The Trouble With Flirting (11 page)

“He’s such a nerd.”

“Hey,
you
knew the reference.”

“I never said I wasn’t a nerd.”

“Gay or not gay?” I ask, gesturing again at Sam. It’s a game we all play here.

“Gay as the night is long,” Lawrence says. “He and Brian Emmanuel hooked up a couple of days ago.”

“People are pairing off like crazy,” I say, watching Isabella and Alex jostle each other in line.

It’s possible I sound a little bitter.

“Tell me about it,” Lawrence says morosely. His relationship with roommate Raymond has taken a downturn—not
only did they decide that there was no romantic future there but now they can’t even stand each other. Apparently Raymond is a pig who won’t empty the trash can, not even when it’s his turn and not even when he’s just clipped his toenails into it, in front of all his roommates. “Toenail clipping is the enemy of love,” Lawrence said when he told me that story.

“Let’s stay single together,” I tell him now. “We have each other—who needs romance?”

“Not I,” Lawrence says. A beat. “Well, maybe I a little bit.”

“I a little bit too,” I admit.

“Mind if I sit here?” Harry takes the empty chair next to me before I even respond. He’s been doing that all week: sitting next to me if he can. It’s fine with me; he makes me laugh. And whenever he says something at all coy or flirtatious, I shoot him a look, and usually the next thing he says is normal again.

Julia’s not thrilled about our growing friendship. “I thought you didn’t trust him!” she says to me a little while later when we’re both waiting in line for ice cream.

“I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t
like
him.”

“Well, I think it’s strange that you’re always telling me how shallow and unreliable he is, and now he’s like your best friend.”

I shrug and don’t say what I think, which is that it’s probably a relief for Harry to talk to someone who
isn’t
in love with him. Maybe he likes a break from the hard work of
living up to his reputation.

“It’s not like I care,” Julia says. “Personally, I mean. I’m over him.”

“You are?” It’s news to me.

“There’s this other guy in our cast . . .” And she launches into a description of Manny Yates, who’s playing a couple of different roles in
Twelfth Night
. He’s cute, he’s straight, he’s interested in her, and he’s more shy than flirtatious. “I’m done with guys who are in love with themselves,” she says. “I want someone who actually pays attention to me.”

“Really? I want someone who doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

The joke is wasted: Julia, as usual, barely registers my words. “Just don’t do anything stupid,” she says with all the superiority of someone who stopped doing stupid things a couple of days ago. At the
most
.

Back at the table, Marie is in my chair.

“Um,” I say, “I was sort of sitting there.”

“Sorry,” Marie says, with an indifferent shrug. “Harry and I were going to try to run some lines right now. Do you mind switching?”

“It’s fine.” I take my ice cream and water glass over to her former seat on the opposite side of the table, feeling vaguely annoyed: Harry could have made an effort to save my seat for me. But he’s Harry. Whichever way the wind blows . . .

The wind blows him and Isabella and Vanessa off for a stroll together after dinner while the rest of us gather in front
of the dining hall.

I’m soaking in the warm night air and my last few minutes of freedom before returning to the apartment—on Thursdays Amelia likes to watch
The Real Housewives of Blahdy-blah-da
while she and I do whatever hand-sewing work she’s brought home with her—when Alex comes over to me. “Hey, Franny.”

“Cigarette break?” I nod after Harry, Vanessa, and Isabella’s retreating backs.

He sighs. “She told me she wants to stop. The problem is, Harry’s always getting her to join him—”

“You’re blaming
him
for her smoking?”

“Well, he is her smoking buddy.”

“He’s not exactly holding a gun to her head,” I snap.

Alex draws his head back in surprise at my tone. His light blue eyes flit up to my face, then quickly dart away again. “Sorry. I guess I should be more careful what I say. Isabella told me that you and Harry—” He stops.

“Isabella told you that me and Harry
what
?”

“You know,” he says, which by the way is the most maddening thing a person can say when you’ve made it clear already that you
don’t
know.

I can guess, though. “Did Isabella say we were, like, into each other or something?”

“Are you?”

“No. Not that it’s any of Isabella’s business.”

