The Pretty One (18 page)

Even though the scenery for the senior productions was usually pretty simplistic, Simon's was head and shoulders above the rest. He had designed a night backdrop that was covered in wildflowers. He was even making a battery-operated lamppost.

“If you want I can stop by and give you a hand,” I offer.

“Maybe when I'm done with practice one day.”

“Sure,” he says. “That would be nice. Oh, by the way, my mom loved your new design for the living room. She said she should pay you instead of her interior decorator.”

“Ha, ha! Okay, great!” It comes out really forced. Like it's obvious that I'm not sincere. “Oh, and I've got a compliment for you as well. Guess who was talking about you at lunch the other day? Marybeth. She was saying how great she thinks you look with contacts. She said she never noticed until now what cute eyes you have.”

“Really?” he asks with a sad smile. “That's nice, I guess.”

         

When I get home, Lucy isn't there. On the kitchen table is a handwritten note explaining that she is going out to dinner with Marybeth and will see me later. I tell myself I really shouldn't care. After all, in spite of Lucy I've had a pretty good day. I kissed Drew, left my mom a very long-winded, ecstatic message, and had a nice talk with Simon. So what if my sister can't stand the sight of me?

I make myself a tuna fish sandwich with lite mayo as I try to ignore the Lucy-inspired pit in my stomach. I think about what Lucy said about being charming and nice and then I think about George. I grab my sandwich and head to the computer, determined to deal with him once and for all.

After several drafts, I type an e-mail that I'm pretty sure is good:

Dear George,
I'm really sorry but I can't go out with you on Thursday night. In fact, I can't go out with you at all. I think you are a GREAT guy and wish you all the best.
Sincerely, Megan

I'm just about to press Send when I hear the front door open. “Mom?” I call out.

“Just me,” Lucy replies.

I check my watch. It's nearly eight o'clock and I haven't heard from Mom since I left her that message. I can't help but feel disappointed. So much for her sharing my excitement over my first (stage) kiss. Still, I'm happy that at least Lucy is home.

“What did you get?” I ask cheerfully as she walks in the bedroom carrying a Bebe's bag.

“Pants,” she says. “They were on sale. We stopped there before dinner.”

“Where did you go to dinner?” I ask.

“Cheesecake Factory,” she says.

As Lucy is well aware, I absolutely love the Cheesecake Factory. In the old days she probably would've said something like
I was thinking about you the whole time
or
I brought you back some cheesecake
. But it's as if she's forgotten that I've ever even been there, not to mention that it's one of my favorite places on earth.

“Hey,” she says, motioning toward the shirt under my hoodie.

“Is that my shirt?”

“It was in our share pile.”

Lucy doesn't say anything more, but I can tell she's not too happy by the way she turns away from me. I curse myself for wearing the shirt. I knew it was hers but since she lets me wear some of her other shirts, I didn't think she'd care. Still, it was a dumb thing to do, especially considering the sorry state of our relationship.

“Will you read this?” I ask, motioning toward the computer screen. “It's to George.”

Lucy leans over my shoulder and reads it. “That's not a letter. That's a bitchy note. Have you not been listening to a word I've been saying to you? You have to be bend over backward to be nice now or people are going to hate you.”

“I know, I know,” I say defensively. “I really do understand what you're saying. Honest. But what's nasty about this?” I glance at the note again as I begin to chew on my thumbnail. “I say he's a great guy.”

“I don't understand why you don't want to go out with him,” Lucy snaps. “He's cute and popular…he's funny…”

“He's kind of annoying. And also…he has girl hair.” I'm stunned that I remember what Simon had said last year.

“Girl hair?” Lucy asks, wrinkling up her nose and raising her eyebrows like I had just spoken in tongues. “You don't like him because of his
hair
?”

I never should have brought up the girl-hair thing. I know it sounds superficial, I should've just stopped at annoying. But I'm not about to back down. “I would think you, of all people, would understand. Remember Andy?” I say, mentioning the guy who asked her to the fall festival the previous year. “You said you didn't like him because of his hands.”

