The Trouble With Flirting (12 page)

Our drama teacher in middle school used to talk about how actors can be generous or selfish onstage. A generous actor doesn’t always call attention to himself, but sets up the other actors to shine too. A selfish one is constantly making you look at him. “You may remember a selfish actor after you see a play, but you won’t remember the play,” he’d say.

Anyway, the point is, Harry is generous as an actor, willingly playing the straight man to my bewildered, angry Antonio. It’s surprising, given his need for attention
off
the stage, but I guess maybe that gets it out of his system. Even with some of the lines cut for time, I get to deliver a pretty long speech, and he doesn’t do anything distracting during it, just listens intently. When I finish, he bursts out with an enthusiastic “fantastic, Franny!” and Marie, who’s supposed to deliver the next line, hisses at him to “stay in character.”

We go through the rest of the scene, and then Charles tells everyone to take a five-minute break and get ready to do Act 1, Scene 5. Then he beckons to me and leads me into the wings.

“I really enjoyed watching you do that,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yeah, you’re good. Did you apply to the program here? You’re the right age, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but I needed to work this summer, and Amelia said
she could use an assistant, so I ended up here for a completely different reason.”

“Got it.” He tilts his head and studies me thoughtfully. “So this is a little unorthodox . . . but I’m thinking, why not? Would you be interested in jumping in and doing a little acting since you’re here anyway? Be our Antonio?”

“I would love that,” I say, and I mean it. My heart does a little happy turnover at the thought. “So much. But I know my aunt’s worried about how much work we have—”

“I’ll talk to her about it,” he says. “The good thing about Antonio is that he’s only in a few scenes. We can work around your schedule and try to take up as little of your time as possible.”

“I still don’t know if she’ll be okay with it.”

“Just tell me honestly whether or not this is something you want to do. If it is, I’ll work it out with Amelia.”

“What about the guy who had the role before?”

“I don’t think he’ll mind,” Charles says. “I had to cut a lot of his lines as the clown because he had too much to do, but I can expand that role if it’s all he’s doing.”

“Then yes,” I say. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”

He holds out his hand and we shake on it.

I race back to the workroom. Amelia looks up and says, “What on earth took you so long? I tried texting you, but then I realized you left your phone here.”

“I had to wait for them to finish a couple of scenes. Charles was busy.”

“You could have just left the fabric samples. They’re not worth losing an hour of work over. So which one did he choose?”

“Um,” I say, because it now occurs to me that the samples are still in Charles’s pocket. “One sec.” I go running back out of the room.

Amelia calls after me, “I don’t know what you’re up to, Franny, but you’d better come back quickly this time!”

Back in the theater, Charles is standing in front of the stage having a conversation with all the cast members, who are sitting in the front few rows facing him. I enter in time to hear Marie say, “But don’t you think it’s too confusing to have a girl playing a guy, when I’m already doing that as part of the show?”

“We’ll make the character
Antonia
, then,” Charles says. “Easy solution.” He waves his hand at me. “Hey, Franny.”

“I just think it’s weird,” Marie says, and then adds, “Oh, she’s here,” like she hadn’t noticed.

“Sorry to bother you,” I say to Charles. “I forgot to get your Malvolio stockings choice.”

“Oh, right.” He pulls the samples back out of his pocket, asks the boy who’s playing Malvolio—Roger—what he thinks, and together they pick out a bright sunshine yellow. I take the fabric and head toward the exit.

Harry reaches up to touch my arm as I walk by his seat. “Welcome to the cast, Franny,” he whispers.

Charles comes to the sewing room a little while later, right before lunch. He tells me to go eat, so he can talk to Amelia alone. “We’ll figure this out,” he tells me. “No worries.”

“Figure what out?” Amelia says, so suspiciously that I’m very happy just to slip away and let Charles handle it.

Julia and Harry clap and cheer when I join them at the table with my tray of food.

“You were so good!” Julia says.

“Yeah, you were great,” Marie says unenthusiastically. “But I just don’t see how Charles can legally cast you. The rest of us had to audition and pay to be here and everything. I mean, we’re getting a lot of instruction, right? That’s the whole point of this. We’re paying to learn. I mean, I want you to join us, Franny, of course—I think you’d be a great addition to the cast and all that. I just don’t think you should get your hopes up that this is definitely going to happen, because it’s really possible someone might complain about how it’s not fair.”

