Confessions of an Almost-Girlfriend (7 page)

“WELCOME, WELCOME, WELCOME TO AUDITIONS FOR
Anything Goes,
people! I know you’re excited, but if you could
just tone it down a wee bit, we can get started and all be home in
time for
Glee.
” When nobody stops talking, Mr. Donnelly adds,
“Okay, kiddies, ‘Tone it down a wee bit’ is nice-speak for shut
your mouths!”

That works—everybody stops talking. Stephanie is so nervous
that she’s shaking. She met me at my locker after seventh period,
said, “I think I’m going to audition! Can I walk with you?” and
then literally talked nonstop the entire way to the auditorium.
When we got here, she kind of shut down and that’s when the
shaking started. I can feel her through my chair. I reach over and
squeeze her hand to try to calm her down, but she keeps staring
at Mr. Donnelly like he’s a serial killer.

I had no idea that Stephanie was planning to audition today.
I don’t even know if she can sing. But then, I guess I don’t know
if I can sing, either.

I mean,
I
think I can. But what if no one else does?
I can. I know I can.
And I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I watched the video of the

tap-dancing steps and I stopped singing “Moses” nonstop and
practiced my sixteen bars of “Be Italian” from
Nine
not just in
the shower but in front of the mirror. I stopped doing that when
I realized it wasn’t helping my relationship with mirrors at all.

Does anyone look normal when they’re singing? Or maybe
the question is, is it normal to look weird when you’re singing?
Thanks to Holly, who offered to be my personal coach via
email—probably after Robert told her that she shouldn’t be
spending her valuable preparation time helping me—I even have
a backup song, just in case I get called back on the spot and
asked to do something different. Holly says that happens a lot.
Of course, it probably happens to Holly a lot, which is different than it happening a lot to, say,
me.
But if I’m really, truly honest with myself, I’m going to say that
I think I sound pretty good. And I feel good, too.
Weirdly, I have the slut list to thank for that.
Tracy’s secret project is no longer secret, and it’s totally amazing. It’s a fashion blog, and it was originally going to be called
“Très Chic/Tracy.” But after the slut list insanity happened, instead of going back into the bathroom to cry some more, Tracy
had a brilliant idea. She went to see the business and marketing teacher to get a tutorial on PR. The teacher told her that the
best thing to do in situations like hers was to “take charge of the
spin” and “make the story hers.” Tracy told her about the website, and the teacher helped her come up with “The Sharp List,”
which is a play on the slut list.
The blog is awesome. Tracy takes photos of outfits she likes
on people at school and analyzes how each individual piece
contributes to the whole look. And then she uses all those photos we scanned from magazines to show why the pieces were
good choices. So, for example, the photo she took of Stephanie
is right next to a scanned photo of a
Vogue
model wearing superexpensive shoes that have a resemblance to Stephanie’s. She uses
the work of professional photographers and stylists to show how
fierce her friends’ fashion instincts are. It’s genius.
I helped Tracy with the technical part and I told her that she
had to use photo credits, saying where she got each photo from
and who the photographer is, so she wouldn’t get in trouble. And
now I have a credit on the site as “Editorial Director/Designer.”
Tracy launched the site with announcements on Facebook
and Twitter and an email blast to our entire class. The subject
line was, “From Slut #1: There’s a New List in Town.” I helped
rewrite her email, adding in some choice words that would send
most of Union High to Dictionary.com. The final version said:

Announcing The Sharp List, a site designed to commend those
with delectable fashion sense, and to remind those with brains
that there is more to life than a slut list—like fashion! Art! Beauty!
Self-expression! Every day, The Sharp List will call out the stylish, the fabulous, the rebellious. Who knows? Maybe one day
it’ll even be YOU…

Questions? Email me. But don’t ask me to put you on my site.
Just get on with your fashionista selves—I’ll find you.
Haters, you will get no reply.
Click here NOW for the inaugural Sharp List.
Welcome to chic, Union High.

The first post on The Sharp List featured Stephanie and her
awesome shoes and Holly and Robert in head-to-toe black. People went crazy.

