The Pretty One (19 page)

“Hey, Fred,” Drew says.

A scrawny, studious-looking man in his twenties with small wire-rimmed glasses (and wearing a T-shirt heralding the last
Superman
movie) jumps off his stool behind the cash register and bounds over to us. “Drew!” he says, and gives Drew a high-five. “Good to see you, dude.”

“Likewise. Fred, this is Megan,” Drew says, nodding in my direction. “She's the one I was telling you about.”

“The Batman girl,” Fred says with a wink. “You're awesome.”

I can't believe this. I'm actually blushing because the comic book guy called me awesome.

“Big news, guy,” Fred says to Drew. “Look what I got.” He holds up a comic book wrapped in what appears to be layers of plastic.

Drew takes a step back and gasps. “Is that what I think it is?”

Fred stands perfectly still, a slight smile creeping up his lips. “A
D
copy,” he whispers.

“How much?” Drew says feverishly.

“Two-six-five,” Fred replies. Once he sees the confused expression on my face, he is kind enough to translate. “That's two hundred and sixty-five dollars.”

“For a comic book?” I ask.

“Not just any comic book,” Fred says solemnly. “Part of the D collection.”

“The D collection because they belonged to a collector who handwrote the letter D on his comic books,” Drew explains. “He started collecting in the thirties, and when he died, his family put his entire collection up for auction. This one is from the nineteen fifties.”

“You want to see it up close?” Fred asks, once again as excited as if he's offering us a chance to see a treasure from Tutankhamen's tomb. “I'll let you view it in the back where there's more room.”

Drew takes my hand in his. “Lead the way.”

I follow along behind him, thinking about how amazing his skin feels against mine. But soon I remember that tomorrow Drew and Lucy will be at the Kennedy Center together. I get a sick feeling in my stomach that spreads everywhere in a matter of seconds. I just know Lucy will use on him that weird power she has over men and he'll have no choice but to hold her hand, too.

twenty

typecast (verb): to cast a performer in a role that requires characteristics of physique, manner, personality, etc., similar to those possessed by the performer.

“Were you up here all night?”

It's seven-thirty in the morning and I'm on the roof, wearing my coat over my pajamas, covered in sawdust.

Lucy is standing in the doorway. She looks exactly like the Valentine's Day Barbie I got from Aunt Shelley in third grade. She's wearing the outfit she and Marybeth picked out for her date with Drew: red velvet jeans (that she has dry-cleaned) and a tight pink turtleneck, topped with a fuzzy white shrug and long, dangly rhinestone earrings.

“I couldn't sleep.” In fact, I have been up since four. I tossed and turned for a half hour before grabbing a large shoe box from the back of the closet, taking out the chinchilla-trimmed boots that Lucy bought on eBay last year for a hundred and fifty dollars, and heading up to the roof. Since we don't have a basement, my dad built a little shed for my equipment and that's where my mom prefers me to work on my projects, especially the big messy ones.

Lucy goes to the edge of the balcony and glances toward the harbor. “I don't know how you can stand to be up here at night by yourself. It would creep me out.”

“It's kind of nice,” I say.

“What are you working on?” she asks, motioning toward my diorama.

I hesitate. I'm not sure if Lucy knows about Drew's Batman obsession or not. One thing is certain. If she does, she's going to know in a second what I'm up to. “A…cave. You know, for Batman.”

“For Batman? As in the comic books?”

The knowledge that I know something about Drew that she obviously doesn't gives me a little thrill.

“Graphic novels,” I say authoritatively. “They're not just for kids anymore. Some go for as much as, well, two hundred and sixty-five dollars.”

Lucy just shrugs and heads toward the door.

“So what time are you guys leaving?” I ask, before she can escape. I don't really want to know, of course. But I just can't help myself.

“At lunch.”

I hear a horn beep. Marybeth just got a new car and I overheard Lucy and her making plans for her to swing by and pick her up early so they could get some coffee and discuss her “strategy” for her date with Drew.

As Lucy leaves, I think about her and Drew sitting in his stepfather's fancy car, just the two of them. I think about the romantic walk through the glitzy lobby of the Kennedy Center. I think about them sitting side by side in the dark theater. I think about the ride home, the big dramatic moment when the music reaches a crescendo and Drew turns toward Lucy and realizes she's the girl of his dreams, his real-life Valentine's Day Barbie.

I wipe my nose on my coat sleeve and turn my diorama back around. It really wasn't that elaborate, at least, not yet. I had painted the inside of the box black and was in the process of building a computer console and elevator. The diorama wasn't nearly finished but I suddenly wondered if it was even worth the effort. Although I thought it a great idea a couple of hours ago, it now seems a little sad (in a really pathetic sort of way). What was I thinking? That a little extra credit might win Drew's affection? A
Batman
diorama was not going to make up for me not having my sister's innate sensuality, or her ability to morph into whatever person someone might want her to be.

