There’s this thing they’re doing at the boys’ school, Witherspoon. The more I hear about these boys, the more I feel sorry for them. Like they all listen to Phish. And play Hacky Sack. And inevitably someone has a bongo drum.
Witherspoon Prep.
I mean, seriously.
These guys should really start breeding out of their circle. Half of them look like they couldn’t lift a suitcase. Not that they’d ever have to. But that they actually couldn’t. It’s pathetic. I mean, what is going to become of them? If they don’t get their trust funds, they are all goners for sure.
Anyway, I guess they’re putting this thing together. A play. It’s an obvious ploy to get girls over there. Theater girls. But still girls.
I saw the flyer on the wall. Auditions. Guess what’s the play? Actually, it’s a musical. Don’t squeal. God. What is wrong with you? You are so embarrassing sometimes.
Okay, here goes:
It’s Grease.
Yup. These Witherbottoms over there are gonna put on a production of Grease, and we’re all invited to be a part of the magic. Of course, everyone will want to play Sandy. That’s obvious. (Even though everyone knows the coolest part is Marty. Marty’s the hot one. She dates college guys. And Marines. And that famous TV guy who emcees the Rydell High dance contest.)
So I’m busy making fun of this in my head, having a blast internally, really, but next thing I know Remy is next to me, looking at the flyer, and now, get this.
“What? Grease!?”
“I know. So lame.”
“So lame that we are doing it.”
“What? No way.”
“C’mon. At the very least it will get us out of this godforsaken place. For a few hours at least. Otherwise we are destined to be shriveled-up old maids who play cards all day. Possibly pinochle.”
“You must be joking. Are you high?”
“What? No. Why? You wanna get high?”
“No, it’s just an expression.”
“Oh, c’mon, it’ll be fun.”
“Wait. You’re serious? I mean, I know you were all into your drama therapy or whatever, but this?”
“Yes. This. I definitely think we should go over there for the auditions. What could it hurt?”
“I know what you’re counting on. You’re counting on the theater bug. You’re counting on it biting me and turning me into a theater spaz.”
“Maybe. But really I’m really counting on us having an excuse to blow this popsicle stand.”
“I think it’s more like you want to blow some guy’s popsicle.”
“Ew.”
I shrug. “I’m just saying.”
“Look, it’ll look good on your transcripts. How ’bout that?”
Ugh. The magic bullet. “I dunno . . .”
But I already know I’m doing it. If Remy wants to do it, I want to do it. Just to be with Remy. Just to have more to laugh about and make fun of. Just to be in her world. To be next to her. To outsnark and outjoke and outgiggle and outtext from the same room and be silly but act as though we are part of our own personal movie.
“Besides. I bet Milo will do it.”
“Milo?”
“Oh. Nobody told you about Milo.”
“Um, what are you talking about?”
“Wow, you really are from Nebraska.”
“Iowa. And no, I was making it up. To impress everyone.”
“Milo. Milo Hesse. Aka the guy you’re about to be in love with.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Trust me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because everybody is.”
“Even you?”
“We’re just friends. But trust me. The guy’s irresistible. Like french fries.”
“I don’t like french fries.”
“Well, you’ll like this french fry.”
And now all I can think about is this unknown irresistible fry guy who even Remy cares about. And it’s weird because I’m simultaneously scared of this guy and also jealous of him. Like why does Remy like this guy so much? He’s just some stupid guy. And she’s Remy. The Remy Taft. Why should she demean herself by even liking anyone? Isn’t she above that? Everybody’s supposed to like her, remember?
I resolve to hate this Milo.