manicpixiedreamgirl (14 page)

“I see,” Gabby said when I stopped talking. “So, couple things. First, are you saying you don’t like Sydney anymore?”

“No, it’s not that. I do like her,” I said. “She’s great. But Becky’s … I don’t know …”

“Becky is unattainable,” Gabby said. “And I can’t help but wonder if that’s part of the attraction.”

“It’s crossed my mind, but I don’t think so,” I said. “There’s just something about her.…”

“Something about the way she takes off her clothes for guys and gets high.”

“That’s not who she is!”

“But it’s what she does. What else defines a person?”

“That’s not all there is to her,” I said. “She’s—”

“Broken.”

I scowled at my sister. “What?”

“Ty, listen, there’s doing dumb things in high school because it’s high school,” Gabby said. “Drink, smoke, ditch, whatever. But there’s something else going on with this girl, and whatever it is, you don’t want any part of it. Trust me.” She opened her door and put one foot outside. “You got a
great girl in Sydney. This Becky chick is bad news, I promise you. I mean, crushes can be kind of fun, but don’t let it mess up the good stuff you’ve got.”

“But I can’t stop thinking about her,” I said.

“So write a story about it,” Gabby said. “Use it for inspiration.” She reached out and shoved my shoulder. “I got homework to do. Lock it up before you come in.”

She got out and closed the door. I watched her go inside, then sat alone in the passenger seat of the Honda for a while.

Write a story about it? Yeah, did that. But I figured another couldn’t hurt. So I went in and got to work.

With my job as lighting operator over, I swore off any more drama club meetings, despite a few techies and actors stopping me in the hall or talking to me in classes we shared. They were nice and all, but nothing could scrape the image of Becky and Matthew from my head, or of Becky poolside at the cast party.

These elements did not make it into the story I wrote over that weekend. If anything, my character Becky grew more perfect.

But I avoided the real thing at school.

I spent more time with Sydney than I had during the weeks of rehearsals, and Sydney asked no questions. She seemed happy I wanted to hang out with her more often. Before too long, we’d be hitting the one-year mark. A whole year. I don’t know how she put up with me. Or why. I guess Gabby was right—I was lucky to have her.

I returned to writing short stories, mostly melodramatic
crap and some horror stuff. I went to a How to Get Published seminar at an indie bookstore and started sending out short-story manuscripts to as many magazines and websites as I could—horror stories and one particular version of my many Becky stories. I’d finally settled on what I thought was the best version of it, and I only sent it out in hopes of killing off my desire for her. Kind of like throwing out photos of an ex-girlfriend.

I sent it to about a dozen different magazines in the week following the cast party. The magazines that bothered to respond at all weren’t interested.

Yet.

“It’s no big deal,” I say to Becky. “It’s a short story for this magazine called … 
Blood Tales
.”

“Blood Tales?”
Becky repeats, and I’m pleased to hear her voice clearing up. “That’s graphic. What’s the story?”

“Uh … buncha guys turn into werewolves and eat a girl alive. Basically.”

Becky gives me an appreciative laugh. “Awesome. Are they paying you?”

“Eh, a few bucks.”

Blood Tales
is paying me fifty dollars, to be exact, but I don’t want to say it. On one hand, fifty bucks isn’t going to pay the rent, as my dad would say. On the other hand, it was the first story I’d sold, and fifty was better than nothing; it was fifty more than most aspiring writers make. I’m
thrilled, to be honest. I just don’t feel like broadcasting it. Most people don’t understand how hard it is to sell a story. I’ve got a stack of rejection letters to prove it. Sydney, Robby, and Justin know, but only because I explained it.

Also, there’s one more thing I don’t want to tell Becky.
Can’t
tell her, not yet.

It’s the first time I’ve ever lied to her.

I did get a story in
Blood Tales
, and it was about werewolves, and it did pay fifty bucks, which I am still waiting to get in the mail. But that’s not why we’re out here tonight.

It’s not why
I’m
out here tonight.

I’m out here tonight to celebrate another story altogether. In another magazine. The very one my mom gave to Sydney earlier this fine evening.

Maybe you’ve heard the story. It’s about this guy who has fallen hard for a girl he can’t have? Yeah, that one.

Two copies of the magazine where the story appears arrived this afternoon in my mailbox—my only form of payment. “Contributor’s copies,” they call it. Which means I won’t get paid cash, but the magazine—
The Literary Quarterly Review
—has more readers than
Blood Tales
. It’s a nice credit to have. It’s a well-respected magazine, and to have been accepted at my age is rare, I’m pretty sure. Probably won’t hurt my college applications, either.

My copy of the magazine is in my car right now. Under the driver’s seat. I have plans for it. The other copy
had been
in Mom’s hands.
Until
.

No way in hell am I going to let anyone else read it,
though. While there’s nothing libelous in the story—I did a lot of research on libel before I submitted it—anyone who knows me even remotely will put the pieces together before the end of the first paragraph. Kind of like Sydney did.

