“Hey!”
...
“Hey, you!”
?
“Yeah, you!”
I don’t know if you’ve ever had a girl shout at you in the middle of a library, but let me tell you—pleasant experience it is not. School’s over for the day, so the place is mostly empty, but “mostly” still means a dozen people are staring at me as I turn around to face the girl. Why are they looking at me? Shouldn’t they be focused on the crazy lady who’s standing on a table waving her arms about like she’s trying to fly?
There are two other girls at the table. One I think I recognize from my Spanish class, but I can’t tell because she has her head down in embarrassment and all I can see is a huge bush of black hair. The other is a petite girl with glasses and a pageboy cut whom I don’t know, though I’ve passed her in the hall hundreds of times. Her slight build makes her look like a freshman, but her face is more mature than that, like a junior or a senior. She’s staring up at the crazy girl with a smooth, dispassionate expression, as though watching something that doesn’t affect her at all.
As for Little Miss Crazy Lady, she’s now pointing at me. “Wanna be in a play?”
Um. What?
“A play! A play! The play’s the thing!”
Uh-huh. I back away. If there’s one thing movies have taught me, it’s never trust anyone who randomly quotes Shakespeare.
“We need a man to be our sex symbol!”
Put an ad on Craigslist.
“C’mon, you have a cute butt. It’ll look great on stage.”
What sort of play is this? No, not a play. This is how cults recruit people. I bet they got Tom Cruise the same way. They start by saying you have a nice ass, then a couple quaaludes later you’re sacrificing a virgin to Baal.
“Hey, I’ll have you know I only sacrifice virgins to Baphomet,” Little Miss Crazy Lady says.
Not helping your case.
“you really should join,” the girl with glasses says in a flat, affectless voice that makes her sound like an e e cummings poem.
The curly one lifts her head from the table—yeah, she’s definitely in my Spanish class—and says, “She’s not going to stop until you say yes.”
Believe it or not, I don’t actually find that a persuasive argument.
I turn and try to walk away, but Little Miss Crazy Lady materializes in front of me.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. You know you want to.”
I know no such thing.
She grabs me by the arm. “You’ll be the only guy in the club.”
I wonder why.
I pull away from her grip and dart around a table.
She blocks my way again. How did she move that fast? The tables in here are packed tight and she’s less than skinny. “Imagine—you’ll have a dozen beautiful girls all to yourself.”
Tempting, but I’ll pass.
I retreat towards the shelves but I only get a few steps before another figure appears in front of me.
“It would be much easier on all of us if you went along with her,” the girl with the curly hair says.
I’m sure it would, but I believe ad astra per aspera.
I dodge around another table and make it into the stacks, but before I get even halfway down an aisle, a figure looms ahead of me—which is pretty impressive considering she’s all of five feet six.
The glasses girl stands there, hands and feet wide apart to block my way. I could get past her easily enough—it’s not like she’s a linebacker—but I really don’t wanna bowl over a girl. I stop and stare at her. She stares back.
You’re not going to tempt me? Make a veiled threat?
“...” she says.
C’mon, at least tell me resistance is futile or something like that.
“... resistance... is futile...”
Whoa yeah. Cansei de ser sexy. Have you ever considered wearing a dominatrix outfit?
Ow!
Little Miss Crazy Lady knocks me upside the head. “Stop sexually harassing your clubmates.”
Before I can point out that I haven’t, in fact, joined any club, she wraps her arms around my waist and hefts me into the air.
Excuse me, didn’t you just say something about not sexually harassing people?
“If I were sexually harassing you, I’d do something like this.”
I let out a high-pitched squeak like a drunken gerbil.
“What, precisely, do you think you’re doing?” This is a new voice, loud and authoritative. At first I assume it to be the librarian, but, no, she’s sitting at her desk watching the whole situation bemused. No, this voice comes from a girl who’s just entered the library. She’s tall—she’d come to my shoulders, and I know guys on the basketball team who don’t do that—and pale and dressed all in black—not in a goth sorta way, mind you; this is more stylish, designer jeans and a babydoll shirt. She also looks like she could whip the butts of everyone present, serially or concurrently.
Little Miss Crazy Lady drops me on the table and smiles like a cat who’s delivered a dead rat at its master’s feet. “I’ve found a new recruit!”
