The Right and the Real (3 page)

“My parents told me the Teacher got your dad to sign a monthly pledge to the church,” Josh said.

“Are you serious?” I asked. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

He shifted his weight and wouldn’t meet my eye. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“We’re talking about my life here, Josh. You should’ve told me.”

“I know.…”

Krista’s headlights swung across the entrance to the church, lighting up Josh’s face, making him look ghostly. His hand shot out, and he yanked me to him, kissing me so hard he bruised my lips against his teeth. Then he shoved me away.

“Jamie,” he said, “forgive me.”

“For what?” I asked. But he’d already slipped back inside the church.

I ALMOST RAN AFTER JOSH, BUT KRISTA BEEPED
the horn. “Get in,” she shouted over the music. “I just got it warm in here.”

Once inside, I held my frozen hands up to the heater. Grandpa had left the Beast to me last year when he’d died, but I drove only when I had to. I know teens are supposed to be all excited about having their own car, but I wasn’t at all. The Beast was so huge, it reminded me of the time I rode on a giant tractor on a school field trip to a farm. When I drove, I was afraid I’d crush some pedestrian or flatten a cyclist as I lumbered along. New York City rocked because I could walk or take the subway everywhere, and I could hardly wait until Krista and I moved there next year for school.

Krista loved everything about my SUV, though, from its all-leather interior to the custom floor mats and fantastic sound system. When I asked Dad if she could drive it, he said he didn’t mind as long as she didn’t get a ticket. She’d been hauling us around ever since. The Beast was almost more hers than mine.

“Wow,” I said, checking out Krista’s clothes. Sometimes it was hard to believe I used to dress just as crazy as she did.

“You like?” she asked.

We’d stopped at a light, and she turned so I could get a better look at her getup. She’d obviously been sewing, because she’d pulled her long hot-pink hair into a high ponytail to keep it out of her way.

“For you,” I said, “it’s way cool. For me, not so much anymore.”

She laughed. She’d taken my new “generic look,” as she called it, in stride. Her wardrobe changed pretty fast because she could sew so well. She was always ripping out seams and putting things back together into new outfits. Tonight she had on what looked like a paper bag made of metallic purple material, long-underwear bottoms, combat boots, and lace fingerless gloves.

“I call it Boy George meets Prince,” she said, stomping on the gas when the light changed.

Before Krista’s obsession with eighties glam fashion, she’d been totally into the seventies, and I’d pretty much gone along with whatever she wanted to do. But way back in freshman year, we’d both dressed in vintage nineteen-forties. I kind of missed the seamed stockings and elegant fitted dresses, but as a future designer, she had to keep mixing up her look.

“The only problem,” she said, “is I can’t get it off without help because the sleeves are straight-pinned on. I’ll end up stabbing myself.”

I laughed in spite of the sinking feeling in my gut. I planned to tell Krista everything when we got to her house, but I didn’t like to distract her when she was driving. Especially if she had straight pins sticking out of her clothes.

What a crazy night. I wondered what Josh meant,
forgive me
.…

“How come you’re done so early?” Krista said. She bobbed her head in time to a rap song. “Boring reception?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“Should we get ice cream?” she asked.

I looked down at my bridesmaid dress. “We’re not exactly dressed to go out,” I said.

She laughed. “Maybe you’re not, but I look good.” She was right, of course. She could pull anything off. Most people thought she was really cool, not weird at all. “Drive-through coffee?” she suggested instead.

“Can we just go back to your house?”

She turned the stereo down. “Are you okay?”

“Not really. But I want to change into my pajamas and get warm. Then I’ll tell you, okay?”

“Deal.”

Krista’s bedroom looked like a working design studio. She had a sewing machine in one corner, a drafting table by the window, and an ironing board attached to the wall. In her closet, her clothes were hung by color and her shoes sat lined up neatly on racks.

The twin beds sported hot-pink and purple comforters with a ton of throw pillows she had made herself with bargain fabrics. She also had two matching beanbags with a fuzzy rug and a TV in one corner. Instead of books, her shelves were stuffed with beauty magazines. Krista practically ran the costume shop at the theater, but what she really wanted to do after high school was study fashion at Beaumont Design in New York.