Somehow I know that a diorama will not win Drew's affection. I gather up all the pieces and head back inside. I walk to the kitchen, yank out a black Hefty bag, and stuff it in. I tie it up, walk it out the back door, and toss it into the trash. And then I go upstairs to get cleaned up for school. I forget all about my promise to be true to my old self. Intent on looking good today, I'm determined to give Valentine's Day Barbie a run for her money.

         

In production class I barely hear a word of Mr. Lucheki's discussion on the importance of properly miking the actors. I'm too busy thinking about how Drew had taken my hand in his at the comic book store, and how he'd used the word
we,
intimating that he and I were actually a real couple. Sitting all by myself in the front row, I couldn't feel more lonely if I was stranded in the middle of the Sahara.

After class, I wait until everybody has left before I exit the auditorium. It's almost twelve o'clock, time for Drew and Lucy to leave on their big date. Even though I had gotten all dressed up just so I could purposely run into Drew before he left and attempt to distract him from my sister, I don't go to the cafeteria. (It just seems too pathetic.) Instead I head toward the Cross Street Market to stake out a table for myself. But on the way there, I start to feel worse. I keep thinking about Lucy being alone with Drew and wondering what's going on between them at that very minute. I'm so upset that I stop walking and call my mom. But once again, she doesn't pick up. Her not being there so annoys me that I slam the phone shut before leaving a message. I gnaw on my finger for a minute before doing something so desperate it surprises even me. I call my dad.

He picks up on the third ring. “Hi, Megan.” I can hear the clanging of pots and loud voices in the background and I know immediately that he's in the kitchen of some Lucky Lou's. “Is everything okay?”

“No, not really.” My voice is cracking as I step away from the busy sidewalk, taking refuge in the doorway of an abandoned building.

“@#$%!” he screams, causing me to jump straight up in the air. “Check the temperature on those next time! Ugh! @#$%!” I catch my breath as I listen to my dad yelling out instructions to the unlucky kitchen staff. “Sorry 'bout that princess,” he says finally, once again talking in a normal voice. “Dealing with idiots over here. Anyway…let me go somewhere more private.” I can hear the background din grow still. “All right, so tell me. What's wrong?”

I hate to admit it, but the few minutes it has taken to get my dad's attention have helped to calm me down somewhat. But when I realize that I'm going to tell Dad about my feelings for Drew, I can feel my heart cave in on itself. “I just…I just…”

“Megan?” he says.

“I don't feel good,” I say, turning back toward the street as I wipe my runny nose with the back of my hand.

“You don't?” he says, surprisingly sympathetic. “What's the matter?”

“It's just…my…my heart.”

“Your head?” my dad says. “Does it ache or something?”

Close enough. “Uh-huh.”

“I want you to go home right now and take it easy, you hear me? You want me to call the school? Because I'll call them right now and tell them.”

Just hearing the protective tone in my dad's voice makes me feel better. At least there's
someone
who still cares about me.

         

Even though I have my dad's permission to get out of school for the rest of the day, I somehow manage to tough it out through the final bell. When I get home I throw my hair in a ponytail, put on my sweatpants, and zip up the hoodie I've been wearing all day. I'm pouring myself my third bowl of Cap'n Crunch when I hear a knock on the door. I open it while chewing on a mouthful of cereal.

Oh my God. It's Drew.

“Hey,” he says, holding Lucy's white fuzzy sweater up in the air. “Your sister forgot this.”

I'm so incredibly relieved and happy to see him that I'm tempted to fling my arms around his neck and smother him with kisses. After I swallow my Crunchberries, of course.

“Is she here?” he asks, glancing over my shoulder.

Huh? What is he talking about? “I thought she was with you.”

Drew scratches the back of his arm nervously. “I dropped her off an hour or so ago.”

Okay, this is really odd. “She must've gone back to school or to Marybeth's or something.”

Suddenly, we're gazing at each other and my legs almost give out. Damn those mesmerizing eyes of his.

“Um, I'll give her the sweater when she gets back,” I say, taking it from him.

“Great, thanks.” Drew starts walking back down the steps. As I watch him go, I think of all the things I could say to keep him here, like, “Could you open up this jar for me?” Or, “I think there's a burglar in the house!” But instead I wipe my nose with the sleeve of my hoodie and step backward so I can shut the door.

“Megan!”

I whip the door back open.

“I've got an hour to kill before I have to pick my stepdad,” Drew says. “Do you mind if I hang out here for a while? Maybe we can run lines or something.”

