My Invented Life (10 page)

Eva’s reply:
“I hsten frthwth 2 yor side.”

So she didn’t see me kiss Bryan. I still have the high moral ground in our little war, and I plan to press my advantage. When she arrives and settles in next to me with her decaf chai, I stare her down without saying a word. This technique encourages confession according to several psychology Web sites. Ten minutes from now, she’ll be prostrate on the floor apologizing for poisoning me at rehearsal.

“Don’t be like that,” she says. “You’re not usually wimpy about a little spice.”

“So you admit it,” I say. “Did Carmen put you up to it?”

“Just give me the L Report,” she whispers. “And quietly.”

The café is deserted except for a middle-aged man with a comb-over and the barista, whose bored expression says that she could care less whether we’re discussing the life cycle of ferns or the Kama Sutra. Besides, no one even knows what the
L
stands for except us. I’m about to shout “Lesbian Report” when I notice Eva sitting on the edge of her seat folding and unfolding her napkin. I lower my sword. What’s done is done. Translation? I suffer from adoration-induced amnesia. Chili peppers, what chili peppers?

“What do you want to know?” I say quietly.

“Anything. What happened at school today.”

“Okay,” I say. “When I came into the locker room, Jada had her top off. You know that uptight girl on student
council? My locker happens to be close to hers. When I walked past, she covered her chest with her T-shirt.”

“Details,” Eva says. She rests her hand on my arm. It feels good, like when Mom used to drape a sheet over the kitchen table and we would crawl under pretending to be prairie dog sisters in the dim light.

I ham it up. “Her eyes got all huge. She acted like I might grab her breasts and ravish her.
Boil-brained simp
.”

Eva’s look says sympathy and disgust, with a little fascination sprinkled on top.

“I mean, her chest is as flat as a soccer field,” I add.

“So what’d you do?”

“I told her the truth. Her boobs were nothing to look at. I’ve seen mosquito bites bigger.”

Eva laughs so hard that she chokes on her chai. “You’re a riot.”

Actually, this whole incident barely happened, and I didn’t say anything at all to Jada. But what’s a little vacation from reality if I can make Eva laugh?

“There’s more,” I say. “Jonathan’s one of us.”

“You mean . . . ?” she asks in a breathy voice, one hand fluttering over her heart. “A long-lost Peterson? I always wanted a brother.”

“No,” I say, but I’m laughing too. “He’s gay.”

“He told you that?”

“Pretty much. And he took down the boxer shorts over the Barn for me.” I skip the part about the bonfire.

“Cool.” She brings her creased napkin to her lips.

The door opens, and I look up. Eyeliner Andie and Nico enter holding hands.

Eva stands. “Well, I’m off,” she says. She and Andie nod at each other as they pass.

Andie sits down next to me. “Why did you leave rehearsal early?” she asks.

Nico stops hovering, sits down too, and picks at an unidentifiable glob on the table with his nail. “Because of my sorry acting,” he says. With the mousse still in his hair, I can see his eyes up close for once. His eyelids droop downward in an attractive curve.

“Your acting is fine,” I say. No point in lowering his morale now that he’s been cast as Silvius. The minute the playbill is posted, we theater geeks become a team.

He laughs through his nose and makes eye contact with the table. What an unlikely couple they are. Eyeliner Andie lights up the room like a neon sign when she talks, while Nico flickers on and off—her fifteen-watt sidekick. Her nails are painted denim blue with gold zippers down the center. Obviously my problem is boring nail polish.

“Did you know that Nico’s from Mexico?” Andie asks.

“You don’t have an accent.”

“I don’t believe in accents,” he says in an Antonio Banderas accent. “Besides, I moved here before I could talk.” He tells this to the sugar dispenser.

“His mom is Mayan,” Andie says. She sounds like a used car salesman selling her used boyfriend. Notice the antilock brakes and rear suspension. Maybe she read my mind, heard my unkind thoughts about him. My knee jostles my tote and tips it over. The famous lesbian novel,
Annie on My Mind
, falls out. I had wedged it in at the top of my bag to pique Eva’s curiosity.

