Read Online Snark and Stage Fright by Stephanie Wardrop - Free Book Online Page A

wouldn’t un-see it. Once we were naked together, once we had that first night together, we wouldn’t be able to go back to hanging out in the evening and watching a sitcom on TV.
    Could we?
    Fearing I’d start to hyperventilate with a new worry, I grabbed the kimono I’d left hanging on the bedpost and held it to my nose. I could still smell him on it, a heady blend of toothpaste, some guy-style deodorant, and Michael.
    Best smell ever. If I could bottle it, I’d make enough money to buy everyone on the Cape. And then evict them.
    I fell asleep thinking about that.

6  More Than a Little Awesome
     
     
    The next morning, Michael and his parents slept in later than I did. Apparently, on the Cape, I was a “morning person.” I took advantage of the cooler air after a late-night rain and baked banana muffins, knowing it wouldn’t heat up the house. After breakfast, we all got dressed and drove to Provincetown, the place that forms the fist on the bent arm that is the Cape; Michael’s mom had a meeting with someone who owns a gallery there. Michael and I walked around P-town and looked at everything. P-town is known for being gay-friendly, and I don’t want to sound like an unsophisticated noob, but I have never seen so many men in tiny, tiny shorts in one place. Many of the bars and restaurants advertised nightly drag and when, as we sat at a rooftop café overlooking the green water, Michael told me he’d been to one last summer, I almost fell out of my chair, squashing the seagull below who was scarfing up fallen oyster crackers.
    “It’s true,” he insisted, as he wiped mayonnaise from a lobster roll off his lower lip. “I went last year with some of my cousins and Forrest Ritter. I guess they let us in the bar because we were with a famous guy. Or maybe they never card. Anyway, Forrest kept saying, ‘some of these guys are good lookin’ chicks,’” he finished with a laugh.
    “Wow. Now I can’t even pretend to have been flattered by his attention.”
    Michael grinned and dowsed his French fries with more malt vinegar, saying, “No, you definitely can. He was right. Some of those guys were awfully realistic. There was a Christina Aguilera that would have fooled her mother. Very hot.”
    I shook my head, smiling. “You’re just full of surprises.”
    He grinned, clearly pleased with himself, saying, “I’m a complex guy.”
    “What else do you find hot, Mr. Endicott?”
    “Snarky girls with ketchup on their chins,” he said as he dabbed at the spot with his thumb.
    After lunch, we looked at some of the shops and galleries that lined the main streets. I couldn’t believe how expensive everything was and not just the art for sale—even buying a cup of sorbet required a mortgage. My dad would have complained from one end of the town to the other. But when we saw the director John Waters riding his bike down the street, I clutched Michael’s arm and practically jumped up and down like a kid who’s seen Santa off-duty. Michael laughed at me, but I love Hairspray and Serial Mom , which our friend Gary had gotten us to watch one night in the rec room of his house where his punk band usually practiced. I was genuinely excited to see Waters’ tiny pencil moustache in real life and, fortunately, he just pedaled past me before I could make a fool of myself beyond simple gawking, mouth open and imbecilic as a trout’s.
    “You’re so cute when you act like a little kid,” Michael teased as we walked to meet his mom and dad back at a gallery where she had agreed to show some of her stuff. I wasn’t surprised. I really like her work. It’s something I could never do. It’s very impressionistic, more like someone’s dream of a big bold flower than an actual flower. She uses such vibrant colors you feel like they’re reaching out to you. I wondered if I should ask her for painting lessons this fall, which would be a great idea if I decided to apply to art schools and not just liberal arts colleges.