The Trouble With Flirting (7 page)

I’m even more bummed when we get outside and see Isabella, Harry, and Vanessa heading toward us. Alex instantly invites them to come with us to the dining hall and somehow ends up walking next to Isabella, while I fall back between Vanessa and Harry, both of whom now smell like dirty ashtrays.

It’s getting late anyway, and there no longer seems to be a good reason to risk pissing off Amelia, so I say a general good night and move off.

Alex is too busy listening to something Isabella’s saying to do more than raise his hand in a distracted farewell.

T
his isn’t awkward at all,” says Lawrence as I measure his inseam.

“I prefer to think of it as friendly. Really friendly.” I write down the measurement and then thread the tape measure around his waist. Short as he is, I’m still a couple of inches shorter. I blame my mother for that—she barely makes five feet. I’m a couple of inches taller than her and a lot thinner. She says that’s because I take after my father’s side of the family (“they’re all crazy skinny”), but I’ve seen photos of her at my age, and her body was just like mine. The problem is, she eats when she’s not happy.

These days she eats a lot.

That reminds me: I should call her tonight. I text her pretty regularly, several times a day, just stuff about what I’m doing and eating—nothing too exciting since there’s nothing too exciting to report—but I know she likes to hear my voice from time to time too.

“So what’s my costume going to look like?” Lawrence asks.

I gather up the measuring tape. “Can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know.”

“Tell me as soon as you do. Don’t let them make me look stupid, okay?”

“No problem,” I say. “I’ll take care of it, because it’s all up to me. Everyone here listens to what I say. I’m pretty much the girl in charge. No one has more power than the costume assistant, you know.”

“Shut up,” he says, and cuffs my shoulder affectionately. Lawrence and I have hung out together a lot over the last few days, and he gets me.

I’m starting to get him, too, and so, since we’re alone in the little dressing room in the Sweatshop, I lean closer and whisper, “How are things going with you-know-who?”

“We talked until one last night,” he whispers back.

I raise my eyebrows. “Just talked?”

“Just talked. It would be too weird to do anything else. I mean, we’re
roommates
.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Raise your arms.” I pass the tape behind his back and measure his chest.

“Don’t tell me what the number is,” he says. “Everyone makes fun of my concave chest at school.”

“It’s not concave.” But it
is
pretty narrow, so I write down the number without inflicting it on him.

“Anyway,” he says, leaning back against the wall, “I’m kind of jealous of Alex and Isabella. Me and Raymond—we have to share a bedroom and a bathroom, and that’s just awkward. Especially since they keep serving us Mexican food at dinner . . .” He grimaces. “Stupid burrito night. But Alex and Isabella can just see each other when they’re looking their best, so it’s easy for them to stay romantic.”

“Okay, you’re done,” I say flatly. I’ve suddenly lost the desire to goof around with him. “Tell someone else in the cast to come in here, will you?”

“Sure. Thanks, Franny. See you at dinner?”

I nod. He leaves with a friendly wave, and I slowly—very slowly—roll up the tape measure so I can stall the moment when I have to leave the dressing room and face Amelia out in the office again. I just need a minute.

You know how sometimes you
know
something, but you pretend you don’t? To yourself, I mean? Lawrence just made me realize I’ve been doing that. For the last few days, Alex and Isabella have managed to sit next to each other at every meal and wander off alone together after dinner, except when she sneaks out for a smoke with Harry and/or Vanessa.

That’s when Alex comes to find me. At least once or twice a day he and I have these amazing talks, reminiscing about people we knew in eighth grade and telling each other about our families. Like I know that he wants to be an architect but that his father wants him to go into law, and that his mother has all these little dogs she’s more comfortable talking to than she is to people, even her own kids. And he knows that my parents try to act like they’re still friends and that I pretend I think they’re still friends, but that it’s obvious they can’t stand to be in the same room together anymore.

Stuff like that. I mean, we really, really
talk
.

But only when Isabella’s not around.

I get it. She’s beautiful. And sophisticated. And cool. I’m none of those things. But Alex really opens up to me, and that seems like something that could outlast a momentary crush. We’ve all been together only a few days. Isabella makes a stunning first impression, but there’s the whole tortoise and the hare thing, right? And who’s more of a tortoise than me?

