Donick walsh and the res.., p.11
Donick Walsh and the Reset-Button, page 11
“Now that is well said.”
“I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me. I mean, you know him better than I do. What do you think?”
“I think you don’t know him at all.”
That hurts. Still, if Brent wanted to shoot to kill, he doesn’t particularly look it.
“But,” he adds, “Michael actually spoke to you, and said something nice. Maybe it’s not completely hopeless. This version of you you’ve got going on, this…I dunno…nice Nick, that’s a habit to keep around. He may never want to be your friend again, but you can at least show him that you’re trying.”
I’m excited to have Liam with me again on Thursday. I don’t have to feel so awkward and self-conscious. Liam is a friend I’m basically starting from scratch with.
But my growing comfort in rehearsal is shattered when Chalice announces a partnership section in the middle of the “Vogue” number, and pairs me up with Jackie. I struggle to say hello, even as I hope she won’t cry. She looks like she might. Guilt stabs me so hard I think I might start crying too. Still, I remind myself that I have to go through these things. It’s only fair.
Once we start dancing together, however, I’m pleasantly surprised. Jackie is good, and moves well; I feel like she makes me a better dancer—something that’s really important in ballroom dance. No one enjoys watching two people dance together when it looks like they can’t get in sync.
So I say to myself, or, well, to the Universe: You’re giving me a message here. I take it I somehow have to make things right with this girl.
And I think I know just what to do.
Every few weeks, on a Friday at lunch, the school choir department puts on a mini-fundraiser and operates something like a karaoke-bar in the middle of the quad. It costs a buck to sing a song, and usually there ends up being a long line of kids wanting to stand on the little concrete platform in the quad’s center and try their hand at pretending to be a pop-singer or a rapper. A lot of the time the singers aren’t great. My buddies, loving the bully-fodder, look forward to these days so they can heckle if a campus supervisor isn’t nearby. This particular Friday, instead of sitting and listening to Ryan and Josue be nasty, I barely stop at the table for five minutes before I’m getting up to leave.
“What’s up?” Ryan says. “Can’t take another Taylor Swift cover?”
“I’ve got some stuff to do.”
“You’re, like, hardly here anymore.” His heavy features look puzzled, distrustful.
“What you gotta do that’s more important than watching these losers?” Josue asks.
“Rehearsal stuff,” I say, not wanting to explain.
Josue gives me a dark stare; Ryan looks irritated. I’m different now; they can sense it. Thankfully, the other mouth-breathers at the table are too wrapped up in watching some guy in a Hogwarts T-shirt begin singing “We Will Rock You” to care what’s going on with me. This is something I’ve noticed over the last six months—my old crowd of football jocks have relegated me to a position of non-importance, now I can’t play. The only two paying attention are Josue and Ryan, and I wish they would ignore me too.
“Let’s, like, do something this weekend, dude,” Ryan says, then calls to Scott, “Hey man, can you hang tomorrow?” Meaning ‘something this weekend’ includes getting stoned. Yeah, pass!
Before Scott can reply, Josue pipes up. “Yeah, let’s get lit, güey!”
I try to look disappointed. “Can’t. I’m helping build sets.”
Their sour expressions sharpen. Ryan shrugs his heavy shoulders. “Whatever, dude.”
“I’m just busy right now,” I say. “I’m worried about graduation.”
Josue snaps, “Having too much fun hanging with all the theatre fairies, you mean.”
Fire throbs through me. I would like to hit him. “Don’t be a jerk,” I say.
“You don’t be a little bitch, Nicco,” he fires back. “You’ve always been the first person to razz on those queers.”
“Yeah, and I was a jerk for it!” My anger spikes and I almost shout to be heard over the music. “Do you know how many people hate me now? Hate all of us?”
“Who cares?”
“I’m tired of making people feel like shit.”
“Sounds like you’re starting to think you’re better than us, Nicco.”
Then, knowing he’ll take it as a dig about his being held back, I say, “Only smarter.”
“Fuck you!”
