“Do you wanna get going? I think my mom wants me to watch Jonathan; I should get home.” Hopefully he hadn’t seen Jonathan when we were all talking with Mary. Then he’d think my whole family was weird, expecting me to babysit an almost-teenager. What did it matter, though? Today hadn’t been real. The fact that I’d started to believe that was just embarrassing. Jesus, he probably already regretted this whole thing: the show, and homecoming, having to see me more than never. Me, the weirdo.
“Sure, we can go.” Kyle winced, then stood up, forcing a huge smile on his face. “This was really fun. Thanks for showing me this place.”
“Sure, yeah.” I tried to get my face to mirror his, but I don’t think it worked very well. After all, theater kid or no, Kyle was the one who could act.
chapter thirty-six
KYLE
SATURDAY, 1:07 P.M.
That foot in my mouth: not tasting so hot.
“Do you even . . .” We hadn’t spoken since we got in the car. My voice sounded too loud, too bright. “I mean, you don’t act, right?”
“I write plays,” Rachel said quietly. “But no, I don’t act. I’ll be terrible at the show.”
“You won’t. You’ll forget the cameras are even there.”
Rachel raised an eyebrow and stared out the window for a second.
“Either way,” she said to her reflection. I could see her breathe in deep, try to smile. “You should give me some tips. I’ve never been on TV before, so with what, two appearances now? No, three—okay, you’re definitely the expert on this topic.”
We kept talking about the show, and Rachel kept smiling, but things felt different.
Maybe because I’m a complete tool with no filter between my brain and my mouth. I didn’t even think theater kids were weird; that was the kind of thing Carter and his friends would say. Or Dave. It was like I’d channeled someone else for just long enough to be a total jerk to Rachel.
We pulled into her driveway. Rachel tugged at the door like she couldn’t get out fast enough.
“Hey, Rachel?”
Last chance, Bonham. She turned and looked at me expectantly.
“I know I’m pretty square, but I like weirdos, you know.”
She stared for a second, then smirked. Her dimple popped in to say hi.
“Good. Because I’m probably not going to be able to change that before I shoot Monday.”
Then she laughed, just for a second, and slammed the door before I could really say good-bye.
I almost opened the door to run after her. But that was dumb. What did I even have to say? At least she didn’t still hate me, that was all I’d wanted, right? Or did she? She might have just been acting nice to smooth things over. What was she doing right now, with her brother?
Probably not thinking about me. But me: still thinking about her. The way she smiled with one side of her face, like she knew some joke you didn’t. And the way she stuck out her tongue at the corner of her mouth when she was concentrating, and clearly had no idea she was doing it. Even the way she gave me crap about my bowling game. I didn’t know anyone else who would have done that with someone they barely knew.
I had to take my mind off all that. What did it matter as long as we ended friendly? When I got home I played video games for a few hours. When that got boring I went on Flit and asked my followers what I should do with my hair. “Nothing, it’s perfect” was the consensus, which I should have expected, but I was still annoyed by how boring that was. When this thing hit: couldn’t get enough of knowing so many people thought I was something special. Now: already starting to feel pointless.
When I was little, really little, we had this DVD of some random kids’ show, with puppets that, like, turned into cartoons to have adventures. I think Mom bought it for Carter originally, but we were so close in age that it wound up being mine too. At the end of every adventure, the team would sing the same song: “Smile, laugh, be happy! You’re the best you that you can be!”
That’s what I had on Flit. A chorus of puppet-cartoons telling me I was already perfect. It felt much less satisfying now than it had at age four.
Finally, around dinnertime, I couldn’t take it anymore.
(To Rachel): We were so focused on how terrible I was at bowling, and speaking, that I never got to hear about what torture Mary’s planning.
She wrote back immediately:
(From Rachel): Dress shopping, part filmed in advance, part back and forth with Laura.
(From Rachel): Mary said I’ll have to try on dozens. It’ll be like Pretty Woman but without Julia Roberts’s figure, or looks, or charm. And hopefully better sleeves.
I had no idea what she was talking about. Who the heck was Julia Roberts? Whatever, it didn’t matter.
(To Rachel): Sounds like it could be fun. Though I think you’re right to be worried about the sleeves. Sleeves these days . . . oof.
(From Rachel): You are a total connoisseur of sleeve fashion.
I could imagine her face while she typed it: secret smile, dimple on one cheek, dark-brown eyes shining a little brighter, sparkly with laughter.