Chapter 12 #2
By now, I've developed a routine where if somebody asks me this question, I tell them a different story about what happened.
Kind of like the Joker in The Dark Knight does when he tells people about how he got his scars.
I tell Clint I ran into a Mexican cartel group in the woods and one of the cartel men flashed a machete at me and hit me right in the face with it.
“You poor boy. That ain't right. It's past high time we nuke Mexico and be done with it all,” Clint says, then shifts topics. “You know, your aunt is real smart and pretty. It's not often I come across a leggy lady genius. And she doesn't dye her hair green or blue, to boot.”
“Your friend,” Dinah says, leading Felix into the kitchen. I withdraw from the table and we head to my bedroom.
“How often is he here?” he asks me as I shut my door.
“Too often,” I say.
Felix sits down on my bed and digs through his backpack.
I sit down right beside him, my thigh slightly touching his.
I don't think I've sat this close to him before.
I feel this electric current run through my legs and chest as my skin rubs against his.
It's like we're different people ever since we told each other we're gay, and we met five minutes ago.
Like I've been sleepwalking this whole time, and only now did I wake up to how beautiful Felix is.
“I thought of the perfect idea for a new video while having dinner,” he says.
Felix pulls out his old Chewbacca and Yoda masks. He slips the Yoda mask over his head.
“Ordering fast food as Star Wars characters,” he says with a spot-on croaky Yoda voice. “A Whataburger with only cheese and ketchup, I would like to order! Pickles and onions, you shall not put! Hee-hee-hee!”
“Yes!” I clap. He's so funny. And cute.
“Then now we must go!” Felix says.
“Actually, can we do tomorrow instead? Right now I'm doing some research for my audition. I need to find a good song,” I say.
“My parents took me to see Spamalot and The Book of Mormon. Those have some great songs,” he says, then adds, “but maybe you should pick whatever is easy for you, considering the competition.”
“You mean Byron?” I ask, and he doesn't say anything. But obviously he's referring to him.
“Are you saying I can't do challenging stuff?”
He turns away, sensing my annoyance. “No, I mean—I've never heard you sing before. And if you're going to go up against Byron, you have to level up.”
I'm confused. He wants to run away with me, but he also seems to have a thing for Byron. I can show him I can be as good as stupid Byron. I've got Francois on my side.
Fine. Challenge accepted.
___________
A week later, I still don't have a song yet for the audition.
I remember Francois's advice about finding material you can relate to and that fits the role you want, but I don't know what that is.
Still feeling miffed by Felix's comment, I stubbornly search for musicals with the hardest songs. The Phantom of the Opera comes up.
Clint mentioned that one, and the connection with my face. After a brief image search, I don't think my face looks anywhere near as bad as his, but still. There might be something there. After all, Captain Hook and the Phantom are villains, right?
I find a video of a production of the musical online.
The overture fills my bedroom, all dramatic organ and theatrical strings.
I fall off my chair from the force of it.
It's ridiculous—pure theatrical cheese. I lie on my bed, expecting to fall asleep, but it's impossible to when everybody is screeching at the top of their lungs.
No, really, I know it's a musical, but nobody will stop singing.
And I don't get why this girl is caught between these two men.
One is a boring fop, and the other is a mewling sewer incel who hasn't taken a shower in his life and probably smells like Clint.
I keep getting distracted by how much I hate this musical.
Things heat up when the Phantom hides behind the statue, eavesdropping on Christine and Raoul, who want to marry in secret. He's a creep. And he won't stop whining. But like me, he'll continue to be mocked for his face.
The rage boils through him, and his voice almost pierces the air. He sings a song of revenge and commands the giant chandelier to fall onto the stage with incredible fury.
Way to go, Phantom. Way to go. That was actually cool.
Not that I can relate or anything.
This is the song I'm going to choose for my audition.
After days of practicing, my aunt has had enough and busts through my door.
“Between your shrieking and that Brandon Barton Barfbag TV ad, I'm about to have an aneurysm,” Dinah says.
The commercial seems to play every five minutes on every platform.
It's a little ridiculous, and impossible to not replay in your head a thousand times as you try to sleep.
“Also, I'm not buying you those chickpea-cardamom vegetarian TV dinners anymore. It smells like the goddamn Arabian Nights in this house, and it's ruining my Christmas Cookie candle!”
At school, the theater kids have a table for audition sign-ups in the cafeteria during lunch. Across from them, Roland and Aubrey and the IntegriTruth Student Council have set up their Anti-Pansgender table. Roland screams through the megaphone.
Darren and Aubrey scowl at each other.
I sign my name and write “Captain Hook” for the role I'm interested in auditioning for. Byron watches every letter I write, which fills me with devilish satisfaction.
“Captain Hook? Really?” he says skeptically.
“Like you said, I'd make the perfect pirate,” I snap back, and his face freezes.
My resting bitch face feeds into a smug grin. I wink at him and leave him there speechless.