Art Geeks and Prom Queens (2 page)

“Okay,” she says, shrugging and looking away like she doesn’t care, but I know she does.

“Are you gonna be okay today?” I ask, climbing out and closing the door between us. It’s weird how I worry about her sometimes. It makes me feel like I’m the parent.

“I’ll be great! But you better get to class. You’re twenty minutes late you know!”

Then she puts the car in gear and speeds away.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head to the office so I can inform whoever’s inside that I’m new, late, and have no idea where I’m supposed to go next.

I pull on the heavy glass door, walk inside, lean against the counter, and wait for someone to notice me. This woman with severely bleached hair and a starched white blouse with tiny pink flowers squints at me and says, “And how can we help you?”

“Um, I’m new here. It’s my first day, and I’m not sure where I’m supposed to go,” I tell her.

She turns to her computer and taps a few keys. “Name, please?”

“Rio.”

She stops. “Like in Brazil?”

“Like in the song,” I say, tired of always having to answer this question.

She knits her brows together like she’s trying to remember how that one goes, then she shakes her head and says, “And your last name, Rio?”

“Jones.”

“Very good. Well, I see that you’re scheduled to be in AP English. You do know you’re twenty minutes late?” She gives me a stern look.

I look at my watch and shrug. “Um, actually I think it’s more like twenty-five.”

“We’ll let it go today. But tomorrow be on time.” She looks like she means business.

“I promise.”

“C’mon. I’ll walk you.” She reluctantly sets down her coffee cup, and sighs as she rises from her desk.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can find it,” I tell her.

“Are you sure?” she asks, pausing in her ascent, which makes it pretty obvious she’d rather stay.

“Definitely.”

She hands me some papers, and by the time I’m standing in front of the classroom door I’m in a total panic and I wish I’d let her come with me. But I have to do this, so I take a deep breath, grab the handle, and when I go inside I can feel like twenty pairs of eyes checking me out, including the teacher.

“Hi. Um, I’m supposed to give you this. I’m new.” I hand her the pink slip the office lady gave me. Then I just stand there and wait and hope I don’t look like a total reject as I stare at the walls that are covered in orange-and-brown construction-paper leaves that say “Fall into Literature.”

“You go by Rio?”

I nod.

“You know you’re late? Class is half over.” She runs her fingers through her short, brown, practical hair and peers at me through metal-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose. Her skin is so pale and translucent it looks like it was carved from a bar of glycerin.

“I know. I’m sorry,” I say, rubbing my arm like I always do when I’m nervous.

“Okay, well I’m Mrs. Abbott, and there’s an empty seat right over there.”

I walk over to where she was pointing, slide into the empty second-row seat, unzip my backpack, and pull out my favorite pen and the notebook I used at my old school. On my last day, all of my friends signed the cover and seeing it now makes my throat go all tight, and my eyes start to sting, and I wish I’d bought a new one. So to distract myself, I flip my pen upside down and watch the miniature New York
skyline float by in a cloud of glitter, and then I flip it the other way, sending it back where it came from. But it doesn’t cheer me up.

Mrs. Abbott goes back to the chalkboard and starts writing stuff on it and I know I should concentrate and copy it all down, but I can feel the girl at the next desk totally staring at me. And it makes me nervous and self-conscious.

I pull my zipper all the way up, making sure my chest is completely covered, since in the last year it’s gone from nonexistent to Jessica Simpson proportions, and I’m not entirely happy about it. Not to mention the five-inch growth spurt that has me clocking in at just under five feet ten, and my new, shiny, straight teeth no longer covered in thick metal braces. I mean, this is what it must feel like for those
Extreme Makeover
contestants. Only I didn’t ask for any of this. And it might sound crazy, but I was actually way happier as a short, chubby, acne-splattered, flat-chested dork.

Even when people would look at my mom and then me and then back at my mom, and whisper, “Is she adopted?” it didn’t bother me. Really. It was just a lot easier when I was the type of girl no one wanted to be like and everyone ignored. Because that kept their expectations low, so I could just be myself.

But now that I look different people are starting to treat me different. And it always makes me feel like I’m disappointing them by being a big geek, instead of glamorous and exciting like my mom. Also, I can’t stand the way they always stare at me.

Like right now.

I take a deep breath, look over and smile and try to seem friendly. But she doesn’t smile back.

She just taps her fingers against the chunky knit sleeve of her cheerleading sweater and looks me up and down.

And all I can think is:
I’m dead.

When the bell finally rings I grab my backpack and hurry into the hall in search of my new locker. Okay, it’s not like I have anything to put in it yet, but I figure I should at least know where it is. So when I finally
find it, I’m spinning the lock trying to make sure the numbers are lining up in just the right spot, and I hear someone behind me go, “So.”

I turn and face the cheerleader from my English class. Her sweater is turquoise, white, and green, which I guess are the school colors, and in the middle is a fuzzy white megaphone that says “Kristi!” in black cursive letters.

“Hey,” I say, not sure if she’s being friendly or menacing.

“Your locker’s, like, right next to mine.” She stares at me with these piercing blue eyes, holding some books against her hip with one hand, while twisting her long dark-brown hair around and around the index finger of the other. And she’s so petite, pretty, and perfect, I feel like Shrek in comparison.

“Really?” I say, trying to appear excited about this new piece of information.