“This isn't the same thing. Not even close.”

“Why?”

“Because a year ago you would've been counting your blessings to be fortunate enough to be asked out by someone like George!”

“I see,” I say calmly, yanking my thumb away from my mouth. “So, as far as you're concerned, Miss Pathetic BuckTeeth Fatso on the inside is lucky that I even caught George's eye. I'm so sorry to disappoint you, Lucy, but he's…he's not my type.”

“How would you know what your type is when you've never gone out with anyone? When, up until yesterday, you'd never even kissed anyone?” she adds.

It's a low blow, but Lucy doesn't seem to realize it. She is just standing there giving me her cool-as-a-cucumber icy glare.

I forget all about my vow to be nice. As far as I'm concerned, the gloves are off. “Well,” I say, “you'll be glad to know that my kissing ability has improved significantly. Drew and I worked on our kiss all afternoon and according to him, I'm a natural.”

“Good for you,” she snaps.

But I don't gloat. I send the e-mail to George as Lucy gathers her pajamas, her pillow, and her comforter and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her. As I look at the bulletin board crammed with all her theater pictures, I can't help but feel overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia and longing for simpler times, when my dream of looking like Lucy hadn't come true yet.

nineteen

rehearsal (noun): a practice session, usually private, in preparation for a public performance.

Dear Megan,

I know you're a novice in love and life and I fear I have frightened you by my exuberance. All I can say is that your smile continues to haunt my sleep. Go with me to the fall festival. It is the only way to soothe my restless soul.

G

“That's pathetic,” Simon says, as he finishes reading George's note. “Oooh. I am haunting your dreams, wooooo.”

“Woooo,” I say, but it's a halfhearted, sick to my stomach, wooo.

A week has passed since I sent George that e-mail and I haven't spoken or communicated with him at all. I was just beginning to relax and not run in the opposite direction when I saw him. But his note put me back on high alert. As a result, even though it's been raining off and on all day, Simon and I are eating our lunch on the steps of a deserted church a block away from school. “What's it going to take for old Wayne Newton to get the message?” Simon asks.

“Wayne Newton?”

“Tony Roberts.”

“Tony Roberts? The giant you-can-do-it guy?”

“That's Tony Robbins. I was trying to think of some big Broadway singer.”

“Kristin Chenoweth,” I say.

“What's it going to take for old Kristin to get the message?” Simon asks.

“I wish I knew.”

I take back the note and stick it into my purse. I rub my half-frozen hands together. Baltimore has been suffering through a totally schizoid fall with hot, sunny days sandwiched in between unusually cold and damp weather. Today it's freezing cold, and even though I'm wearing two hoodies underneath my giant raincoat from last year, I'm still shivering.

I pick up my turkey sandwich (that was made as designated by my Lucy diet: whole wheat bread, mustard—no mayo) and a glob of mustard slides off the sandwich onto the step. As I wipe it off with my napkin, I'm happy that no one (besides Simon) is there to witness my messy eating. “I have to say I'm surprised. I thought this whole dating thing was a dead issue.”

“What does Lucy say?”

“She's not really talking to me these days,” I say, choking down a bite. I really hate mustard. “We've gotten into fights before but nothing ever like this. She's really ticked about the way I've handled this whole George thing.”

“I guarantee you, Lucy couldn't care less about George. She's just jealous,” he says matter-of-factly as he leans back and tucks his hands into the pocket of his brown corduroy jacket. Simon is an incredibly fast eater, and as per usual, he's already finished with his lunch.

“Because I got the part in Drew's play?”

“She's used to being the star of the show. And now you're the pretty one.”

“Don't say that,” I say quickly.

“Why not? It's true,” Simon says. “In fact, I think you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.”

Amazingly enough, I'm no longer cold. In fact, I'm so warm I've begun to sweat. I fiddle with the napkin in my lap. “So what should I do about George?”

“Maybe you should accept a date to the fall festival with someone else. He'll get the message.”

“That's an idea,” I say. I stick the lite fruit cocktail back in my bag, untouched.

