The Trouble With Flirting

  “Nothing new or expensive,” she repeats. “And I want them back before dinner, clean and brushed. The key’s in the top drawer of my desk, Franny.”

  I get the key and lead Alex out of the Sweatshop and down the hallway to the back of the theater, then outside and along the building to the separate entrance for the basement storage area, which I open with the key. We go inside and head down the narrow stairs. The switch I flick on the way down only connects to one small hanging bulb, but at the bottom I turn on the real lights and we stop and take in the rows and rows of racks and shelves.

  Alex gives a low whistle. “Wow. Impressive.”

  “I know, right? I totally want to explore. Are you in a hurry?”

  “Nah. Your aunt was right—we’re really just goofing around up there.”

  “What do you think of the program so far?” I ask as we start walking again.

  “The first two hours have been magnificent,” he says with a laugh. “Well, there were about three minutes that were kind of boring, but I got through them.”

  “Sorry. Lame question.”

  “No,” he says. “It wasn’t. I was just teasing.” And he smiles his nice smile at me, and my momentary insecurity is gone.

  “Can I show you my favorite costumes?” I ask. “The Restoration ones? They’re incredible.”

  “Definitely.”

  As we walk in the narrow aisle between the racks of labeled clothing, I run my hand lightly along the plastic-covered costumes and say, “So how’d you and your sister both end up here this summer?”

  “Partially through shared interests and partially through nepotism. My uncle is the head of the program.” He gives me a sideways look. “Do you think less of me now that you know I pulled strings to get in?”

  “Hey, I’m only here because of my aunt. Nepotism rules. But are you actually into acting?”

  “I guess. I was Tevye in our school production of Fiddler on the Roof last fall.”

  “That’s a huge role!” My awe is genuine. He hadn’t even tried out for the plays in middle school—I had no idea he could carry a whole show.

  He shrugs dismissively. “I got lucky. I only tried out because Julia said I should, and I wasn’t playing a sport that season.”

  “But you wanted to go to acting camp?”

  “‘Wanted to’ is a slight exaggeration. My parents kind of pushed me into it. They think a summer at Mansfield will help get me into college. I play baseball, so there’s that . . . but so do a million other guys, and after I got the Fiddler thing, they thought maybe the combination of sports and theater would make me stand out from the crowd. It’s all they can think about these days—my getting into college.”

  “Tell me about it. My mom actually snuck an SAT prep book into my suitcase.” I grinned. “Not that I mind—it makes an excellent lap desk for my MacBook.”

  He nods. “Just once I wish one of my parents would say, ‘No matter what happens with college, we have faith in you—we know you’re going to be fine.’ But they don’t. Instead they keep saying, ‘Where you go to school will determine the course of the rest of your life.’ Oh, and sometimes they like to add, ‘But, hey, we don’t want you to feel like you’re under too much pressure,’ right after that.”

  “Right,” I say. “Which of course makes it all okay.”

  “Of course.. . . The crazy thing is, my mother dropped out of college halfway through her junior year and my dad went to state school in Indiana. So why they think I can only have a good life if I get into the Ivy League . . .” He shakes his head.

  “I know. My mom did go to Penn—and now she’s struggling to make ends meet as a middle-school English teacher, so you’d think she’d know that going to a good college doesn’t solve all your problems. But she’s just as bad as your parents. It’s like mass hysteria or something.” I stop in front of the rack I’d been looking for. “Here—these are the Restoration costumes. Cool, right? Look at this one.” I pull out an elaborately ruffled man’s outfit, with puffy pantaloons and a long striped overcoat.

  “Wow. Amazing. Do you know what play that was for?”

  “They’re all tagged.” I pull the paper tag out of the collar and squint at it. “Tartuffe in ’02 and The Country Wife in ’09.”

  “Wonder if we’ll end up wearing something like this.”

  “You’d look good in it.” I hold it up to him. “It brings out the stripes in your eyes.” I hang it back up. “Do you know what play you’re going to be in?”

