Read Online My Invented Life by Lauren Bjorkman - Free Book Online

Rosalind’s love interest in the play. Could life get any more perfect?
    “I’ll bet Eva won’t like it when she finds out you have to kiss Roz,” Mandy Wannabe says to Bryan. “In the play, I mean.”
    “Kissing a dyke doesn’t count,” he says.
    Life has a way of flushing perfection down the toilet. I stuff down the upwelling of tears. Eight years ago, my psychology-impaired swim instructor told me I looked ugly when I cried.
    “I don’t believe in dykes,” I say. No one laughs.
    “I have a brilliant idea,” Carmen twitters like a bird on caffeine. “Roz can play Rosalind as a man, and I’ll play Rosalind as a woman.” She adjusts her sweater to reveal more skin.
    “Ooh la la,” Bryan says. He sweeps up Carmen in the classic Hollywood style to kiss her.
    Another incident written and produced by Personal Nightmare, Inc
.
    What really happens? Nothing. When Carmen offers to play Rosalind as a woman and bats her sludgy eyelashes at Bryan, he turns away from her. Here are the facts. Carmen looks good, even with mascara waterfalls running down her face. Bryan loves to flirt. Eva is conveniently absent. So his indifference surprises me. I’m delighted, of course, but confused. We disperse without further ado.
    When the lunch minute rolls around, I consider where to go. Theater-geek central seems a less appealing option after Bryan’s dyke comment. So I bravely dive into the cafeteria. While in the slop line, I use my peripheral vision to scout for a table that is far, far away from where Eva and her cheerleader lovelies are on display. The cafeteria lady taps her tongs against the vat of shriveled chicken wings to get my attention.
    “Oh, frog legs,” I exclaim. “My favorite. Do they come with a portobello Cabernet sauce?”
    The boy in line behind me gets it, but the server’s face doesn’t change. Years of standing over bad-smelling steam would dull my funny bone too.
    “Aren’t you required to serve a vegetarian option?” I ask.
    “My name is Clara, and I will be your waitress this afternoon. Would you care to try our potato and chard soup with pesto garnish?” She adjusts the white cloth hanging over her arm.
    If only. My five-star fantasy makes my stomach growl
.
    “This is vegetarian.” She taps a bin containing the skeletal remains of green beans.
    “I’d like to lodge a complaint,” I say.
    She cracks a smile at last, but the flavor is more horror flick than comedy. She gestures me to the kitchen behind her. “Ask for Felicia,” she says.
    Felicia is a full twelve inches shorter than me and exudes the authority of a turbocharged pit bull. A pretty pit bull, despite the plastic bag over her hair, the rubber gloves, and full-length apron. I try the mannerly approach.
    “Are you Felicia?”
    “Yes.” Her look says:
Now you know. Shove off. You’re in my way
.
    Luckily I own a fake thick skin to wear over my thin one. “I’m Roz. Pleased to meet you.” I offer my hand in a friendly way. She looks at it like something I fished from the garbage. “I understand you’re very busy. Still, I was wondering. Would it be too much to ask for a vegetarian main course?”
    “Try the salad.”
    I’m making headway. She’s gone from one-word answers to three-word answers.
    “A person could starve on salad alone.”
    “Maria!” she yells. “More rolls.” After she barks a few more orders, she looks me up and down. Her eyes gleamwith what I take to be admiration for my persistence, plus a hint of amusement. “Okay. Feeding all you hungry kids is a lot of work. If you volunteer to work here, I’ll think about it.”
    “Deal,” I say.
    The way the other women in the kitchen laugh at this is a bit concerning.
    I’m three minutes late for rehearsal. The few stragglers in front of the Barn fall silent when they see me. An unattractive pair of boxer shorts—plaid and XXL—flaps in the breeze over the door. A poster board underneath reads R O Z’ S SKIVVIE Z. I walk past my so-called