“Let’s hope no one does that,” Harry says, shooting her a dark look.

“Wilson was really unhappy he lost the role,” she says, with a toss of her head. “You can’t really blame him—”

“Are you kidding me?” Julia says. “He told me like two minutes ago that he’s getting way more stuff to do as Feste, which is what he wanted. And it wasn’t like
you
were in our cast originally, either, so I don’t understand why this is so hard for you to accept.”

“I’m fine with it!” Marie snaps. “I must have misunderstood what Wilson was saying.” She turns to me. “I totally want this to work out for you, Franny. Will your aunt be okay with it, though? I mean, you keep saying there’s so much work for you both to do.. . .”

I just shrug and say, “We’ll see,” but I’m wondering what Charles and Amelia are saying to each other and getting more nervous with every second. I can’t stop watching the door. I’m trying to stay cool about it, but the truth is, if she says I can’t do it, I’m going to be crushed. I want to be part of a show—I’ve been on the outside looking in for long enough.

Charles finally enters the dining hall a little while later, gets his food, and sits down at a table with a couple of the other directors, which makes me even more nervous. Not that he said he’d come looking for me . . . but wouldn’t he, if he had good news?

When I’m done eating, I bus my tray and then try to look nonchalant as I walk by his table. He calls out to me.

“We’re all set,” he says.

“Really?” I come closer and scan his face to make sure he’s not joking. “Really?”

He nods, a little wearily. “I’m not going to say the negotiations were easy . . . but we worked it out. I promised I wouldn’t take up too much of your time, so we may have to do some intense rehearsal cramming, but it’s a go, if you’re up for it.”

“So up for it,” I say, and we high-five.

“I promised I’d write out a rehearsal schedule for you and submit it to Amelia for her approval.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Hey, you’re the one doing me a favor here. No worries.”

“Thanks,” I say, and head toward the door. I give a little skip—I get to perform! I get to be in a play with my friends!

I hear my name and look around. Isabella catches up with me. “Do you have a second?” she asks. She smells like cigarette smoke and perfume. She’s wearing short fawn-colored boots with white denim shorts and a striped top. Her hair is put up in that sloppy-chic knot she usually wears, and she has on her elegantly sloping sunglasses. Just once I’d like to see her in a baggy top with sweat stains at the armholes and unflattering pants that make her look hippy. I’d like her better if she weren’t always so perfect.

I
think
I’d like her better anyway. I’ll never know for sure—I doubt she’ll ever not be perfect.

I tell her I have to get back to work, but she’s welcome to walk me over to the theater.

“Perfect, I’m headed there myself.” She falls into step next to me as we walk along the path. “So are you going on this trip Sunday to Portland?”

“What is it?”

“There’s going to be a bus into town,” she says. “With a few different drop-offs so we can go to whatever neighborhood sounds like the most fun to us. Alex and I already
signed up. We don’t want to do anything major, just wander around, do some shopping, eat at a nice restaurant.. . . Some people are going to see a movie in one of the big malls, which sounds like a waste of an exploring opportunity to me, but whatever. Anyway, Harry’s interested in going with us, but he said he doesn’t want to feel like a third wheel all day, so I think you should come too.” She touches my arm lightly. “He’s always asking me about you, you know. You’re his favorite topic these days, like whether I think you’re as nice as you seem and whether I’ve noticed what pretty eyes you have—stuff like that.”

I shake my head wordlessly. I don’t know what’s going on here, but it fits with what Alex was telling me—that Isabella thinks Harry and I could become an item. But it’s not going to happen.

She reads my silence as coyness. “You don’t believe me, do you?” She gives my arm a jovial squeeze. “I should have known. There are girls who think every guy in the world has a crush on them, and then there are girls who can’t believe
any
guy would have a crush on them and miss all the signals.”

I’m pretty sure I’m neither of those types. “Look, Isabella, I know Harry’s a good friend of yours, and he’s a lot of fun. But he’s also . . .” I stop, uncertain how to put it.

“The kind of guy who flirts with anything that moves?” she supplies.

I nod, surprised by her honesty.

