Beyond Clueless by Linas Alsenas

off on Saturday, all I could do was watch some bad Spanish-language TV.”
    “
La Intrusa
?” I whispered back.
    Xiang’s eyes bugged out, à la Wile E. Coyote.
    “Um, please tell me you’re stalking me. I’m not sure I can be friends with someone who memorizes TV schedules.”
    “Miss Hsu?” At the sound of Mr. Dartagnan’s voice, Xiang replayed the trick from Saturday of folding herself into a single point in space. “Anything you’d like to share with the rest of us?” He must have meant a royal “us,” because no one else in the room bothered to wake up.
    “No.”
    “Then will you and Miss Sullivan please stop your incessant chatter?”
    He turned back to the projector. I made my most sympathetic “Oops!” face at Xiang, but she just shrugged and rolled her eyes.
    We lay low for the rest of the class, but then later, at lunch, Xiang slid her tray in front of me, beaming. During her free period, she had gone to see Sister Mary Alice about being in the orchestra for the show.
    “She. Is. So. Cool,” Xiang gushed. “Have you seen her classroom? There are
couches
in there. And she has, like, snacks put out in bowls everywhere. I can’t wait to take her English lit class next year.” Xiang sat down and heaved her green messenger bag into the chair next to her. She had written
Albatross
across the front flap with a marker.
    “But she said she doesn’t even know how to play a kazoo, so she won’t be the musical director. She’s delegating all the music stuff to Mrs. Murray, the lady with helmet hair. And Sister Mary Alice actually said ‘helmet hair’ when she described her.”
    “
WHAT?
Really?” I snorted soy milk into my nasal cavities.
    “No, of course not,” Xiang said carelessly. “But I could tell she was
thinking
it. Apparently, they haven’t set a date for auditions yet, but it’ll probably be next week sometime. They weren’t even thinking about opening it up beyond people who are already in the school orchestra, but I mentioned that I had friends from other schools who mightbe interested.” She carefully lifted the plastic wrap off her sandwich.
    “Ugh, that reminds me,” I said, “the cast auditions are on
Wednesday
, and I have nooo idea what I’m going to do.” I squished my face between the palms of my hands, and I could feel my heart speed up. I had spent all of yesterday afternoon at Bracksville Public Library’s drama section, trying to find a good monologue. And what song would I sing? If I didn’t get into this play, then . . . oh, God. I didn’t even want to think about it. No Jimmy
and
no theater? Or worse,
Jimmy and the boys getting in and me not?
How embarrassing would that be?
    Xiang looked up from her sandwich. “Don’t look at me. All I have are, like, cello sonatas.”
    I frowned. “Any ideas for the monologue?”
    Xiang shook her head. “I dunno. ‘To be or not to be?’ You know I don’t have a clue about that stuff.”
    I pushed a raisin along the table with a piece of celery. “I just wish I knew what other people were bringing. I mean, if I come in with a monologue from something theater-y, like
Our Town
or
The Miracle Worker
or
The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds
or something, will that make me super-lame?”
    Xiang shot me a what-the-hell-are-you-even-talking-about look.
    “Or is everyone going to be edgy and creative, doing dramatic readings from, like, a book on Demi Lovato’s beauty tips?”
    That made her smile. “That’s really good! You should totally do that! I’m sure you’ll stand out.”
    “Or be shunned as a freak forever.”
    “Or that,” she conceded, and started sucking on her juice-box straw.
    We sat in silence for a moment, imagining my potential social death.
    “Oh, let’s talk about something else,” I finally said. A lightbulb went off in my head. “Heyyyyyy, didn’t you have a CYO rehearsal on Sunday?” I twirled an accusatory carrot stick in her direction.
    “Don’t even go there,”