Truth & Dare (9 page)

George, with his bushy eyebrows, straight-legged chinos and crisp pink polo shirt is the picture of upper-crust cool and class. “Cher, even stuck in a bear trap you are lovely as ever.” He kisses my hand. “And darling Paris, I see you have a new chihuahua in your bag?”

Eve pets the stuffed animal tucked into her fluffy white purse. “You like?”

George grins. It’s so great to see him. “I likesy. Yes, I do.”

Eve’s eyes widen. “Cher, scoot over one so Georgie can sit down. Thanks. So I can’t believe you were in Europe all summer! How was France? Totally amazing, I’m sure? The clothes! The food! Did you bring me anything? Next year you and Sonny and Newman
have
to come to camp—of course we
couldn’t all room together, but we could be counselors and at night we could sneak out and …”

As Eve fills George in about sneaking smokes on rickety piers under starlit skies, on jealousy-inducing backstage love triangles and on late-night skinny dipping, I suck on the metal rod across my lips, suck back some drool and try and wish myself there, minus this face-cage and plus summer-tanned Jesse.

“Where’s Newman?” Eve asks, like she can read my mind. My stomach bursts into flames and I almost choke on my own spit.

George gently picks an eyelash from Eve’s dimpled cheek and holds it in front of her bubblegum lips to blow and make a wish, which she does with a giggle. “Just passed him on his board,” George says to me, patting my bumpy knee and trying to avoid staring at my mouth. “He’ll be here, Sonny. Promise.”

Can a stomach really do an Olympic vaulting event?

“Whyth he telling me? I don’t care.”

“She doesn’t care,” Eve explains loudly. I glance toward the door. It’s not too late to run. To hide. To try and avoid the inevitable. Stop beating heart. Now.

George faces our teacher. “Ms. Tea, it’s so fabulous to see you after such a long summer. I just wanted to let you know that Mr. Newman is on his way. Yes, I’m offering a
pre-apology
that you can accept upon his arrival.”

Ms. Tea raises her eyebrows in our general direction.

“Jethe,” I say.

“Jesse,” Eve translates from George to Cher back into real life.

When Ms. Tea waves her hand through the air, it’s not in a condescending way like the other teachers do, like they want to fill in the moving air with a roll of the eyes and the word “kids” uttered sarcastically. Ms. Tea just means, “Whatever,
guys.” She finds us amusing and talks to us like we are people instead of teenage alien life forms, which is so rare and why we love her. And let me explain something else to avoid further confusion:

All of us drama-geeks have nicknames.

They started last year. Boy George made them up, handed them out and they stuck like ABC gum.

I’m Sonny because of the obvious: Sonny and Cher, as in, “Ha ha ha, I haven’t heard that before.” George even made us a duet in last year’s talent show, but I had to be Sonny and he was Cher with the full wig and high heels and “I Got You Babe.” The audience was roaring at our bellbottoms and my thick brown stache that Jesse helped me attach with makeup glue, so I accept the Sonny cuz when Jesse says my name it sounds more like Sunny, like maybe he thinks of warmth and happiness and daisies when he thinks of me, which is … okay, totally fine.

Eve’s George-name is Paris, as in not the famous city with the Eiffel Tower, but as in everyone thinks she’s the most popular girl at school because she’s rich and gorgeous and skinny, but inside she’s really a sweet drama-geek like the rest of us. So it’s just in jest because she’s not at all like the real drink-driving, stints-in jail, slutty, not-the-city-in-France, other famous Paris.

Boy George named himself, although he bares no resemblance to the cross-dressing, VH1 “Bring Back the Eighties,” “Karma Chameleon” singer at all. His real name is George and he looks like your average prep. Clean-cut hair in that popular style where it sticks up a little in the front with gel, polo-shirt wearing, tucked into tan chinos, retro topsider shoes, preppy boy. He’s on the tennis team and the yearbook committee and is, of course, the king of drama club. The “Boy” in the “George” thing is meant to be ironic because he’s
always insisting he isn’t gay even though he has a soprano voice, listens to the
Cats
soundtrack on his iPod on repeat and I
think
drools over Jesse (especially when he wore that white tank top to play Stanley) but then again you’d be dead not to.

Jesse is Newman, because, chills, I can hardly think it without swooning—George thinks he looks like the young Paul Newman, which he totally does. When George first named Jesse “Newman”, I hadn’t seen any YPN (Young Paul Newman) movies. Then I rented some.

