The Boy Recession

  “Ew!” I gasp in horror.

  The whole time she’s talking, Darcy’s also writing on yellow Post-its, filling them up with homework assignments and tips on lessons that I’ve missed.

  “It’s ridiculous. I’ve been trying to do the Women’s History Month agenda in student senate, but the prom committee updates take up forty-five minutes every week. The whole meeting dissolves into people whining about not having dates and fighting over dates! I have to buy a gavel. Or some pepper spray.”

  Darcy’s next Post-it has PEPPER SPRAY written on it in huge letters.

  “Darcy just has no sympathy,” Aviva tells me. “Because she has a date.”

  “What’s this?” I ask, sitting up and sipping my chai tea.

  At my desk, Darcy is shaking her head. “I do not have a date. I have an offer, which I’m going to refuse.”

  “Derek Palewski.” Aviva grins at me over her knitting needles.

  “Darcy, he is your husband,” I tease. “The least you could do is take him to the prom.”

  “No way. He doesn’t meet any of my requirements. He smokes. He has, like, nine body piercings. He wears flip-flops when he’s not at the beach. He doesn’t have a 4.0 GPA or a 401(k).”

  Aviva rolls her eyes. “Darcy, no one can live up to those standards.”

  “Viva, who are you taking?” I ask.

  Picking up a stitch, Aviva says casually, “I’m thinking about getting a prostitute.”

  I look over at Darcy. “If most people told me that, I would be surprised.”

  Darcy rolls her eyes. “It’s not technically prostitution. Eugene’s setting people up with prom dates for money.”

  “Who are these dates? Julius guys?”

  “No, no,” Aviva says. “He’s got a good selection! He’s got private-school guys, college guys, this big basketball star from Milwaukee…. He’s got a whole binder full of guys, with head shots and everything. The boy binder. He let me peek at it. He said he’s not done recruiting, though.”

  “Did you see someone you liked?”

  “I don’t have to like him,” Aviva informs me. “I’m a career girl. I’m just using him for my article: ‘My Night with a Prom-stitute.’ Can you think of a catchier title than that?”

  “Um…”

  “I should snatch one up soon, though,” Aviva says. “Remind me to put my deposit down on a hot date. Here, Darce, gimme a Post-it.”

  “So lots of people have dates already?” I ask. “Do you think someone will ask Hunter?”

  “Not if you ask him first,” Aviva says.

  “Do you want my phone?” Darcy asks, standing up to deliver Aviva’s Post-it.

  Aviva scribbles DATE on it, and then sticks it on her own forehead.

  “You can call him right now and ask him.”

  “I can’t call him,” I say. “He’s in bed with mono, and he just got dumped.”

  “Exactly!” Darcy says. “Perfect timing.”

  “I’ll look completely desperate!”

  “But he likes you,” Aviva says, looking at me from under her Post-it. “He almost kissed you.”

  “I don’t know. I think I need to ask Hunter in person,” I say. “I need to feel him out first, read his body language, and see how he feels about the whole Diva thing before I ask him.”

  “So ask him when he gets better,” Darcy says.

  “But what if he gets better before I get better, and he shows up at school, and someone asks him?”

  “They could,” Aviva acknowledges. “He looks a lot better since that haircut.”

  “Yeah, no one would have asked him with his old hair,” Darcy says. “They wouldn’t have even been able to find him. He was like the yeti.”

  I moan and put my hand on my forehead, which is really hot.

  “It will be fine!” Darcy says.

  “Yeah. If he gets back and a girl tries to talk to him, Darce and I will run interference,” Aviva says. “We’ll hip-check her into the lockers.”

  “But hopefully we won’t have to,” Darcy says, glaring at Aviva. “Seeing as we could get suspended for that. Hopefully, Kelly will rest up and get better by the time Hunter gets better.”

  “He got mono first,” I say doubtfully. “He has a week head start on me.”

  “It’s a race!” Darcy says. “And you’re going to win. You’re going to get fluids, take Advil, and rest. And you’re going to win.”

  “A mono race?” I say, raising one eyebrow.

  “That’s gonna be the slowest race,” Aviva says, “since the tortoise and the tortoise.”