“Your asshole is showing, Jo. Better cover it before people see who you really are.”
I take one last look at his purpling face (and Ryan glancing back and forth between us) before I snatch up my backpack and walk away.
Josue shouts something after me, but it’s lost in the stomp-stomp-clap of the music. Some of our friends at the table have looked over but no one seems much fazed.
I make my solitary way toward the dance-studio, feeling self-consciousness replace my anger. I poke my head through the open doors. A lot of students are eating lunch inside, some from the show. Jackie sits with her back to the mirror, chatting animatedly with a group of her friends. I’m glad she doesn’t notice me. I couldn’t handle that scared look right now, made worse by her lazy eye. A circle of girls from the show eat their lunch and talk together just inside the door. Smiles and hellos bombard me as they ask what I’m doing there.
“I’m looking for Liam Hidalgo.” (Lord, do I sound as timid as I feel?) “I thought he might be here.”
A redheaded girl named Melody says, “Sometimes he’s here, sometimes he’s in the drama-room.”
I was afraid of that…
They ask me if I want to sit with them (which makes me smile), but I ask for a raincheck.
Back across campus I go, detouring around the library to avoid the quad. A minute later I find myself outside the drama-room. Mikey—no, he’s Michael now—is inside, I just know. Where else would he and his Muskequeers eat lunch? My palms feel like they’re itchy and swollen. Going inside will be the worst.
But I do it.
After the sun-glare outside, I have to squint to see who fills the desks. Laughter and voices make a cacophony. Mrs. P., at her desk near the door, winks at me. Most of the other drama kids haven’t noticed I’m there.
When I at last catch sight of Liam, I have to give an inward groan. He’s sitting in a cluster of eight or nine students—including all three of the Muskequeers. He is, in fact, right beside Michael, and a dismaying squirm of jealousy twists through me. I’m unclear as to who this possessiveness is aimed at. Brent spies me first and waves. The streak in his hair looks a little washed out. Everyone around him glances over, including Michael, and most look uncomfortable. Liam, however, calls out, “Nick! What’re you doing here? Come! Sit!”
I know the rest of them want nothing less, but I’ll only be a second, so I cross to their group. When I’m feeling out of place and vulnerable, my thumbs always find their way into the straps of my backpack. It’s a protective-thing. They creep there now.
Hoping I sound calm, I say, “Hey guys,” careful of where my eyes fall. “Mind if I steal Liam for a second?”
Liam gets up, looking curious, and steps toward me.
Calista, wearing the enormous glasses she had on at the first rehearsal, says to me, “Fittings after school?”
I nod.
Michael keeps his head down, picking at a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. The sight of them makes me think of the Doritos on his breath when I kissed him years ago, and I’m thankful Liam is moving toward the door. I give an awkward wave to the rest of them, then trail after.
“What’s up?” he asks, once we’re outside. He’s wearing a floppy beanie that hangs down his neck like one of the seven dwarfs. A wave of pale brown hair fluffs across his forehead and there are freckles over the bridge of his nose. He’s really cute actually, but I don’t think quite my type. He seems like a little brother. I realize I’m protective of him, which could explain that weird jealous feeling I got when I saw him next to Michael.
“I need some information,” I say.
“Uh huh?”
“Let’s sit on the stairs.”
Once we’re seated, facing each other, close enough that our knees almost touch (giving me another guilty stab of self-consciousness; I wonder what people will think if they see us like this), I take a breath, and start talking.
“You know how we got assigned our partners yesterday in rehearsal?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you’re pretty good friends with the girl I’m dancing with, right?”
“Jackie? We hang out sometimes. Why?”
I swallow. I feel every word leaving my mouth as though it wants to fight to get back inside. “Well…last year…um…I did something to her that was…not so nice.”
“The tea thing?”
Though Liam doesn’t look judgmental, I’m ashamed none the less.
“I thought it was coffee,” I murmur, and can’t help adding, “I really suck.”
“She’s…pretty scared of you.”
