manicpixiedreamgirl Page 10

  “Okay. Cool. See ya.”

  I turned to go, but Syd stopped me.

  “Tyler. You’re good, you know that, right?”

  “As opposed to evil?”

  “Mmm … no, you’re a little evil … just a dab.”

  “Just a dollop?”

  “Just a pinch.” She smiled at me. “I mean at writing. You’re really good. And you really should do this playwriting thing. It might be good for college applications and stuff.”

  I laughed. “Ah, screw that, we’re sophomores!”

  I was joking, more or less, but Sydney didn’t laugh with me.

  “Not forever,” she said, and with another quick kiss, disappeared into her class.

  God, Syd. I stood there for a moment, lingering on both her kiss and her words. Sometimes she just sounded way too mature. There are people like Robby and Justin, who cruise through high school, sucking up every moment, every good and bad day, taking it all in. Then there are people like Sydney, who act like high school’s just a speed bump. A four-year slog they have to suffer through before getting on to the business of real life or something.

  Maybe I fell somewhere in the middle, because as I turned the corner, headed for chemistry, I was already considering and instantly rejecting a hundred different play ideas. I didn’t think about college, but I wasn’t thinking about high school, either.

  Which is maybe why for the first time in my life, I forgot who else used this particular hallway at this particular time of the day.

  “Hey, Sparky!”

  I stopped short as Becky appeared in front of me, holding her books against her chest.

  “… Hey.”

  “Where ya been all week?” Becky asked.

  I stuttered uselessly. Where had I been?

  Avoiding Becky Webb, that’s where. Now, there was a fresh and original idea.

  Until the thing backstage with Matthew and her, I’d always taken this route to my next class. Since Monday, I’d taken another hall specifically to avoid her.

  “Around,” I said.

  Becky squinted at me. “Are you mad at me?”

  “No.”

  “You look mad.”

  Here’s what I did not say:

  You’re goddamn right I’m mad! What were you doing with that tall assbag backstage after the show, huh? Letting him get all over you like that. You’re not even dating! Are you? Tell me if you are, so I can stop spending every waking moment thinking about you, okay? Could you do that for me? I would give anything to kiss you, to hug you, and instead you let some senior jackass maul you like that? Thanks. I thought it hurt last year when I couldn’t even talk to you, but now we’re friends, and I get to sort of hang out with you sometimes, which is more than I’d ever hoped for, but let’s face it, that’ll never be enough, and, you know what, never mind, I clearly can’t be around you without feeling like total shit, so have a good life.

  Here’s what I did say:

  “I’m fine.”

  I must’ve been convincing, because Becky tugged on the paper in my hands. “This the play thing?”

  “Um … yeah.”

  “Are you writing one?”

  “Thinking about it.”

  “Well, write me a nice big part, okay?” She kicked my shoe. Which practically made me drop everything in my hands, grab her, and give her the most cinematic kiss ever imagined. So much for staying mad.

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  “Cool. See ya, Sparky.”

  She went on down the hall, and I watched her go as I always did, unable to keep myself from admiring her walk, her clothes, her everything.

  Then I headed toward chemistry, re-hating Rebecca Webb’s guts for how she treated herself, and thus, by extension, me.

  But not really.

  What’s your deal, dude? I thought, not worrying at all about making it to class on time. You love her, you hate her, which is it?

  It wasn’t jealousy, though I was jealous. It wasn’t anger, though I was angry, mostly at Matthew.

  No, it was the fact that I didn’t really know her; that’s what hit the hardest. That I didn’t and couldn’t understand why she’d done it.

  My short story hadn’t sold to the Literary Quarterly Review at this point, and I’d stopped sending it anywhere else. Walking in the hallway that day, as the final bell rang for class, I realized I’d created a character not just for the story, but for Becky, too.

  Never mind what I knew or thought I knew. Since our friendship was loose at best, I was free to daydream about who I wanted her to be. I took her body and wrote her emotions, cares, worries, sense of humor, goals, and dreams the way I wanted them to be. Some I transcribed to paper. Most I kept to myself.