“I know, I know.” She rolls her large, expressive eyes.
“Believe me, I know. There’s like this long trail of wreckage behind him at our high school. Girls always think he likes them more than he does, and it gets him in trouble all the time. Just look at Julia and Marie.” She dismisses them with a flick of her long fingers. “Anyway, the point is, you’re right—he’s a total flirt. But that’s just what he’s like on the surface. Deep down, he’s a good guy.”

“I’m sure he is,” I say politely, even though I’m not.

“Anyway, I didn’t mean to turn this into a big deal: there’s no pressure on you if you come with us. I’m not setting you guys up or anything—I just think we’d all have fun as a group.”

“I’d like to go, but I’m kind of scared even to ask Amelia. I’m already cutting into my work time with this rehearsing thing—”

“I’ll talk to her for you,” she says confidently. “I can always get people to do what I want.”

“That must be nice,” I say.

“I may be exaggerating slightly.” We’re almost at the theater. She stops abruptly and turns to me. “Can I ask you something?” I nod, and she says slowly, “This may sound weird, but I’ve noticed that you and Alex . . .” She hesitates, then starts again. “I mean, I know you’ve known Alex and Julia since middle school. Maybe that’s why sometimes I get the sense that you and he . . .” Another pause. “You’re obviously good friends, which is great. But I was wondering—is there anything I should know about you guys? Because I’m
starting to really like him.” She gives a short laugh. “Big surprise, right? I haven’t exactly been hiding it. And I don’t think Alex is the kind of guy who would . . .” She stops. “It’s just that you two seem really close, and if there’s something I should know—”

“No worries,” I say. “We’re just friends.”

“You sure? I see you two talking sometimes.”

This sucks—why am I stuck in the position of having to reassure
her
? She’s the one he’s chosen. But whatever. I say, “Honestly? I think he’s totally one hundred percent into you.”

She nods slowly, absorbing that, studying me intently like she’s trying to hear something I’m not saying. “I hope you’re right,” she says simply, before walking me the rest of the way to the Sweatshop, where she turns on the charm for Amelia.

It takes less than five minutes for her to get her way. She compliments Amelia on the costumes, tells her how lucky Mansfield is to have found her, launches into what good friends she and I have become, then says, “Now, you have to let Franny come with us on Sunday, because it’s the only day all summer that we get to explore Portland and it won’t be fun without her.”

To my astonishment, Amelia just nods and says, “Of course she should go.”

“All set,” Isabella says to me with a satisfied smile as she leaves for rehearsal. “I’ll tell Harry and Alex you’re coming.”

Once she’s gone, Amelia’s attitude flips 180 degrees. She
grumbles about how much work she has, how she needs me 24/7, how it was bad enough knowing she’d be losing so many of my work hours to play rehearsals, and do I even appreciate what a sacrifice she’s making just so I can have some fun and—

I say, “Fine. I won’t go.” As soon as the words are out, I feel disappointed—the idea of not going makes me realize how much I actually do want to go.

Amelia waves her hand. “I already gave my word that you can go, and
I
don’t break my word.” The way she emphasizes
I
is almost an accusation: like I’ve somehow betrayed her by making this plan to go out for a few hours one day. I decide I’m done offering to stay. She grumbles some more under her breath as I take up my stitching, and it’s so annoying that I actually ask her to turn on her folk music.

What’s truly scary is that I think I’m starting to like Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell. Pretty soon I’ll be drinking herbal tea and wearing homemade skirts and spending my free time adding tassels to sofa cushions.

Just shoot me now.

I
haven’t had a lot of opportunities to dress up, so on Sunday I decide I might as well put on the one nice summer dress I brought with me. It’s dark green and tight across the bodice, with a narrow waist and full skirt—very 1950s. I found it at a thrift store. I don’t think it’s actually vintage—I think it was designed to be retro—but it’s still pretty nice. I want to pair it with my sexy spike heels—the only good shoes I’ve brought—but I’m worried we’ll have to walk a lot, so I stick to comfortable sandals. I use a curling iron to create waves in my light brown hair and put on some makeup. I check myself out in the mirror. Not bad. I’ve spent a lot of time this summer staying cool and comfortable in shorts and ponytails, so it’s a nice change to go for pretty instead of practical.