But after what Lawrence said, I force myself to watch Alex and Isabella at dinner that night—really watch them together. And I see how she puts her hand on his arm when she wants to make a point and how she pretends to be tired so she can lay her head on his shoulder and how he kind of lays his own head on top of hers. And how she snags french fries off his plate like she has a right to them.

So whatever’s going on between them, it’s progressed a lot more than whatever’s going on between him and
me
.
We’re not eating each other’s food or snuggling up together. We started off talking and we’re still just . . . talking.

It’s a blow. I feel this connection to Alex, and I want it to turn into something. And it
could
, because we both live in Phoenix and could actually have a future together.

Isabella laughs at something he says and gently brushes her fingertips along his wrist. He nudges her shoulder with his and smiles down at her.

I look away.

Across the table, Julia is making googly-eyes at Harry Cartwright like she always does, but I don’t get the same starting-to-get-serious vibe from the two of them that I’m getting from Isabella and Alex. Which is probably a disappointment to Julia, but I think she’s better off not getting in too deep with Harry. The guy flirts with every girl in sight. And with some of the boys, too. He pretty much preens and glows at the slightest sign of admiration. He’s like a dog rubbing up against anyone who’ll pet him.

When we all walk outside after dinner that night, Isabella and Harry excuse themselves and stroll into the shadows together.

Alex instantly comes over to me.

“They’re going to come back smelling like cigarette smoke,” he says, with a sort of pained half smile.

“They always do.” But I think,
You don’t like that she smokes—doesn’t that say something about her? Or about you? Or about your potential as a couple?

He says, “My mom smoked when she was in college. She stopped pretty soon after that. She said it wasn’t hard to quit.” There’s a pause. Then he says, “No one’s perfect.”

“There is that.”

He studies me with affectionate interest. “What’s
your
fatal flaw, Franny?”

“Oh, you know . . .” I shrug. “I’m too perfect for this world. It’s rough.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says. “The gods always punish hubris sooner or later. You’ll get yours in the end.”

“That’s supposed to be reassuring?”

“Well, yeah—to those of us who
aren’t
perfect.” Then he glances away again, toward the darkness at the side of the building, and says, “Smoking’s not a big deal, right? Tons of people do it for a few years and then stop.”

“If you don’t mind the smell . . .”

“I hate the smell,” he admits with a laugh.

“Me too.”

We’re silent for another moment and overhear a snippet of someone else’s conversation:
“. . . most amazing fireworks . . .”

“Fourth of July next week,” Alex says. “You excited about seeing fireworks, Franny?”

“Who doesn’t like fireworks?”

“That’s not an answer. That’s an evasion.”

I step closer to him. “Okay, honestly? They scared me when I was little. I never wanted to tell anyone, so I’d go with
my family and just keep my eyes closed tight the whole time. But I could still hear them.”

“Poor little Franny.” There’s sympathy in those kind Alex-blue eyes.

I say, “You’re the only person who knows this, by the way. I’ve always been kind of embarrassed about it.”

“I won’t tell anyone.” He leans toward me and adds in a whisper, “And I also won’t tell anyone that you’re still a little scared of them.”

“How did you know?” I whisper back.

“You’re easy to read.” He grins down at me.

Am I? The thought that I might be transparent makes me instantly duck my head so he can’t see my eyes anymore, and while he tells me how worried his mother gets about her dogs on the Fourth of July—they hate the sound of fireworks, even when it’s in the distance—I pretend to be fascinated by the gravel at my feet.

Yesterday I’d have been fine with letting him know how much I like him, but if Lawrence is right and Alex and Isabella are already a couple and it’s obvious to everyone there, I have to be more careful.

Less readable.

Julia comes over and immediately launches into a complaint about Marie, who’s driving her crazy now that they’re in the same cast.