Stop making shit up.
The new arrival eyes me. Her gaze is considerably more discomfiting than the dozen pair of eyes already on me. I feel like a sow that’s being judged at a country fair—and the judge isn’t overly impressed. “Is this the best you can do?”
“He’s perfect,” Little Miss Crazy Lady says.
“he has a cute ass.” The glasses girl joins us at the table.
“That is hardly a basis for recruitment,” the new girl says.
I quite agree.
“And it’s not that cute. We can do far better.”
Hey!
“He’ll do,” the curly haired girl says.
The new girl scowls at me like this is all my fault. “Very well. Take a seat.”
Ah, what the hell. Arguing with them in the middle of the library is only drawing more attention. Might as well humor them for now. Not like I have anywhere to be.
“Awesome,” Little Miss Crazy Lady says as I sit down. “I’m Liz by the way. This is Liz,” she says pointing to the glasses girl, “and that,” she gestures towards the curly haired girl, “is Liz. So who the hell are you?”
Erik. Schumacher.
“Too confusing. How ‘bout we call you Liz instead?” Crazy Liz says.
“How about we don’t,” the new girl says. “For clarity’s sake, we refer to them by last name, Ryder, Dash, and Strode.” She points to Crazy Liz, Glasses Liz and Curly Liz respectively.
How about you?
“I am Lucretia.”
Fitting.
“You may call me Jensen.”
Sure it’s not Borgia?
“You are on the list.”
Cool, I hear people on the list get half off Thursdays.
“Do you want me to kill you?”
Jensen it is.
“Good boy. Now fill out this form.” She hands me a printout.
I pick it up expecting it to ask basic stuff like name, grade, and contact info, but what I find is more like an application for a security clearance. Mother’s maiden name? Allergies? Previous addresses?
Well, nothing to it but to fill it out with the seriousness it deserves. I set to writing my name in the appropriate space, last, first, middle initial.
So what’s with the press-gang?
The girls exchange uncomfortable looks.
AGE: 16.02
“there was... trouble,” Dash says, “with our fall production. all the upperclassmen quit.”
“Including all the guys,” Strode says.
“Which is why we need a sexy stud-muffin for our play,” Ryder says.
“We don’t need him,” Jensen says. “Girls can play guy parts perfectly fine. Ritu’s already said she’s willing to do it.”
SEX: yes, please
What happened?
More glances.
“We don’t talk about it,” Jensen says.
EYES: 2
Sounds scandalous.
“It wasn’t,” Jensen says.
HEIGHT: 4 1/4 cubits
Oh, of course not.
“It’s best if you don’t mention the subject to our president.”
I figured she was the president. I nod towards Ryder.
BIRTHPLACE: Fenwickstein
“No, she’s the vice president in charge of recruitment.”
A task to which she is eminently well suited.
“Indeed,” Jensen says.
“Thank you!” Ryder’s sarcasm detector is apparently in severe need of calibration.
My eyes meet Jensen’s and I can see she, like me, is struggling not to make a cutting remark. For a moment we come precipitously close to a having bonding moment, but I avert my eyes before the sappy music can start playing.
SIBLINGS:__________
I hesitate for a moment, then jot, “none”.
“But don’t slack off because you found one recruit. We don’t know if he’ll pass the audition,” Jensen says.
“Aye aye, sir,” Ryder snaps a salute that looks like she learned it from bad Hollywood movies.
“he will perform satisfactorily, i'm sure,” Dash says.
Your confidence inspires me.
I put the finishing touches on the form (Previous place of residence: Womb, mother’s belly, June 1997-February 1998) and slide it across to Jensen. She spins it around to read over. Her lips get tighter and whiter at every line. She finishes. She looks up. I smile. She doesn’t.
“Very well,” she says and stands. “Continue your recruiting efforts, please,” she tells the other girls. “We want to give the director as many options to choose from as possible.”
“He'll be awesome, with a side of chocolate,” Ryder says.
“Nonetheless.” And then, “You, come with me.”
