Drama Major

*previously posted on my tumblr*

I was eating lunch, like a normal person, at the time. A black bean burger, because of my faux vegetarianism. No morality, just anorexia. And I would turn my back on all of it for some schnitzel. I sat and laughed with my best friend and a more recent friend. The more recent friend was a guy, a guy who liked to hang out with me. (Because I’m awesome). But this guy was beloved and sacred in a way I never fully grasped. (Literally and figuratively). When I became friends with him, and by friends I mean, hanging out, clothed, and talking about stuff, a collective gasp rippled through my college hallways. Why is SHE with HIM?!” they cried. Because I’m awesome, I thought, never realizing that one could never be awesome enough.

I was pulling pickles out of my burger and laughing at something my best friend had said. They were all working on a play together, but not me, I was working at a Cracker Barrel. She was very funny, might still be, but friendship’s have a lifespan. My best friend was commenting on the fact that my new guy-friend’s ex wanted him back. She thought it was funny because it was pretty obvious I was the reason for this change of heart. Li’l ol’ me was making a paragon of loveliness rethink her previous decision to end it all with my guy-friend. I was making her jealous. And all I was doing was having some laughs. It didn’t matter, though, because we looked like a couple. The people wanted us to be a couple. A professor said, “Two of my favorite people, together.”

My best friend thought it was hilarious that my friendship with guy friend was the talk of the rehearsals. And we joked about rumors we could start and how funny it was that everyone was swirling in the gossip mill yet no one thought to ask any of us about what was really going on. They just assumed and then whispered about it. And a majority of these people knew me and were my friends! We did scenes together! We helped each other build flats! We were in the shit together and that kind of love can never grow sour!

My best friend said we should start a rumor that I was pregnant. This made me belly laugh. Because I was a virgin and immaculate conception is always hilarious. So I joined in the hypothetical conversation. “Wouldn’t it be funny if…Because…And they would…” Yes to all! I love juxtaposition! And, well, sticking it to jerks. We even discussed whom to tell. Which was oddly satisfying, because he was such a mean little queen.

I should also mention that guy-friend and I may not have had the most conventional of friendships. We slept in the same bed and spooned sometimes…most times. And because of our professor’s odd comment, joked about getting married. He had given me a ring with his name carved into it to wear as part of the joke. It was silly to imagine marrying a guy I barely knew. But also, Paula Cole’s “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone” was on all my mixtapes and I completely and utterly romanticized the idea of marrying someone as soon as I graduated from college. Like some moron. Like a girl who keeps her high school boyfriend through college. Like a girl. And I never thought about myself that way, but the writer in me found this idea beautiful. Because it seemed doomed to fail. So I would hang out with guy friend and eat burritos and talk of memories past and then imagine all the heartache and pain that would come crashing into my staid life when I married him. The tiny house, the babies, the spit up, the broken soul. And I hugged that image to my chest like the inexperienced romantic that I was.

Later that night, after helping people to their table at the Barrel, my feet sore, my spirit weak, I flopped onto my best friend’s bed and she said, “I did it. I told him.” And my stomach dropped. I felt sick. I mean, I was there when we discussed it but I was not ready for the rumor to be spread. But she did it, she told the mean queen,”She might be pregnant.” Which, also, why did he think that my best friend would confide in him? Even he knew he was a gossip, he prided himself on it. But like a moth to a flame and me to a sandwich, he grabbed hold of that gossip and deep throated it like douche that he was.

The next day, people got hurt. And I felt terrible. The rumor swept through the cast and everyone had their opinions. The ex was hurt, my friends thought I was terrible and I sat there wondering why no one asked me about it.

That night I went to my guy-friend’s house. He was on the phone so I talked to his roommate, a beautiful girl I loved being around but who only liked being around me sometimes. Which made her irresistible. She told me of the fallout, and told me about my lovely close friends who now thought I was an obnoxious whore. She also told me about how my professor, my advisor, offered, to my guy-friend, to pay for my abortion. And that was the unkindest cut. I was less than human, something to be “taken care of.” And that hurt.