Okay.
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?
My dream in life is to re-enact that “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head” bicycling scene with Jesse one day. The only part of that amazing movie that made no sense was how the girl could stay with grumpy Robert Redford when it was so obvious YPN had the hots for her? Then again, both YPN
and
RR being in love with you? Not a problem I’ve ever had to deal with.

Then the jail movie? Where YPN is wearing the blue jail jumpsuit that matches his denim-blue eyes and he’s talking about the eggs in that “come hither” voice? COME ON!

I’ve never seen blue eyes like that in my life.

Except on Jesse. Which is why Boy George is
always
right and is meant to be completely worshipped at all times.

So that was pretty much our group last year: Boy George, Newman (YPN), Paris and me, rocking on faux velvet chairs and lovin’ life, pre-headgear.

But that was last year. B.F. Before Freakenstein. And I have no idea what’s going to happen now.

The first three theater audience rows fill up quickly with laughing and chatter, and “What did you do all summer?” So far it’s not that bad. ’Course no one can see me, except Ms. Tea facing me on the stage.

Ms. Tea stands up. “Welcome to Advanced Drama!”

Hoots and hollers come from the whole class. We all adore
Ms. Tea, who’s dressed today in a long, flowy floral skirt that looks like it’s from Indonesia or somewhere. She’s twisted her long, black hair into a floppy bun on the top of her head with a multicolored scarf. Her feet are bare, as always.

“For those of you new faces out there, I’m Helen Teacake. I wouldn’t mind if you called me Helen, but the administration would, so please call me Ms. Tea.”

The class laughs. Told you everyone loves her.

“Take off your shoes, if you’d like,” she continues. “Make yourselves comfortable. I want you all to feel at home here in our theater.” A scrambled ruckus begins as sneakers are ripped off, followed by a lovely green-room/locker-room scent that isn’t all bad because it reminds me of last year and this theater, my favorite much-better-than-real-home place in the world. I take a deep breath to take it all in: smelly socks and dusty plush seats. It’s the first time I’ve felt okay since they strapped me into this thing.

I slip out of my pink Converse Hi-tops, and hope my bare feet don’t reek too badly. After surveying for ABC gum, I tuck my feet under the red, velvety theater chairs.

Eve slips out of her sparkly flip-flops. I watch her
rosebud-pink
toenails wiggle gleefully in the air.

Ms. Tea continues. “I hope you all had a fabulous summer and are excited for this fall’s theater arts class. I know I am.”

Eve’s hand flies up.

“Yes, Eve?”

“Can you announce the play, please, Ms. Tea?”

“It’s called
Wild Oats
and it’s a comedic western.”

The class buzzes as Eve’s hand shoots up again.

Ms. Tea shoots me a wink. “Yes, Eve?”

“When are the auditions?”

She clears her throat. “Monday next week.”

Ms. Tea lets out an exaggerated sigh as my BFF since
preschool’s hand flies up again. This time she doesn’t call on her, because she’s watching the door slide open as Jesse slips in.

My heart nearly leaps out of my silver mouth when I see him. His dirty blond hair is longer than it was last school year, grazing the collar of his pink
TEEN IDOL
shirt where he’s written in black marker below the pop singer’s silk-screened face, “SUCKS.” I cover my metal mouth and smile, fidgeting around to ensure Eve’s head is blocking me. I sneak another peek. Only Jesse could get away with that. I mean, we know it totally sucks, but
Teen Idol
is totally popular. But since he’s Jesse, he can get away with anything. His chipped, yellow skateboard is tucked under his arm, and as my eyes can’t help but slide down his body, I notice he’s wearing his old Converse, too.

Gulp.

“Sorry, Ms. Tea,” Jesse says in his way-too-cute voice. “I crashed my board on the way to school.”

I’m sure Ms. Tea’s raising her eyebrows suspiciously, but I can’t take my eyes off Jesse. “Are you all right, Mr. Blake? After your accident?”

“Sure thing, Ma’am.”

Jesse and Ms. Tea have this thing. It started when we did
A Streetcar Named Desire
last year. Jesse played Stanley, Eve played Blanche DuBois, and I played Cop #2. A dialect coach taught us southern accents and since then, Jesse speaks only with a southern twang while we’re in class.

Ms. Tea grins coyly. “Do you need to go to the nurse’s office?”

Jesse looks down at his skinned knees. “No need for that, Ma’am. Just internal injuries.”

