blowing around they seem like war widows or something because they all start sighing.
“There will never be another show that good. I guarantee it,” Marisa says.
“Never,” agrees another Ashley.
“It was miraculous,” Claire says. “Everything came together.”
Eric and I look at Ryan for some sort of masculine confirmation or denial.
Ryan shrugs. “It was pretty fuckin’ good.”
“I don’t know how we’re going to top it,” Gary says, “especially with some…
“It’s not an experiment,” Christine says, “it’s an experimental theater piece.”
“Oh, right, THAT,” Gary says.
Christine explains: “We do two shows every year. A play and a musical. Usually the musical’s in spring and we spend the rest of our budget on it. This year our theater director Mr. Hendershaw did the musical in the fall so that way we’d have money left over and we could do a third play, after Christmas break. It’s something he wrote himself. It’s going to be amazing. He’s a genius.”
The other girls and Gary look away and keep painting. Ryan has gone to get his iPod out of his truck.
“It doesn’t seem like anybody else agrees with you, necessarily,” Eric says. I kind of want to hit him. I only ever deal with him when it’s just us, for the most part, so I forget what an awkward dude he is around people.
“I don’t know,” Christine says.
“It’s just…” Marisa says, “three PLAYS? I mean, it’s never been done before, much less, like, something that’s never been seen before. I dunno, it seems… controversial.”
“EXACTLY, controversial, exactly,” Christine says. “I’m not saying
“It was supposed to do that?” one of the Ashleys says.
“No. I don’t know. But we’re artists, right? Shouldn’t we ALWAYS want to do that?”
“I just like dancing,” the other Ashley says.
“Mr. Hendershaw’s piece has dance aspects,” Christine says.
“Christine has suck-up aspects,” Gary says.
Christine glares at Gary. What Christine has told us are called “flats” are now drying, completely gray, and the lunch bell hasn’t even rung yet. Ryan pulls his truck up to the loading dock, leaves the driver’s side door open, and blasts us all with ska music, the kind that, because of how bouncy it is, I can’t imagine anyone but Muppets listening to.
“Ugh,” Christine says to me. “I hate this.”
“Yeah, right?” I say. We are standing in the gravel watching paint dry.
“What kind of music do you like?” Christine says.
“I dunno. A lot of stuff. You probably haven’t heard a lot of it.”
“Try me,” Christine says.
“Uhm… okay… Styles Replay, Overlee, Manboy, Church Cancels Cow…”
“I LOVE Church Cancels Cow. Aren’t they amazing?”
“They are,” I say. “They are amazing.” This isn’t even the shit that my brother likes that I’ve picked up on, or the music Eric and I have decided would be good for the movies. This is the stuff I really actually like, not the things I like publicly.
“And Manboy… Oh my God. I haven’t heard… what was it?”
“Styles Replay? Overlee?”
“Overlee.”
“They’re great,” I say. “I’ll burn you their albums,” I say before I know I’m saying it.
“That would be great. Some of the people who were seniors when I was a freshman in Theater Division that are in college now, we still keep in touch. And they’ve got pretty good taste, but it’s not enough,” Christine says. “I’m so tired of ska and pop-punk and musicals, musicals, musicals.”
“Me too,” I say, even though I couldn’t name four musicals if you paid me. My dad listens to jazz and classic rock and my brother listens to Christian scream-o and crack rap and country to be ironic and Eric listens to everything, one thing at a time, and I don’t think he’s anywhere near the genre of musicals yet.
“This is a weird question,” Christine says. “Were you at IHOP really late on Friday night?”
“Yeah,” I say, “that was us.”
“I thought so!” Christine said. “We went there Friday after the show. Well, some of us. The musical has tons of people in it so we didn’t want to—that was a whole other dramatic situation. Just once I want to go for French toast without being accused of elitism, you know?”
“Sure. When we were there Eric accused me of elitism like four different times.”
Christine laughs and the wind blows hard in our direction.
“Well, there are lots of really fascinating sides to the abortion issue,” Eric is saying to Claire and an Ashley.
“No. No. I’m sorry. No, we can’t even discuss this,” Claire says. I have no idea how they got on the subject of abortion.
The lunch bell rings.
“Looks like we’re done. With this part anyway. Thanks for the help,” Christine says.
“Oh, uhm, you’re welcome. Should we still stay for sixth period, or…”
“Okay, well, let’s think of this from God’s point of view,” Eric says. “Just theoretically.”
“NO. NO. NO,” Claire says.
“That’s not very rational, and that’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Eric says.
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Christine says. “You guys, I mean. I mean… I don’t know if our director would be able to get you approved, and…”
“Right,” I say. “Eric, we should go.”
“But we get to stay through sixth period!” Eric says. “Legally! Right?”
I shake my head.
“Oh.”
Eric goes to start packing up his lunch, now hyperconscious of maybe being late to sixth period, even if it is just health. I go to grab my backpack.
“I’ll see you around, I guess. For that CD and whatever.”
“Hey!” Christine says. “We’re having this party this weekend. If you want to give it to me there.”
“Uhm. Okay.” Are you inviting me to a party, I want to say. But I realize that would be a stupid thing to say to someone who was actually inviting you to a party.
“Are you on Namespot? I can just message you the details.”
“Uhm. Yeah. Yeah, I’m on Namespot.”
“Awesome! I’ll do it as soon as I get home.”
“Okay,” I say, knowing I should walk away, heading for my backpack as quickly as I can because if I don’t I might screw it up somehow.
“Bye!” Christine says.
“Bye,” I say, and look back so I don’t seem completely subnormal, and to make sure the thing that I think just invited me to a party is a girl and not a trick of the light or swamp gas or a bunch of Drama Club flyers whipped around by the wind into a girl-shaped cyclone. It is, in fact, a girl, and she’s waving and cute.
Eric is waiting around the corner, I think because he got the hint that if he stayed any longer one of our new drama friends was going to slap him.
“What did that girl say to you?” Eric says.
Most of the gossip you hear in school anymore is not about things that happened at school or even in people’s bedrooms but things that happened on Namespot where it’s impossible to detect sarcasm and girls nearly rip each others’ eyes out over being bumped out of their friends’ “Top Tags,” and Eric and I have sworn never to join the cult, we would honestly rather have our brains eaten by spiders, as per Eric’s worst-way-to-die.