Within a few hours, The Sharp List inbox was overflowing
with emails from people telling Tracy she should look out for
them tomorrow because they were going to be wearing something totally awesome. There was even one from the YouTube
stalker that said, “Let me know when you’re ready for your own
show. I know people.”

Not a single email said anything bad or mean—or mentioned
the slut list. Not one. It was like the thing never existed.
Tracy had pulled off a PR coup of epic proportions. She had
gone from Slut #1 to Union High’s coolest celebrity overnight.
Now, upperclassmen say hi to her in the halls just so she’ll notice what they’re wearing. And I’m proud that I played a small
role in her success.
So yeah, I’m feeling pretty good today. You might even say I’m
ready to rock this thing.
“All right, people!” Mr. Donnelly says, clapping his hands.
“We’re going to sing, then we’re going to act, then we’re going to
dance.” He looks down at his clipboard as he shoves a pen behind his ear. “Mitchell Klein? Are you ready?”
Mitchell climbs the stairs to the stage, where he sings a chunk
of a song from
Anything Goes
called “It’s Delovely.” I immediately
freak out—it’s my backup song. I twist around in my seat to
look at Holly, who is so excited about auditions she’s practically
bursting out of her seat. She just gives me a wave and a doublethumbs-up, her white teeth gleaming like she’s on a gum commercial.
Robert, who’s next to her, is slumped in his chair, a red scarf
wrapped around his throat, his eyes focused like laser beams on
Mitchell Klein. He looks my way for a split second and gives me
a little nod, and then goes back to staring at Mitchell, who turns
out to have a nicer voice than I would have predicted.
Mitchell looks extremely satisfied at the end of his song and
he shoots Robert a smug look at he sits back down. I can practically hear Robert’s teeth grinding as he takes a swig of his electrolyte water. It suddenly occurs to me, as Robert tightens his
scarf, that I haven’t seen him smoking any cigarettes this year.
He must have quit.
Funny—I never thought Robert would quit smoking for anything. Or anyone.
After a few people who don’t make it through their sixteen
bars—either because they are giggling or they lose their place
or they just sort of freak out and melt into silence in front of
everyone—Mr. Donnelly calls, “Stephanie Trainer.”
A hush seems to fall over the room as Stephanie stands up
looking supermodel tall in her platform shoes, her red hair
gleaming, a nervous blush on her cheeks. She stumbles a bit because her legs are shaking, but she stops to take a deep breath
and in an instant, she snaps out of her jitters. I literally see it
happen. It’s like she just decides that she is done being nervous,
and the nerves disappear, leaving behind a supremely confident
being who happens to be wearing a super-cute outfit that looks
like it would be right at home on an ocean liner, which is where
Anything Goes
takes place.
I look down at my cut-off jean skirt and Feist T-shirt and realize that I did not dress for success. Unless Mr. Donnelly happens to be a Feist fan.
Stephanie climbs the steps to the stage, clears her throat and
without introducing herself or even letting Mr. Donnelly ask,
“What are you going to sing for us today?” she launches into an
a cappella version of “Mine” by Taylor Swift.
And she sounds amazing.
Completely, shockingly amazing. It’s not that she sounds like
Taylor Swift—just the opposite. She sounds like herself, and like
the song is hers. I’m sure you can hear her out on the street, never
mind outside the auditorium. She looks so happy, so natural, that
Mr. Donnelly forgets to stop her after sixteen bars, and she just
sings the chorus over again. When she’s done, the whole auditorium whoops like the real Taylor Swift is standing on the stage.
When she makes it back to her seat after fielding high fives
from almost everyone, I lean over and say, “I didn’t know you
could sing like that!”
She giggles, flips her hair over her shoulder and says, “Me
neither!”
I have to fight really hard against being annoyed at my friend
who magically transformed into a goddess this summer while I
was helping residents of Union choose between original, skinny
and loose fit.
When the applause dies down, Mr. Donnelly cheerfully calls,
“Holly Taylor to the stage, please.” Holly pops up, looking perfect in a flowery dress with black boots that button all the way