“I’m not prying, Franny,” he says. “But you rushed to de
fend him and—”

“I wasn’t rushing to defend him! I just don’t think you can blame anyone for the fact that Isabella smokes except Isabella.”

“Still . . . I mean . . . Isabella says he likes you. That he keeps talking to her about you.”

“God, it’s like a game of telephone around here!” I flick my palms up. “People say stuff and other people repeat it and no one has any idea what they’re talking about!”

“Why are you so mad about this?”

Because Isabella got you to believe I like someone I couldn’t care less about. And because I can’t tell you who I really like.
“Because,” I say out loud, “there’s nothing going on with me and Harry Cartwright, but people are talking about us like there is. I hate that.” That was true enough in its own way.

“Everyone talks about everyone here.”

“Yeah, I definitely know way more about you and Isabella than I want to.”

His eyebrows draw together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” I’m an idiot. Why’d I say that? “My point is, I don’t start throwing it in your face.”

“What exactly did I throw in your face? All I did was apologize—”

“It was an inappropriate apology!” There’s a pause while we stare at each other. I’m not sure which of us laughs first,
because we both crack up at the same time. “Okay,” I say. “That sounded really stupid.”

“I’ll try to apologize more appropriately in the future.”

“See that you do.”

He smiles, and all the tension goes away. “I’m kind of glad, though.. . .”

“About what?”

“That Isabella’s wrong. About you and Harry. I know it’s none of my business, but I’d be bummed if you started going out with him.”

I freeze in place. I force myself to sound casual. “Why’s that?”

“I just think he can be kind of a jerk. At least when it comes to girls.” He lowers his voice. “You deserve better, Franny.”

“Yeah?” I say.

“Of course,” he says even more quietly. “You’re amazing.”

I stare at him, stunned.

What am I supposed to say to that?
Thank you?

Or:
Do you mean it?

How about:
If you think I’m so amazing, why are you with Isabella?

I want him to say more. But while I’m still wondering what I can say to make him know how badly I want him to say more, he goes, “Oh, hold on a sec,” and darts over to the dorm entrance, where one of the custodians is trying to get
out with a huge bag of garbage. Alex holds the door for him and then helps support the bag as they take it around the building to the back.

By the time he’s done with that, the three smokers have returned from their walk, and I’m thinking that I’m reading too much into a compliment from someone who just likes to be nice to everyone he meets.

Now that I’ve measured the waist, hips, bust, and inseam of everyone there is to measure—and that’s a lot of everyone, since there are almost fifty kids in the program—Amelia has put me to work altering existing costumes from the basement archives. Mostly it’s making things smaller. These are high-school kids, and the Mansfield actors are college-aged and dealing with the fallout from the freshman fifteen. Which is lucky for me: it’s always easier to take in than let out, especially since some of these costumes have already been used and altered a few times and there’s just no extra fabric left to play around with, which means I have to add in panels when I need to widen the waists or bodices.

It’s all precise, difficult work that makes my neck ache from bending over the fabric, ripping and sewing, so on Tuesday morning I happily jump at Amelia’s request that I bring some yellow knit swatches to the theater where the
Twelfth Night
cast is rehearsing. She needs the director to pick out the one he wants her to use for Malvolio’s stockings.

I make my way down the hallway and through the exit
door near the base of the stage, where the entire cast is assembled. Charles sees me come in but puts up a
wait a sec
finger, and I’m more than happy to take a front seat and watch them go on with the scene. I’m in no rush to get back, and I’ve been dying to see how the shows all look.

The actors are still using scripts, and the blocking seems pretty rudimentary, but the more I hear them say their lines, the more I’m impressed. Not surprised, though: I looked at the Mansfield application online, and I know you have to provide a performance video and that there’s a lot of competition—forty-eight kids get in from more than four hundred applications—so the ones who make it are some of the best high-school actors in the country.

My school did
Twelfth Night
a few years ago, and I remember enough about it to know that the scene they’re doing comes at the end of the play, with all the confused-identity stuff getting sorted out and the right couples uniting at last.

The scene is progressing nicely, when there’s too long a pause. Everyone looks around uncertainly.