“I don’t want her to be. That’s the thing. What I did was a total dick-move, and, well, she’s a really good dancer, and, not that it’s because she’s a good dancer, but I want to try and make it up to her. She’s just…really sweet, and…” I sigh, having run out of words long before this. “I dunno. I hoped I could talk to her, try to make it better. If that’s possible.”
“Give it a shot.”
“Here’s where I want your help though.”
“Okay…” He sounds uncertain now.
“She drinks, well, tea every morning when she gets to school, right?”
“Same drink from Starbucks every day.”
“What exactly does she drink?”
Because of the courses I have to re-take, I’m in class until the final bell rings. But once I’m out, I pitstop at my locker to shove in my backpack, unsure how long Calista’s costume-fitting will take. As I’m standing there, I see Michael and his friends. I can overhear Calista just beginning to say, “I don’t know why we have to see some shitty horror movie when we could—” when Brent’s voice exclaims, “Nick! Perfect timing!”
I paste on a tight smile, and take the few steps toward Michael’s locker, lead in my heels.
“Yo,” I say.
“We’re going over to the theatre right now,” Brent says. “Walk with us.”
Calista’s eyes dart to Michael, who goes into the usual thousand-yard-stare. I feel like I’ve forgotten how to stand—I’m all awkwardness and knees and elbows.
Calista says to me, “You’ll be in and out fast. I’m sure you’ve got Friday plans.”
“Not really,” I say. “I don’t see my buds very often outside of school anymore.”
“Too bad,” says Brent, though he doesn’t look like he thinks it’s too bad. I tell him it isn’t.
“You guys know,” I add. “The jerks you see at school are the jerks they are everywhere. It’s exhausting.”
Michael suddenly speaks, directing his words to his friends. “I need to find Mrs. P. I’ll walk over to the theatre after.” The sun strikes his retreating head, the light catching in his hair and turning it a shade of reddish brown that reminds me of the trunk of a redwood.
Calista and Brent exchange the same look they did after Michael’s hasty retreat on Wednesday.
I say, “Guys, it’s cool.”
Brent begins to say, “Yeah, but he should just—”
“Don’t say he should just get over it,” Calista interrupts. “This isn’t a get over it kind of thing.”
“But—”
I interrupt him. “It’s not a get over it kind of thing. And listen, you should probably not call me over when you guys are together. He’s your friend—”
“You’re our friend now too,” Brent says.
Calista snorts. “The jury’s still out on that one.”
“I just mean,” I say, “he doesn’t want me around. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, or endanger your guys’ friendship.”
“That’s not a problem,” Calista says.
I ignore this. “But I do like talking to you. I even enjoy Calista’s sass,” I add, wondering if I can get away with this.
She snorts again. “Sass? What sass?”
“It’s like a vampire not being able to see its own reflection,” says Brent.
This leads us into Buffy-conversation, and as we walk to the theatre I laugh to myself, thinking that of course Michael got his friends into Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Calista says, “I’m not allowing Buffy-love to win you points with me.” But something grudging begins to loosen in her tone. It makes me smile wider as we talk about our favorite seasons and which of the Big Bads we like best.
Once in the theatre, we walk backstage and into the costume-shop (or lab, as Calista calls it), our talk dying down. Nobody is here, and I can actually hear a trapped cricket strumming its legs somewhere.
“I have your stuff on a rack,” Calista says. “We’ll try and make this quick.”
“I’m in no rush,” I say.
The costume-lab is a square room with a big table in the center, stools placed around it. Bolts of fabric, trays of buttons, baskets of thread, pairs of scissors, cover the tabletop. Stacks of frail-looking patterns are everywhere, the floor littered with wisps of string and oddly-shaped bits of cloth. Through a door across the room is a larger space filled floor to ceiling with hanging costumes. From this room, Calista, with Brent’s help, pulls out a wheeled rack.
“You can change in here,” Brent says, grinning.
Calista, beginning to pull hangers, adds pointedly, “Or go back into the storage room if you’re shy or whatever.” I take the pieces she hands me. There’s a billowy white thing like the kind of shirt a pirate would wear. “I know it looks stupid,” she says, “but I want to try some different looks for you for the masquerade part of the show.”
