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who does that? And then, oh yeah, then comes on to that other teenage newspaper boy.” Hoots and hollers echo from our now revived class as well as a couple of ewww’s.
    â€œAnd then she’s a total compulsive liar, too—lying to anyone and everyone, especially poor, stupid big Mitch. I hate that. I mean, he’s such a good guy, you know? And she just takes complete advantage of him. So, I think considering all that, you know, she’s actually worse than Stanley.” Mrs. C raises her eyebrows. I think we just took a wrong turn.
    â€œI mean, okay, Stanley might seem like a jerk and all, but at least he’s honest, you know? I appreciate that. Blanche just pretends to be something she’s not. She’s definitely got some issues,” Charlotte concludes.
    â€œExactly the point, Charlotte. She’s got issues. And does that justify what Stanley does to her in the end?” Mrs. C asks. She clicks her tongue in a semidisapprov-ing, semigenuinely interested in what we have to say kind of way.
    Charlotte shrugs. “She sort of put herself in that position,” she says. But I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what the right answer is.
    â€œStanley breaks Blanche,” Mrs. C says, perhaps thinking we didn’t fully understand the play. “He knows he can, and he does,” she continues. “Is that okay?”
    Charlotte shrugs. “I think she was already broken,”
she says, without much sympathy. They go back and forth for a while, but there’s really no shaking Charlotte and how much she dislikes Blanche.
    Mrs. C looks at me. “What about you, Charlie, what do you think?” she asks.
    This whole talk about Blanche, what she deserves, what she doesn’t deserve, and how much she lies, makes my head feel stuffed. The room feels like it’s rocking under my feet, but no one else seems to notice the mini earthquake, so I try to ignore it. But the truth is, I both hate and feel bad for Blanche. She’s weak, needy, and incredibly deceptive. I kind of get how she suffocates everyone in her life, but the reasons she’s fucked up are hard to define. The way nobody cares about her really sucks, so you kind of feel bad for her. I guess I also understand how people sometimes feel the need to lie because the truth is so bad. I feel the floor tremble again.
    â€œI agree with Charlotte,” I finally mumble.
    Mrs. C looks at us the way adults do, right before they justify your responses to pure teenage stupidity.
    â€œWell,” she says and sighs, “we could go on about this forever, but we have more presentations. Thank you, Charlotte and Charlie. All right, next we have . . .”
    Charlotte and I walk back to our seats. “Good job,” she whispers. Was she being sarcastic? Or did she really not notice the way I clammed up or how Mrs. C just looked at us? We sit down and the next pair goes on about some other play. Charlotte scribbles a note and passes it to me.

    Did I want to go on a hayride with Charlotte VanderKleaton? Did the sun shine? Was water wet? Suddenly I don’t give a crap about Blanche DuBois. I look over at Charlotte and offer her what I hope is a casual nod. She gives me a thumbs-up. And just like that, life is good.
    The bell rings just as another group is in midpresentation. Mrs. C says we’ll continue tomorrow and everyone rushes out.
    â€œSo, the hayride is on Thursday. It’s supposed to be really fun,” Charlotte says. We stand outside the drama room. Even though we’ve been working on the presentation together and I’ve been in class with her for over a month now, I still feel weird around her. There are a hundred thoughts going through my head right now. Was she really asking me to go somewhere with her? My mouth doesn’t work. Don’t mess this up. Act cool.
Just speak .
    â€œCool,” I say.
    â€œCool,” she says. Yes, this is all very, very cool.