Lianne
THE NEXT TWO days crawl by.
There are classes to occupy my time. On Wednesday I pass another ninety painful minutes in the company of the foremost expert on Bertolt Brecht and his legion of ass-kissing minions. I learn that Beret Guy has at least two of those hats because he wears a purple one to our second class.
Thank God nobody can read minds. Because I use all my extra time re-living DJ’s kiss. Even as I watch the professor’s face move, I’m standing beside Capri’s brick wall again, and DJ’s dark eyes are coming closer. Then his beautiful full mouth teases mine, tickling the oversensitive skin at the corner of my mouth. I hold my breath, and he kisses me for real…
Gah. It’s all I can think about.
When I get a text on Wednesday afternoon, I yank my phone off my desk, hoping it’s him. But instead it’s Kevin Mung, by co-star. We’re close in the way people are when they’ve been to the wars together. I know all his tics and he knows all of mine. But if it weren’t for years of filmmaking together, there’s no way we’d ever be friends. We are nothing alike.
Hey babe, his text reads, because he calls everyone babe. Even his mother. Did you read our scene? Nearly pissed myself laughing.
Of course he did. Kevin never takes anything seriously. Usually I find it annoying, but in this case I’m glad of it. At least somebody will be relaxed and carefree when the awful scene is finally shot. If it’s shot. There was still a ray of hope that someone would see the light and cut it.
I told Bob that it has to be fade to black. Can you please say the same? I need a little help here. Kevin and I have the same manager, which makes us sort of like siblings at a moment like this. Sometimes we gang up on Bob if we need something done.
Except…if Kevin and I are siblings, that means…ew. Okay. We are so not siblings.
A moment later my phone rings, and it’s him. “Hi,” I answer, realizing that it’s probably the first time I’ve spoken to Kevin in two months. On the set of our films we never went five minutes without talking. But when we’re not shooting, he forgets I exist.
“Hey,” he says, his voice breathy. “You okay, babe? Is the scene seriously bugging you out?”
Why yes, it is. I’m bugging out so hard I’m like that deadly alien in Men In Black. But cuter. “I’m not thrilled about the scene.”
“Don’t panic yet. You know the shit in the script isn’t what ends up on the screen.”
“True. But I can’t afford to be ridiculous. And I don’t know how, um…” I can’t finish the sentence. Shooting a sex scene terrifies me. There’s no intimacy in my life. And none of this is anything I can really discuss with him.
Kevin’s chuckle is warm in my ear. At least today I’ve got sober, compassionate Kevin. He doesn’t make many appearances. “Maybe you should go find someone to rehearse with you,” he suggests. “You’ve always been the kind of girl who takes the extra rehearsal.”
“Aren’t you funny,” I grumble.
“Stop worrying, Li. Even if they shoot something awful, you know how it goes. The whole thing will get edited down to a two-second kiss.”
He has a point. Except that I’d still have to take off my clothes in front of the cameras. And the time lag between the shoot and the edited copy was months of waiting. “Or we could just skip it entirely.”
“Put your foot down, then,” he suggests. “What are they going to do? Fire you? That’s not happening.”
“I might.” But then Bob will freak out and I’ll have to listen to him badger and threaten. That might even be worse.
“Hang in there, princess. Hey—are you coming to my premier next month?”
I’d forgotten about it. Kevin wasn’t in college like me. While I’d started classes, he’d done a voice-over part for a Pixar animated feature, and the premier was in New York in a few weeks. “I’m not sure yet,” I hedge. “Can I bring a date?” That would make it more bearable. I don’t know who I would ask to go with me. A girl can dream, though.
“Sure, babe. Be fun to see you. I’ll have my publicist call you.”
“Cool. I’d better do some homework now.”
“Homework is for suckers.”
I didn’t agree, but there was no point in arguing. Kevin rode the success of the Sentry Sorcerer movies hard, becoming the kind of Hollywood party boy that he’d always wanted to be. “Thanks for calling,” I say instead. “See you soon.”
“Later, babe!”
I spend the next ninety minutes checking up on my video game dragons and waiting for DJ to call. Like the loser I am.
When he finally texts me to work out the details, I make myself wait exactly ten minutes before replying. And then I spend the next two hours wondering if a fifteen-minute lag wouldn’t have been better.
There ought to be a manual for this.
We make plans to meet at Gino’s, and then I move on to worrying about what to wear.
When Thursday finally drags its ass my way, I’m kind of a wreck.
Doing my face is easy—some mascara and just a hint of silver eyeshadow to reflect the light. And a lip stain that can withstand a pizza dinner. But dressing for my date turns me into a character in a bad sitcom. I ransack my closet, wondering which of my clothes will make me look more confident and sexier than I really feel.
For starters, I put on skinny jeans, because even I know to wear jeans to a pizza joint. Anything else would look like I was trying too hard. But the rest of the outfit is more trouble. I pull on a black turtleneck, but when I look in the mirror, meh. Too Princess Vindi.
Pretty soon half my clothes are on the bed, and I hate all of them.
I settle on a button-down shirt cut from a drapey T-shirt material. It’s a little big on me, but I like the silky feel of the fabric.
