Part 6 (1/2)
”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.