  Letting Matthew suck on her like that, practically in public, shamelessly; her smoking out at the cast party … those were not part of who I needed her to be.

  When I got home that afternoon, I made myself a vanilla milk shake and fired up my computer. By the time I was getting ready for bed at midnight, I’d finished the first draft of a one-act play about a guy and a girl who wake up to find that they’re the only survivors of a global plague, and that they’ve mysteriously become immune to all forms of illness and aging.

  At 12:03, I got a text from Sydney.

  No call huh? Okay talk to you tomorrow then.

  I didn’t respond. I turned on my radio, low, and got in bed, trying to decide if I should even bother submitting the play to Mrs. Goldie. The sheet Ms. Hochhalter gave me said that after Mrs. Goldie selected the plays, the casts would be chosen from among the Drama Two students.

  Which meant Becky.

  Which meant if my play got chosen, there was a chance she’d be in it.

  Which meant I might end up working with her on another play, in close contact, because the playwrights were expected to work with Mrs. Goldie and the student directors she picked out.

  I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

  But why had I bothered to take the sheet from Ms. Hochhalter in the first place, then?

  Yep.

  “What the hell’s so funny?” I say to Sydney as she continues laughing.

  “You!” she says. “God, Tyler! Is that supposed to be a news flash? Let me post that online so the whole world will know you’re in love with Rebecca Webb. Oh, wait—the whole world already knows.”

  I scowl at her. “What?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Sydney says, shaking her head now. “Even Mrs. Goldie knows. Everyone knows. You’re the worst actor in the known universe, Ty. You may as well buy ad space on every billboard in the city.”

  Believe it or not? This is news to me. I thought I’d done a great job of hiding it since Sydney and I had started dating.

  “Okay, fine. Then let’s circle back to the whole ‘Why are you here?’ question. Why are you sitting here right now if you know that? Why are you even with me?”

  “Hey, I could ask you the same question, bucko.”

  Good point.

  “Just answer it,” I say.

  Sydney sighs. “Because, Tyler,” she says. “You’re a great guy, and I’m lucky to have you. And I guess … I dunno, I guess I was holding out hope that someday you’d get over her and be with me for once.”

  “I’ve been with you since freshman year.”

  “You’ve been around me,” Sydney says. “Not with me. You know that. I know that. I bet Robby and Justin know it too. Want to go ask them?”

  I hear Justin’s telltale cackle echoing through the park at something Robby said.

  “No,” I say.

  “Do you want to stop? Me and you?”

  “… I don’t know,” I say. Except—I do.

  “Ty,” Sydney says, “I really like you. Even though you’re an idiot about this whole Rebecca Webb thing, it’s almost kind of cute, and I—”

  “Hang on, why does that make me an idiot?” I say, standing. “What’s so dumb about it? So I have a—an unrequited love or whatever, so what? Why is that cute?
To you?”

  I really want her to get mad. Stomp around, scream, cuss. But Sydney’s businesslike demeanor doesn’t shift an inch.

  “Because you don’t know her,” Sydney says.

  “Oh yeah? What don’t I know?” I am getting really pissed now. I can’t even say for sure at who, or what.

  “You don’t want to know,” Sydney says, like I’m a child. “That’s the point.”

  “So tell me!”

  “Hey!” Robby shouts. “Everything okay, you little loveberries?”

  “Just a second!” I scream at him. Justin, naturally, laughs. It’s a sound I am rapidly tiring of.

  I turn back to Sydney. “Well?”

  “Tyler,” Syd says gently, “Becca Webb is always—”

  “Becky,” I correct her. “Becky, or Rebecca. Why does everyone call her Becca?”

  Sydney coughs, which sounds to me like a chuckle of disbelief, rubs her forehead, and goes on.

  “Rebecca Webb is, to put it politely, always open for business. And the fact that you love her from afar when she’d gladly put out for you is just sort of funny. I mean, you have a pulse and a penis. That’s about all it takes.”