“What about Drew?”

I have thought about this, of course. I have thought about this a lot. But although practice has been coming along really well and we always have a great time together (at least, I think so) and my kissing had improved dramatically (at least, I think so), I still can't tell if he's really into me or not.

“I'm not sure how much Drew likes me. A little bit at least, but then he and Lucy are going to see that play at the Kennedy Center tomorrow, so I don't really know.” I have discovered they're going to a matinee, not an evening performance, which makes me feel a tiny bit better since it doesn't seem so date-ish. But still, just thinking about it is enough to make my angina flare up.

“So maybe you should go to the dance with me,” Simon says casually.

My heart begins thwacking. “Oh, Simon,” I say, with a little forced laugh as I clutch my chest. “I made you take me last year. You should ask someone you really like.”

“I just did: you.”

I laugh a little louder, as if by sheer force of will I can turn this whole thing into a harmless joke at no one's expense. “No,” I say.

“You know what I mean. Someone you
like
-like.”

He's not laughing. In fact, he's not even smiling anymore. “I just did,” he says softly. “You.”

In addition to my worsening case of angina, I now have emphysema.
No, no, no…

Simon sighs and says, “Last week, when I told you I needed to work some stuff out? Well, I wasn't exactly honest when I said it didn't have anything to do with you. It didn't have anything to do with anything you've done or said…it's just that, well, my feelings for you have changed—developed.”

But you're my friend,
I want to say,
my best friend
.

“I've tried to ignore it, but I, well, I can't. I want to be more than friends.”

For the second time in five minutes I'm unable to speak.

“I know how you feel about Drew, but, I mean, you don't really know him. And, well, like you said, Lucy likes him. Maybe if you gave us a chance…you might be able to forget about him.”

I swallow the lump in my throat as I stare at my lap.

“Do you…do you think you could see me as more than just a friend?”

Simon.
My
Simon. “I want things to be like they were before the accident,” I somehow manage to spit out. “I want you to be my best friend.”

“I can't keep doing this, Megan,” he says. “I don't want to be just friends anymore.” He picks up his lunch bag and crumples it into a ball. “I just want you to give me a chance. That's all I'm asking. Come to the fall festival with me. As my date.”

“I…I…” What can I say that will make this all better? “I can't.”

Simon's eyes fill with tears. “I have to go,” he says quickly. “My contacts are bugging me.”

I sit still, watching him walk away from me, heading back toward school. Only then do I realize that my nose is running.

I'm so miserable that I'm tempted to blow off play practice. It's not that I don't want to see Drew, it's just that I'm so upset I doubt I'll be able to concentrate. And I'm right. Within the first few minutes of practice, it's obvious that I made a mistake in coming. Even though I'm supposed to be off script, I'm not even remembering the most basic of words, like “yes” and “no.” After only the second page of dialogue, Drew says, “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” I say with a subdued laugh.

“You seem a little distracted.”

“I, well…” I desperately blink back tears as I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. I can't allow myself to cry. Not in front of Drew. “It's Simon.”

And suddenly I feel guilty for even mentioning Simon's name in front of Drew. How can I tell Drew what happened at lunch without breaking some unspoken trust between Simon and me?

“It's not just Simon…it's, well, everything. This year has just been weird, that's all.”

He's silent for a minute, just looking at me. “Maybe we should call it quits for today.”

“I don't want to go home,” I say, my voice cracking. “I'm
not
going to go home.”

“I have to run an errand,” he says. “Do you want to come with me?”

“With you?” I ask.

He nods.

“Okay,” I say, grabbing my coat. I don't even ask where he's going. It seems irrelevant, somehow. We're both silent as we leave the school, walking side by side to the parking structure. Even though I'm fulfilling a fantasy by spending some one-on-one time with him away from the school, and should therefore be totally, absolutely over the moon, I'm not. I'm too numb to be excited. The whole Simon thing has left me feeling like a wet noodle.

We walk up the stairs to the second floor of the lot, where he stops beside a brand-spanking-new and shiny BMW.

