double stroller. As a result, we have a brain connect that is sometimes downright eerie, if not bordering on psychic. (Or psychotic.)
“I know you weren't crazy about this whole decorating thing,” she says finally. “But I appreciate your help.”
“No problemo.” I turn away and begin chewing on my right thumbnail. I don't want Lucy to see inside my head, mainly because I'm not exactly proud of what's going on in there. I love my sister, I do, but this idol worship gets to me sometimes. I really shouldn't care that my fellow tech majors have spent the past three hours decorating for a dance that none of them have any intention of attending, all the while acting as if Lucy is doing them a huge favor by
allowing
them to help her. I should be downright delirious with happy-tude that my sister is getting what she wants, even if she always seems to get what she wants without putting in any real effort. But deep down, I just wave that proverbial white flag of surrender.
“I didn't have anything else to do anyway,” I add, commending myself on my graciousness.
“That's true,” Lucy says absentmindedly, pulling the proverbial flag right out of my hands.
“I could've gone to Spoons,” Simon announces, not even bothering to look away from his illustration. Simon is an excellent artist who has been given the task of painting the giant backdrop for the dance floor, a life-size illustration of an apple tree. As my official best friend, Simon is the only one of my peers who's actually here because of me. Simon is short and skinny, but with his big brown eyes and ruffled wavy brown hair, he's definitely one of the best-looking techs (not that that's a huge compliment; as anyone with one good eye could see, we are not an attractive bunch). Not many people realize this though, because they're too distracted by his thick, circa nineteen fifties horn-rimmed glasses; his black, paint spattered T-shirts; his brightly colored Bermuda shorts (that he wears year roundâeven in the winter); his neon socks; and his silver sneakers.
“I could be drinking an iced mocha cappuccino right now,” Simon says, referring to my favorite beverage, as he uses his paintbrush to sweep a brown line across the canvas. “Or I could've gone to see that new Jennifer Aniston movie.”
I smile widely. Simon hates iced mocha cappuccinos about as much as he hates chick flicks, maybe even more (I caught him looking at a Sandra Bullock DVD at the mall once). The message is clear: he would prefer either of those to decorating the gym. Not that I haven't been thinking the same thing myself, but I can't help but feel protective of Lucy, and I don't want Simon to hurt her feelings. I narrow my eyes and flash him a look that sends a message equally as clear: put a lid on it.
But it's too late. Lucy is on to us. “Why don't we call it quits for today,” she says, reaching toward me and pulling my thumb out of my mouth the way a mother would.
I wipe my thumb on my corduroys, embarrassed to have been hacking away at my nail like an eager puppy attacking a furry slipper. As a kid, I sucked my thumb, which is why my two front teeth resemble those found on a walrus. Somewhere near my eighth year, I made the transition to just chewing on my nail and cuticles, but it hadn't seemed to help my teeth much. My sister never had that problem, of course. She was gifted with two rows of straight white piano-key teeth and entered puberty looking like a poster child for Ultrabright toothpaste.
“This looks great, Lucy,” Catherine says, as if Lucy, not me, were responsible for the floor design. Nearly six feet tall and with an almost constant scowl on her face, Catherine Bellows is an intimidating figure. And the flannel shirts and overalls she is so fond of only make her seem more intimidating, in a Paul Bunyan, lumberjack kind of way.
“Thanks, but you really should be complimenting Megan,” Lucy says. “It was her design, and you guys are the ones who provided all the elbow grease. Bravo!”
Bravo
, Simon mouths with a roll of his eyes. Mocking Lucy isn't a very nice thing to do, but Simon is an ornery guy. It's just one of the reasons I like him so much. “It does look great,” I say to Simon. “In fact, it doesn't even look like a gym in here.” What I really mean is: Even though it still looks like a gym, it looks a lot better than it did three hours ago when we walked in.
Our school was built as a private Catholic school. Even though its two stories have been remade to accommodate the CPSA (complete with a dance studio, an art gallery, a theater, and a production room for us techs), some remnants still remain: the giant, stained-glass window behind the old sweeping marble staircase; small, dark classrooms; a bunch of lockers that look like they're from the Druid period; and a dark, windowless gym.
“I think we should celebrate,” Lucy says. “I'm treating everyone to Slurpees at the Seven-Eleven.”
“Slurpees?” Catherine says excitedly. It was as if Lucy just offered her a new blade for the four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar table saw she got as a gift from her parents last Christmas. “Your sister's great!” she says to me.
“I'll meet you at home,” I tell Lucy, obviously underwhelmed by her greatness.