I’m not bothered about changing in front of them—they won’t see anything—so I slip out of my sweatshirt, then tug off my T-shirt.
I think I become as red as a cherry when Brent suddenly exclaims, “Dear Lord! Look at that scar! Holy God, that’s gnarly!”
He’s looking at my injured shoulder, and the pink puckered scar from my surgery. He comes closer, Calista watching with curiosity.
“Are you, like, bionic inside now?” He laughs a little, lifting a hand like he might touch it. Then he grimaces and draws back. “Seriously gross. You can see where the stitches were.”
“Staples, actually,” I say. “And yes. Scrap metal in there.” Their eyes are still on me, and because now I’m self-conscious about being half-naked in front of them, I crack a joke. “Think it’s noticeable?”
Calista shrugs. “Just in a bathing suit. Thankfully boy-body is not my thing.”
Brent grins at me. “It is mine! And damn, child!” I think my face might melt off my skull when he blatantly looks me over. I quickly drag the pirate-shirt over my head.
“It’s a pretty ugly scar, right?” I say.
Brent shrugs. “Chicks dig scars. Or so I’ve heard.”
I grin at him and actually say, “Apparently dudes dig scars too.”
“Oh, they do,” he says. “All kinds of scars. Or lack thereof.”
Calista makes a disgusted noise. “Ignore him. This is what I call his penis-floorshow. I can’t with you right now, Nanahara. I’m gagging.”
“That’s the whole idea.”
“Enough! Out! Go bother Michael, if he can stand you.”
Brent leaves the room and I slip off my jeans, tugging a pair of bizarre green slacks over my boxers. I begin to tuck the shirt in, but Calista stops me and orders me out of the pants (“I hate them!” she says) and tosses me a pair of old-fashioned breeches that fasten with tiny buttons below the knees.
“Now those, I like! We can show off your legs!” She’s studying me avidly, even as I stand there feeling foolish in my socks and bare calves. “We’ll have tights for you. You can wear them under your pants once you do the quick change into the ‘Vogue’ costume.”
I’m in breeches and a pirate-shirt, and talking about wearing tights. Where am I, who am I, and what am I doing? Still, there’s so much more satisfaction in this than there ever was suiting up in football gear. But if Pop was a fly on the wall…holy crap!
Next, Calista gives me an old-timey coat that flares like a skirt. It’s made of some shiny purple stuff with gold buttons and braid. Seeing myself in the mirror on the back of the door, I’m reminded of a guy from the seventeenth century or something.
“Very nice,” she says, and makes some notes on a clipboard.
With her eyes turned away, I study my reflection. Yes, I look absurd, but I have to admit, that makes me like it. There are so many new things and people coming into my life—I like it all. It’s all different. It’s all a welcome change.
“I’ll find a waistcoat for you to wear under the coat, hopefully with velcro so you won’t have to deal with a ton of buttons.”
“Waistcoat?”
“A vest.”
“You know a lot about this stuff.”
“I have to. I want to be a costumer. Plus, I think fashion is, well, fashion-ating.”
I snort, but say, “It’s good to be passionate about something.”
“You probably miss football, huh?” There’s interest in her face, and it’s no longer particularly grudging.
“Not really. I wasn’t that into it. I played for my dad.” I pluck at the coat’s buttons. “I don’t know what my passion is.”
“Duh! When you dance, it sure looks like that’s your passion.”
I smile again. “Well, I do love it…in a way I never loved football. I never even liked football. But performing, and not just being in class or learning routines for my instructors…that’s all new. So, I dunno.”
We’re quiet for a second or two. Then she tells me to take off the costume so she can give me a few pairs of black slacks to try. She can tell just by looking which pants fit and which don’t. As I try them on, we talk. Something about her makes me unafraid to open up. Maybe it’s that she knows the right questions to ask, or the perfect things to say, but I think I could tell her my life story with ease and never regret it.
