Brad looks me up and down before nodding. “I get what you mean, but if you really want Hudson … if you want him to fall for you—for Randy—then you have to tell him, right? Because if there’s really no difference, he won’t mind.”
“Right,” I say. Which is true. Except … not yet. Playing for keeps, like Brad just said. And that means winning first, getting Hudson to fall. Then it won’t matter. Then he’ll have seen me—the most important parts of me—and the other stuff, theater, glitter, sports—all of that will be unimportant and he’ll love me with nail polish or without. I’ll tell him, and he’ll laugh and say, “None of that matters. I know you. And you’re special.”
If I tell him too soon, though, he’ll tell me I’m a liar and never want to speak to me again. So I have to go slow.
“Thanks,” I say to Brad.
Brad runs back toward the group and I follow slowly. Hudson turns to me and grins, extending his hand for me to take when I’m close.
“So, what was that about?” he asks quietly.
“He just wanted some advice.”
“Advice? On what?”
“Looooooove, obviously. From me, the loooooove expert.”
“You’re such a nerd, babe.” He laughs, resting his head on my shoulder.
“A love nerd.”
“So he’s still into George?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you tell him?”
“To tell George he’s not just flirting, that he really likes him.”
He lifts his head up and looks at me. “You think they’ll really work?”
“Sure.”
“They’re so different.”
“So what? We’re not the same.”
“We’re more similar than them.”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Please don’t start wearing nail polish,” he says, and it’s like a sudden punch to the throat.
“Why not?” I ask, my voice coarse.
“I dunno. I just … like you like you are. A regular guy.”
“Would nail polish really make a difference?” I try not to make it sound like begging. I know it’s early in the plan, but this has to work. All of it, including turning back into Randy. And it will, I tell myself, closing my eyes for a moment. It will, it will, it will ….
“Nah,” he says, leaning his head on my shoulder again. I sigh, relieved. “I don’t know. It’s not like you’re going to start wearing it, right?”
“Right,” I say, watching one of the first-year kids leap for the rope over the Peanut Butter Pit and miss. Not yet, anyway.
FIFTEEN
“Honestly, I’m a little offended,” I tell George and Ashleigh that night after a camp-wide scavenger hunt, where cabins were teams, so I wasn’t with Hudson, sadly. “Isn’t the first Friday when he normally asks a guy to go to the Peanut Butter Pit with him?”
“But you said you wanted to take it slow,” Ashleigh says.
“Well, yeah,” I say.
“Darling, your plan is working. He’s treating you like a real boyfriend, not a fling. You said you wanted to wait until week two, right?” George lies on his stomach, painting his nails a new color he found over the year. It’s called Unicorn Trampocalypse, and it’s prismatic glitter with pink, purple, and navy, and I have never wanted anything on my fingers so badly. He already promised he’d paint mine with it when I start wearing it again.
“Maybe ten days.”
“Isn’t that closer to his schedule?” Ashleigh asks. “His usual one?”
George snorts. “Getting a little tired of waiting?”
“Yes,” I say, leaning back. “Really tired of waiting.”
“Well, the next step in your plan is love, not sex, so you’d better take the scenic route as you get into his pants. Can you do my right hand?”
“Sure,” I say, moving to his bed and taking the nail polish from him. I carefully fill in the nails on each of his spread fingers, watching the polish sparkle in the light. I look at my own hands—unpainted nails, skin rubbed raw from rocks and the rope swing. I’m a little proud of it, of how well I’ve adapted to this role, and how well I’m playing it. But I do wish I could sparkle again like Unicorn Trampocalypse.
“Besides, we don’t know for sure it’s Friday,” George says. “Maybe it’s tomorrow. Maybe he sneaks into your cabin tonight to whisk you away.”
“Yeah,” I say, moving on to his next nail. “You’re right. I’m being silly.”
“You’re being horny,” Ashleigh says.
“Who’s horny?” Paz asks, coming back from having brushed her teeth in the bathroom and launching herself into her bunk, then immediately wincing.
“No one,” I say at the exact same time as Ashleigh and George say, “Randy.”
“There’s a terrible pun there,” Paz says, rubbing her shoulder.
“Which thankfully no one has made yet,” I respond, my voice arch as I paint the last of George’s nails.
“What’s wrong with your shoulder?” Ashleigh asks Paz.
“I fell during the choreography for ‘Shriners’ Ballet’ today. Crystal has me literally jumping over two of the Shriners’ outstretched arms to be caught by another. He didn’t catch me very well today.”
“Ouch.”
“I mean, I’m happy the dance isn’t a bunch of dumb sex jokes, and now it’s more about me beating them up, though. And at least I don’t have to run up a wall, like Jordan does during ‘Honestly Sincere.’ I think Crystal was high when she came up with the dancing this year.”
“I’m actually sort of happy I didn’t get Kim,” George says softly. “Montgomery has to walk along the edge of a raised bedframe at one point. It’s like an inch wide. While singing.”
“It’s more Cirque du Soliel than musical theater, honestly,” Paz adds.
“Sounds like the obstacle course,” I say with a laugh. “Sweetie, this is going to be at least two coats.” I point at George’s nails with the polish brush.
“I know. It’s quick drying, though. We have at least ten minutes before lights-out.” We both blow on his nails to get them to dry faster. “What are you doing tomorrow, since you don’t have rehearsals all day like us?” Weekends are mostly free time. Counselors are around, so we can drop into the A&C cabin or get in line for waterskiing at the lake, but there’s nothing scheduled, no planned stuff.
“Hudson wants to go on a hike, just the two of us.”
“See, so that’s when he’ll probably ask. A lovely hike, he kisses you, he says he wants to see you again tonight, in private, and so on. I’m sure he has this down to an art.”
“Probably,” I say. George takes the nail polish back and does his left hand. “Yeah, you’re probably right. And then I’ll say no, and ask him deep personal questions so we connect even more.”
“Sure,” George says. “Sounds like a plan.” He carefully finishes off the last of his left nails, then hands the nail polish back to me and spreads out his right hand again. I start painting. “You know, I have a date, too. Brad is going to come hang out at the drama cabin, and when rehearsals are over, we might go hang out at the boathouse or something.”