After changing into pajamas and covering my lap with a plush blanket because I couldn’t seem to shake the chills, we sat down to talk about my evening. I held Krista’s hand and painted her fingernails a sparkly silver. Focusing on my task gave me distance from everything as we hashed over the details again and again. Krista’s one
of those eternally optimistic people, and usually she can talk me out of my low moods, so I was counting on her tonight.

“The idea the Teacher thinks he’s Christ resurrected is so unbelievably creepy,” she said.

“I know. The whole place is just freaky.”

“That’s what you get for dating a boy outside the theater department,” she said lightly.

I knew she was only half kidding, though. She’d never thought much of Josh because he thought she was weird. After I finished her nails, I sat on her bed trying not to think while she sent texts to her fashionista friends in New York. I picked at the last piece of pizza, but couldn’t force myself to eat any of it. The time on my cell changed from 11:16 to 11:17. Every time I slept over at Krista’s, my dad called to check in. Tonight my phone sat ominously silent. When it changed to eighteen after, I kind of lost it. I wrinkled up my face, squinting my eyes, in this weird way I do when I’m trying not to cry, but it didn’t help.

Krista abandoned her texting. “It’ll be okay,” she said, wrapping her arms around me while trying to keep her still-tacky fingernails clear of contact. “You’ll see. By the time they get back from the beach, he’ll be all relaxed and happy, and everything will be fine.”

“But he didn’t call,” I said. “It’s like he’s totally abandoned me for Mira.”

“I don’t want to gross you out or anything,” Krista said, “but it
is
his wedding night. He’s probably kind of busy.”

“Oh, yuck. Yuck! Don’t say that!” I couldn’t help it, I laughed. And then I shoved her off the bed. “Gross! Why did you have to remind me?” I demanded.

She grabbed her laptop. “Come on,” she said, “let’s look for apartments on Craigslist. That’ll cheer you up.”

We wouldn’t need a place in New York for another eight months, but checking out the listings was one of our favorite pastimes. It made our future real somehow.

“Yeah, okay,” I said. “Start with the luxury ones. They’re more fun.”

We spent the next day vegging in front of reruns of
America’s Next Top Model
. Krista critiqued the clothes from head to toe, and I mostly zoned out. I think I might have dozed a bit. I wanted to call Josh, but he’s not allowed to use his phone on Sundays. He can’t watch TV or IM on the computer, either. It was an R&R rule, and his parents held him to it.

“What do you think he meant by ‘forgive me’?” I asked Krista during a commercial.

“The same thing I thought the last fifty-seven times you asked me,” she said. She grabbed a bag of chips out of my lap. “He thought he upset you by saying the church wanted to keep your dad in their clutches.”

I sighed. “Yeah…you’re probably right.”

“I’m always right,” she said, grinning at me. She hit the volume on the remote, and we both sang along with the latest Gap commercial. She covered the melody, and as usual, I did some awesome harmony.

By the time we finished the homework we’d ignored all day, it was almost midnight. I’d left Dad three messages, all light and cheerful, telling him I’d see him after school on Monday, but he never called back. I wasn’t too worried about it anymore, though. Krista had convinced me it would all blow over.

We made our usual stop at the bathroom by the theater wing, and while Krista checked out her makeup, Liz glided gracefully into the vicinity like the dancer she is.

“Sucks to be you,” she said, wrapping her arms around me and giving me a squeeze. Her chestnut hair was in its usual sleek ballerina bun, but a wisp had strayed, and it tickled the side of my face.

“Don’t I know it,” I said.

Liz propped her foot up on the windowsill to stretch. She reminded me of that ballerina in
The Red Shoes
. It was like she couldn’t stop dancing for even a second. She is my second-closest BFF, and after Krista had threatened to drive over to Josh’s house to ask him what he meant by “forgive me,” I’d called Liz to get her two cents.

I’d told her only the minor details of Saturday night, so when she said, “Did Josh really push you?” I knew someone had filled her in with a bit more info. I glared at Krista, who was reapplying liquid eyeliner so thick I thought maybe her eyelids would get glued together. What she needed were her lips sealed. Sometimes I hate that my best friends are into theater. Everything has to be a soap opera with them.

