manicpixiedreamgirl Page 6

  Becky ate alone. Reading a book, or staring out the windows. There was nothing to see, just a row of classrooms about ten yards or so from the cafeteria. I always wondered what she was thinking about.

  Every school has freaky kids, right? The easy targets. Because she was always by herself, I started expecting someone to rag on her, maybe throw something at her, laugh at her.

  Part of me wanted it to happen, to be honest, so I’d have a reason to stand up and deliver this full-throated baritone monologue about leaving her alone or facing my wrath. Maybe, if I was lucky, it would be followed by a slow clap from the rest of the students in the cafeteria.

  That was another version of the story I was writing about her.

  But no one ever gave her any grief that I saw. She left people alone, and they left her alone.

  I felt like we were dancing. Not together, not at a dimly lit gym prom or anything. But—maneuvering. Jockeying for position. The daily, silent half smiles and nods in the hall meant something, didn’t they? They had to. Or maybe I needed them to.

  At lunch one day about a month into sophomore year, the cover of the book Becky was reading had an excellent illustration of a dragon on the cover. A fantasy novel. And that got me thinking.

  STALEMATE

  by Tyler Darcy

  The elf wore only an iridescent sash spun from spider silk. She perched high in a pine tree, clinging to a decaying branch with talon toes. The elf stood, balanced precariously on the tired old limb. She inhaled deeply—and relaxed her grip.

  She fell, gravity yanking her feet. Then, like whips, her limber fingers lashed out and caught the branch. She arched her delicate, feline spine once, twice, then flew through the night sky.

  A pinprick of light in the distance beckoned her, and she veered unerringly toward it. The light was a campfire, burning brightly and with no remorse. In its warmth dozed a knight, his armor patiently reflecting the surroundings nearby.

  The elf landed without sound, laughing to herself; she had no reflection.

  The knight awoke with a start, his hand falling to his sword hilt. The elf met his eyes, and locked with them in mortal, silent combat.

  He spoke her name, his voice trembling. The elf laughed tinkling bells but did not answer. She paced toward him, like mercury over iron, passing through brambles that earlier had sliced the warrior’s clothing.

  “Dance with me,” she purred, and pulled a crimson scarf from some unseen place in her sash. The elf snapped it toward him and giggled.

  The knight leaped to his feet and slashed at her shapely form, his face twisted with rage. She contorted her body slightly, letting the blade slip past her milky belly. Giggling again, she pirouetted, waving the scarf and coiling it around the blade in a lover’s embrace. She tugged lightly on the scarf, sending the weapon soaring into the darkness.

  The knight retreated, pulling a dagger from his boot. On and on the girl laughed. The warrior swung the dagger with a rage resembling glee, but the elf moved like the flame of a candle, insubstantial and beautiful. She whipped the scarf at him, one corner cutting deeply across his cheek. The knight licked blood from his face and roared.

  Through the night they danced together. The knight’s clothing became a bloody latticework, while the elf skipped and pranced without injury.

  As dawn arrived gray and cold, the knight threw aside his weapon and leaped at the elf. He gripped her wrists, clamping them against her thighs. The knight leaned forward and smashed a kiss against her apple lips, then withdrew.

  The girl laughed again as she had at the beginning. She waved the scarf at him one final time and was gone, leaving the scarlet cloth to float gently to the ground.

  “You remember that sort of fantasy story I wrote sophomore year?” I ask Robby. “The real short one for English?”

  He belches. “Um … no. And don’t change the subject. I’m talking about Sydney.”

  “So am I, actually.”

  “I ’member it,” Justin says. He spies into the bottle, which must be bone-dry by now, and makes as if to throw it into the parking lot. I tense, waiting for him to send the bottle hurtling to the concrete and smashing to bits, but then he laughs and sets the bottle down on the table.

  “The chick was hot,” Justin says.

  “How do you know?” I ask. “I didn’t describe her.”

