Populazzi. Part 6

"Big nose. Got it."

Archer stepped back a little, giving himself s.p.a.ce, then launched in. "Ah no, young man! That was a trifle short!...'"

It was a long monologue describing a million ways the "young man" could have better insulted his-Cyrano's-nose. I tried to follow along in the book, but it was impossible; I couldn't take my eyes off Archer. His lines were so funny that I was laughing out loud, but I could also sense his Cyrano was covering a layer of pain he didn't want anyone to see.

When he finished, I leaped up and cheered.

"Really?" Archer asked. "You really thought it was good?"

"Good? It was great! There's no way they can give this part to anyone else. You're perfect for it. If they don't give it to you, I'll boycott the theater. I'll stage a sit-in in the lobby. I'll go on a hunger strike."

"Thanks. But given your food proclivities, it might be more effective to go on an antihunger strike. You could sit in front of the director and force him to watch you eat until he gives me the part. He'd make it through two chocolate-shake french fries, tops."

"You're just jealous that my palate is sophisticated enough to appreciate eclectic flavors."

"If by sophisticated you mean 'dulled' and by eclectic you mean 'disgusting,' then yes, you're absolutely right." He nodded toward the Ping-Pong table. "Ready to play?"

"Am I ready? I'm not the one who let a little audition pressure affect her game."

"Oooh, ow!" he cried, grabbing his heart as he staggered back to the table.

Two days later, I was sitting in my room after school, amazed by how strange it felt to be home and not at Archer's. It was audition day, and he'd stayed late with all his friends. I had no clue what to do with myself, but I eventually decided to make the most of it. I pulled on comfy sweats, mixed a treat of peanut b.u.t.ter stirred with chocolate syrup, and settled onto my bed to eat and dive into a novel. I'd just gotten the third book in Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next series, and I couldn't wait to read it ... but the words kept melding into goo.

Had Archer finished his audition? I didn't want to bother him if he was still there, but I couldn't think about anything else. The part was so important to him. Should I have stayed after school with him for moral support? Maybe that would have been presumptuous-it's not as though he'd invited me. I might have just been in the way, or made him more nervous. But maybe he would have appreciated it. Maybe he'd been hoping I'd volunteer to come, whether he actually wanted me there or not. Wasn't that what good girlfriends did? Not that I was his girlfriend...

Whatever. I was his friend, and I was dying to find out how it went. I jumped up and grabbed my phone to text him, but it rang before I could even open it.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Cara? It's Archer!"

I could barely hear him over a chorus of voices screaming along to Madonna's "Holiday."

"Archer? Hey! How did it go?"

"Great ... I think!" he shouted, then his voice muted a bit as he said, "You guys, come on..." Then I heard him more clearly. "So, um ... how's everything going?"

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake..." a voice rang out.

"Hey!" a m.u.f.fled Archer cried. "Give it back!"

"Cara, it's Ember. We're done with auditions, we're going mini-golfing, and we're picking you up. Give me your address and I'll put it in my GPS."

Ember? Mini-golfing? Now?

"Cara?" Her tone made it clear that obedience was my only option.

"Oh. Sorry, um ... four-eighteen Avery Lane."

"Cool. We're five minutes away. Meet us out front."

She clicked off.

Five minutes? I looked at myself in the mirror: a shapeless blob of filthy old sweats, with sticky smears of chocolaty peanut b.u.t.ter glued to my face from licking the bowl. And peanut b.u.t.ter breath, no doubt. Disaster. I lost a full minute gaping at the horror, then raced to wash my face, brush my teeth, and change before zooming out front just as Ember's battered SUV sc.r.a.ped against the curb. I opened the door to the back seat and was blown backwards by the insanely loud music.

"Postaudition eighties sing-along!" Ember cried. "Get in!"

I wanted to ... but there didn't seem to be any room. Ember was in the driver's seat, Archer in the pa.s.senger seat, and Sue, Doug, Molly, and Dinah were crammed onto the back seat. Even the cargo area was filled with Tom's ma.s.sive bulk and the wiry frame of Noah.

"I, um ... I don't think I can," I said.

"Of course you can!" Ember shouted over the music. "Just sit on Archer's lap!"

Archer turned red.

"Is that really safe?" I asked.

"No, it's not safe," Sue told Ember. She turned to me and smiled apologetically. "I told her it wasn't safe. Maybe another time?"

"Sure," I said. "It's good to see you, though." I really hadn't seen Sue since she'd switched lunch tables.

"Good to see you, too," she said. "Bye!"

"Come on, Cara. You'll be fine," Noah said. "Tom and I don't even have seat belts back here, and we're not worried, right?"