“He didn’t
push
me,” I said, even though he had. It sounded really bad like that, like abuse. “God, Krista. Inflate the drama much?”

“Oh, please,” she said. “Since when do you keep secrets from your best girls?”

I sighed and headed for the locker I shared with Krista. “It’s not that I’m keeping secrets,” I said when they caught up with me in the hallway. “It just makes him look so bad, and he didn’t mean it. I don’t want the whole school to hear about it.”

“I’m not just anyone,” Liz reminded me. “Besides, who would I tell?”

“Yeah, I know…,” I said. I put my arms around the two of them as we walked. “I’m just feeling blue.”

I looked for Josh on the way to each of my classes, but I didn’t see him in his usual spot by the gym, and when I called him at lunch, I got his voice mail. In spite of the cloud of dread that had followed me around all day because I’d have to talk to my dad after school, a certain amount of excitement pulsed through me too. Today was the first company meeting for
West Side Story
. The dancing and singing numbers are super complicated, so our drama teacher, Mr. Lazby, decided to try something new this year. He’d held auditions for the spring musical right after winter break and formed a company of actors instead of giving us our parts right away.

We’d spend February learning the big dance numbers and the songs as a company, and then in mid-March, we’d find out who we got to play. After that, all the usual intensive rehearsals would start, culminating in May with eight evening performances and four school matinees.

It was going to be tough to win the role of Maria because I’m short, blond, and pale. And Liz, who definitely had her eye on Maria too, was tall, dark, and could easily pass for Puerto Rican. Plus, Maria has a ballet number with Tony, and I knew that was going to be my weak point. But I intended to do everything in my power during these rehearsals to persuade Mr. Lazby to give me the role.

After the last bell, I rushed to my locker, grabbed my stuff, and headed for the theater. The lights were on in the lobby, and the main doors stood open. From inside, I could hear the hum of voices, and I got that little rush I always get when I enter a theater.

The cast milled about for a while, talking noisily, until Emily, the stage manager, came in and let out an earsplitting whistle. “Sit in the orchestra pit,” she yelled.

I found Liz and Krista, and we plopped down on the floor together. Around us, everyone laughed and shoved each other, making a lopsided circle. Just as Mr. Lazby strode across the stage above us, Liz’s little sister, Megan, wedged herself in next to me.

“Megan, don’t you have your own friends?” Liz asked.

“I’m the only freshman who made the cast,” she reminded us. Her face glowed with pride. Freshmen almost never got cast in the musical, but like Liz, Megan had danced her whole life, and she’d kicked ass during the auditions.

“Shhh,” I said. “Mr. Lazby’s waiting.”

He towered over us from the apron of the stage. Imagine John Travolta with a belly, a beard, and a bad attitude about the acting biz, and you had Mr. Lazby. Still, he was a fantastic director, and even though he was known to throw a tantrum without warning, everyone loved him. His sheer bulk seemed to cast a shadow over all of us, and almost instantly it got so quiet, you could hear the proverbial pin drop.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice somehow low and still carrying all the way to the back row. “Emily, please call the roll.”

Things went quickly for a minute or two, but then Emily called out, “Marissa Stephens?” and someone answered, “She had a dentist appointment.”

“What?” Mr. Lazby roared. “Well, if Ms. Stephens doesn’t want to be in
West Side Story
enough to come to the first meeting, then just scratch her off the cast list, Emily.”

Around the room, a few girls who were on backstage committees and didn’t have roles perked up, thinking maybe they’d get Marissa’s spot, but we veterans knew Mr. Lazby was just blowing off steam. If you looked up drama queen on Wikipedia, you’d see his name for the definition.

For the first time all day, the worry I’d been carrying around in the pit of my stomach dissolved. With all my friends around and people laughing and the excitement of the show, I totally forgot about my dad and the R&R. Emily handed out rehearsal schedules, Mr. Lazby talked a bit about the history of the musical, and then we played a few improvisation games to get us on our feet and release some energy.

After rehearsal, I dropped off my friends and headed for home. Twice I had to wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans because they slipped on the steering wheel, and I didn’t think my nervousness had much to do with the traffic. That chill from Saturday night crept through me too.