see if black is white and up is down. Oh, look, there’s four men on horseback.
Edward gets dressed.
EDWARD: You’re not the only one around here who knows something about business.
NATIE: Yes I am. Where ya’ goin’?
EDWARD: For a walk in the park.
NATIE: Good idea. I’ll come, too.
EDWARD: You can’t!
NATIE: Why not?
EDWARD: I’m going to Brooks Brothers.
NATIE: Brooks Brothers is in the park?
EDWARD: No, it’s on Forty-fourth and Madison. I’m going after.
NATIE: Great. I need a new dress shirt. Mine’s got pit stains.
EDWARD: No!
NATIE: It’s just pit stains.
EDWARD: I mean…I need to shop alone.
NATIE: Why?
EDWARD: I’ve developed a phobia.
NATIE: To shopping?
EDWARD: I can’t do it in front of other people. It’s like being pee shy.
NATIE: Fine. We’ll walk in the park; then you can shop alone. Hopefully, you won’t have to pee.
EDWARD: Actually, I’m going to Brooks Brothers first, then to the park.
NATIE: I thought you said you were going after.
EDWARD: I changed my mind.
NATIE: If you don’t want me to come…
EDWARD: No, I just find that a walk in the park helps relieve the stress brought on by shopping.
NATIE: And peeing.
EDWARD: Exactly.
If I’m going to lead a double life, I’m going to have to become a better liar. No wonder I got kicked out of acting school. The moment I step outside, however, I get another chance.
“Eddieeeee! Hi! Remember me?”
“Oh, hallo!” I say, instantly becoming British. “Of course. From the boat. Uh, Lizzie, rawght?”
She smiles, revealing braces like the grillwork of a ’57 Chevy. “My friend Marcy and I looked you up in the phone book.”
Damn. Of all the pseudonyms to use, I’m stuck with one belonging to a man who worked on Broadway for twenty-five years as a chorus boy and a stage manager. If Eddie Sanders’s name gets in the paper, the entire cast of
42nd Street
will see that I stole his identity.
Lizzie bends one leg against the other, like a flamingo. “Marcy would’ve come with me, but she had to go to therapy.”
“Sorry to ’ear that.”
“She just does it for attention. Do you like my shirt?” She spins around to model an oversize Union Jack T-shirt, which she wears belted over a pair of leggings tucked into baggy socks.
I wonder if Brooks Brothers sells baggy socks.
“I’m, like, totally into everything British now,” she says. “America sucks. Do you know Morrissey? He’s so profound. Nobody at my school gets him.” She fidgets with the multiple jelly bracelets on her wrist. Across the street a drug deal takes place on the Devil’s Playground.
“This neighborhood isn’t really safe,” I say.
“It’s okay,” she says, reaching into her shirt. “I’ve got a whistle.”
It’s pink.
“Still,” I say, “why don’t I walk you over to Broadway?”
“Okay. Where ya’ goin’?”
“Just out to do a spot of shopping.”
Her eyes widen. “I
love
shopping,” she gasps, as if this were evidence of our deep, spiritual bond. She thrusts a skinny arm through mine. “I know all the best places.”
As we walk, Lizzie fills me in on All Things Sniderman: how her father’s girlfriend takes laxatives to stay thin, and that her brother knows the Preppy Killer, and her mother makes her carry condoms in her purse. (“In case I get raped.”) She also grills me on All Things British, so I teach her some Cockney slang, all of which I make up.
“So,” she says, “if you’re confused, you say you’re wonky socks?”
“’At’s rawght,” I say. “You also use it when somefin’s rubbish. Y’know, when someone acts like they’re all hump, but they’re really a Wimbledon.”
Lying is much easier when you’re using a phony accent.
Meanwhile, I try to figure out how to ditch her, but I can’t very well prevent her from entering Brooks Brothers. And I can’t very well tell her that British MTV’s hottest veejay has a shopping phobia.