"Exactly," Tom said, "because Ember is an excellent driver."

Huge eruption of laughter from everyone in the car, including Ember herself. I smiled uncomfortably.

"That's okay," I said. "Thanks for thinking of me."

"No-here," Archer said, clicking off his belt. "Take my seat."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yes! Excellent idea!" cried Doug. He rose and patted his seat. "Plant your tush right here, Archer. I'll sit on your lap."

Archer squeezed between Sue and Molly. Doug settled in on top of him. I climbed into the pa.s.senger seat and buckled in.

"Ooh, Archer!" Doug cooed as we jounced down the street. "Is that a pencil in your pocket, or have I just made your wildest fantasies come true?"

"Pencil?" Sue objected.

"Are you saying you'd know otherwise?" Doug asked.

Sue didn't answer.

"'Lovecats'!" Ember screamed. She turned the radio even louder and bounced in her seat as some eighties song I didn't know shrieked from the speakers. Everyone else sang along at the top of their lungs, completely unconcerned that Ember's seat-dancing took her mind off the car, which veered unsteadily in and out of our lane. I gripped my seat and wondered if there'd be a socially acceptable way to call a cab to get home.

By the time we got to the mini-golf course a half hour later, I was indebted to the G.o.ds of at least seven different religions, all of whom I had silently promised my immortal soul if I survived the ride.

"You okay?" Archer asked once we were safely in the parking lot.

"I'm great." At least I would be after a few more gulps of fresh air.

"Loser pays for ice cream?" Tom asked.

"Um ... I'm not really good at mini-golf," I said.

"This is different," Archer said. "We play for style. The most unique putt that sinks a ball wins each hole."

"Oh." Somehow I didn't find that comforting.

I was right to be worried. Archer and his friends had been playing this game for years. They were experts at finding truly bizarre ways to sink a mini-golf ball. They'd putt behind their backs; they'd lie down and shoot the ball as if with a pool cue; they'd whack the ball while leaping through the air. Putter use wasn't required; at one hole Tom executed a perfect pratfall and "tripped" over the ball, which went flying into the hole. Noah did a handstand, then swatted the ball in without losing his balance. Sue, who had until now struck me as a little shy and proper, placed the ball in her cleavage, then leaned down and squeezed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s together so the ball popped out and rolled into the hole. She won that round.

It was easily the weirdest afternoon I'd ever spent in public. I was sure I'd die of embarra.s.sment when a group of senior cla.s.s Penultimates got caught behind us and started making cracks. Archer and his friends weren't bothered at all. They just ignored the seniors and kept doing their thing, and eventually the group jumped past us and kept playing.

Once I stopped caring what everyone around us thought, I attempted a few tricks of my own. I tried a one-handed putt; I swatted a putt backwards between my legs. I even tried to bat one in with my head, like in soccer, but that just hurt.

Still, I had no hope in this crowd. Even with their sympathy points, I lost by double digits.

"Cara pays for ice cream!" Doug crowed.

"You don't have to," Archer said.

"Of course she has to!" Sue said. "She lost; it's the rule!"

"I'm happy to pay," I said.

And I was. I'd had a lot of fun-way more than I'd thought I would. I was even okay with the ride to Friendly's, their ice cream spot of choice, as long as I could sit buckled into the pa.s.senger seat. I genuinely felt like part of their group, and even though the Ladder had nothing to do with my real reasons for being around Archer, I saw how well it could work. I'd gone from being a complete no one to a solid Cubby Crew member. Sure, it was a lower-level Cubby Crew and miles away from the Supreme Populazzi, but it was a position I could build on and work my way up. Theoretically, I could do that. In practice, nothing sounded worse. If it meant being Archer's girlfriend, I'd embrace my inner Theater Geek forever.

Monday morning I came to school with a huge box of the peanut-b.u.t.ter-cream-cheese-Cap'n-Crunch apples. To me they're among the ultimate comfort foods, and Archer and his friends needed comfort. The Cyrano cast list was going up before the first bell rang, and each second of nervous antic.i.p.ation was torture for them. Sue was pretty grossed out by the apples, but everyone else really liked them, and they all munched anxiously as they waited for Mr. Gates, the director. When they saw him, they gripped one another in a Gordian knot that included me.

Mr. Gates was brutal. As I understood it, he was pretty much the faculty advisor of the Theater Geeks and had been a huge part of their lives for the past two years. As he moved closer and closer, I saw each member of the group scan his face, searching for some kind of clue-a smile of approval, a sigh of sympathy. But he gave them nothing. He wouldn't even make eye contact.

Without releasing one another, we tiptoed close to read the list. There it was: Archer was Cyrano.