Our teacher shakes her head, laughing. “Take a seat then, Mr. Blake. I’ll let you off with a warning this time, but if you’re
ever late for one of my rehearsals it’s straight to the office for you.”

“Will never happen again. Promise you that.” He taps the bridge of his baseball cap in her direction and then, by a total twist of freak-fate, he looks right at me and we have a brief flash of eye contact.

Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me
.

I jerk my neck straight ahead, but can still see Jesse out of the corner of my eye as he continues to scan the room. Either he didn’t recognize me or he doesn’t want to recognize me. I can handle Eve’s nausea, other kids’ wild-eyed pity, Ms. Tea’s wonder, but I can’t handle Jesse looking at me like that, like I’m someone to be pitied, instead of the girl who used to be his friend.

Heat rises on my cheeks as his stare burns in our direction.

“Hide me,” I whisper to Eve as I bend over, head over ankles, smooshing my metal face into my backpack. I move it around a bit, feigning business, but then panic and unzip it so fast that I catch my finger in the metal strip. Blood oozes out, and I wipe it on my blue and white P.E. clothes, staining my tiger-orange gym shorts dark purple. When I zip my backpack back up in the now silent room, it causes even more of a commotion.

“You okay, Cher?” Ms. Tea asks with genuine concern.

I freeze, still bent over, my eyes glued to my (indeed they are) stinky bare feet.

If I stay down here long enough, surely she’ll start talking about the play again and Jesse will find somewhere else to sit. “I’m fine,” I mumble.

Eve speaks up on my behalf yet again. “She’s okay. She’s taking off her shoes.”

I crank my neck to whisper, “Thank you,” which she interprets as a devilish green light to commit the worst
best-friend 
fraud on the planet. I watch in horror as she stands up, smoothes down her gauzy skirt, tucks a piece of her
Barbie-doll
hair behind her ear and faces the audience of our classmates.

“Okay, guys, here’s the deal. Cher got head- and neckgear over the summer, which her psycho mom and Evil Dr. O. are making her wear all the time. Even to school. Even to play rehearsals. So even though she looks super weird and freaky, it’s not her fault. So let’s not make a big deal about it. K?”

How could the day get worse?

Two letters: P.E.

So I change into my gym clothes and head into the basketball gymnasium where all the normal kids are dribbling basketballs. Of course, I’m late arriving due to the fact I had to rip the neck of my T-shirt open to make space for my enormous mechanical head.

Of course, they’ve already picked teams for the basketball “drills.”

Coach Boots, the bald JV basketball teacher, grimaces so hard at my appearance that thick blue veins stick out of his neck and I’m thinking he may have an aneurysm.

“Uh. Ms….?”

“Ther Johnthon,” I say.

“Cher. Do you have a doctor’s note?”

“No.”

The wheels in his Mr. Clean’s bald head are churning.

“No doctor’s note?”

“No.”

Some kids snicker. My bodyguard/translator is not in this class.

“Quiet! So can you participate in that … uh … thing?”

I shrug.

“Would you rather sit on the bench for today?”

Sit on the bench instead of running up and down the squeaky b-ball court for an hour?

“Maybe that would be good.”

“What, hon?”

“I THED okay.”

When I turn to walk away I hear even more snickers and then a gasp. I turn around as a girl I recognize from last year’s art class runs up next to me.

“Cher, right?” She has brown hair and kind eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Are you having your monthly visitor?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Because there’s blood all over the back of your shorts.”

What? Oh my God.

“Really? Cuz …”

Oh sheesh. The zipper cut from drama!

I have to turn my whole body around to check and see if the class is staring, which of course they are.

“ITH FROM A CUT ON MY THINGER!” I announce. Why? I have no idea. I guess I don’t want them to think I’m a human Freaksicle who also forgets to bring tampons to school.

Everyone stares until finally Coach Clean blows his whistle and the gym fills with the horrific sound of echoing bouncing balls and “Here!”, “I’m open,” and “Nice shot!”

I slink back on to the bench and cross my legs tight.

I pray that someone misfires a newly blown-up ball straight at my face and shatters my walking prison into a million pieces.

Of course, no one does.

I’ve survived mostly on liquids the entire summer because I can only open my mouth an inch. So Mom’s been making me this juice/fruit drink in the blender. She puts in a cup of orange juice, half a banana, and some yogurt and presses blend. I told her it wasn’t going to work for school, but did she listen? Of course not.