Bossypants Read Online Free PDF

with pouty lips and that swoopy hair that was so popular during the second Reagan administration. He was the scenic artist under Sharon and he would do things like paint the entire floor of the stage an hour before a performance (ruining the white shorts the kids had been asked to bring in from home to be in the chorus of “Free to Be… You and Me”). Then he’d disappear for two days, emerging with a ten-page letter of apology. He was a mess, and his New Year’s party was expected to be awesome.

    I was a teetotaler at the time, and none of my close friends were big drinkers. I went with Karen and Sharon, and the place was already packed when we got there. The kitchen and dining room were full of Brendan’s athletic Catholic school friends; the living room was packed with theater nerds.
    Brendan’s mom had locked herself in her room upstairs. There was an unclaimed dog turd in the hall outside the bathroom.

    People sat in small groups, talking about the other small groups that were just out of earshot.
    My ex and the dancer made a brief appearance, but I held my head high. I was wearing my best Gap turtleneck and my dates were two adult lesbians, so yeah, I was pretty cool.

    The Summer Showtime kids had to weave nervously through the jocks to get to the Doritos.
    Brendan’s long-suffering Catholic school “girlfriend,” Patty, tried to bridge the gap between the two groups. A sweet, quiet girl with short curly hair and a face as Irish as a scone, Patty seemed to be the only person at the party who didn’t realize what Brendan’s deal was—even the family dog had registered his disapproval again on the kitchen floor.

    Brendan and I ran into each other on the front lawn. He seemed to be in a particularly Oscar Wilde mood. “May I kiss you?” he asked. Sure, who cares. After a tender, playacted non-French kiss, Brendan suddenly “came out” to me. In my experience, the hardest thing about having someone “come out” to you is the “pretending to be surprised” part. You want him to feel like what he’s telling you is Big. It’s like, if somebody tells you they’re pregnant, you don’t say, “I did notice you’ve been eating like a hog lately.” Your gay friend has obviously made a big decision to say the words out loud. You don’t want him to realize that everybody’s known this since he was ten and he wanted to be Bert Lahr for Halloween. Not the Cowardly Lion, but Bert Lahr. “Oh, my gosh, no waaaay?” You stall, trying to think of something more substantial to say. “Is everyone, like, freaking out? What a… wow.”

    Brendan had clearly decided to make this party his debut, and he wandered through the crowd, performing his one-man show in various locations.

    Bored, I tried making out with Victor Anthony, a straight kid who was cute but kind of a wang.
    He was the Cream of Wheat of making out. I would try it every now and then, thinking maybe I’d like it, but every time: no. He really was a stunningly bad kisser. It was as if he took a running start at your mouth. Brendan’s stage kiss was way more skilled.

    I went back inside and parked it with Karen and Sharon in the theater living room, where Brendan was deep into Act II of “coming out.” The Monsignor Bonner football team was peering in from the dining area, hearing all of this. “Here’s a toast to being free of other people’s expectations,” Brendan monologued, “and loving whomever you choose.” In the background, scone-face Patty was quietly giving people coasters. Jesus, she was really not getting it.

    This evening was actually turning out to be quite boring. But then it happened.

    One of the drunk girls from the Archbishop Prendergast side of the party wandered into the Showtime room and started making out with Alexis Catalano. Everyone froze. Patty looked on, scone-faced. This was unprecedented. Brendan talked a good game, but these two were going at it—in public! This was years before every pop singer in the