It occurs to me at this instant that this would be an excellent opportunity to escape—not like Jensen would stop me—but I really don’t have anything better to be doing right now, nor indeed any other time after school, so I decide to go along and see what happens next. Though “decide” suggests that I actually put some thought into what I’m doing. Better to say, “I didn’t decide not to go along.” It’s sorta like I’m sitting on the couch watching TV, too lazy to grab the remote from the coffee table and change the channel. Except, y’know, it’s my life and not a TV show.
I follow Jensen down the hall. We’re passing the English department when I notice—hey, shouldn’t we’ve gone down those stairs back there?
“Why?”
Well, that’s the staircase that comes out next to the auditorium.
“Yes, and?”
Aren’t you taking me to audition?
“Yes.”
Then... shouldn’t we be going to the auditorium?
“No.”
Okay, then, where are we going?
As if in answer, Jensen stops in front of the elevator. Huh, isn’t this reserved for handicapped students?
“Don’t worry, I have a key.” She puts her backpack on the floor and digs inside. Her hand comes out clutching a huge key-ring, the kind janitors carry.
Ah, well, that makes it okay then.
After a few seconds of searching, she selects a key and sticks it in the elevator panel, twists it to the left and presses the call button. With classes over for the day, you’d think the elevator would arrive quickly, but it seems the school only invested enough money to make the place handicapped accessible, not to give them a speedy ride.
We stand there waiting for what seems an eternity. The whole time I keep looking down the corridor, wondering how much trouble we’ll be in if a teacher finds us using the elevator. Well, if that happens, I’ll disclaim any knowledge and blame Jensen. They are her keys after all.
Ding. The doors part at last. We could’ve walked wherever we’re going in the time it took the elevator to get here.
As Jensen steps inside, she hits the button for... the roof?
“Yes.” The elevator lurches upward with a disturbing rattle.
So... why?
“We don’t actually have an adviser right now, so we aren’t allowed to use the auditorium.”
I’m pretty sure the roof is even more off limits.
“Yes, but nobody ever goes up to the roof. Music teachers are in and out of the auditorium all the time.”
Ah, well, as long as you have such sound logic on your side.
The elevator’s rattle grows into an outright rumble, and I can feel the car trying to sway in the shaft. I wish this thing had an oh-shit handle like a car, but the only thing to grab onto in here is Jensen, and she looks likely to kick me through the door if I try.
The elevator comes to a halt with a thunk that nearly knocks us off our feet. We stagger out into a little access shed that protects the elevator’s workings from the elements. A half dozen buckets of paint are stacked in one corner, and an extension ladder leans against the wall—though looking at it, it’s too big to fit in the elevator so I don’t know how the maintenance men get it down. The shed’s double doors are propped open with wooden blocks, and a chill March wind makes the room feel like a meat locker. I wish I had my jacket.
A half dozen girls are gathered at the edge of the roof, sipping from various canned drinks while leaning against the low brick parapet like models in a casual wear ad. Except none of them are dressed in Abercrombie and Fitch.
There’re two, a pair of twins, Filipina I guess, wearing kinda retro grunge/punk outfits—torn jeans, black T-shirts (one Fugazi, the other Pearl Jam). Actually, apart from a couple accessories—a wallet chain, a leather wristband—they aren’t dressed any differently from me, but whereas I look like I threw on whatever I pulled out of my dresser this morning, they have an aesthetic ethos about them. One of the twins has cotton-candy pink hair, the other dark purple.
Next to them stands a girl who looks like a china doll: raven black hair falling around her porcelain white face in perfect little ringlets, and decked out in an elaborate goth-Victorian dress, all lace and frills. Does she even go to this school? I’m sure I would’ve noticed her if she did.
She’s talking to a girl in a long tweed coat who gives off the air of one of those fast-talking dame reporters in old screwball comedies. Sitting on the ledge between them is a petite, fragile looking girl, a Disney princess type with chestnut hair that hangs to her shoulders.
But none of them stands out as much as the girl who is standing, arms folded, to one side, her long flaxen hair done up in a pair of twintails that wave dramatically in the wind. I’m sure there are movie directors who spend hours setting up wind machines to get the same effect that she manages so casually. As Jensen and I come out of the shed, this girl gives us an enigmatic smile, like she’s finally realized how she’s going to defeat an army of vampires that’s trying to destroy the world. Gotta say, kinda creepy.
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