  “That was the thing,” Justin says. “You didn’t have to. The dude wanted her. That’s all you had to say.”

  Sometimes, Justin is a right royal idiot. Other times, he nails it.

  “Interesting,” I say, frowning at my sneakers.

  “But that ‘milky belly’ thing, that was hysterical!” Justin adds, cackling. “Miiiiilky beeeelly!”

  He’s really cracking himself up now.

  “What can I say?” I tell him, and sigh dramatically. “I was young.”

  That gets them both going. Excellent. Once they’ve calmed back down, though, Justin adds, “It was about, like—desire. They were acting like they wanted to kill each other, but really they were totally flirting.”

  “You remember all that?” I can’t help but be a little flattered.

  “Yeah, man,” Justin says. “It was sexy.”

  “What did Sydney think of it?” Robby says, narrowing his eyes at me. I can’t tell if he’s still drunk or not. Or, come to think of it, if he really was to begin with. Justin did the most damage to the champagne.

  “I don’t think she ever …”

  I stop as Robby raises his hands. “You never let her read it, did ya.”

  “… No.”

  “Which is why you gotta figure yourself out,” Robby says. “Man, that’s your girl. Shit or get off the pot, know what I mean?”

  I nod slowly. And think about Gabby’s last text: Fix this.

  Right after I wrote “Stalemate,” I started considering getting into the drama department.

  I couldn’t very well drop any of my classes and take Drama Two—you had to take Drama One first anyway, and I didn’t want to get onstage—but our speech, debate, and theater club, Masque & Gavel, met after school. Robby called it “Massengill.” Sydney always attended the meetings, because she was on the debate team.

  Since I couldn’t ask Syd about Becky anymore, I figured joining the club would be a good way to see how Becky got along with the drama club weirdos. Yes, I dubbed Sydney a drama weirdo, too. She knew it and never argued the point.

  “So, what do you guys do in the drama club, anyway?” I asked Sydney a few days after it occurred to me to join Masque & Gavel.

  “Eh, talk about the plays and speech competitions, mostly,” Sydney said.

  We were sitting near the parking lot after school, waiting for my mom to come pick us up. It was a Friday, which meant Syd was coming over for dinner, a movie, and making out until her dad came to get her. Not having a car sucked. And as far as getting together was concerned, we were limited in what we dared with my bedroom door open; i.e., not much.

  I didn’t see Becky waiting for her ride. Hadn’t lately, in fact.

  “Usually there’s either rehearsal for a play or practice for a tournament afterward,” she added. “Why? You thinking of joining?”

  I shrugged. “Nah,” I said. Fairly convincingly, I thought. “I’m not an actor.”

  “You don’t have to be an actor,” Syd said. “You could learn how to run lights or sound. Or help build the sets. Or why don’t you write a play? Maybe they’d let you put it on.”

  That actually caught my ear, for real. For a minute there, I actually forgot about Becky.

  No, that’s a lie. Moved her temporarily to a different location in my brain, maybe.

  “You think so?”

  “I couldn’t promise you, but it’s worth asking,” Syd said. “Have you ever written a play?”

  “Nope. Just stories.” My short piece about Becky was on its one hundredth draft by that point. Not the fantasy story—the heroic, romantic one I’d been revising every month since I’d first writt
en it the year before.

  “But good stories,” Sydney said, kissing my cheek.

  Maybe that was another reason I stayed with Syd. She liked my writing. I didn’t really do anything with it except give a few of what I thought were the funnier ones to her, Robby, and Justin to read. But I figured I could write a play. It would be just like a story, only without the description. God knows I had enough experience dreaming up dialogue for Becky to follow with me as leading man. Even if I never wrote it down.

  “Thanks,” I said, and I meant it. “Maybe I will.”

  “There’s a meeting on Monday,” Sydney said. “You could come with me if you wanted. Just to meet … people …”

  Syd paused and scrutinized me. “This isn’t about Rebecca Webb, is it, Ty?”

