Boy Proof Read online

  I am uncomfortable in this body.

  I cannot wear a cute tank top with confidence.

  I listen like a fly on the wall. It doesn’t matter to them that I’m there. Because I’m the Invisible Girl.

  “Well, I think Max Carter is cute,” Nelly says. “There’s just something about him.”

  “Yeah, but he’s always got his nose in that little sketchbook. It’s kind of creepy,” Inez says while fixing the braids in her hair.

  “It’s not creepy. It’s mysterious. He’s totally driven,” Nelly says. “He’s really smart and cultured. He’s so not a boy.”

  I suck my lips in and mock her to myself.

  “Maybe you should ask him out,” another girl says.

  “Yeah, maybe I should. I love talking to him. He’s so deep.”

  The lockers slam shut and the voices echo down the hallway to the door to the gym until it’s just me and the tick of the large caged clock.

  I smart a little. A pinprick. I’m used to envy, but this pain is different.

  Max Carter has deep conversations with someone other than me.

  There is something about my face that looks all wrong. I can’t put my finger on it.

  I circle the positive of my own head and examine it carefully, making notes.

  I could extend my brow. Bubble it out. Turn it into a classic-looking extraterrestrial.

  I could make my nose gill-like and turn it into an aquatic creature.

  I could thin out my lips. I could remove my own mouth. I could round out the chin.

  Dad looks up from adding tiny pearls next to the eyes that cover the shell of a sea monster. Kilnoa of the Deep is the name of the film he is currently working on.

  “See how the actor will fit in here?” He points to a small compartment in the shell.

  I move off my bench and circle the shell to the back where wires and grips make up the servomechanism that will move the hundreds of tiny eyes on the shell.

  “How long will it take the actor to get made up?” I ask.

  “About six hours. It will be a lot like torture,” Dad says. “But it’s going to look fantastic.”

  My dad is beaming. He can make something from someone’s most outrageous imagination turn real.

  “The idea is that pollution in the ocean is irritating the giant mutant shells, and they’re not just producing harmless pearls anymore,” he says.

  The wheels in my mind start to spin.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  I take some of the clay and slap it on the positive. I will turn myself into a birdlike creature, slicked with oil. I pull an old newspaper out of the garbage can, one with the pictures of the thousands of birds caught in an oil spill. I rip out the biggest picture and bring it back to the table to use as a guide.

  Dad glances at the picture.

  “What a tragedy,” he says. He notices the beak I have begun to extend on the cast. “You going to use the picture as a guideline?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m going to make a statement.”

  I watch from my usual spot at lunch instead of concentrating on my Global History textbook. Nelly is talking to Max Carter. She is sticking out her breasts. She’s pushing her cute glasses up on her nose. She’s presenting him the nape of her neck. She wants him to bite it.

  I dissect Nelly. She’s pretty, but not that pretty. She’s normal. She’s nice. She’s friendly.

  Now that Max sits with Nelly, he never comes and tries to sit with me. In this one small moment of scrutinizing Nelly, I have to admit that Max has good taste in preferring to sit with her over me.

  Maybe I’d like to be her. Maybe if I tried, I could be her. Then again, maybe not.

  Even history’s steady march can’t keep my attention today. I begin to doodle in the margin of my notes while nibbling at my sandwich.

  Finally I give up on eating. I’m not hungry. I fold the plastic wrap back around my sandwich. Maybe I’ll be hungry later. Max finishes his conversation with Nelly and walks away. He walks toward me. I move over on the bench to make more room for him.

  What do I think I’m doing?

  But Max doesn’t even look up as he passes me by. He leaves me alone just like I want. Just like I told him every day when he tried to sit with me.

  He walks by without stopping to show me that he respects my space. But I feel disappointed, like maybe for once I want something different to happen. Maybe for once I do want the company.

  Ms. Dicostanzo sweeps into the Melrose Lion meeting. Everybody looks up from the work they’re doing on the new issue. She’s holding up the school paper that came out earlier today. She’s beaming.

  “This is the best issue for which I have ever had the privilege to be faculty editor. Give yourselves a round of applause.”

  She starts clapping, and her French-tipped nails click and her spangly bracelets bang together. She is a noisy person.

  Everyone claps along, because, I’ve noticed, people like to appreciate themselves.

  I’m the only one not clapping.

  “Egg, your photo-essay is fantastic. Nelly, your story is inspired. And Max”— she beams at Max, who looks at his folded hands —“you are sublime.”

  “Yeah, it’s such a great cartoon, Max,” Nelly says, her eyes all glittery.

  “I’m just warming up,” Max says. He’s blushing. Nelly makes him blush.

  What is it that makes those two people attracted to each other? Certainly they don’t have much in common. They could only have limited conversations, I’m sure of it. Even if Nelly thinks they are deep.

  “I’m so proud that I’m entering this trio into the statewide student journalism competition. I think we really stand a chance,” Ms. Dicostanzo says.

  Ms. Dicostanzo likes doing stuff like that. It makes her look good.

  “Okay. Down to business,” Nelly says, chest out, pencil in corner of mouth, which makes her look serious. “Anybody got any leads on any cool stories?”

