Drama Queers! (15 page)

Jesus!

For the next week, I do everything in my power
not
to so much as look at Richie, let alone talk to him. If it’s not Bob Cratchit interacting with Ebenezer Scrooge, I want nothing to do with the boy.

Even if we’re taking a break between scenes and he says something like, “Nice sweater…It totally matches your eyes,” all I do is accept his compliment, but pay him none in return. No matter how hot his ass looks in his new Girbaud jeans!

It doesn’t take long for The Sophomore to get the hint that I’m a little peeved.

“Are you pissed at me?”

The day before Thanksgiving Break is about to begin, he corners me backstage by The Cage. There’s literally this caged-in area stage left with this totally ancient light board with all sorts of switches and giant levers, like something outta
Young Frankenstein
. Every time I’m back there I just wanna scream,
“It’s alive!”

“Not at all,” I lie, avoiding Richie’s piercing blue gaze. “I’m just wiped.”

We spent the last hour working on the final “God bless us, every one!” scene, and having the entire cast up on stage at the same time can be totally chaotic.

“Well, that’s good to know…”

“What?” I ask, suspecting something’s up.

“Oh, nothing…”

“What?” I repeat. “Tell me.”

The Sophomore flashes me a devilishly dimpled grin. “Audrey invited me to come with you guys to the parade,” he confesses. “I wanna make sure you don’t mind.”

Audrey what?

A few weeks ago, Audrey and Rob, Ava and Don, and Carrie and Curt decided they wanna go downtown to see the Hudson’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Of course, I felt a tad envious. My dad used to take me and my sisters all the time when we were little, and I haven’t been since like 1982.

“You can totally come with,” Aud assured me.

Despite Ava and Carrie both saying they’re just friends with Don Olsewski and Curt Chaplin, I’m not stupid. The whole thing sounded like a triple date to me and I wasn’t about to crash.

I politely thanked her for the invite. “I am
not
gonna be your seventh wheel.”

She was like, “So bring somebody.”

And I was like, “Somebody who?”

“I don’t know…There’s gotta be
somebody
you like!”

Right off, I noticed Audrey didn’t say,
some
girl
you like
.

This was fine.

Like I said, my plan is to eventually tell her about me. If she figures it out first and I don’t have to say anything, I’m not gonna complain. But who the hell was I gonna bring to the parade as my so-called date?

Looks like Audrey went and decided for me.

“Thanks a lot!”

On the way out to my car after rehearsal Wednesday evening, I’m totally pissed.

“It’s for your own good,” she insists, sounding more like my mother than one of my Best Friends.

Digging thru my pocket for my keys, I pray my piece-of-shit car will start in this cold. It’s not even 6:00 PM and it’s already totally dark outside. Did I mention how much I hate it whenever we
fall back
in the fall?

Audrey shivers audibly. “Just hurry up and open the goddamn door!”

I do as ordered, and we crawl inside.

I jam the key in the dashboard ignition. Thankfully the engine turns over.

“Oh, my God…I love this song!”

I turn on the radio, hearing one of my new favorite tunes: “Cow Cow Boogie” by The Judds.

Audrey gives me a look like I’m outta my mind. “Since when do you like Country?”

“Since my mom’s from Alabama,” I answer, cranking it and singing along.
“Comma ti yi yi yeah…”

Ever since me and my sisters were little, Mom’s always listened to WCXI and W4. Tammy Wynette, Dolly Parton, June Carter Cash. These are the songstresses we were reared on. Sure, I love Cyndi Lauper, but nobody sings a better story than Loretta Lynn. I can’t even remember how many times I seen
Coal Miner’s Daughter
.

Audrey reaches across the dash, lowering the volume. “How about some heat, for chris’sakes?”

“It’s broke,” I apologize. What can you expect when your car’s two years
older
than you are?

Audrey pulls her hood up over her head in a huff. “Your scenes are only gonna suffer.”

“Comma ti yippity yi yeah…”
I continue crooning. “What scenes?”

“Would you focus here?” she demands. “Your Scrooge/Cratchit scenes!”

The one good thing about staying at school late for rehearsal is
not
having to deal with traffic in the back parking lot. Pedal to the metal, I pull out onto Felker in a squeal of steel-belted rubber.

“They are
not
gonna suffer.”

Audrey rolls her eyes. “If you keep on hating The Sophomore, they will.”

I say, “Bob Cratchit hates Scrooge,” staring out my driver’s side window. No smokers out on Skid Row at this hour.

This reminds me…I lean forward to push in the lighter.

“He does not,” Audrey insists, again sounding just like my mom.

Whatever…

The second I’m about to light my cig, the B-I-T-C-H snatches it from between my lips.

