Art Geeks and Prom Queens (25 page)

I stand there gripping the doorknob knowing that she’s right about some things, but wrong about others. But I don’t say anything. I just open the door, I’ve got to get out of here.

“I’m just being honest,” she continues. “You know, everyone’s really getting tired of how you act like you’re better than them. I heard some girls call you a stuck-up bitch.”

“Sure they weren’t talking about you?” I say, walking out the door.

“Oh, and now you’re leaving? You think you’re too good for my party?”

I don’t speak. I just walk.

“If you leave, I swear you won’t have one friend come Monday.”

But I just keep walking.

Even when she yells, “You’ll be sorry!”

When the door slams behind me, I start running. But halfway down the street I stop, and double-over in nausea. Then I start vomiting, over and over again, until it runs down the sidewalk.

It’s splattered all over my clothes, and there’s even some in my hair, but I just stand there bent over like the world’s biggest dumbass, vomiting and sobbing onto my mom’s shoes.

Then a car pulls up beside me, and I hear someone go, “Hey, are you okay?”

I recognize his voice. And it’s not Tyler.

But I don’t want anyone to see me like this, especially him. So I start walking quickly down the street, wiping my face with my sweater and refusing to look beside me.

“Rio, stop,” he says.

But I can’t. So I look over briefly and wave at Jas, like everything’s okay. And as I’m turning away I get a glimpse of a girl sitting next to him.

So I start running. And I don’t stop until I get home.

When I walk
in
the door, part of me is relieved that my parents are gone, and part of me wishes they weren’t, so they could see what a mess I am, and how fucked up my life is. And then I could stop pretending.

I go to my room, take off my clothes, and throw everything (including my mom’s shoes) in the little trash bin next to my desk. Then I reach in my purse, retrieve my bra, and throw that in there, too.

I get in the shower and turn on the water so hot it makes me cringe. Then I fill my palms with shampoo and bath gel, and I lather my hair and my body over and over until the vomit is washed away and my skin is bright and raw.

I pat myself dry with an oversized towel and weave my long, wet hair into a single braid. Then I slip into some old, worn flannel pajamas with faded pictures of strawberries and oranges, and pull on my favorite pair of old gray socks that come all the way up to my knees. Then I climb into bed.

But I can’t sleep because my mind is spinning around and around, but it’s no longer from the alcohol. It’s spinning with thoughts, and pictures, and things I don’t want to think about, and I know I’ll never get any sleep like this. So I open my desk drawer and grab a Valium that Kristi gave me. Then I place it on my tongue, and go into my bathroom for some water.

I fill up a glass, and just as I’m about to swallow I catch my reflection in the mirror.

And I think:
Who are you?

Because the pathetic, messed-up girl in the mirror is unrecognizable. She’s like a mosaic of what everyone else wanted her to be. And I don’t remember there being any broken pieces before. Because I used to be whole.

So I spit into the sink, empty my glass, and watch the water chase the pill down the drain. Then I go back in my room and crawl into bed.

And when my mind finally quiets, I sleep.

When I wake up on Sunday the first thing that pops into my head is:
Was that a dream?

But then I look at the bin full of smelly vomit clothes and I know it wasn’t.

I lie in bed until I hear my parents come home, then I hide the trash in my shower so they won’t come in here, see it, and start asking all kinds of questions. And when I climb back in bed I realize I’ve just chosen to lie again.

“Hey, kiddo, it’s after noon and you’re still in bed? Are you okay?” My dad asks, poking his head in my room.

“I’m not feeling well,” I say, as my mom plops herself down next to me.

“Why? What happened?” she asks, eyes full of scrutiny.

“Nothing happened.” I look at my dad then back at her. “I have cramps,” I whisper loud enough for him to hear, knowing he’ll get embarrassed and leave.

Well, that’s one down.

“Maybe you should get up and walk around,” my mom says, refusing to follow him. “Yoga really helps me.”

“Mom, I’m not doing yoga. My cramps are
really
bad.” I roll my eyes and bend into a fetal-like position for emphasis.

“Okay,” she says, sounding skeptical as she walks out the door. “I’ll be back to check on you later.” She says it like a promise, but I know it’s a threat.

I ended up staying in bed, faking cramps, until they finally left. That’s the problem with lying. Once you start, you pretty much have to take it all the way to the bitter end.