“Still,” Becky goes on. “A few bucks is a few bucks. That’s what you always wanted. I’m proud of you.”

I get a strange lump in my throat when she says it. “Thanks. So listen …”

Headlights sweep across me as a car pulls into the parking lot. A little white Sentra.

Sydney’s
little white Sentra.

“… Um … can I call you back?” I say.

“If you want,” Becky says. “No big.”

“Cool. Give me fifteen minutes. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, Mustardseed … you gonna be okay?”

“Aren’t I always, Sparky?”

She hangs up.

I do not like the way she said that. Defeated.

Sydney parks her car next to mine and fast-steps toward me. I put my phone in my pocket.

“Hey,” I say when she gets to me.

“Thank god,” Syd says, and gives me a quick hug. My arms automatically hug her back, even though I’m shocked at her attitude. I was expecting a knife in the eye, or worse.

“I thought maybe you were already out there on the street somewhere,” Syd says.

“I’m not hammered,” I tell her.

“No … I guess not,” Sydney says. She tilts her head, looking over my shoulder at the picnic table. The guys call out to her, but it doesn’t sound like they’re headed our way.

“So what’s all the drama with your little manic pixie dream girl?” Sydney says, sitting beside me on the wall.

“My what?”

Sydney reaches into her back pocket and brandishes Mom’s copy of
LQR
. I fight the urge to scream and yank it from her hand. I don’t want creases in it.

Syd waves the folded magazine in my face. “Manic pixie dream girl,” she says. She uses her Masque & Gavel–approved jazz hands for emphasis. “The adorably eccentric sweetheart who dazzles a broody male lead?”

“I have no idea what you’re even saying.”

“Yeah, you do.” Syd crosses her legs and flips the magazine open, right to my story. “Rebecca Webb,” she says. “You were talking to her earlier. What’s going on?”

Damn. “I don’t
know
what’s going on.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Not my problem.”

She closes the magazine and holds it in one hand. “You’re being a real ass tonight, Tyler.”

As usual, she doesn’t sound angry or whiny or bitchy when she says this. It’s just a statement of fact.

Maybe Syd’s right—I
know
she’s right—because all I can think about is how I can get her the hell out of here so I can call Becky back.

And maybe it’s the last bubbles of alcohol talking, but it
hits me that sometimes, there’s just no time like the present to get something over with.

“Syd … why are you out here?”

She bumps her shoulder into mine. “Because I was worried you were drinking and driving. I went to two other parks before I found you.”

“No, no, I mean … why … why bother?”

“I just said I was worried about you.”

The oblique approach is clearly not working. I try to come up with exactly the right words to do this. I gaze out across the parking lot because I can’t look her in the eye when I say what’s coming next.

“I’m in love with Becky Webb.”

I sense Sydney staring at me.

Then she bursts out laughing.

“All right, my academicians,” Ms. Hochhalter said on the
Friday one week after
Mockingbird
closed. “One quick
announcement, and then we’re into
Fahrenheit 451
. Mrs.
Goldie in the drama department announced yesterday
she’s looking for original one-act plays to produce for the spring show.”

I sat up straight. Sydney cast me a
Did you hear that?
glance.

“So if anyone has any interest in submitting a play, come see me after the bell and I’ll give you the list of requirements.
Get it, got it, good. Now,
Fahrenheit
. Do any of you malefactors even know who Ray Bradbury is?”

I didn’t hear a single word anyone said the rest of class, although I was a fan of Bradbury. I still hadn’t written more than a few pages of some dumb plays, and that was a long time ago, back when Syd had first brought up the idea. But I figured I could still whip something up. After class, I was the only person who took a copy of the submission requirements from Ms. Hochhalter, photocopied on a sheet of pink paper.

“Ah, I wondered if you’d be interested, Tyler,” she said when I asked for the sheet. She handed it to me and smiled. “I’d love to read anything you come up with.”

“I’m not a hundred percent sure I can,” I told her, scanning the sheet.

“He will,” Syd said from the doorway, where she was waiting for her post-English-class kiss.

Still looking at the sheet, I went over to Sydney. She fell into step beside me as we went to our next classes.

“Hang out tonight?” she asked.

“Uh … homework,” I said.

“Tyler, why not just say, ‘No, Sydney, I’m going to be writing a play.’ It would really save time and effort.”

I finally looked up, and grinned. “Sorry,” I said. “Yeah, that’s probably what I’ll be doing.”

“That’s cool. Good luck with it.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Sure I am,” Sydney said, acting offended. “But I can’t complain too much since the whole playwriting thing was kind of my idea in the first place.”

“True.”

We reached her biology class. Syd leaned in and kissed me. “Call me, though,” she said. “Just for a bit, okay?”

“Totally. What’re you going to be up to?”

“I don’t know. Probably call Michelle and Staci, see if they’re up for something.”

“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.