“You don't want a Slurpee?” Lucy asks nonchalantly, pulling her sleek black sunglasses out of the quilted leather purse that she paid two hundred dollars for on eBay. Lucy always dresses for the occasion, and today she looks like she's dressed for a glamorous hayride: skin-tight jeans, her new combat trooper boots, and a red T-shirt accessorized with a red-plaid scarf that is looped casually around her neck. Lucy has the looks of preâChris Martin, movie starâera Gwyneth Paltrow, but that's not what she wants to be.
Although more than one teacher has suggested she become a model or do some commercial work, Lucy is a total theater snob. She claims she might eventually consider doing some “film work,” but only after she's established herself as a serious actress. And no one doubts that she will. She's that good. Lucy's refusal to “sell out” and cash in on her beauty only added to her goddess-like status at the school. As for me, key-grip status is as good as it gets.
“No thanks,” I say.
The truth of the matter is that I want a Slurpee more than the rodent wants two minutes with Lucy in the backseat of his '97 Honda Accord. But I don't think I can stand watching him and the rest of the techies fawn over my sister any longer.
There's only so much my diplomatic, bushy-eyebrowed heritage can take.
“Simon and I will stay and finish up. I'll meet you at home.”
I watch as Lucy tosses her silky hair and heads out of the gym like she's working the red carpet in front of adoring fans and hungry paparazzi. I look over at Simon, who's still diligently painting away.
“What was that?” I ask Simon.
“What?”
“I loooove Slurpeeeeeees,” I say in a really low voice as soon as everyone is out of earshot. “I didn't think Catherine loved anything except that table saw she keeps bragging about.”
Simon half-shrugs. “Yeah, well, Lucy's popular and nice to everybody.”
“Too nice.” I sit down and my cords feel tighter than they had last week. “Did you see the way the rodent was looking at her? If I were Lucy, I would've⦔
Simon raises an eyebrow. “Would've what?”
I try to imagine what it would be like to have someone staring at me in awe, or at just a part of me, like my boobs for instance. In fact, my boobs are twice as big as Lucy's. Unfortunately, so is everything else.
“I would've told him to keep his perverted little eyes to himself,” I say adamantly.
“Please, it's pathetic,” Simon says. “He's obsessed with Lucy, and the closest he'll ever get to scoring is helping her hang sequined balls.”
As soon as Simon says the word
obsessed,
my mind flashes to Drew Reynolds, the guy/divine being I've been secretly in love with since I saw him on the first day of school my freshman year. I was looking for the production studio and had wandered down the wrong hall, which was crammed full of drama majors, laughing and sauntering along in a cool, because-I-said-so manner. As I stood outside the door to the auditorium, I tried to get up the nerve to ask someone where the production studio was, but I was too intimidated to approach even the lesser-known drama kings and queens. I was praying that Lucy would suddenly appear when I heard a deep voice say, “Lost?”
He was by himself, sitting on a window ledge away from the crowd, an open book in his hands. He had short, black licoriceâcolored hair, sparkling blue eyes, and was wearing black combat boots, washed-out jeans, and a black T-shirt. He looked older than the rest of the kids, more sophisticated, like he'd traveled in Europe for two years. Immediately, it felt as though there was a knot tightening in the center of my chest.
Ever since Drew pointed me in the right direction, the mere glimpse of him is enough to make my heart beat faster and my hands shake. Even though I know a divine being like Drew will never be interested in someone like me, there's not a doubt in my mind that if he asked for volunteers to scrape old gum off the bottom of the gym bleachers for the fall dance, I'd be the first in line, even if I had to challenge the entire drama queen population in a kickboxing match in order to get there.
The realization that I might have something in common with the rodent depresses me so much that I heave a big sigh. And I sigh even harder when I notice that some of my flab is hanging over the front of my cords. And the sides. And possibly even the back. “Simon,” I say, as I start chewing on my nail again. “Do you ever think about changing majors?”
“No.”
“You could get into the music program.” Most of us are techies because we wanted to attend CSPA and production is the only major that doesn't require a grueling audition. But Simon has taken music lessons for years and he not only has a great singing voice, he can play the clarinet as well as the piano. He was even in the chorus of
The Music Man
last year (because the director begged him to do it).
“Why would I want to change majors?” Simon asks. I'm not surprised by Simon's response. I've always thought Simon enrolled as a theater production major just to tick off his wealthy mother who is totally annoyed her only child, Simon Winston Chase the fifth, is attending a
public
Baltimore school, especially one that is a school for the arts and especially when he is not even enrolled in the performing arts program.