“Do you know how she got them to switch her from the cast she was originally put in?” Julia asks us. “I just found
out. She said one of the guys in the first cast had said something ‘inappropriate’ to her and she didn’t want to name names and get him in trouble but she didn’t feel safe being in that environment. Can you believe her? She made the whole thing up so she could be in the play she wanted, and because of it all the guys in that cast had to go to a special meeting where they were told that if there were any more complaints, there would be serious repercussions. And they didn’t do
anything
.”

“Why’d she want to switch so badly, anyway?” I ask, and Julia gives me a look. A
duh
look. And I say, “Oh, yeah, never mind.” Because we both know that Marie is all over Harry Cartwright, flirting with him every chance she gets.

And I also know that Julia is doing the exact same thing. I’m not sure why she thinks she has more of a right to flirt with him than Marie does, except I guess that she was in his cast
first
, and legitimately.

As far as I can tell, Harry doesn’t prefer either Marie or Julia or any of the other girls who fawn over him. He just flirts with whoever’s nearest at any given moment.

And then probably goes off to study himself in the mirror—spending time with the one person he
truly
loves.

“Thank God she’s not going to the beach on Sunday,” Julia says. The students get Sundays off, and the directors have arranged transportation and a picnic for anyone who wants to go to the beach on the Sunday that’s coming up.

“Did you sign up for the bus yet?” Alex asks her.

“Not yet, but I’m going to.”

“Why isn’t Marie going?” I ask.

“Her boyfriend’s taking her somewhere.” Julia smirks. “I made sure Harry knew that. Are you coming, Franny? It’ll be fun.”

I hesitate. Now that the directors have all settled on what they want for costumes, Amelia and I have a ton of work to do. She’s expecting me back in the Sweatshop right now to get in a couple of hours before heading home to her apartment and has made it clear to me that she expects us to work all through the weekend.

Alex says, “You’ve got to come with us, Franny. It won’t be as much fun without you.”

And I nod, thinking,
Hell, yeah, I’m going—just try to stop me.
And then, less happily:
Why, oh why, didn’t I buy a new bathing suit before coming here?

Somehow I talk Amelia into letting me go. She complains and grumbles and says, “With everyone gone, we could get so much work done,” and I say, “But it’s Sunday and everyone else is going,” and we go on like that for a while, her making objections and my saying “It’s
Sunday
,” and finally she says, “Fine, go, but know you’re going to have to make up for the lost day of work—no more lingering at meals half the day.” Of course I say yes. I’d promise anything at this point to go to the beach with Alex.

S
unday morning I put on the only bathing suit I brought with me, throw a pair of shorts over it, and run over to the campus with a beach bag. Lawrence is climbing onto the bus just when I get there, so we grab a seat together. I try not to let it bother me that Alex is sitting with Isabella a few rows in front of us and that they were holding hands when I walked by them. I mean, I’m going to the beach with my friends. It’s all good, right?

Right. Except . . .

Guess who gets a piece of glass in her foot within minutes of arriving at the beach?

Not Isabella, who has belted a long white linen tunic over a brown-and-blue bikini and looks like she stepped out of an editorial spread in
Vogue
.

Not Julia, who’s very leggy and lean in Daisy Dukes and a bikini top.

Not Vanessa, who has artfully paired boyish board shorts with a red bandeau.

Not any of the guys—all of whom, by virtue of their gender, didn’t have to think twice about what to wear to the
beach or whether they’d look good in it, just slapped on longish swimming trunks and T-shirts and called themselves dressed.

No, the honor of stepping on a sharp piece of glass is reserved for the brown-eyed girl with the ponytail who’s wearing a pair of denim shorts over a practical one-piece Speedo (bought by her mother for actual swimming, not for posing on the beach) and who thought it would be a good idea to slip off her flip-flops and really sink her feet into the rough sand near the road as the group walked toward the water.

A few steps later, foot meets shard of glass.

Girl yelps in pain.

Soon everyone is clustered around me, staring down at the ball of my right foot, which I’m cradling in my hand as I lean on Julia so I can inspect it.

“I once had a splinter of glass in my foot so small no one could see it,” Isabella says. “Not until my nanny got out a magnifying glass. But it hurt so much I thought I would pass out. Hold on, Franny—don’t poke at it like that. You don’t want it to break off under the skin.”