  “Shut up!”

  What’s left of the grin on Syd’s face evaporates.

  My vision tints red. For the first time in my life, I want to take a swing at someone. Anyone.

  “That’s petty, drama-class gossipy bullshit,” I say. “And no matter what you and me had, or don’t have, or whatever, I never thought you’d cop to that kind of shit. It’s pathetic.”

  Sydney, unperturbed, stands and folds her arms. “You asked,” she says. “And I’m not the pathetic one in this equation.”

  I whip away from her and stalk into the parking lot. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m going to do, but I want to hurt something. Bad.

  Because when all is said and done … she’s right.

  I turned the script in to Mrs. Goldie first thing Monday morning. She acted thrilled, but then, I figured she’s the drama teacher: of course she’s acting.

  Turned out she wasn’t.

  “She loved it!” Sydney said when I met her by the parking lot after school. “Mrs. Goldie is totally picking your play, Tyler!” She hugged me tight.

  I hugged her back, surprised. “Oh,” I said.

  Sydney pulled away and laughed. “Well, don’t have a heart attack from excitement,” she said. “Aren’t you happy?”

  Over Sydney’s shoulder, I watched Becky getting into her Jeep and maneuvering out of the lot. The first step was over; now all I had to do was see who was going to be cast in my show.

  “How many plays did she end up picking?”

  “Three, probably,” Syd said. “All I know is yours is one of them. She hasn’t picked the others yet.”

  “When is she casting?”

  “Probably by Friday. Rehearsals start after Christmas break. Oh, she also wanted me to ask if you were up for running lights again.”

  Becky Webb notwithstanding? I couldn’t get away from that damn drama department! At least, that was my first thought. After a couple seconds, though, I realized I didn’t mind. Robby and Justin and I hung out all the time, and I had Sydney, of course, but it wasn’t like I belonged someplace. Maybe now I did.

  “Maybe, yeah,” I said.

  I spent the rest of the week alternately dreading and anticipating Mrs. Goldie’s casting choices. I also opted for my normal route to chemistry. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to at least see Becky. We said hi to each other, but not much more. I thought the tension between us was practically visible, hovering in the muggy air of the school corridor, but I couldn’t tell if Becky felt it too.

  When Syd handed me Mrs. Goldie’s cast list on Friday, I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Becky was not in my show.

  “Does Mrs. Goldie still want me for lights?” I asked Syd as I studied the list.

  “Far as I know,” Sydney said.

  “Cool,” I said. “Tell her I’ll do it.”

  Why? Because I couldn’t bear not talking to Becky anymore. I wanted our Mockingbird friendship back. If it was all I could have, then I’d take it. Except I didn’t think I could attempt it without getting the foulness of Matthew Quince out of my head. I at least had to know why she did it, if they were dating or what.

  But what if they weren’t? Had I really seen what I had backstage that night? God, what if I’d gone bonkers and imagined the whole thing?

  Then I realized, if that was true, Becky would have said something to me about virtually ignoring her the past week. It was hard to explain, even to myself, but I knew instinctively that she’d merely let me keep my distance, that it was up to me if I wanted to make a production out of it.

  And I sort of wanted to.

  So later that day, on the way to chemistry, instead of saying hi as we passed, I flagged her over to one side.

  “Hey, Sparky,” she said, smiling.

  I froze up.

  “Hey,” I said back. “Listen, I … I thought maybe we should get together sometime—hang out together, I mean—and talk?”

  I hoped she’d guess what I meant so I wouldn’t have to spell it out. I need to talk to you about what I saw you and Matthew doing, because it really bugged me and I miss you and you’re better than that and I wish it was me not him.…

  Maybe not in those exact words.

  “Totally,” Becky said. “When?”

  I hesitated again, completely disarmed by her friendliness, her willingness, her I don’t have a care in the world what you saw attitude.

  “Um … whenever,” I said.

  “You want to come by my place?”

  I thought the sidewalk had dropped out from under me.