Once we arrive at the store, Lizzie
Edward gets dressed.
EDWARD: You’re not the only one around here who knows something about business.
NATIE: Yes I am. Where ya’ goin’?
EDWARD: For a walk in the park.
NATIE: Good idea. I’ll come, too.
EDWARD: You can’t!
NATIE: Why not?
EDWARD: I’m going to Brooks Brothers.
NATIE: Brooks Brothers is in the park?
EDWARD: No, it’s on Forty-fourth and Madison. I’m going after.
NATIE: Great. I need a new dress shirt. Mine’s got pit stains.
EDWARD: No!
NATIE: It’s just pit stains.
EDWARD: I mean…I need to shop alone.
NATIE: Why?
EDWARD: I’ve developed a phobia.
NATIE: To shopping?
EDWARD: I can’t do it in front of other people. It’s like being pee shy.
NATIE: Fine. We’ll walk in the park; then you can shop alone. Hopefully, you won’t have to pee.
EDWARD: Actually, I’m going to Brooks Brothers first, then to the park.
NATIE: I thought you said you were going after.
EDWARD: I changed my mind.
NATIE: If you don’t want me to come…
EDWARD: No, I just find that a walk in the park helps relieve the stress brought on by shopping.
NATIE: And peeing.
EDWARD: Exactly.
If I’m going to lead a double life, I’m going to have to become a better liar. No wonder I got kicked out of acting school. The moment I step outside, however, I get another chance.
“Eddieeeee! Hi! Remember me?”
“Oh, hallo!” I say, instantly becoming British. “Of course. From the boat. Uh, Lizzie, rawght?”
She smiles, revealing braces like the grillwork of a ’57 Chevy. “My friend Marcy and I looked you up in the phone book.”
Damn. Of all the pseudonyms to use, I’m stuck with one belonging to a man who worked on Broadway for twenty-five years as a chorus boy and a stage manager. If Eddie Sanders’s name gets in the paper, the entire cast of
42nd Street
will see that I stole his identity.
Lizzie bends one leg against the other, like a flamingo. “Marcy would’ve come with me, but she had to go to therapy.”
“Sorry to ’ear that.”
“She just does it for attention. Do you like my shirt?” She spins around to model an oversize Union Jack T-shirt, which she wears belted over a pair of leggings tucked into baggy socks.
I wonder if Brooks Brothers sells baggy socks.
“I’m, like, totally into everything British now,” she says. “America sucks. Do you know Morrissey? He’s so profound. Nobody at my school gets him.” She fidgets with the multiple jelly bracelets on her wrist. Across the street a drug deal takes place on the Devil’s Playground.
“This neighborhood isn’t really safe,” I say.
“It’s okay,” she says, reaching into her shirt. “I’ve got a whistle.”
It’s pink.
“Still,” I say, “why don’t I walk you over to Broadway?”
“Okay. Where ya’ goin’?”
“Just out to do a spot of shopping.”
Her eyes widen. “I
love
shopping,” she gasps, as if this were evidence of our deep, spiritual bond. She thrusts a skinny arm through mine. “I know all the best places.”
As we walk, Lizzie fills me in on All Things Sniderman: how her father’s girlfriend takes laxatives to stay thin, and that her brother knows the Preppy Killer, and her mother makes her carry condoms in her purse. (“In case I get raped.”) She also grills me on All Things British, so I teach her some Cockney slang, all of which I make up.
“So,” she says, “if you’re confused, you say you’re wonky socks?”
“’At’s rawght,” I say. “You also use it when somefin’s rubbish. Y’know, when someone acts like they’re all hump, but they’re really a Wimbledon.”
Lying is much easier when you’re using a phony accent.
Meanwhile, I try to figure out how to ditch her, but I can’t very well prevent her from entering Brooks Brothers. And I can’t very well tell her that British MTV’s hottest veejay has a shopping phobia.
Once we arrive at the store, Lizzie
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