When my guy-friend was off the phone I went in to talk to him, my outsides reflecting the humor of the situation, my insides churning with guilt. He was angry. I hurt his ex. Who was presently in negotiations to be his now. I listened as he shamed me. I felt justified in that I didn’t actually deliver the death blow,…but I still, technically, aided and abetted.

That night I slept in his bed with him and that morning we shared a shower, platonically, if that’s possible. But when I left, I placed the ring bearing his name on his bed and knew I could never see him again. Guys with girlfriends couldn’t have girl…friends.

The next night, I slept in my own bed, in the house I shared with my best friend. I wasn’t mad at her, she was funny and great and I couldn’t blame her for anything. She told me that once the truth came out the mean queen approached her and exclaimed, “You used me?!” Which was pretty much the best thing I had ever heard.

Later, I woke up, to a sound at my window. I peered down into the darkness and saw my guy-friend standing beneath my window. The rocks he had thrown had woken me. I went downstairs and he was crying. Crying because he found the ring I left and he was upset I had to leave him. But it was a caveat to his new relationship contract; he couldn’t see me again. And he had agreed to it. We hugged and I pushed the ring away and reminded him of the woman he chose. I was not an asshole, I wanted him to be happy with whom he chose. And he didn’t choose me.

During the next week, he still invited me over. But if the girlfriend was stopping by, I went to his roommate’s bedroom, my irresistible friend, and we pretended I was there for her. “I can’t believe he’s doing this to you,” she said. I shrugged and listened to her and another friend rap so fluidly I couldn’t believe they were white.

In the fall, school began again. I had Abortion Professor for Voice and Diction and Acting 4: Good Luck with Chekov and Brecht. And I never told him what I knew. It was the most fun. Knowing that he treated me like a nothing as I sat in his class seemingly oblivious. Once, he said that I didn’t like him. He told that to the class. And that was the only time he was nice to me, when he thought I didn’t like him. I amended it; told him I was fond of him, because he was an amazing acting teacher. And content, he treated me like the other women, like some kind of annoyance, without a future, whom he had to train for money.

A few years later I found myself talking with a friend of guy -friend. He was an actor, too, and we talked about that time. He was around then and in the play. I said something full of bravado and false self-esteem like, “Yeah, we were gonna get married. He would’ve totally married me.” This friend, who knew me, sort of, we shared a college for 3 years, shook his head at me. Then he said, “No.”

I brushed it off as only the child of an alcoholic could, I laughed and made a joke; keep it comfortable! But even now I remember the look on his face and the realization that this guy probably heard the behind the scenes stuff. The “what am I gonna do about this blonde” stuff. And in a split second I knew. I was more than just a joke, but less than a relationship…and it hurt.

Do I regret the rumor starting? A little. But mostly no. I immediately found out who my real friends were. I spent my 21st birthday with friends from work, whom I had met 30 days before. The women who were assigned to holding back my hair knew very little of me. My gorgeous, unbelievably intelligent friends, with whom I had shared the trenches, had washed their hands of me. But it was my penance. And I accepted it.

I know now that having a male friend is impossible. For me it is. I flirt with everyone, men, women, even the trans woman who asked me if I was having twins when we talked in a library bathroom. Not that I’m overtly sexual, just flirty. I need the love. I can’t fault guy-friend for cutting me loose nor girlfriend for forbidding contact, she was smart.

The experience made me smarter, slightly more jaded, but not worldly. That would take nine months at an equity theater.

I wish I knew what I was trying to teach by telling this story. Maybe that Catholic guilt can even affect a Mormon girl? Maybe I learned nothing. I would probably do it all the same, if I could do it all again. Wallowing in sadness and watching Postcards From the Edge on repeat only made me more amazing. Losing my guy-friend pinched at first, but eventually I found others to fill that void. Probably what I learned is that drama is unnecessary. Especially if it’s your major.

I Gelosi performing, by Hieronymus Francken I, ca. 1590