  I raise my hand.

  “Egg, that’s nice of you to participate,” Nelly says.

  I grimace. She just has to point out that I am antisocial.

  “There’s a comic book, sci-fi, and horror convention in Pasadena. There’s going to be an exhibit of masks and animatronics from the great masters from movies like Dracula to Terminal Earth,” I say.

  Some people snicker.

  Nelly, trying to be the best student editor she can be, pretends to mull it over a minute.

  “The exhibit is going to end up at the Smithsonian. It’s an important exhibit,” I add.

  “That’s more entertainment-oriented, and I think the Lion should be a serious paper,” she says.

  “I agree,” Inez chimes in. “We get enough entertainment news every day with all of Hollywood surrounding us.”

  “It’s Hollywood history,” I say. Why don’t they get it?

  “Good suggestion, Egg. I’m glad that you’re beginning to participate. I’m sure you could find some e-zine that would love for you to cover it for them,” Ms. Dicostanzo says.

  “Good point,” Nelly says. “Anyone else?”

  Max raises his hand.

  “I think we should cover the Buns Not Guns show taking place downtown this Sunday,” he says.

  “Buns Not Guns?” says Inez. “What kind of show is that?”

  “It’s an organization that sends food to needy communities around the world, instead of weapons,” explains Max.

  “Oh,” says Inez. “That’s cool.”

  I’m looking out the window, listening, but from a distance. Buns Not Guns has an interesting ring to it. I look over at Max and he is standing there matter-of-factly. His face is serious and it’s obviously something important to him. There is clarity in his eyes. A focus. His thinking it’s important piques my interest. It compels me to sit up and take notice. It makes me want to go and check it out.

  “Ooooh. That sounds so alternative,” Nelly says. “I’ll go with
you and review it.”

  I catch Max as he slides Nelly a smile.

  “What time should I pick you up?” he asks.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I say, and I grab my army bag and leave the meeting. I am sweating. I feel feverish. The cool air outside makes me feel better. I walk out of the building, off of school grounds, and head for Golden Apple Comics. Martin is working today. I will buy some comic books, and I will feel better.

  “Hey, Egg, I got some new titles put aside for you,” Martin says. “Bota Life, Ratgirl, The Justice Clan . . .”

  “Oh, yeah. Cool.” I am distracted.

  If I were in a comic book, I would be the superhero, the one who was laughed at in school but was truly a genius. The Invisible Girl in my real life, Extraordinary Girl in disguise.

  “I think you’re really going to like this new post-apocalyptic series called BenBoy,” Martin says. “It’s like science fact and future environmental crisis distopia with a twist of coming plague.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  If I were a survivor at the end of the world, I would load my vehicle up with food and water and single-handedly save humanity. I would seem so gruff that no one would know about my loving, caring heart. Its absence, I am convinced, would be greater proof that it was there.

  I walk around the store and look at the action figures and new comics.

  “Guess what I heard today on the Net?” Martin says, coming up behind me.

  “What?”

  “The Terminal Earth DVD is coming out in April.”

  I stop dead in my tracks and close my eyes. At last, one piece of good news. My shitty day has been saved.

  “But they announced the release date for the summer,” I say.

  “That’s going to be the special edition. This first one is just going to be the movie, with no extras on it.”

  “That’s great news,” I say. “That’s fucking kick-ass.”

  “Hey, you know who seems pretty cool?” Martin says.

  “No, who?” I say.

  “That new kid Max,” Martin says.

  I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  “What?” Martin says.

  “I don’t know. He kind of annoys me,” I say.

  “I asked him if he wanted to join the Science Fiction and Fantasy Club, but he said no,” Martin says.

  “Why would you ask him to join?” I say.

  “The guy had me write a list of thirty-two comics to track and collect for him. Stuff from everywhere. He’s got great taste,” Martin says. “And he bought a whole bunch of action figures. Obscure stuff.”

  “Whatever. Catch you later,” I say, forking over my cash for the comics. I would love to get a peek at that list, though. I’m sure his taste in comics lies close to my own. How could Nelly ever appreciate the fine passion of comic-book collecting?

  “Oh, and hey,” Martin says.

  “What?”

  “I really liked your photo-essay in the Lion today.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and smile. It feels more like a grimace. Smiles don’t set well on my face.

  I pull my cloak together and walk home.

  There are a bunch of projects I need to finish. I pull out the sewing machine and unbag the fabric I got from Dad’s workshop and begin working on winterizing my Egg cloak.

  I don’t need a pattern. I eyeball the fabric and rip and tear and edge and age the cloak with ease.

  “I can’t work when you’re hovering.” I don’t look up, but I know that my mom is standing right behind me.

  “Sorry,” Mom says, and undoes herself from standing still. The energy in the room all of a sudden moves more freely. Mom comes up right next to me. She has too much perfume on. She must have a date.

  My fingers fly on the machine; my foot pumps.

  “You really are very crafty,” Mom says.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You could be a fashion designer. That might be a good career for you. Paris Fashion Week. Milan. Rome. I could sit in the front row. ‘Victoria Jurgen, Ursula Denton’s daughter, showed her new line this week.’”