Then I stare into the full-length mirror on the back of my closet door for way too long. “Bella!” I yell. “Are you decent?” I’d heard Rafe’s voice over there, too. And now there is silence, which means they’ve either left or are making out.
After a beat, my door opens. “What’s up? Want a mini Snickers?” She extends her hand, offering me candy. “And the calories don’t count, because they’re fun-sized.”
I wave off the chocolate. “Does this outfit say, ‘Splitting a pizza on a random Thursday?’”
She squints at me. “I guess? I mean—I wear hockey T-shirts every day. I’m not the one you should turn to for fashion advice.”
“You’re my only female friend, so can you just try to phone it in?”
“In this case, your only female friend is not your best call. Rafe?” Bella hollers over her shoulder.
“Yeah, belleza?”
“Lianne needs a consult.”
Now I’m embarrassed. “It’s just pizza,” I say, wishing I’d handled this problem by myself.
Bella’s exquisite boyfriend pokes his head into the room. “It’s never just pizza,” he says.
“It isn’t?” And is that a quaver in my voice?
He shakes his head. “This is a date, pequeña. Did you steal that shirt from someone twice your size? It’s like you’re hiding in there.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Rafe comes into my room and stands in front of the open closet. He flicks the hangers aside one after another. Then he pulls out a sweater that I haven’t worn in a year, holding it up to my body. “This is good.”
“It’s pink,” I argue.
“Yeah, but it’s small. Just try it.”
“All right,” I grumble. “Turn around, Rafe.”
He spins to face the bathroom and I whip off my too-big shirt and slide the sweater over my head. “Okay. What do we think?”
After he turns around, Rafe whistles. “Yeah, baby. That sweater says, ‘Hola, señor.’”
I’m not sure I agree. There’s a hint of cleavage, which is good, I guess. But the sweater just highlights the fact that I’m shrimpy everywhere. “Small clothes just make me look small.”
Rafe grins at me in the mirror. “Not small. You’re fun-sized.”
Bella pops another candy into her mouth. “Don’t know if you noticed this, chickie, but DJ isn’t exactly King Kong.”
“What do you mean?” Rafe and Bella exchange an amused glance while I adjust my so-called boobs. “Wait—what is DJ’s name, anyway?”
“Um, is that a trick question?”
“DJ is his nickname,” I point out. “What’s his real name.”
“Well, it’s Trevi. Duh. But of course we call his brother that. So he needs his nickname.”
Sigh. The hockey crowd is big on last names and nicknames. I lean over my keyboard and begin typing like mad into the web browser. I find him on Facebook, and learn that his real name is Daniel Trevi. So at least I have that going for me—a single bit of data proving he’s a real person and not some figment of my imagination.
“Thanks for all your help,” I tell Bella. “You two can go back to pawing each other. I’m good.”
Bella crosses her arms so I know she’s about to deliver some kind of advice. “We’re not done here. What are you wearing over that?”
“My coat? Is that a trick question?”
She rolls her eyes. “Tonight you leave your baseball cap at home, missy.”
“What?” I’d feel naked without my hat. It’s bad enough that I can’t wear dark glasses, too, because the sun is already down.
“She’s right,” Rafe argues. “No hat tonight.”
I’m so used to concealing myself that I pull open a drawer and hunt around for something sexier than a baseball cap. “I need at least a scarf, then.”
Bella leans forward and pulls one out of the drawer. “This is pretty. It sparkles.”
I consider the piece she’s holding. It is pretty—sort of see-through, with tiny sequins that catch the light. It’s whimsical and feminine. But I never wear it. “That one itches,” I complain.
“Sometimes we must suffer for beauty,” she says, tossing it around my neck.
Right. “Says the girl in sweatpants.”
“When is DJ getting here, anyway?”
“He’s not.” I grab my coat. “He had a study group go late, so he asked me to meet him at the restaurant.”
Bella raised an eyebrow. “That’s odd. Gino’s is on kind of a dark corner…”
I wave off her concern. “It’s a five-minute walk, Bella. Thanks for the consult.”
She turns to follow Rafe into her own room, but then pauses in the doorway, a teasing smile on her face. “Don’t worry. If I hear you guys through the door, I’ll turn on some music.”
My stomach bottoms out. I want more of DJ’s kisses, and then some. But the thought of hooking up with him is nerve-wracking, because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’ve never asked a guy to come home with me. It’s hard to imagine those words coming out of my mouth.
Bella winks at me. Then she gives Rafe a little slap on the ass and they shut the door. But I can still hear them talking. “You never help me pick out my T-shirts,” Bella teases her boyfriend.
“Eh,” he says. “I would just toss them on the floor. I like how your clothes look when I throw them on the floor.”
“Do you now?” Bella asked. “Show me.”
Check please. I don’t have to start up a playlist, though. Not tonight. I grab my purse and go for the door. For once I don’t need to sit alone in my room while they get frisky.
I stand on the landing for a second, another wave of nerves shimmying through my stomach. But I want this, even if it’s scary. So I button my wool coat over my carefully selected outfit and I trot down the stairs and out into the night.