  “What? No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Syd. Come on.”

  “You spent half of last year going on about her. And I’m not stupid.”

  “I didn’t say you were stupid!”

  “Then tell me. Tell me this newfound interest in Masque and Gavel has nothing to do with her.”

  My mom pulled up and waved at us through the window. She, like my sister, loved Syd. Which didn’t make it any easier to consider breaking up with her.

  I stood up. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” I said, half joking, half scared to death that I was as transparent as Mom’s windshield.

  Sydney stood up too. “All right,” she said. “Forget I said anything. Think about it this weekend, maybe write some ideas down.”

  “Cool,” I said, and opened the passenger door for her.

  I did think about it all weekend. Even wrote a few pages of five or six different play ideas.

  All of them ended up centering around a guy who likes this girl.…

  I didn’t print out any of these ideas. And didn’t finish even a whole scene.

  Yet Monday after school, I went to my first drama club meeting.

  Becky Webb sat in the front row, farthest corner to my right. Like in the cafeteria, there was an empty chair to her side and behind her. As if she was shielded from the rest of the class. I saw a couple people give her nods as they stomped through the rows to find seats, and she’d look up and smile toothlessly. Most of these greeters were guys.

  So she did have friends here. But then why did she still look so isolated?

  “I don’t even know why she likes me,” I say.

  “Who? You mean Sydney or Becky?” Justin asks, rubbing his belly like it’s about to revolt again.

  “Syd. I already know Becky doesn’t like me. Not like that, anyway.”

  “You don’t know why Syd digs you?” Robby says. “I’ll tell you why. It’s because you’re swinging a poleax down there!”

  I stare at him. “Dude … what?”

  “Hell yeah,” Robby goes. “I can tell just by looking at ya. There’s no cork in that bat. That’s a hundred percent American grade A steel, dude.”

  “… What?”

  “I think he’s saying you have a big dick,” Justin reports, and burps. He sighs happily afterward and sinks down on the bench. Belly crisis averted.

  “Yeah, I got the tweet, but why’s he saying it?”

  Justin shrugs. Robby laughs and punches my shoulder again. Ow. Again.

  “I’m messing with you, Ty,” he says. “Damn, I thought the booze would relax you.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.” I am about as close to sober as a guy can get despite the alcohol. Maybe Western Flower is a cheap champagne.

  “How do you know she doesn’t like you?” Justin asks. “Becky, I mean. Why’d she call you tonight if she didn’t have a thing for you?”

  “We’re friends,” I remind him. This isn’t news.

  Justin pulls on an extraordinarily doubtful look. Robby gets up and stands in front of me. “I don’t think friends do the kinda things she’s done,” he says. “I mean, talk about blue balls.”

  I try to glare up at him. He knows that I know exactly what he’s referring to.

  Robby ignores my glare and holds out his arms.

  “Just sayin’,” he goes. “It wasn’t cool of her.”

  Justin, on the other hand, I didn’t tell about the shower incident at Becky’s house. “Hold up,” Justin says. “What’d she do?”

  “You wanna tell him, or you want me to?” Robby asks.

  I wish my phone would ring again. Even if it’s Sydney.

  Sydney and I didn’t sit near Becky at the drama club meeting. We sat in the middle, surrounded by Syd’s drama friends. And when I say “drama friends,” I mean they were about the most dramatic bunch of people I’d ever heard speak. You would’ve thought they were discussing which of them was going to win an Academy Award, the way they went on about casting for the next play, To Kill a Mockingbird.

  “You are auditioning, right, Sydney?” some girl demanded. “Oh my god. You must. Positively. Oh my god!”

  “Oh my god” was right. Their voices hurt my ears. I tried not to get caught watching Becky, who was sitting quietly in that corner chair, her backpack on her lap.

  “I don’t know,” Sydney said. “Probably not, but it depends on how debate goes.”