up to her knees. She walks onstage and says, as if she’s done it
a million times, “Hi, everyone! I’m Holly Taylor and I’m new at
Union. I just moved here from Los Angeles. Today I’ll be singing
‘All Through the Night’ by Cole Porter, which the character Hope
sings in this show. I hope you like it. It’s one of my favorites.”
And then, of course, Holly opens her mouth and a beautiful,
mesmerizing sound comes out as she sings the famous ballad. Mr.
Donnelly sits up straighter, a gleam in his eye, no doubt thrilled
beyond belief that he has found not one but two brilliant singers in the first half hour of auditions.
When Holly sits back down, Robert puts his arm around her,
kisses her on the cheek and smiles at everyone, beaming with
so much pride it’s almost embarrassing.
What’s it like to have the guy you’re with think you’re the
greatest thing in the world?
Mr. Donnelly stands up and looks at his list, and I know what’s
going to happen before it happens—he calls my name.
I get to sing after Stephanie
and
Holly. Fan-freakin’-tastic.
I make my way to the stage and everything goes a little wonky.
My vision blurs on the edges and I feel like I’m going to puke.
Holly told me that if I got nervous I should just imagine that I’m
in my bedroom, singing by myself. But suddenly I’m having one
of my freak-out moments, and I’m seeing the balcony falling on
top of all those people sitting in the seats out there, crushing
them into nothing but puddles of gristle and blood. I shake my
head to clear the image and I hear Mr. Donnelly ask, “What are
you singing today, Rose?” I manage to answer and he says, “Ah,
Nine.
An excellent choice! Go ahead whenever you’re ready.”
Nobody ever really means, “Whenever you’re ready.” Because
if I waited until I was ready, I would be standing here for the
rest of my life.
I look down at the floor in case my classmates are still crushed
under the balcony, and I start the song. I start it too high and I
have to begin again. Mr. Donnelly says, “It sounds nice, Rose.
Just take your time.” I start lower this time, and I get a few seconds in and then forget all the words.
I look up and I can see Holly, a smile frozen on her face as if
she’s trying to stay positive for me but really, she’s mortified by
what’s happening. She starts mouthing the words to me but I’m
distracted by Robert, who can’t even watch. He’s staring up at the
theater’s high ceiling. Mr. Donnelly gives me the lyric and tells
me to start over one more time. I make it through this time, but I
have no idea what I sounded like or if I was off-key or anything.
When Mr. Donnelly smiles and says “Thank you,” I can’t read
his tone. Instead of going down the steps to my seat like a normal person, I just walk off stage and exit through the backstage
door to the hall. I don’t care that I’ve left all my stuff in the
auditorium—it doesn’t matter because I’m planning on abandoning my identity and taking up residence in a new city anyway.
I can’t believe I thought that singing could be my future.
Clearly, I don’t have a future. Because I suck.
I slide down the wall and sit on the floor, putting my hands
over my ears so I don’t have to hear anyone else’s audition. I
close my eyes.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting there when I feel someone tap me on the shoulder. I open my eyes and Ms. Maso is
standing above me.
Ms. Maso has dark skin and brown eyes, and if Tracy had
her way, I bet she’d feature Ms. Maso on The Sharp List every
single day.
“Do you want to get up, or should I come down there?” she
asks. When I don’t answer, she sits next to me, holding a bunch
of posters that say, “Practice Tolerance, Union High! No excuses!”
in bright red, and underneath that, “School assembly on Monday, attendance required. Report to the auditorium with your
homeroom.”
“What are those?” I ask.
“You were at Mike Darren’s party, weren’t you?”
I lose track of the question for a second because I can hear
Robert singing a song from
My Fair Lady.
He is belting his heart
out—no way is he going to let Mitchell Klein play opposite Holly.
Not a chance. I admire that.
“Yeah, I was at that party,” I finally say.
“I heard you ended up in the pool.”
“It was fun,” I say as drily as I can manage.
“Tell me, what are you doing out here in this hallway?” she
asks.
“I blew my audition for the musical and I didn’t feel like going
back in.”
“Are you sure you blew it?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“You don’t sound sure.”