Eyeliner Andie picks it up off the floor. “Do you like it?” she asks.

“It’s good. A little old-fashioned.”

“Classics are fine, but I’ve got something more current.” She opens her green poodle purse with buttons all over it and takes out a book called
Boy Meets Boy
. “Way cool. And funny too.” Her lovely Egyptian eyes bore into me. “There’s a lot more where that came from. My bedroom’s practically a library. You should check it out sometime.”

She’s coming on to me. In a single, graceless motion, I knock my coffee onto the floor with my forearm. The barista gives me a look that says “They don’t pay me enough to mop up after a clumsy ditz like you.”

“I don’t believe in coffee.” I throw a pile of brown napkins on the puddle.

Nico collects the soggy heap to deposit into the trash. While he’s across the room, Andie whispers into my ear. “Can you give Nico pointers on acting when you come over?”

Oh. She didn’t want to compromise my virginity. She wanted acting lessons for Nico.

“Why wait?” I say. Nico comes back to the table. “We are going to do a little acting practice.”

“Good idea.” He looks at me at last. His irises are chocolaty brown.

“Let’s start with body language. I’ll act Carmen. Since I can’t do that hair-nibbling thing, I’ll do her posture.” I stand up. “Ever notice how she throws back her shoulders?” I thrust out my chest and strut like a Flamenco dancer.

“That’s so totally her!” Andie says.

I sultrify my voice. “Oh, Nico, you said your lines so beautifully.”

Nico flushes. Pink looks good on his dark cheeks.

“Why don’t you say your first lines as Silvius? Be Silvius in love with Carmen, the shepherdess who won’t give you the time of day.”

He drones dutifully, “Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe! Say that you love me not, but say not so in bitterness. The common executioner, whose heart—”

I cut him off. “You sound like a corpse.”

“I’m not into Carmen,” he snaps.

“Despite what the tabloids say, actors who perform love scenes together aren’t usually in love with each other. Imagine you’re wooing Andie instead.”

Nico looks at his watch. “I have to go. I told someone . . . I promised my . . . Later.” He launches himself out of the Silo without turning back. Eyeliner Andie chases after him.

“Is it something I said?” I yell.

“I’ll call you tonight,” she says before dashing out.

While scooting home in the twilight, I obsess over the details of my afternoon with the mysterious Andie, from the color of her lip liner to how she looked at me when I talked to her. I could write a different book—
Andie on My Mind
.

When I get home, everyone is already seated at the dinner table. Eva gives me the evil eye. What now? Did she call Jada to verify my locker-room story?

Dad brings out his signature dish—split pea soup. I ladle myself a bowlful, discarding the chunks of former pig butt that float to the top. I don’t bother being discreet about this. Elmo’s mini freak-out over my hypothetical
lesbianhood has made me a touch peevish toward him. I don’t like the way he’s been looking at me lately, either.

“Sorry. I forgot,” he says to me.

“That’s okay. I’ll feed the ham bits to Marshmallow,” I say.

“How did rehearsal go?” Mom asks Eva.

“Fine. The usual,” she says.

If the parents knew one tenth of what goes on beneath the surface of our lives, they’d be riveted. We’re quality programming. Time to turn up the heat on our lukewarm dinner conversation.

“Not fine,” I say. “I couldn’t talk after Eva tricked me into eating a red-hot chili pepper.”

This gets Mom’s attention. “That doesn’t sound like Eva.”

“I told you it was an accident,” Eva says. There are daggers in her smile pointed at my heart. Translation? Two can play the Shock the Parents game. I brace myself. “Carmen called . . . .”

Uh-oh. This has to be about my
SAVE THE GAYS
! bumper sticker. But I’m not the kind of girl who lets herself be done to death by a slanderous tongue without a fight.

“Carmen called? I thought you weren’t talking,” I say.

My ploy works. Gethsemane switches to her patented overreaction mode. “You still aren’t talking?” she asks.

“It’s only been a few days, Mom,” Eva says. “Something must be going on at home because she quit cheerleading.”

“Did she tell you why?” Mom asks.