"You got it!" I screamed, and threw my arms around him.

He hugged me close and said "Thanks" softly in my ear. For a second I completely forgot we were in the middle of the school hall. We were in his bas.e.m.e.nt again, all alone, and any moment he'd pull back and bring his lips to mine...

"Come to me, my darling!" Ember screamed. She ripped Archer away and gave him a huge kiss on the cheek. I checked the cast list. She was Roxanne, the female lead and the love of Cyrano's life. As she and Archer hugged, I noticed Sue looking at them wistfully. I knew she had also wanted the part of Roxanne and had to be disappointed, but I could have sworn there was something else in her eyes...

Maybe I was crazy, but I was suddenly very happy that Ember was cast as Archer's love interest and not Sue.

Rehearsals started that very afternoon and would severely impact Archer's and my Ping-Pong schedule. Archer made me promise we'd play on weekends. Of course I said yes, and we easily settled into a new routine. Sat.u.r.days we'd do things with the gang. They weren't just the Theater Geeks to me anymore; they really felt like my friends.

No matter what we did as a group on Sat.u.r.days, Archer and I would always end up at his house playing Ping-Pong. Sunday was homework day: I'd bring my books over and we'd study at his kitchen table.

More than a month went by this way. Archer and I spent an insane amount of time together, and no matter where we were or what we were doing, I'd feel his eyes on me. He always looked away when I caught him, but I knew what he was doing, because I did the same thing. I stared. I watched him as he chewed on his pencil when he pored over a history text. I watched him as we ran his lines for Cyrano. I watched him practice piano after he got into jazz band. I watched him, and I knew what I was thinking when I watched him, and if he was thinking the same thing when he watched me...

Except he never did anything about it. Not even when we were alone in my room, with the whole house to ourselves.

I hadn't arranged it that way. Mom and Karl had a wedding to go to one Sat.u.r.day, the same day a guy was supposed to come fix our was.h.i.+ng machine, so Mom asked if I'd stay home and wait.

"You can even have Archer over to keep you company," she added. It was the parental equivalent of a nudge and a wink. After Mom and Bina's first phone chat they'd exchanged numbers, and now Mom was Archer's biggest fan. Had it been at all possible, I'd have stopped liking him on principle alone.

I did have him over, and since we couldn't play Ping-Pong, we made Sat.u.r.day our study day. We started out very productive, but then I brought out snacks, which led to a debate over whether or not Frosted Mini-Wheats without milk qualified as a snack. I said it did, but Archer maintained that breakfast cereal by definition was meant to be enjoyed at breakfast time only. This led me to wonder aloud about his intense need to categorize foods by meal and if it might be a deep psychological issue from his childhood. Somehow that reminded Archer of his mom's and Lila's obsession with DailyPuppy.com and how Bina would call him to the computer every morning to share an adorable puppy picture or video. He said it with a scoff, but I'd never heard of DailyPuppy.com, and it sounded like the cutest thing in the universe. I had to see it immediately and raced upstairs to my computer. He followed me.

As I plopped down at my desk and typed in the URL, Archer noticed the Tastykakes on my night table.

"You gave me Mini-Wheats when you have Tastykakes?" He picked up the package from its spot next to the mini Liberty Bell replica.

"Don't open that!" I shouted.

"Wow. Okay." He replaced the Tastykakes and backed away from it, his hands up.

"Sorry, it's just ... you don't want to eat that."

"Because it's far too normal a food to have in your house?"

"Because it's about five years old."

Archer scrunched his face. "Tell me you're lying."

"I'm lying."

"Tell me you're lying without lying."

"Lying about lying? Or lying about the Tastykakes?"

He opened his mouth to speak, then paused. "I'm not sure. I'm confused now. Why would you have a five-year-old Tastykakes on your night table?"

"It's kind of a shrine," I admitted.

"A shrine to prepackaged snack cakes?"

"It's from a trip we took downtown when I was in sixth grade," I said. "I got to bring Claudia, and we did the whole Independence Hall/Liberty Bell thing, then Mom and Karl wanted to go on a walking tour. We begged until they said we could hang at the Bourse, as long as we held on to one of their cell phones. It was a huge deal because my parents had never been okay with me out in the world without a grownup."

"Sixth grade?" Archer asked.

"They were a little overprotective. They got better."

"So what did you do with your taste of freedom?" Archer asked. "Wait, I know. You and Claudia got matching tattoos. Liberty Bell tattoos. Rebellious and patriotic at the same time."

I was wearing shorts and a tank top, so I stretched out my arms and legs. "Do you see a Liberty Bell tattoo?"

Archer wiggled his eyebrows and looked me up and down. I gasped as if scandalized.