  “Not yet. Will you be here for the performances?”

  “I hope so. Amelia will need me to pin hems and sew on buttons right up until the last minute, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely. We’ll find a reason for you to stay.”

  I focus on rearranging the plastic cover so he won’t see the pleasure in my eyes at his we. “Come on—I’ll show you the hats.”

  It seems relevant to mention at this point that I’ve had two fairly serious boyfriends since entering high school.

  The first was Samuel Ellerstein. He was cute and fun, and I felt cute and fun when I was with him. He laughed at my jokes and he laughed at his jokes and he laughed at every one of life’s little absurdities. He even laughed when I ran into him with his arm around Janet Rollins at a movie theater on the night he had told me he was having dinner with his grandmother. I liked that he was lighthearted and didn’t take anything seriously, until it hit me that anything included me, his girlfriend. So we broke up. It wasn’t too painful. He laughed and I shrugged.

  Tyler Gustafson broke my heart a little bit more. Not in any permanent way, but my tears soaked a few pillowcases before I got over him.

  The thing about Tyler is that, compared to Samuel, he was perfect—I mean, he took everything seriously. He was one of the most intense people I’d ever met: When he’d talk about global warming or the (wrong) direction our country was heading in, his eyes would glow with fervor. His skin radiated heat when he was discussing politics or a great book—I swear you could put your palm on his arm and actually feel his energy. It was amazing to feel that intensity directed at me for a little while.

  But it didn’t take long for me to realize that on the list of things Tyler cared deeply about—a list that included world politics, his next history test, his GPA, the environment, and The Daily Show—girlfriend Franny Pearson fell nowhere near the top. Even the Eco Club at school came above me. I could sit at his side and admire him—silently because he needed to concentrate—while he studied and kept up with the ten million environmental and political blogs he read and/or contributed to, but if I wanted more from him, I had to wait my turn.

  I didn’t get a lot of turns.

  It was bad luck that my birthday was the day before his AP English exam. I knew he’d beg off celebrating in order to study. What I didn’t see coming was how deeply unhappy he’d be when I borrowed my mother’s car and stopped by his house, just to say hi. On my birthday.

  “Oh, no,” he said when he opened the door. He didn’t invite me in, just stood there, shaking his head. “Oh, no. You’re great and all, Franny, but no relationship I’m going to have now is worth compromising my future for.”

  He really meant that: I could feel the heat of his sincerity burning through his shirtsleeve as he hugged me good-bye.

  So now I just want someone who’s capable of taking me seriously and who’s willing to shrug off the rest of the world when we’re alone.

  Of course, I’ve no objection to blue eyes and broad shoulders.

  They’d be a nice bonus.

  scene four

  I’m walking into the dining hall at six that evening when someone grabs my arm.

  “Thank God you’re here!” Julia says. “I so need to talk to someone I can trust!” She hauls me over to an empty corner. “Harry Cartwright! Oh, my God. Harry Cartwright!”

  “That’s the blond guy who was at our table today, right?”

  “Oh, like you didn’t notice him!”

  I s
hrug. He hadn’t made a huge impression on me. He was no Alex. But of course Alex’s sister wouldn’t feel that way.

  “We talked so much this afternoon!” she says. “And he’s amazing. He knows all these famous people—his dad is like this music producer in L.A. or something—but he’s not pretentious. He’s really funny. And don’t you think he’s super cute? I mean, look at him.” She points across the room. Harry is lounging over by the drinks dispenser, and I do mean lounging: he’s kind of leaning his hip on the counter as he’s filling up his cup, like he’s too cool to stand upright. I bet he practices that pose in his room at night.

  Marie—the girl I met out front earlier with her boyfriend—comes up to Harry as we’re watching and nudges him aside with her elbow so she can fill her own cup. He deliberately cuts back in front of her, and she shoves at him jokingly, and then they keep tussling for space in front of the machine, laughing and saying stuff we can’t hear.

