it around one of the girls’ necks. He starts showing her where to put her fingers to play a chord.
My forward momentum fades away. I stop where I am, half hidden by a drum set. Suddenly I feel stupid for believing Darcy and Aviva. If Hunter wrote a song about me, wouldn’t he want to know what I thought of it? Wouldn’t he be looking for me? Or at least looking around? But he’s not. For a minute I thought my life was romantic and a guy wrote a song about me. Now I realize that my life isn’t exciting or romantic—my life consists of hiding behind a drum set and getting overshadowed by two mimes.
CHAPTER 15: HUNTER
“Senior Girls Lobby to Take Over, Convert to Lounge Boys’ Bathroom in South Hallway”
“The Boy Recession©” by Aviva Roth,
The Julius Journal
, November
I t’s November in Wisconsin and I’m in a T-shirt, trying to rush into school, but Amy and Pam stop me before I get inside the building. Usually before school they like to sit on a bench, smoking and insulting people’s clothes. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to smoke outside school, but I guess it would be pretty hypocritical for Dr. Nicotine to say anything about it. Or maybe he’s scared of Pam, like everyone else is. I usually ignore her and Amy, but today they stop me.
“We need to talk to you, Hunter,” Pam says.
“We have a request,” Amy adds.
Gross.
Pam and Amy are blowing cigarette smoke in my face, and it smells like ass. Do girls seriously think smoking makes them look hot?
“We heard you sing at Open-Mic Night,” Pam tells me.
“And we love your voice,” Amy says.
“Oh! Well, cool, thanks.”
“We want you to try out for the musical,” Pam says.
“The what?”
“The school musical,” Pam says. “The play. Didn’t you see
The Music Man
last year?”
No.
But since Pam’s holding a lit cigarette four inches from my eye, I say, “Oh, uh, yeah. It was good.”
“I’m the choreographer this year,” Amy says. “And I’ll probably be a lead.”
“I’m in charge of costumes,” Pam says. “And I’ll probably be a lead, too.”
Behind Pam’s back, Amy shakes her head no. Pam doesn’t notice because she keeps talking.
“So we don’t want the show to suck. And we need boys who can actually sing, because Brad’s gone.”
Oh, right.
Now I remember the school shows. This kid Brad Farina was always the star of them; last year, in
The Music Man
, he was the Music Man.
“I dunno,” I tell them. “I can’t act or anything.”
“Well, the other guys trying out can’t act
or
sing,” Pam says. “So you’ve got a leg up on those losers.”
Amy’s cigarette has gone out, and she gives up on trying to relight it. “Please, Hunter,” she begs, playing the good cop. “We really, really need you.”
“Well, I dunno,” I say, exhaling.
Damn.
I can see my breath. “What show is it?”
“
Chicago
!” Amy says brightly.
“Like, as in Chicago the band?” I ask. I know a few Chicago songs on the guitar.
“No,” Pam says. “It’s about women who murder men who deserve it.”
Pam and Amy asking me to try out for the show wasn’t the only weird thing to happen to me this week. The other day, in U.S. history, a girl asked to borrow a pen. From
me
. No one has ever asked to borrow a pen from me before. Girls have been touching me, too, bumping into me in the hallways and smiling afterward. Now I know what the flirtation is about: my voice. I’m like a dude version of one of those Sirens from
The Odyssey
, which we got assigned sophomore year.
I know I don’t seem like a musical-theater guy, but it was a pretty nice ego boost to hear that I’m a good singer and to hear that Pam and Amy “need” me. So I decided to go for it and try out this afternoon. It’s better than having Ms. Duff lecture me on what a huge disappointment I am.
So far, there are four guys here for the audition: me, Chung, a freshman whose balls haven’t dropped yet, and this other weird freshman,
My forward momentum fades away. I stop where I am, half hidden by a drum set. Suddenly I feel stupid for believing Darcy and Aviva. If Hunter wrote a song about me, wouldn’t he want to know what I thought of it? Wouldn’t he be looking for me? Or at least looking around? But he’s not. For a minute I thought my life was romantic and a guy wrote a song about me. Now I realize that my life isn’t exciting or romantic—my life consists of hiding behind a drum set and getting overshadowed by two mimes.
CHAPTER 15: HUNTER
“Senior Girls Lobby to Take Over, Convert to Lounge Boys’ Bathroom in South Hallway”
“The Boy Recession©” by Aviva Roth,
The Julius Journal
, November
I t’s November in Wisconsin and I’m in a T-shirt, trying to rush into school, but Amy and Pam stop me before I get inside the building. Usually before school they like to sit on a bench, smoking and insulting people’s clothes. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to smoke outside school, but I guess it would be pretty hypocritical for Dr. Nicotine to say anything about it. Or maybe he’s scared of Pam, like everyone else is. I usually ignore her and Amy, but today they stop me.
“We need to talk to you, Hunter,” Pam says.
“We have a request,” Amy adds.
Gross.
Pam and Amy are blowing cigarette smoke in my face, and it smells like ass. Do girls seriously think smoking makes them look hot?
“We heard you sing at Open-Mic Night,” Pam tells me.
“And we love your voice,” Amy says.
“Oh! Well, cool, thanks.”
“We want you to try out for the musical,” Pam says.
“The what?”
“The school musical,” Pam says. “The play. Didn’t you see
The Music Man
last year?”
No.
But since Pam’s holding a lit cigarette four inches from my eye, I say, “Oh, uh, yeah. It was good.”
“I’m the choreographer this year,” Amy says. “And I’ll probably be a lead.”
“I’m in charge of costumes,” Pam says. “And I’ll probably be a lead, too.”
Behind Pam’s back, Amy shakes her head no. Pam doesn’t notice because she keeps talking.
“So we don’t want the show to suck. And we need boys who can actually sing, because Brad’s gone.”
Oh, right.
Now I remember the school shows. This kid Brad Farina was always the star of them; last year, in
The Music Man
, he was the Music Man.
“I dunno,” I tell them. “I can’t act or anything.”
“Well, the other guys trying out can’t act
or
sing,” Pam says. “So you’ve got a leg up on those losers.”
Amy’s cigarette has gone out, and she gives up on trying to relight it. “Please, Hunter,” she begs, playing the good cop. “We really, really need you.”
“Well, I dunno,” I say, exhaling.
Damn.
I can see my breath. “What show is it?”
“
Chicago
!” Amy says brightly.
“Like, as in Chicago the band?” I ask. I know a few Chicago songs on the guitar.
“No,” Pam says. “It’s about women who murder men who deserve it.”
Pam and Amy asking me to try out for the show wasn’t the only weird thing to happen to me this week. The other day, in U.S. history, a girl asked to borrow a pen. From
me
. No one has ever asked to borrow a pen from me before. Girls have been touching me, too, bumping into me in the hallways and smiling afterward. Now I know what the flirtation is about: my voice. I’m like a dude version of one of those Sirens from
The Odyssey
, which we got assigned sophomore year.
I know I don’t seem like a musical-theater guy, but it was a pretty nice ego boost to hear that I’m a good singer and to hear that Pam and Amy “need” me. So I decided to go for it and try out this afternoon. It’s better than having Ms. Duff lecture me on what a huge disappointment I am.
So far, there are four guys here for the audition: me, Chung, a freshman whose balls haven’t dropped yet, and this other weird freshman,
Similar Books