  CHAPTER 26: HUNTER

  “Billy Flynn and the Boys: Meet the Men of This Year’s Musical”

  “The Boy Recession©” by Aviva Roth, The Julius Journal, March

  It’s the first night of Chicago, and Eugene is patting me down in one of the band practice rooms.

  “Okay, I think you’re ready,” he says. “You’ve got your suit. You’ve got your vest. You’ve got your cravat. You’ve got your stickpin. You’ve got your cuff links. You’ve got your pocket square. Did I forget anything?”

  “No clue. I don’t know what half of that stuff is,” I tell him as he kneels down to pull my pants down over my dress shoes. While Eugene’s shining my shoe with his handkerchief, I look at his watch and realize there’s only a half-hour until the show starts. Have I really been getting dressed for, like, twenty minutes?

  “This took forever,” I say. “How do stylish dudes put all this stuff on every day?”

  Eugene stands up and sighs, putting his handkerchief back in his pocket.

  “It’s a real burden on us,” he says.

  I look down.

  “Don’t you think these are kinda tight?” I ask Eugene, pulling the fly of the pants away from my crotch.

  “This is how clothes fit, Huntro,” Eugene informs me. “You’re a man, not a scarecrow.”

  “I guess.”

  Eugene opens the practice room’s door and runs out to grab a mirror. When he comes back and holds it up to me, I whistle.

  “Holy crap,” I say. “I look like that douchebag who’s dating the other Kardashian sister.”

  “Don’t hate on Scott Disick,” Eugene warns me. “He’s my fashion role model.”

  My hair has a crapload of gel in it, so it looks wet, but when I touch it, it feels all crunchy. You can see the comb marks going through it, in perfect lines, and Pam slathered makeup all over my face. But the suit actually looks good. “Hmmm.”

  Eugene isn’t totally satisfied. He’s tapping his finger against his chin.

  “Aha! I know what you’re missing,” he says, and takes off his huge bling-bling watch and puts it on my wrist. “The final touch,” he says, and we go out into the band room.

  It’s total chaos in here, because the entire cast is getting ready. All the chorus girls are running around, crashing into one another like bumper cars, and Pam is screaming at them, “Stop running around! Your sequins are falling off! You’re losing sequins! Freeze! Freeze!”

  “So,” Eugene says, “how ya feelin’?”

  “Uh…” I look around at the craziness and laugh.

  “No, I mean, how’s the mono?”

  “Oh, I’m okay,” I say. “I’m pretty much healthy, I guess.”

  I got back to school last week, in time for final dress rehearsals, and it’s been totally fine. I know my lines. I know the dances. I’m good to go. It was actually lucky I was out for all that time, because it gave Mrs. Martin a chance to teach Diva how to sing. Well, sort of. Right now Diva’s over by the piano, doing vocal warm-ups. I feel really bad for the piano guy—she’s shouting in his ear.

  “You’re not gonna pass out or anything?” Eugene asks me.

  “I’m pretty sweaty in all these layers,” I say, unbuttoning my jacket over my vest. “But I think I’ll be good.”

  “What about your ulcer?” Eugene says. “You got that ulcer again?”

  “What, do you want me to be sick?” I ask him.


  “I’m just letting you know I’m here for you!” Eugene says, raising his hands innocently. “I’ve got Pepto-Bismol, and I’m here for you.”

  “No ulcer tonight,” I tell him. “I’m ready to go out there and kick ass. I have strong motivation to nail this thing.”

  “What?”

  I point to Diva.

  “I wanna be so good that everyone’s watching me instead of her,” I tell Eugene. “Because when people don’t give her attention, she gets super pissed off.”

  Just as I say this, Diva crosses the room to come bother me and Eugene. She’s got this crazy wig that Pam duct-taped to her head. Crooked.

  “You’re supposed to be warming up your voice,” she tells me.

  “I couldn’t. You were at the piano forever.”

  “Well, I’m obviously not at the piano anymore.”

  “Okay. I’ll go in a minute.”

  That should be the end of the conversation. But Diva feels the need to hover around and wait for me to say something to her. I don’t, so she says, “I saw what you wrote in the program. And it was really, really stupid.”

