Loveseat Nights

5

friday, feb 5

The cardboard moon is half-painted shimmery blue/white when Paul stumbles onto the stage.

“You’re ridiculously late for detention,” I tell him as he picks up a paintbrush and starts flipping it around in the air.

“If you drop that on my head, I will rip your—”

“Whoops.”

Something hard knocks me against the noggin; I almost hear my brain jiggling around.

“Goddamn, Paul, I’m injured already!” I rub the back of my head where the brush hit me, and then my forehead where the remote made me bleed.

“Injured from what?” Even though we’ve spent nearly the entire day together, he exclaims in shock at sight of the dark scab. “Whoa! What happened?”

I feed him the same story I’ve been spreading around the school about practicing soccer with my dad and getting hit with the ball. Everyone thinks my dad is the Athletic Father Protecting His Cubs type because of his summer part-time job of coaching the Pasadena Bobcats soccer team. And I’d be lying if I said he isn’t. He is. Or was.

The truth is, my dad and I haven’t practiced soccer together in five years. And I can’t say that I miss it much. Not the springtime weekends, not the feel of the cool grass brushing against my ankles, not my dad giving me advice on how to weave around a player, not—

No. Nope, I don’t miss it at all.

“Either you’re checking out Eliza’s boobs or you’re spacing out, and I don’t think it’s the first one,” Paul says. “That girl is cute and all, but a little lacking in the frontal chest area.”

I shake my head a little and go back to painting blue strokes onto the moon. Personally, I think a nice yellow would go great with the whole Made of Cheese theory but the ego-inflated snobs from Art IV expressed their opinion to me very clearly about “highlighting the innocent white of the moon with a darker cerulean at the edges.”

“Uh, you going to tell me about the scab?” Paul knocks my forehead lightly.

“Soccer practice, no big deal.”

“Well, it doesn’t look like a small deal...”

“Don’t worry. S’fine. Small scratch.”

“Talk like caveman much?”

“Annoy best friend much?”

Then, lo and behold, my eyes dart onto none other than Mona You-Spilled-Blood-On-My-Loveseat Lieber, strutting down the aisles of the theater. I’m almost tempted to shout her name, along with a few choice words, but catch myself in time. I’m not supposed to know of her existence, riiiiiight.

Then Mona starts sweeping her managerial gaze all across the theater stage and I realize how barren the place is. Just a couple actors rehearsing lines, the lead actress singing notes with a piano accompanist, and my big fat blue moon sitting smack dab stage left. And if Mona recognizes me, here, in front of everybody...

I don’t know why the thought makes me shudder.

“Uh, Paul, you take over for me,” I mumble, shoving the wet blue paintbrush into his hands. I might’ve gotten some paint across his chin or something because he starts protesting before I continue, “I’m going to get some more paint from the supply room.”

“But there’s another gallon just right here—!”

I fast-walk to the supplies closet so quickly that I almost bump into two guys carrying a giant background prop. After a “Watch it!” and “Sorry sorry sorry,” I’m wandering, lingering, in the hall between the bathrooms and water fountains.