  “Oh, God, it’s her,” Julia says. “Our third roommate. She came early, grabbed the best bed in the room, and then left. It’s too bad she came back—she’s been all over Harry all day. Look at her now.”

  The flirting looks pretty mutual from where I’m standing. “She has a boyfriend, you know,” I say.

  “She does?”

  “Yeah, I met him. So she’s probably not actually interested in Harry.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Right. Because no one has ever cheated on a boyfriend or switched to a new one.”

  I ignore that. “Do you have a fourth roommate?” I ask.

  “Yeah—apparently her name’s Jillian something, but she still hasn’t shown up.”

  Once we’ve filled our trays, we head over to join pretty much the same group that ate lunch together, with the addition of honey-haired Marie, who has followed Harry Cartwright over and is now sitting next to him.

  Julia grabs the seat on Harry’s other side and instantly goes to work on him, teasing him mercilessly and flirtatiously about anything and everything, including his black T-shirt and black jeans (“can you say hipster?”), his purple Converse, his way of talking, eating, breathing. He rolls his eyes and teases her back, asking her if those eyelashes are long enough (they are bordering on drag queen) and why girls think they can get away with eating other people’s food (after she coyly sneaks a french fry off his plate).

  I’m on her other side, and Julia pulls me into the conversation, but only as wingman to her flirting. “Real men don’t wear purple shoes, am I right?” she says to me, but before I can even respond, her shoulder is back in my face and she’s saying to Harry, “Don’t get me wrong, I love a man who’s so confident about his masculinity he can spend the summer at a theater camp wearing purple and still assume every girl will fall at his feet.”

  “Do I assume that?” Harry says. He appeals to his other neighbor. “Marie, help me out here. Do I act like I expect all the girls are going to fall at my feet?”

  Marie has been poking at her food and casting annoyed glances their way during this exchange, but she quickly regains her interest in the conversation now that Harry’s paying attention to her. “Absolutely. You’re a total narcissist.”

  “Oh, hey, Marie,” Julia says, like she just remembered. “Franny said something about meeting your boyfriend today? Who is he?”

  Marie flicks at a crumb on the table. “He’s just a guy I know. Who happens to have a really cool car and doesn’t mind driving me around in it.”

  Harry looks interested. “What kind of car?”

  “Porsche.”

  “Nice,” he says, bobbing his head in a slow, appreciative nod. “My next car is going to be a Porsche.”

  “What do you have now?” Marie asks.

  “A Porsche,” he says with a cryptic smirk. I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

  “Guys and their cars.” Julia tosses her head so her long dark hair flies around her face. “Franny, why do you think guys are so obsessed with cars? Doesn’t Freud or someone have a theory about that?” She’s supposedly talking to me. But she’s not really.

  “Freud or someone?” Harry repeats. “Am I supposed to be impressed by the depth of intellect you’re revealing here?”

  “Look who’s talking!” she shoots back. “The guy who carries a comic book around with him. I saw it, you know.”

  “It’s a graphic novel. Marie, could you please explain to our friend here the difference between a graphic novel and the Archie comics she reads?”

  Marie giggles and pushes at his arm. “You are so bad!”

  I sigh and twirl some spaghetti on my fork. I’d prefer a conversation where I’m not just there to help other people flirt, but Vanessa and Lawrence are both off getting something at the buffet, and everyone else has paired off in conversation.

  Sudden movement across the table grabs my attention. Alex is pushing his chair back and standing up. “That’s it, I’m getting you a cookie all your own!”

  “I didn’t say I wanted one!” Isabella protests, laughing up at him.

  “No, you just keep staring at mine—I know when someone’s about to steal my food the second I look away. It’s easier for me just to get you your own. What kind do you want?”

  “Surprise me,” she says. “Since you seem to be able to read my mind.”

  “Only when it comes to food.”

  “Really?” she asks archly. “You sure?”

  “Yeah, girls are a total mystery to me.”

  “We don’t actually have cooties,” she says. “In case you were stuck in that particular phase of development.”