“No.” Eva frowns. She tosses out the next words like a fast series of needle-sharp darts. “She told me she saw Roz with Bryan at rehearsal.”

I’m in trouble in so many ways I can’t keep track. I turn
to Dad to change the subject. “Did Janis take a vacation?” I ask him.

“Janis?”

I point to his plain green T-shirt. “Janis Joplin. Isn’t that her shirt?” My desperate joke generates zero laughter and provides only the briefest of diversions.

“She saw you kiss him,” Eva says.

“Did not!”

“No catfights at the dinner table. They spoil my appetite,” Dad says.

“Roz, did you?” Mom says.

“I’ve never chased after Eva’s boyfriends.”

“Except John and Marcus,” Eva says.

Dad takes his bowl into the kitchen.

“Those were
ex
-boyfriends. Anyway, Carmen’s full of cra—crabmeat.” I’m lying, of course, but only a little, since I regretted kissing Bryan afterward. “Carmen’s after him herself. She stuffed a Frisbee up his shirt at lunch.”

Mom looks bewildered. She couldn’t be more confused than if a new scientific study proved that broccoli causes cancer. Eva stares at me in disbelief, and then laughs so hard, soup sprays from her mouth.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“Carmen absolutely detests Bryan.”

“What?” Open your eyes, sister.

I finish my soup while Eva persists in her delusions. “When I got together with Bryan,” she says, “Carmen didn’t talk to me for two weeks.”

“It was hard for her because she didn’t have a boyfriend,” Mom says.

“Or maybe she wanted Bryan for herself,” I say.
Mom kicks me under the table.

After dinner Eva readies herself for miniature golf while I clean up the kitchen, my punishment for refusing to go. I run water into the empty soup pot. I do remember Carmen icing out Bryan when he linked up with Eva. New boyfriends have a way of dominating a girl’s time, a thing a best friend can resent. The front door closes. I leave the pot to soak overnight and go online. Andie is connected. Here’s my chance to ask her directly if she’s crushing on me.

Me: want 2 play mini golf 2nite?

Andie: only if i can kill myself 1st *checks drano supply*

Me: never mind

Me: what happened at the silo 2day?

Andie: a lot

Me: do u like nico?

Andie: like or like like?

Me: like like

Andie: hmmm

Me: does he like like u?

Andie: maybe

This is going nowhere.

Me: there’s a rumor that u r a lesbian

Andie: lesbian schlesbian i hate labels *gnashes teeth*

Andie: i fall in love with who i fall in love with

Me: so u r bisexual?

Andie:

Me: so u like girls sometimes, I mean

Andie: doesn’t every1?

Me: i mean like like

Andie: who do u like like?

Me: i dunno

Andie: rehearse with me at Nico’s 2moro? I’ll get u at 10

Me: ok

Andie: ttyl

I’m a chicken. A confused chicken. The conversation leaves me wondering about labels, though, and why Andie hates them so much. After all, labels help you figure out how to behave. Like, say you’re on a date with a brainy dude. You’re more likely to impress him if you mention an article from
Wired
than one from
Cosmo
. Or if you’re a girl attracted to girls—aka a lesbian—you don’t waste your time and heart crushing on a straight girl. Then again, I don’t like being labeled as Eva’s big-boned, less-talented little sister.

I log on to a gay teen Web site to learn more about
categories and chase down a link to Alfred Kinsey, a sexologist in the 1950s. Yes, they had sex back then, despite the goofy clothes. He’s dead now, but in his warm-blooded days he researched sexuality. He wrote that sexual orientation is a continuum. He even created a scale for people to rate themselves: 0 = exclusively heterosexual, 1–5 = the gray area in between, 6 = exclusively homosexual. Who knew there was such a big gray area?

I know I’m not a 6, but who says I couldn’t be a 1?

A
fter a night of patchy sleep
, my eyelids feel as squishy as overripe apricots. I should ease up on the late-night self-questioning. Though I’ve already lost four pounds on my new diet, hauling my body out of bed reminds me of wrestling bags of compost from the pickup last spring for Mom’s garden. Eyeliner Andie will be here in an hour.