“Listen to me, Dayton…I’m in this goddamn play, too, you know? I’m not about to let it turn into a piece of shit,” she hisses, “just because you got a bug up your ass!”

I totally scoff at what I’m hearing. “I don’t have any bug up my ass…”

Do I?

Thanksgiving Day morning…

First of all, it’s fucking fuh-reezing.

Thirty-two degrees and a light snow.

Time to break out the long johns!

One thing I don’t remember from when we were little is getting up at the butt crack of dawn just to find a place to watch the parade. It doesn’t even start till 10:00 AM, but by the time we get downtown around 8:30 AM, there’s already a ton of people lined up along Woodward eagerly anticipating Santa’s arrival.

“Coffee,” I mutter thru clenched teeth. “Must…have…”

“You wanna go and get some?” asks Richie, the only one who seems to care about my frostbit fingertips.

“Nah.”

I’d hate to lose our perfect spot in front of the DIA or risk having Richie think I’m not still pissed at him…Because I am.

“Now what?” The Sophomore asks after about all of a second of standing around.

Time for a smoke!

“We wait,” answers Ava, still half asleep.

Struggling to fish out a fresh cigarette, I take note that for the first time, Ava is actually
not
twirling her hair. Instead, she’s got her hands buried deep in the pockets of her Viking Marching Band Varsity jacket, complete with
Drum Major
embroidered across the back.

Carrie asks Richie, “Haven’t you ever been to the Thanksgiving Day parade before?”

I’m just about to rip off my gloves when Richie palms my pack of Marlboro Lights.

“Smoking kills, you know?”

I know. “But it sure tastes good…”

Giving up, he extracts a cig, slips it between my lips, and flicks my Bic.

Ahhh…Nothing like your third cigarette of the day at only 9:00 AM!

Richie winces, batting his baby blues. “I could never kiss a smoker.”

I’ll keep that in mind.

“Hey, can I bum one of them?” asks Don Olsewski, helping himself to my stash.

Audrey chimes in, “Me too, me too.”

I’m like, “Get your own, people!”

As they take turns blazing up, Richie wonders, “Does
everybody
smoke?”

For the first time in a while, I can’t help but notice he sounds a little faggy…But he’s still cute as fuck!

“Not me,” Carrie answers, disgusted. “Smoking is g-ross!” She gives Curt a glance that says,
Don’t even
think
about starting!

Ava says, “We’re in Band,” in case we all forgot. “We can’t afford to go polluting our lungs.” She looks at Don.

He grins, taking a good long drag. “That’s why I play drums.”

“I’m a Flaggot,” Audrey reminds us. “My lungs got nothing to do with twirling.”

By the time the festivities kick off, I can barely feel my feet. I knew I should’ve worn my snow boots! Instead, here I am looking all stylish in my brown faux-leather deck shoes sans socks.

“Brrr!” I tremble. “Fucking Michigan weather.”

“Body heat,” I hear somebody mutter.

When I look over, Audrey and Rob, Ava and Don, and Carrie and Curt are all paired off in couples, huddled together keeping each other toasty. Meanwhile, me and Richie stand shivering like that girl Karen from
Frosty the Snowman
before they finally find that greenhouse…’member? Karen’s sneezing her head off, so Frosty takes her inside to get warmed up, but then that mean old “messy, messy, messy” magician, Professor Hinkle, comes along, closes the door, trapping them in. Leaving poor Frosty to piddle away into a puddle. Until Santa shows up on his sleigh all “ho, ho, ho” and saves the day.

Finally, I’m like,
Fuck it!
Next thing I know, me and The Sophomore are clinging to each other like Saran Wrap on leftovers…He smells fucking delicious!

“What are you wearing?” I ask, attempting to sound oh-so nonchalant.

“Cologne,” he states, staring straight ahead as the NBD float floats by. “Drakkar Noir…Does it stink?”

“On the contrary,” I disagree, blushing.

Richie gives me a look like I’m outta my mind. “Who the fuck says ‘contrary’?”

Oh, my God…He’s totally flirting with me!

Well, I am
not
gonna fall for it.

Like I said, I hate Richie Tyler.

Don’t I?

If that’s the case, why do I find myself writing him the following note the following evening?

Before I can change my mind, I get in my car and drive the almost two miles over to the Tyler’s house on Brickley, two blocks south of 10 Mile and two blocks over from where the Paternos live on Shevlin. Only on the opposite side of John R.

What the hell am I doing?

When I see Burgers & Kreme on the corner, I almost do a U-y right in the middle of the two-lane road.

It’s only a fucking letter, Bradley.

I write them to my friends all the time. No biggie!

Except if that’s how I
really
feel, why do I start freaking out the second I slip the sealed envelope inside the Tyler’s mailbox?