Pretenders (17 page)

It’s your fault he didn’t make the team.
(Me.)

Sher!
(Audri.)

Come on, Audri, you know it’s true.

She pulled off her glasses and cleaned a spot that wasn’t there.

’Scuse me?
(Octavia.)
How is that my fault?

You said good luck.
(Audri.)

You never wish someone good luck before an audition. Sports or otherwise.
(Me.)

Why?

You say break a leg.
(Audri.)

Why would I say that?

Um, ever heard of a superstition?
(Me. Condescending.)

She scratched her airhead. I took that as a no.

During curtain call, when actors bow or curtsy, they place one foot behind the other and bend at the knee, thus “breaking” the line of the leg.

And they only bow when people are clapping so it means they did well.
(Audri.)
So breaking a leg is a good thing.

But he’s a basketball player. He doesn’t bow.

And he probably never will, thanks to you.
(Me.)

Mr. Kimball clapped once to announce himself and twice for silence. He looked at his clipboard and began calling hopefuls to the stage and having them sing. There were some solid contenders in the mix but no one as good as me. I wasn’t being conceited. Just real.

When Mr. Kimball said
Sheridan Spencer
I literally jumped. I was that ready.

Break a leg!
(Audri.)

Thanks.
(Me.)

I closed my eyes and waited for Kristin Chenoweth to appear. The golden blond hair came first, then the high-beam smile, then—

GOOD LUCK!
(Octavia.)

Audri gasped.

Kristin’s forming image disintegrated into an anthill of glitter.

Uh-oh.
(Mr. Kimball, glancing up at the theater lights to make sure they were secure.)

Always the professional, I took a steadying breath and somehow managed to sing “Popular” perfectly. The proof was in the applause.

I couldn’t help wondering if somehow my talent was God herself. I mean, who—other than the Great Almighty—could triumph after “good luck’s” deadly kiss? I was touched by an angel.

At least that’s what I thought until Octavia auditioned with
“Popular” too. If I was touched by an angel, that lucky devil was groped.

Everyone, including Mr. Kimball, cheered. I clenched my jaw and silently blamed Audri for allowing this demonic parasite to infiltrate our lives.

Hey, Sheridan.
(Parasite, in my face.)
That play I dabbled in? It was
Wicked. Then she grabbed her Big Cat bag, hooked it over her shoulder, and before leaving said,
I was Glinda. Oh, see you on the court, Owdee.

BACK TO PRESENT DAY. STILL RAINING. STILL SOAKED. STILL NUMB TO IT ALL.

The most heinous part of this whole ordeal? Mr. Kimball posted the cast list on Friday. Audri did not make Glinda’s understudy. She got Elphaba. The bad witch. The lead. The role I played last year. Octavia got Glinda. And I, Sheridan Spencer, have been cast as Glinda’s underst—

Dad’s here.

To Be Continued…

END SCENE.

INT. BMW M5—LATE AFTERNOON.

Dad is going on about some new salesman he hired—a junior at Noble. Someone who reminds him of himself when he was starting out. I keep saying
cool
and
sounds great
but I’m journaling instead. Duffy biked up to the Pick and Flick right when Dad pulled up, and even though I get carsick I have to put quill to paper while our conversation is still fresh in my head.

Were you on vacation?
(Me.)

No, why?

You weren’t in English today and you’re all tanned.

It’s not a tan. I have a fever.

Then why are you here? School’s over.

Delivering a check to my basketball coach.

Why did you ride your bike in the rain if you’re sick?

I don’t have a driver’s license.
(Duffy.)
Why do you look like you were at a funeral?

I was.

Whose?

My own.

We laughed.

Why are we asking each other so many questions?
(Him.)

Why do you think?

We laughed again.

Where are you going now?
(Him, looking at my dad’s car.)

To sing show tunes for my old Barbies.

Break a leg.
(Him.)

Did you just say ‘break a leg’?

Yeah, sorry. I’m kinda superstitious. It means—

I know what it means.

Must stop writing. Feel carsick.

Okay, better. Anyway, I can’t believe Duffy knew what break a—

Just puked.

I wish I could channel the end of a movie and fade out.

To Be Continued…

END SCENE.

Monday

Feeling = Slick.

I had no choice.

My parents are in the red. Amelia lectured me on “the character-building benefits of delayed gratification” and Bubbie Libby has $20 Canadian. Mandy could get me an interview at Abercrombie, but I needed the money right away.

ME:
Can Gardner help?

MANDY:
His parents are in the red too.

ME:
Then how is he rolling in green?

MANDY:
He works.

ME:
Where? Italian
Vogue
?

Mandy looked impressed by my reference. I only knew
Vogue
came in Italian because the magazine was on her desk with a ton of junk from CVS.

MANDY:
Why don’t you play on the freshman team?

ME:
Why don’t you date Coops?

Mandy was on her bed. She knocked over a bottle of yellow nail polish when I said that.