“Nice wheels,” I say, after I climb inside. Then I cringe. Who says wheels? Whenever I try to be cool, the words come out all wrong. But fortunately, Drew doesn't seem to notice.

“Thanks,” he says. “It's my stepfather's but he lets me use it. He's a lawyer for some big law firm. Actually, his office isn't too far from here. He works in the Legg Mason building.”

“My mom's a lawyer, too. She works in a renovated town house down the street from the Legg Mason building. It's totally trashed but…she loves her job, which I guess is good because she works twenty-four seven.”

Drew's quiet as he drives out of the structure. I notice he's suddenly got a little crinkle in his brow, like he's forgotten how to get where he's going or he's suddenly regretting asking such a clinically depressed person to join him.

“So where are we going?” I ask, trying my best to sound cheerful.

Drew grins as if he's happy to know something I don't. “You'll see.”

As we drive through the Inner Harbor and head up to Route 83, we sit in nervous silence until Drew clears his throat.

“So,” he says finally. “Do you, ah, want to talk about whatever got you so upset today?”

“It wasn't that big a deal,” I say quickly, not sure if I want to burden him with the details. Plus the last thing I need is to find out that underneath it all Drew is alien, like everyone else I know.

But then he raises his eyebrows and gives me a sweet smile. It's all the encouragement I need.

“It's Simon. He's been my best friend since my first day of school here. Until my accident, we did everything together. But lately, well, he's been…going through a hard time. But it's not all his fault. I mean, I have, too.”

Drew keeps his magnificent eyes on the road. “With good reason. Look at what you've been through.”

He's right.
I
have been though a lot. If anyone deserves to be miserable right now, it's me. “Well, I always thought life would be easier, you know, if I looked like Lucy and lived in the spotlight. But now that it's all real, a lot of it isn't the way I imagined.”

Drew turns down the volume of the car radio. It's as though he wants to be listening only to me. “What do you mean?”

“Before my accident, I thought if people just got to know me that they'd like me, but they never got past my face or body. Or that's what I told myself. I believed things would be different this year. I thought I'd have a ton of friends and everybody would like me…” Oh, man. Wa-wa-wa. What a cry baby. If Simon were here, he'd be having a field day. “
Poor baby…it's so hard to be beautiful…
” “I know it sounds conceited,” I say, just in case Drew's having the same thought.

“It actually sounds a little sad.”

I blink away the extra water in my eyes as I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. Must be my nonexistent allergies.

“Look, Megan, I'm no expert, but it seems to me that anyone in your shoes would be out of sorts right now.”

Drew has a point. After all, less than a year ago Simon and I were arguing over who got to be Luke Skywalker.

“And as far as what the other people think or don't think of you…,” he continues, “so what? You can't worry about other people. You just have to be who you are.”

“What if I don't know who I am anymore?”

“Luckily I know who you are.” Drew takes one hand off the steering wheel and places it on my knee. “You're fun, you're smart, you're interesting to talk to. And I want to know more.”

The words came out of him just like that, as if they were indisputably true. I'm not used to cute guys saying nice things to me—or touching me!—and although I have the feeling I'm supposed to say something really sweet back to him, I'm not sure what that might be.

“Thank you.” The words squeak out of me in a quiet little voice. I'm not even sure Drew hears me.

But when I feel his hand squeeze my knee, I can tell he did.

Drew takes an exit off 83 and soon we stop on a slightly war–torn looking street, just like a million other streets around Baltimore. “We're here,” he says, nodding toward the building beside us.

“Green Alien Comics?” I say, reading the sign above the beat-up glass storefront.

“The owner is one of my best friends. I showed him your Batman and he was really impressed.”

“Really?” I can't believe Drew was talking about me to one of his best friends.

Drew grabs the door for me and holds it open. He smiles at me as I walk inside.

The store is divided into three big and shabby-looking rooms. Neat rows of comics line the dirty pale yellow walls, intermixed with stands displaying comic dolls and assorted comic-related accessories, such as a Wonder Woman hairbrush and a giant Xena doll.