Drew wants to hang out? With
me
? “Okay,” I say, as my heart turns into rubble.

He walks inside and I lead him into the living room and then stop so suddenly he almost crashes into me. My emphysema has returned and now I'm practically gasping for air. Drew is
here,
in my house, alone with me. What will we do? What will we talk about? And why am I wearing my old fat girl sweatpants with a hoodie that has a ketchup stain above my right boob?

“What's this?” Drew points at the diorama in the middle of the coffee table.

“It's a diorama I'm working on.”

“Cool. Of what?”

I adore how Drew seems interested and curious—about everything. “It's Captain Ahab's cabin, from
Moby-Dick
. I was hoping Mrs. Bordeaux might give me some extra credit.” I do a mental head slap. Why did I admit that I needed extra credit? It sounded so…loserish. “Pretty pathetic, I know.”

“That's not pathetic!” he says. “I wish I had your talent. I could barely get through
Moby-Dick.
”

“Same here.”

“So…how do you do this? Get a shoe box from…” Drew picks it up and checks the bottom of the box. “Manolo Blahnik.”

“I stole it from my sister.” I look for a reaction from him at the mention of Lucy. As happy as I am that he's here, it still feels weird, considering he was just on a date with her.

“Step one, steal a shoe box,” Drew says, running his fingers on the inside. “Hey, what's this lined with?”

Hmmm. Not much of a reaction there.

“Oh, the wood? It's really thin Baltic Birch. You can get it in sheets that are an eighth of an inch,” I announce, as if that news will really make his day.

“Eighth of an inch? So that makes it easier to cut.”

How cute. He's trying to speak geek with me. “Yes, it does.”

“Is this Ahab's ivory stool?” he asks, picking up a tiny stool from my dollhouse stash.

“You have a great memory,” I blurt out.

Ugh. I sound like one of my teachers.

“And what's this going to be?” he asks, picking up a piece of wood that has a square peg attached to the bottom.

“That's going to be his bed, but I haven't finished yet.”

“What kind of tools do we need to finish it?” he asks, motioning toward all the equipment that I have scattered about the coffee table. I was not allowed to do this kind of thing in the living room since it was too easy to nick up furniture with all my saws and knives. But I don't care. In an act of defiance against my mom and the lack of her parental support, I purposely defied the rules. Not that I'm worried, since Mom will never know. I'm too careful and skilled to nick furniture anymore.

“This looks like this could do some serious damage in the wrong hands.” Drew gingerly picks up my miter saw, which looks like a long, thin razor blade with a handle.

“That's good for cutting little pieces of wood. And this,” I add, picking up the saw next to it, “is a jeweler's saw. See this?” I point to the V-Block bench extension that I've hooked onto the coffee table. “I can put the wood on top and hold it in place so that I can cut shapes and designs into it.” I pick up the headboard for Ahab's bed that I had cut in the shape of a whale and show it to him.

“Wow.” Drew's hands touch mine as he traces his fingers around the tiny headboard in my hand.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I feel totally lightheaded and giddy, like the sugar rush I got from eating five glazed Krispy Kremes in a row (with custard filling).

“Can you teach me how to do this?” he asks, taking the circular saw.

“Make a diorama?”

“Sure,” he replies.

I feel like doing my George Longwell imitation and bursting into song, but mine would come with high leg kicks.

I put a piece of wood on the V block and wrap Drew's fingers around the saw, showing him how to hold it. Even though he assures me he understands what he's supposed to do, I can't help but wince, since I'm pretty sure he's going to cut off a finger or something. Amazingly enough, he doesn't. It takes him a while, but he's determined. And finally, he's sawing through two pieces of wood. After he finishes, Drew holds them up for my approval.

“Well done, Drew,” I say.

Maybe I should just ask him to call me Miss Fletcher.

Drew puts down the wood and smiles at me while I imagine us in the production room, kissing. “Thanks, Megan. You're pretty cool. There aren't many beautiful girls who can handle a…what's this called again?”

Beautiful? Drew just called me beautiful! I need to say something, but what? Should I thank him? Or does that seem too presumptuous? “Miter saw” is the only thing I can get out.

Obviously, Drew doesn't interpret this as seductive come-on. Instead of grabbing me and throwing me on a bed of roses, he grabs Captain Ahab's bed and places it in the diorama cabin. It immediately falls over. “Hmm,” he says. “I think we have a leg problem.”

I feel like whacking myself on the head for blowing a potential romantic moment. What is wrong with me? “It needs to be cut down a little.”

Drew sticks the bed on the butcher's block. “Can I do it?”

“Yeah, just let me help you for a sec.” I lean back into him, purposely resting my arm against his as I show him how to work the saw.