“I had to start over three times so I’m pretty sure that means
I sucked.”
“Rose, do you know what I’ve noticed about you since I met
you a year ago? You’re mean—to yourself.” I can feel her looking
at me but I’m not up for eye contact right now. “You’re a language
person, right? Think about all the negative words you just said
in reference to yourself in one short conversation.”
I sigh. “You sound like my mom’s shrink.”
Ms. Maso doesn’t miss a beat. “Well then I hope she’s yours,
too.”
I shrug.
“Stop being mean to yourself, Rose. It can be as self-destructive
in the long-term as doing drugs or starving yourself or cutting
or… Would you like me to go on?”
I shake my head. “I get it.”
“Good.” She stands up, brushes off the seat of her jeans and
holds up a poster. “Listen, the school is looking into what happened at that party, in part because Conrad Deladdo—who
apparently is one of the best athletes the school has seen in
years—quit the swim team and won’t tell anyone why. Since
you were the one in the pool with him, you might find yourself
in Principal Chen’s office soon. Just a word of warning, okay?”
Well, that’s delovely. I haven’t chatted with Principal Chen
since the last scandal I was a part of. Can’t wait.
“Go back in there and finish the audition, Rose. Even if you
don’t feel good about it, at least you can say you saw it through
to the end.”
Ms. Maso tapes a poster above my head, reaches down to
touch my shoulder and disappears up the stairs, her clog boots
echoing in the hall. As I watch her go, I think about how she always gives great advice that I never want to take.
I’m worrying about how to get my bag out of the auditorium
without seeing anyone when the stage door opens and Holly
leans out.
“Rose! We’re about to start the scenes! Hurry!”
I shake my head. “I’m not going back in.”
Holly steps into the hallway and lets the door close behind
her quietly. She holds out a hand to help me up.
“So what if you had to start over? You sounded great. Your
voice is so cool—it’s different, you know? It’s like a… I don’t
know…” Holly takes a second to think, looking up at the ceiling and spinning the bracelets on her arm. “Like an old-school
rock star’s or something.”
And there it is.
A compliment on my singing.
It’s the first one.
I don’t know exactly what she means, but the compliment is
out there now, in the universe. And I feel it inside me, expanding
to fill up all the empty spaces that I haven’t known what to do
with lately. I get so lost in the feeling that I can’t even acknowledge what Holly said, or make any move to take the hand she’s
offering. She misinterprets what’s going on and kneels down in
front of me, her button-up leather boots creaking.
“What’s wrong?” Holly asks, putting her hand on my arm.
Tears well up in my eyes. And then tears well up in her eyes, just
because they’re in my eyes. She laughs, maybe a little embarrassed by the fact that she’s crying with me though she doesn’t
know what we’re crying about. I don’t know how to tell her that
what she said was awesome, so naturally she thinks that something is really wrong.
“Rose,” she asks, “is this, um, about a guy?”
Something about the way she asks is weird. She’s looking at
me like she already knows the answer but wants to see if I’m
going to tell her the truth. So instead of trying to explain to her
that she, a real singer, just called
me
a real singer, I nod. It’s easier than figuring out how to tell her what I’m feeling right now.
“Is it Robby?” she asks, her eyes huge and round and watery.
And guilty.
Oh, no. No, no, no. I know exactly what Robert did without
even having to ask. But I ask anyway. “What did he tell you?”
“Well, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable but Robby
told me that you’re, um, in love with him, but that he thinks of
you like a sister. And so, I was wondering, does it bother you
that we’re together? I mean, I hope it doesn’t, Rose, because I
really like you. But if it makes you feel bad to see us together or
to talk to me—”
I hold up my hand to get her to stop. “It’s not Robert.”
It was
never Robert,
I want to say just to spite him. But I have a better idea. I’ll just take one for the team now, and Robert can owe
me—big-time—later for using me to seem extra desirable to his
girlfriend. Maybe one day, when the right time presents itself,
I’ll tell Holly that she’s dating a pathological liar.