“It’s Antonio’s line,” Charles says, checking his script. “That’s you, Wilson, isn’t it?”

Wilson, a cherubic-looking kid with glasses, says, “Sorry—I’m getting confused here. I’m already in this scene as the clown.”

Charles drops the F-bomb, then quickly adds, “You didn’t hear that, guys.”

Harry flutters his hand in front of his chest and says,
“Heavens, I believe the young man uttered a curse word. Our innocent young ears will be ruined!”

“Shut up, Harry.” Charles shakes his head. “I forgot that Antonio and Feste are in a scene together.”

“I could have a hat for each role,” Wilson says. “And keep switching back and forth . . .”

“That’s ridiculous,” Marie says.

“I guess I could just cut Antonio out of this scene, but we’d lose some good stuff.” Charles swings his head around, like he’s hoping he’ll see something useful.

And what he sees is
me
, sitting quietly in the front row, clutching my little stocking samples.

He takes a step toward the edge of the stage and peers down at me. “You’re Amelia’s kid, right?”

“God, no,” I say. “Her
niece
.”

“Right, sorry, that’s what I meant. Listen, could you do me a favor? I need an extra body to stand up here and read the lines for this one character—I just want to see whether I need him or not in the scene. You mind?”

“Not at all.” I’m thrilled: an excuse to stay away longer from the workroom
and
a chance to act, however briefly. I race over to the steps up to the stage and take them two at a time. Julia waves at me. I wave back. Harry salutes me. I salute him back. Marie flaps her fingers unenthusiastically at me. I flap back with an equal lack of enthusiasm.

Charles hands me his script and tells me where to stand. “Do you know the play?” he asks. “Do you know who Anto
nio is?”

“He’s the guy who rescued Sebastian from drowning, right? And there’s something about some money he lent him, only he actually gave it to his identical twin sister who looks just like him because she’s dressed like a guy. Right?”

Charles laughs. “That’s exactly right. You know your Shakespeare.”

“Just a lucky guess,” I say.

“Yeah, right. Okay, gang, let’s go back to Sebastian’s entrance.” He taps my script. “Right here—uh, forgot your name.” I supply it for him, and he nods. “Okay, right here. Oh, wait—do you need those?”

I look down and realize I’m still clutching the fabric pieces. “They’re for Malvolio’s stockings—you have to pick one.”

“Will do.” He takes them from me and sticks them in his pocket. “Okay—and don’t worry about how well you read or anything like that, Franny. This is just to let me see whether or not Antonio adds something to this scene.”

“Got it,” I say.

The scene starts, and pretty soon we get to Antonio’s lines—he basically has to stare at Marie (Viola) and the guy who plays Sebastian (Lawrence’s roommate Raymond, who doesn’t look much like Marie, but I know their costumes will be identical and they’ll wear matching temporary hair dye, so that will help them look alike) and react with amazement at how similar the twins look, and realize that he confused them
before.

Antonio has only a couple of lines, but I milk them for all they’re worth, circling the two actors in astonishment when it’s my turn to speak and letting my voice squeak with excitement.

Charles laughs out loud, which makes me happy. Harry catches my eye and gives me a quick grin and a thumbs-up, and Julia nods approvingly. Marie doesn’t even look in my direction.

We finish the scene fairly quickly—Charles has shortened it a lot. The script is filled with blacked-out lines. He starts to discuss some blocking changes with the cast, so I’m heading toward the stairs when I hear him calling my name. I turn around.

“Do you need to rush back, or can you do me another favor?” he asks. “Because I’d really like to see you do the first half of this scene as Antonio, if you’ve got the time.”

I don’t care that Amelia will probably be all worked up about how long I was gone when I finally get back to the Sweatshop—I’m enjoying this too much to worry about it.

I’ve worked hard to forget how much I love being on a stage, first when my parents told me to focus on other things, and then this summer, being the only kid not in a show here. But just these few minutes of acting remind me how much fun it is.

I’m mostly playing off Harry—the duke—in this part of
the scene, and that’s part of why it’s going so well. For one thing, I know him and I feel comfortable with him. For another . . .