  Another girl, with hair dyed three different colors like a neon Neapolitan ice-cream cone, said, “What about your boyfriend?” and poked my ribs. “He should! He’s hot!”

  It was the first time anyone had used those two words to describe me. You can figure out which two.

  “Ah, no, no thanks,” I said, waving the Neapolitan girl off.

  “We totally don’t have enough boys,” she pressed on. “Just, like, Matthew and them. You have to!”

  Syd grinned at me. I forced myself not to glance in Becky’s direction.

  “Well … we’ll see,” I said, hoping that would make them shut up.

  “I will if you will,” Sydney said.

  “Maybe I should start with lights or sound, like you said,” I reminded her.

  We didn’t get to talk any more about it right then because the club officers—all juniors and seniors—ran into the room, whooping and screaming and waving their arms around.

  I almost left right then. It was way too much energy for me. Robby and Justin were plenty.

  Because the meeting was pretty much about boring stuff like the upcoming auditions and where the next speech tournament was, I clandestinely observed Becky. She barely moved a muscle. Just sat there, listening intently. At least she had taken a notebook out of her bag and took notes during all the announcements.

  “Now, you guys, seriously,” the president of the club said, waving his arms in the air. What was it with drama kids and waving their arms? “We really need some fresh new techie blood for this show. Nick’s moving to New York …”

  Everyone shouted “Boooo!” A stringy dude wearing a vest and bowler hat stood up, bowed, and sat back down.

  “… which totally sucks,” the president said. “So we’re gonna need some people in the booth for this show. Ask your friends—”

  “Tyler will do it!” Sydney shouted.

  Fifty heads spun toward me. Mine spun toward Sydney. Syd sat on my right, and beyond her was Becky. Who also looked at me as if noticing for the first time that I was there.

  Our eyes met. I wasn’t sure, but I think she smiled.

  “Um,” I said.

  “Is this your first meeting, Tyler?” the president asked.

  “Uh … yeah.”

  “VIRGIN ALERT!” everyone screamed in unison. And they all pounded their feet on the floor and clapped while the officers took a lap around their chairs at the front of the room. Waving their arms, of course.

  Believe it or not, for one heartbeat of time, I didn’t realize “virgin” meant it was my first drama club meeting. Me, insecure? Never.

  While I tried to disappear into my seat, I noticed Becky smiling for real, clapping her hands with everyone else. Like she was really enjoying my embarrassment.

  Sydney
was too busy egging everyone on to notice me smile back at Becky.

  Between Sydney and the whole damn club making such a big racket and the look on Becky’s face as she watched me, I pretty much had to say yes.

  I gear up to tell Robby what he can do with my big dick, when my cell buzzes again.

  “What did Becky do?” Justin demands from both of us. “C’mon, man!”

  I check my phone. Sydney. Saved by the bell.

  She’s texted me: Which park?

  I write: Why?

  If you can’t drive home I’ll make sure you get there. All 3 of you. Which park?

  We’re fine.

  “Is that Syd?” Robby asks me as I type.

  “Hey, Pink Floyd!” Justin croons, and falls off the picnic table bench laughing. “ ‘I’ll see you on the dark side of the mooooooon!’ ”

  I’m jealous of his condition. At least he’s having a good time. I should be too. It’s why we came here.

  It’s too risky, Sydney writes. I won’t be able to sleep if I

  My phone rings while I’m in the middle of reading her text.

  Becky.

  don’t know you got home in 1 piece so which park?

  I hit the green button and put the phone up to my ear.

  “Becky?”

  “Hey,” she says. Her voice is heavy and soft, her nose vaguely plugged.

  I don’t want to talk to her with the guys looming, so I head toward the parking lot.

  “Excuse me, sir?” Robby calls.

  Right. I throw my car keys at him and walk quickly toward the parking lot. Robby, clearly understanding I want to be alone and that I’m not going to try to drive off, lets me go. God bless ’im.