  Last week we were supposed to write biographies of ourselves for the musical’s program. I wrote: “This performance is for All the Young Dudes.” That’s it. One line. “All the Young Dudes” is this Mott the Hoople song that was actually written by David Bowie. I love Bowie, and I friggin’ love that song. So I put that in there, because what the hell.

  “No one even knows what that means,” Diva tells me.

  “I know what it means,” I say, leaning against the bandstand railing. “Seventies-music aficionados know what it means. Eugene knows what it means.”

  Eugene, on his BlackBerry, holds up his hand.

  “Leave me out of this,” he says.

  “Ugh. You guys are so annoying. I’m so glad I don’t have to hang out with you anymore.”

  “Yeah,” I say, rebuttoning my jacket. “Ditto.”

  “You should go warm up your voice,” Diva says. “You need it.”

  I don’t want to fight with Diva, but she keeps trying to start crap with me, and so I’ve decided that I’m ready to upstage her ass in this show. As I enter the backstage area and look over in the wings, I see my dad holding a program and my Al Capone–style gangster hat. “You left this in the car,” he tells me. “Wow! Look at this place!”

  By now, people are throwing clothes, tripping over one another, and practicing dance moves one last time. Mrs. Martin’s trying to yell over all the noise, but she starts hacking up a lung.

  “It’s great back here!” my dad tells me. “So much energy!”

  “Uh, yeah. I guess.”

  “This reminds me of my swim team state championships, the year I was captain,” my dad says. “There was such great energy. So much team spirit.”

  “Yeah,” I say, watching Pam chase George down with her hot glue gun. “Team spirit.”

  “Man, this is so exciting, champ,” my dad tells me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Isn’t it so great, being part of a team? Not only part of the team—you’re a leader tonight. Everyone depending on you… It’s such a great feeling. Remember this, Hunter.”

  I stop tugging on the crotch of my pants, because I realize this is a pretty important moment for my dad. Sure, he’s kinda living vicariously through me, because he loved the good old days when he was an athlete… or the good old days when he had a job… but he’s probably right. I’ve got a big part tonight, and that’s a cool thing; I should live up to it.

  “I’m proud of you, man,” my dad says, and hugs me before he leaves.

  “Ten minutes, everyone! Ten minutes to curtain!” Mrs. Martin yells, and all the chorus girls start screaming.

  “If you have to pee, you better pee now!” Pam adds.

  As I go back over to the piano for my warm-up, I’m thinking Oh, crap. I wasn’t nervous at all when I was gunning for a kick-ass performance to get revenge on Diva. But now that I want to rock this Billy Flynn thing because all these people are depending on me, and because my dad’s so amped to see me onstage, I think I feel that ulcer again. Damn. Where’d Eugene go with the Pepto?

  CHAPTER 27: KELLY

  “Is Theater the New Football? The Men of Julius Embrace the Arts”

  “The Boy Recession©” by Aviva Roth, The Julius Journal, March

  He was really, really good!” Aviva says in my ear, so I can hear her over everyone’s applause. “I don’t even have to lie in my review!”

  It’s my first time back at Julius since I got mono, and Hunter’s getting a standing ovation.

  “Plus, he’s dressed a lot better than he was at Open-Mic Night,” Aviva says. “I think he read my advice in the newspaper.”

  “Viva, that’s his costume,” I tell her, without taking my eyes off the stage.

  After a quick bow, Hunter backs up into the crowd of other cast members. But the director, Mrs. Martin, grabs his arm and forces him to take another bow, because we’re still standing and clapping for him. Diva, who already took a bow, takes a few steps forward, like she’s waiting for her turn for a standing ovation. But she didn’t get one before, and she’s not gonna get one now. This is all for Hunter.

  When the show first began, I barely recognized him. It wasn’t just the costume. All the usual Hunter habits were gone; instead, he was Billy Flynn. He was loud and assertive and arrogant. He spread his arms out when he talked, and when other people talked, he drew attention to himself by stroking the lapels of his suit, flashing his shiny cuff links, and pulling up his sleeve to show off a giant, sparkly watch. He kept checking out chorus girls with an exaggerated up-and-down look, and when he made a joke, he would turn to us—the audience—and wink. Even his singing was different tonight; he had this quick, staccato way with the lyrics, the complete opposite of his usual drawling voice.