  He grins down at her. “Good to know. I’ll file that bit of information away for future reference.” He looks around the table. “Anyone else need anything while I’m up?”

  I scramble to my feet. “I want something to drink, but I’ll go with you.” We head across the dining hall together. “So did you get in trouble for taking too long with the hats today?”

  “Nah. It was fine. How’d the rest of your afternoon go?”

  “Great. I only pricked my finger fifteen times with the needle.”

  “Aw, poor Franny. Hey, I wanted to ask you—how come you even know how to sew?”

  “How come you don’t?” I say, and he smiles absently. He’s studying the plates of dessert laid out under the sneeze guard.

  “So what kind of cookie should I bring back for Isabella?” he asks. “Do girls have a favorite kind?”

  “It’s not like we vote on it.”

  “I’ll get her one of each.” He piles cookies up on a plate. One of the dining-hall workers squints suspiciously at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Can you grab an oatmeal raisin for me, Franny?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Anything for Isabella.” He doesn’t even hear me. He’s heading back across the room, and Isabella is raising her pretty face to smile her welcome and thanks at him.

  She’s let her hair down since lunchtime. It falls in a shining curtain down to her shoulders, dark and glossy, but as she looks up, she smoothes it back, off her face, and you can see the delicate angles of her high cheekbones and perfectly sculpted chin.

  I think, I could hate her.

  After dinner, everyone races off to some big assembly with the graduate-student directors in the theater auditorium.

  I walk back to Aunt Amelia’s apartment, where I join her in watching reality TV shows, but after a couple of hours of listening to her complain about how tacky and rude all the people are, I’m ready to scream. “I’m going to walk over to the dorm,” I say finally, rising to my feet and stretching. “See if anyone’s around.”

  “All right,” she says. “But don’t stay out past ten. I don’t want to be kept up waiting for you.” Then she adds, as an afterthought, “Plus it might not be safe.”

  As I enter the courtyard area, I’m glad to see everyone’s out of the meeting, some of them milling around outside, most of them going into the dorm. I follow a group inside and then head into the common room, where people are sprawled on
every piece of furniture. Some guy is playing a Sondheim tune on the piano, and two girls have sandwiched him on the bench and are singing along.

  I spot Vanessa and Julia talking together on one of the big sofas.

  “We got put in casts!” Julia calls out as soon as I get close.

  “Cool! Who are you both?”

  “We don’t have our roles yet,” Vanessa says. “Just our plays. Lawrence and I are in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Julia and Harry are in Twelfth Night”—that explains why Julia’s grinning like she won some kind of a prize: she’s with Harry—“and Alex and Isabella are in Measure for Measure. Which is funny because the main character’s name is Isabella. But maybe it’s not a coincidence. Maybe they did that on purpose so she can play that role?”

  “They wouldn’t cast her in something because of her name,” Julia says. “That wouldn’t be fair. Anyway, they don’t know who’s going to be who yet—they’re going to listen to us read for a few days first.”

  “I hope they cast gender-blind,” Vanessa says.

  “They’ll definitely have to have some girls playing male roles,” Julia says. “There are way more girls than boys here.”

  “I want to be Bottom.”

  “You’re crazy,” says Julia. “Wear a donkey’s head for half of every performance?”

  “It would be cool.”

  “It would be hot. And sweaty and hard to see or hear anything.”

  I sit down next to Julia. “Are they all Shakespeare plays?”

  “Yeah,” Vanessa says. “They’re also doing Winter’s Tale, so four plays altogether. I’m so glad I’m in Midsummer, though. That’s the coolest.”

  “Do they always do all Shakespeare?”

  “Nope. They just felt like it this year, I guess.”

  “The directors are changing the plays a lot,” Julia says. “They’re shortening them and combining roles and stuff to make them work for us. Oh, did I tell you, Vanessa, that Charles said that if he’d realized Alex and I looked so much alike, he’d have asked to have us both in Twelfth Night? You know—to play Viola and Sebastian.”

  “That would have totally rocked!”