“Yeah, that one’s mine.” She points to a locker two rows over and one row up.

“Oh, okay,” I say, smiling and nodding even though I have no idea where this is headed.

“So what’s your next class?” she asks, checking out my clothes, shoes, watch, backpack, and earrings.

“Um, AP Art,” I say, squinting at my class schedule.

She looks at me for a long moment and I’m starting to feel really uncomfortable when she finally goes, “Well, ciao!” and gives me this little wave with her hair-wrapped index finger.

As I watch her walk away I realize I have no idea what just happened, but I know it can’t be good. Because let’s face it, girls like Kristi just don’t talk to girls like me.

When I walk into AP Art, I’m the last to arrive even though I tried to be early. So I go across the room and introduce myself to my teacher, Ms. Tate, and it’s kind of weird, because she looks really similar to my art teacher from my old school, with her mass of dark wavy hair falling almost to her waist, hardly any makeup, and at least three piercings in her right ear (there may be more but I can’t tell because of her hair).

I hand her my paperwork and after looking it over she taps a pencil against the faux-wood grain of her desk like she’s deciding something important, then she stops tapping, and tells me to take a seat at the long table in the corner.

I consciously avoid the curious stares of the other students as I sit on the vacant chair next to a skinny girl with chin-length, choppy, red hair and a cool vintage outfit that has so much going on it’s hard to take it all in with just one glance. When she looks at me with these heavily black-rimmed eyes I sort of press my lips together in a pathetic, nervous, no-teeth smile. I guess after my strange encounter with the cheerleader I’m feeling a little shy. But unlike Kristi, she smiles and says, “Hey, I’m Mason, and that’s Jas.”

I look across the table to where she’s pointing, and sitting there is like the cutest guy
ever
. Okay, maybe not gorgeous in that perfect
Hollywood “spray-on tan personal trainer Brad Pitt in Troy” kind of way. But definitely cute in that “real person who goes to your school and he’s sitting right in front of you right now” kind of way.

He’s really tan, with sun-streaked brown hair that falls just short of his incredible, long-lashed, topaz eyes. And when he smiles my heart stops.

Temporarily, but literally.

And so determined to be cool I say, “Hey, Jas.” Only it comes out sounding like “Hey, Jath!” Like I have a speech impediment or something.
Which I don’t!
But now he probably thinks that I do. Great.

After Ms. Tate takes roll call she tells everyone just to continue with their projects. Then she comes over and sits next to me on the edge of the long wood desk, and even though she’s thin and petite, the desk creaks really loudly when she does that, like it’s gonna break or something.

“So, Rio,” she says, picking off pieces of white lint from her black cotton smock. “We’re all working on a series of projects, some of which will be chosen for the upcoming art show held every year in Laguna Beach. You’re getting a late start, but I’d still like you to try to contribute something. This year I’ve had each of the students pick a theme, value, or idea and then express it in a medium of their choice.”

“Can I use photography?” I ask.

“Sure. Whatever you like. The darkroom is over there.” She points to a door across the room that has a sign on it that says
DARKROOM
. “I’m sure Mason or Jas will be kind enough to show you around.”

So, of course, I immediately picture Jas (Jath!) “showing me around,” then I feel myself turn bright red when I realize he’s looking right at me.

Ms. Tate smiles and says, “I’m looking forward to seeing your work.” Then she rises from the table slowly and carefully so that it doesn’t creak again. But it still does.

When she’s gone, Mason leans across the desk and says, “You’re into photography?”

“Yeah.” I nod. Then I look over and see Jas looking at me, so I quickly look away.

“Who do you like?” he asks.

YOU!!!

But luckily I just say “Um, well, I love how Irving Penn shows the beauty in the most simple things, and how Annie Leibovitz gets right inside the soul of her subject, oh, and Helmut Newton’s work is so amazing.” Okay, I could go on and on but I make myself stop before I go too far and out myself as a total geek. I mean, most people my age have no idea who I’m talking about.

“Helmut Newton rocks.” Jas nods.

“And I love Irving Penn,” Mason says.

“You do?” I ask.

“Yeah, and Herb Ritts and Bruce Weber and Richard Avedon and Mario Testino. Wouldn’t that be the greatest job? To be a photographer?” Mason says.

“Totally,” I say, wondering if I should tell her how I met Herb Ritts once when he photographed my mom. But I don’t want her to think I’m bragging, so I don’t say anything.

“So where’d you move from?” she asks.

“New York.”

“Wow, I’ve always wanted to go there. What’s it like? Is it better than here?”

“I don’t know yet.” I shrug, even though I know it is.

“Anywhere’s better than here,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’ll see.”

“Don’t listen to her.” Jas shakes his head. “It’s not so bad. We’ve got great weather and awesome beaches. Have you been to the beach yet?”

“I’ve driven past,” I tell him.

“You’ve
got
to go to the beach. Do you surf?”

“I’ve gone boogie boarding in the Hamptons.” I shrug.

“You should come with us at lunch,” Mason says.

“Where?” I ask. “Surfing?”

“No, we’re going to Jas’s house. He lives right at the beach and he’s a great cook, he’ll make you whatever you want.”

“But is there enough time? I mean, I thought we couldn’t go off campus,” I say, sounding like a law-abiding good citizen.
Gag, why did I say that?

“Technically that’s true,” Mason says. “But we’re skipping the assembly, so there’s plenty of time.”