  Even my mom’s fantasies about me star her.

  “Mom,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Let me make something perfectly clear so that there is no possibility for a misunderstanding.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m not ever, never, ever, not at all ever, going to become a FASHION DESIGNER!”

  “But you have a gift,” Mom says.

  I hold up my finished cloak and put it on. It fits perfectly.

  Mom follows me into the hallway.

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  “Out.”

  “No, Victoria. It’s a school night.”

  I stick my fingers in my ears to show her that I’m not listening. I walk out the door and into the dark, dark night.

  “Hello?” I yell into the apartment.

  “Well, at least I don’t have to spend any more time worrying this evening. Thank you very much,” Mom says.

  She’s in the living room with her feet up, smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of red wine.

  I cough. I grasp my throat. I throw my book bag on the living-room floor. I fall to the ground and twitch.

  Mom applauds.

  “Bravo, Victoria,” she says. “I don’t know why I’m the actress in the family when clearly you have all the talent.”

  I prop myself up on my elbows, and Mom does me the favor of stubbing out her cigarette.

  “Okay. Now that I’m done being angry with you, I’ve got a surprise for you,” Mom says.

  “Really?” I say. “I kind of doubt it.”

  “No, you’ll like this one.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Mom takes a deep breath. I realize that she’s excited. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Mom really excited about something.

  “Lark Austin is wooing me to be in her new film.”

  My jaw hits the floor.

  “The Greek Mythology trilogy?” I say.

  “Yes,” Mom says. “She wants me to play Hera.”

  I nearly shit my pants, have a heart attack, bulge my eyes out of their sockets, and explode. Well, not really. But I might as well.

  “You? You play Hera?”

  In the Science Fiction and Fantasy Club, we have been trying to put a dream cast together for the Greek Mythology trilogy, and it has never, once, ever, included my mother in the role of Hera.

  “Yes! We’re still negotiating, but it looks real good,” she says.

  I can’t believe it. My mom might actually be in something that I think is cool.

  “Anyway. I’ve been invited to the premiere of her new movie at the Egyptian Theatre, and there’s a reception, and I thought I would make you my date.”

  Mom’s face is like the sun, big and hot and bright and happy.

  “Saba Greer will be there, and I know how much you like her,” she says.

  This can’t be happening. My mom can’t actually start becoming cool.

  “I’m already going,” I remind her. “I volunteer at the Cinematheque. I’m working the reception. Jesus, Mom, take some notes or something. I live on this planet, too.”

  Mom’s face falls. She thought she finally had the key to getting in with me. I think she thinks she’s trying.

  “Well, we can still make it kind of like a date. Won’t that be fun?”

  “I’ll be there early.”

  “Oh. Well then,” she says. “Okay.”

  I retreat down the hallway and go to my room and throw myself on my bed.

  I turn and notice my masks staring at me. They sit on the shelf, passing judgment. They are grotesque and accusatory and I deserve it.

  When I was a little girl, my mom and I were always laughing together and doing goofy things. We actually got along. Then, one day, we suddenly lost the ability to understand each other.

  Despite my tough exterior, my I-don’t-care attitude, my thi
ck-skinned, slit-eyed meanness, I feel shitty about being horrible to my mom. She didn’t do anything except try to be nice to me.

  I discover that my cheeks are wet and I am crying.

  My prosthetic nose keeps dipping into the spoon and getting wet with vegetable soup. I told the makeup assistant person that I could take it off for lunch and put it back on by myself; I even told her I had the adhesive with me in my bag, but she didn’t believe I could do it.

  I told her that I thought the makeup guy was not as good as my dad. I told her that even I could do the special-effects makeup on this TV movie better than her. I told the producer of the show, too. But the producer refused to be influenced by me.

  I hate all the other extras on the set, so I bailed on the free bagels and wraps and went to the commissary. Here at least I can read my book in peace and not talk to all the wannabes and weirdos that make up the background players.

  I pull the nose off, meaning the makeup people will be upset with me, but fuck it. It’s annoying to eat with, and I don’t want to sip my soup through a straw.

  I open my bag and take out my book, The Stars My Destination, and begin to read. I should study my math, but it’s Saturday and for once I don’t want to do homework.

  After lunch, I head back to the set and into the makeup trailer to put my nose back on.

  “Hello?”

  They must all still be eating lunch. I make my way up into the empty trailer and run my hands along the countertop. I examine all the stuff. There’s a clear tackle box full of ears. Another one full of noses. There are Styrofoam heads on shelves, with various latex parts pinned to them. The heads have the actors’ names emblazoned on their foreheads in black Sharpie pen.

  I close my eyes and listen to the sounds from the studio. The golf carts. The crackle of walkie-talkies. The extras, the actors, the crew walking by the open door of the trailer. I feel good in the makeup truck. Like I can breathe.

  I motivate myself and rummage in my bag until I find the adhesive to secure my nose. Then I sit in the chair and begin applying.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  I look up into the mirror, and standing behind me is the head makeup guy.