  “I’m going backstage,” I tell Aviva.

  “Do it! Do it!” Aviva says, bouncing up and down in excitement. “I’ll watch your coat.”

  Usually I would need lots of encouragement before going backstage, but tonight I feel different.

  I hurry up the aisle of the auditorium, push open the doors, and go down the main hallway toward the east hallway. I duck into the band room, which has been completely taken over by the cast. There are racks of costumes and tables covered with lipsticks and makeup compacts everywhere. I push open the door to the stage, and I’m blinded by camera flashes. There are even more people than there were the last time I was backstage—parents with big bouquets of flowers, yearbook staff taking pictures, crew dressed in black, and the cast members in their freaky makeup. Onstage they looked normal, but up close, they’re scary. The girls all have cracked bright red clown lips and blue eye shadow up to their eyebrows, and the boys have orange foundation smeared all over their faces and necks, and black eyeliner that looks like permanent marker.

  “Look who it is. Typhoid Mary.” Diva is coming toward me, in her super-high stage heels. “Looks like you’re feeling better,” she says.

  When Darcy and Aviva first told me Diva hated me, I was really upset. People never hate me. It bugged me so much I thought about sending her a Facebook message explaining I didn’t hook up with Hunter. I even thought about using Darcy’s research to prove you can get mono other ways than kissing, but I didn’t think Diva would feel any better about her boyfriend using my toothbrush or my lip gloss.

  Now that she’s confronting me, though, I actually feel kind of excited. You’re supposed to get in at least one fight in high school, right?

  “I am feeling better,” I say, and smile.

  Diva doesn’t smile back.

  “Thank you for spreading your disgusting mono around to my boyfriend,” she says in a hoarse whisper. “I really appreciate it. You broke me and Hunter up, and you almost ruined the show. If I got sick because of you, my agent would have sued you.”

  “Yeah, that would have been a real shame,” I say. “If you got sick and missed the show. No one
would have heard your beautiful voice.”

  It takes Diva a second to register my sarcasm; when she does, she gets ready to start screeching, but just then Amy’s mom interrupts us.

  “Congratulations! You were wonderful!” Amy’s mom says.

  Diva turns around and gushes in a sweet voice, “Oh my gosh, thank you!” and they hug.

  A minute later, Diva turns back to me and says, “You act like a big kiss-ass, you act like you’re so nice to everybody, and then you go and steal my boyfriend. You are so fake. You are so ridiculously… Oh my God, are those for me? Oh my God, I love you!”

  A junior spandexer appears with flowers for Diva, and she flips immediately from I-hate-Kelly mode to I-love-flowers mode. Taking this as my chance to escape, I turn to look for Hunter.

  But I don’t need to, because Hunter is pushing forward to find me.

  When we meet in the crowd, he wraps his long arms around me, pulls me against his sweat-soaked suit, and holds me there longer than a normal hug. My ear is against his chest, I’m warm and close, and I think Hunter smells good, no matter what Darcy says about his hygiene. When he pulls away, his orangey makeup smears against my forehead. Hunter cups my temple with his hand and rubs the makeup smudge on my forehead with his thumb.

  “I’m getting makeup all over you,” he says.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I say. “Guys do that to me all the time.”

  I’m pretty sure the makeup smudge is gone, but his hand is still on my face, and he looks at me intently.

  “Will you go to the prom with me?” I ask him.

  “Yeah!” Hunter says right away with a smile. “Hell, yeah!”

  “Okay!” I say.

  “Okay! Yeah! Cool!”

  Hunter realizes he’s talking in exclamation points, laughs at himself, and shakes his head. That one piece of hair falls across his face.

  “Okay!” I say again, laughing.

  “It was ’cause you saw me in the suit, right?” Hunter says. “Eugene always told me to dress up, and I never listened. I coulda been getting girls this whole time.”

  “It was definitely the suit,” I tell him. “I love the stickpin.”