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “My house,” she said. “Do you. Want to. Come over. After school today.”

  Shocked, suspicious, scared, grateful, I said, “Yeah, okay.”

  “Cool. Meet me by the drama department after sixth hour.”

  “Yeah … okay.”

  “Great. See ya there.”

  She walked off down the hall.

  That simple? I thought as I floated to class. Really that simple? This whole time?

  I wasn’t under any misconceptions, like we were going to hook up or anything; this was strictly a platonic hangout. But damn, if I’d known it was so easy, I would’ve asked her to hang out a long time ago!

  And if I had … where might we be by now? What if I’d talked to her earlier, before Sydney had asked me out?

  What if?

  I failed a chem quiz, heard nothing anyone talked about at lunch, and took no notes in American history. I was, to put it mildly, preoccupied. I wrote a thousand stories in my mind about what could and should happen at Becky’s house.

  But by the time school was out, I’d started running through a number of worst-case scenarios: she wouldn’t be waiting for me; Sydney would intercept me on the way; Matthew would be coming along too …

  None of which happened. After sixth hour, I practically ran to the drama department, and I found Becky leaning against a wall, her black leather backpack dangling from one hand.

  “Ready?” she asked as I approached.

  “Um … yeah!” I said.

  “Well then, we’re off.” She led the way through the escaping student body to her car.

  The Jeep smelled of vanilla, though I didn’t see a car freshener anywhere. It wasn’t overpowering, but it still made me dizzy. I don’t think it had anything to do with the scent itself, of course.

  “Nice car,” I said.

  “Thanks. Mom got it for me.”

  “Damn! Rough gig.”

  Becky paused before turning the ignition.

  “Sometimes,” she said.

  I left it alone.

  “You got a car?” she asked.

  “Nope. Permit, though. I might be able to borrow my mom’s car after Christmas. I’m hoping to start driving to school next y
ear.”

  “Do it. There’s nothing better.”

  “Are you, um … I mean, you’re fifteen, right?”

  “Yeah?”

  “So how did you get a license?”

  Becky smirked and shifted into drive. “Who says I have a license?”

  And she stomped on the gas, barreling out of the parking lot and onto the street, narrowly avoiding a school bus. She giggled at the near miss.

  Becky turned on her stereo. A prehistoric U2 song came on the radio, something soft and mellow. Good choice; it helped my heart slow down. It was still thudding from the peel-out, and from being in her car. On the way to her house.

  Based on the house Becky drove us to, and remembering her parents’ clothing at the play, it was clear her family was—well, I wouldn’t say filthy rich, but they did pretty well for themselves. Her house wasn’t a mansion, but it was in an older part of town with bigger property lots.

  The white exterior blinded me as we pulled up. The yard, landscaped in precise detail, had no leaf out of place. Sterile. The driveway didn’t have a single oil spot or crack; I couldn’t imagine how that was even possible. Gabby and my dad parked in the gravel along one side of the garage because there was only room for Mom’s car inside.

  “Okeydoke,” Becky said. “Welcome to Casa de Webb. The den of iniquity! Come on in.”

  I left my bag in her car and followed her to a pair of front doors inlaid with glass and crystal prisms. We went in, and I couldn’t help raising my eyebrows at the chandelier in the foyer. The hall, floored with dazzling white tile, opened on the left into a huge sitting room, sporting a tan leather couch and dark wood furniture. But no TV, just a liquor cabinet and some weird-ass art on the walls.

  Becky led me past this room, and I caught a glimpse of a very modern kitchen, also to the left, all blacks and whites and chromes. I didn’t think anyone ever actually prepared food in it; nothing was out of place, no cereal boxes lined up on any counters or smudges on the stainless steel fridge. Straight ahead lay another living area, showing off a high-def TV about as wide as Becky’s car was long.

  “Holy …,” I said, walking into the TV room. It was dark and plush, with room enough for a small party. I stood by the black suede couch, taking in the details. A redbrick fireplace was recessed in one wall. Several framed photos lined the mantelpiece.