MANDY:
Seriously?

ME:
Seriously, what?

MANDY:
Leaving Varsity to play Freshman is like me dumping Gardner for
Coops
?

ME:
Worse.

MANDY:
Fine.

She picked up her cell with her palms and said, “Call G-licious.”

SIRI:
Cal-ling Gee-liss-i-us.

She put Gardner on speakerphone and told him I needed money. Gardner made me swear on my basketball career that I would never tell another living human what he was about to tell me.

ME:
I swear.

He said he could get me the money if I skipped school on Monday.

ME:
No prob.

GARDNER:
Meet me at Regal Park. 8:00 AM. No hoodies or taped-up shoes. You sleep in a home, not a refrigerator box. Dress like it. Mandy, take me off speaker.

My sister poked the phone with her elbow and brought it to her ear. Her hair got stuck in her wet nail polish.

MANDY:
Yeah… I can pull some stuff from Abercrombie… he will… he won’t… yes you can trust him… okay… thanks G-lish… L Y 2…

Feeling = Mad at my parents.

If they weren’t in the red I would have told Gardner I’d rather look like I came from a box than an Abercrombie sale. I wouldn’t have spent my Sunday at the mall with Mandy—where I had to hide from Lily, Vanessa, and Blake so they wouldn’t see me with shopping bags covered in naked dudes. And I definitely would not have accepted this slick new job. Correction. Slick new “lifestyle.”

That’s how Anton, my “style sensei,” suggests I “view” this “shopportunity.”

Anton is the owner of Trendemic. Trendemic is “a marketing company that turns products into trends and designers into millionaires.”

I spent five hours in his secret
Mission: Impossible
headquarters. I was interviewed, measured, weighed, photographed, spray tanned, manicured, and allergy tested. Then I was hired. Correction. “Contracted.”

ANTON:
As of today you are no longer Andrew Duffy. You are an “It Guy.” A human billboard. A tastemaker. A 3-D, HD, breathing advurt-es-mint.

ME:
Huh?

ANTON:
Your job is to model clothes by avant-garde designers. Enjoy revolutionary snack foods and savor revolutionary drinks in public. Scent your body parts with mists that conjure images of far-off places. Use our sporting gear, hair products, accessories, and high-tech footwear in the presence of your wealthy peers. Make it look… sexy. Crucial for social success. A cinch to buy. Because the more they spend, my accessibly handsome It Guy, the more you make.

The lights dimmed. Video started to play on the LCD screen behind his desk. Italian
Vogue
–type clothes, veggie chips in metallic bags, fur-covered sunglasses… I started to sweat through my Abercrombie Henley. (Why’s it called a Henley?) My pits smelled like baby powder because I ran out of deodorant in the summer so I’ve been using Mandy’s. Thinking about the new things I was going to smell like made me sweat even more.

The freak show ended and the lights came back on.

ME:
I have to wear that stuff?

ANTON:
Inspiring, isn’t it? Each week a box will arrive at your house with the latest and greatest. Wear it, eat it, drink it, spritz it and they will come.

ME:
Who will?

ANTON:
The fourteen-to-twenty-five-year-old males.

ME:
For what?

ANTON:
For what you have. They’ll compliment you. You tell them you have a hookup. You can get them the same thing at a discounted rate. Give them the coupon
code that arrives with the shipment and send them to the specified website address. They buy it. You get twenty percent. Girls too. Show them our female brands and I’ll give you twenty percent of that too.

ME:
The thing is, Anton—

ANTON:
Sensei.

ME:
Sensei, I need twenty-five hundred today.

ANTON:
Sign this contract and I will give you an advance. You’re sixteen, right?

ME:
Actually, I’m only—

ANTON:
Of course you are.

He gave me a stack of papers and told me to take my time reading them.

I couldn’t concentrate. All I could think about was showing up at school in tight red jeans and a white belt. Cowhide blazers and shirts with different colored buttons. Logos! What would Hud and Coops say? They’d know something was up. What would I tell them? What could I tell them? I had to walk away. I had to run.

How could I, though? The only thing I ever wanted was to play Varsity. If I quit, Hud and Coops would know something was up and it’s not like I could tell them about the bankrupt thing. I promised my dad.

I told myself that this job is temporary. I could make the money back in a few weeks and then It-quit. Anyway, Dennis Rodman wore lipstick. He dyed his hair green. He dressed like a bride. He pierced his face. And he was inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame, so.

I signed all twenty pages. Now I’m in the red too.

Anton gave me the check and I rushed it over to Coach Bammer. He was afraid I wouldn’t show. He asked me why I looked tanned. I told him I had a fever. Same thing I told Sheridan when I saw her. I wanted to tell her the truth. She seems easy to talk to. But I can’t. I signed a contract. I have no clue what it says but I’m sure keeping this quiet is in there.

Feeling = Hall of Fame here I come.