It’s not like they didn’t try though. I mean, my mom really thought she could lure me out of bed by offering:

1. Brunch at the Ritz-Carlton.

2. A few hours at Salt Creek Beach.

3. Shopping and gallery hopping in downtown Laguna.

4. Disneyland? (I think she was just testing me because it’s not in the five-mile radius of this particular field trip.)

5. Ice cream at the Haagen Daz across from Main Beach.

6. Browsing through the Laguna Art Museum.

But I held my ground and refused it all. Then I remained in bed until long after they left. I mean, I was playing the part of a girl with cramps so well, I was reluctant to get out of character.

By dinnertime they were back and I was starving, so I made my way downstairs to join them in the Venetian room.

“How you feeling, kiddo?” my dad asks.

“Okay,” I say, filling up the plate my mom had set out for me.

“Cramps are gone?” She gives me that same skeptical look.

I take a bite of corn on the cob and shrug.

“You missed a good exhibit,” she says.
“One Hundred Artists See God.
”

“Next time you should see One Hundred Artists See the Devil,” I say.

“Is there such a thing?” my dad asks.

“Yeah, it’s in Santa Ana.”

“So what did you do last night?” my mom asks, sipping her wine all casual and nonchalant, but I’m onto her.

“Nothing,” I say, cutting my salmon.

“Nothing?
Why, were you sick last night, too?”

“No. I just wanted a break.” I steal a quick peek at her and it’s pretty clear she’s not buying it.

“So let’s see,” she says, wineglass suspended in air. “It’s a Saturday
night, your parents are out of town, and you don’t invite
anyone
over. Not even your boyfriend.”

I roll my eyes. “Does it look like I had a party?”

“I didn’t say you had a
party.
” She looks all excited now, like she just got a big break in the case. “You’re the one that called it a party.”

Oh, nice work from the prosecution.

I give her the eye roll-head shake combination, then look at my dad and go, “Can you please step in here? I’m in need of a good defense attorney.”

So my dad looks at my mom and goes, “If Rio said she didn’t have a party, then I’m sure she didn’t.”

That’s it? He gets paid all kinds of money for that?

Then after giving me a long look, my mom takes a bite of her salad. And we all sit there quietly eating our dinners.

But she’s still watching me. And it really bugs me, so I go, “God, Mom, I have
cramps okay?
You act like you don’t believe me or something.”

“No one said anything about not believing you, Rio. Though I’m wondering if we should take you to the emergency room. Since if I remember correctly, you already had your period last week.” She takes a dainty bite of corn and smiles.

Oh, god, I’m so busted.

“This is so bogus!” I yell, dropping my fork and getting up from the table.

“Where are you going?” my father asks.

“Can I be excused? Because I’m really not feeling well.” I hug myself and bend forward, like I’m in terrible pain or something.

“Go ahead.” He nods.

And when he’s not looking, I glare at my mother and head for my room.

Monday morning I was filled with dread. It wasn’t until after I’d showered and dressed that I realized not one person had called me this whole entire time, and the only e-mail I got was from Paige. And I’m still not answering those.

I went downstairs and poured my usual cup of coffee, and even though I was armed and ready for battle, my mom didn’t mention one word about last night’s cramps.

But by eight o’clock, when nobody had come to pick me up, and I was still just sitting there in total denial, she said, “Rio, do you need a ride to school?”

I set down my mug, and said, “Yeah, I guess I do.”

I got there just as the bell was ringing so I didn’t even have time to go to my locker. I just headed straight for English, not sure what to expect when I took my usual seat next to Kristi. I mean, I knew I wasn’t capable of pretending that nothing happened, but I wasn’t exactly sure what she was capable of.

But when I sat down I noticed her seat was empty, so I took a deep breath, and tried to relax a little. Obviously she’s running behind, and even she’s not crazy enough to show up late then try to start something right in front of Mrs. Abbott.

I place my pen, notebook, and John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath (that I was supposed to start reading over the weekend and didn’t), on my desk and wait for something to happen. Mrs. Abbott walks over to her podium, and leaning on it with both elbows, goes, “Kristi, can you please open your book and begin reading from page twelve?”

And I’m thinking:
What?

The chair next to me is empty and there are no other Kristis in this class. So I look back at Mrs. Abbott, and then I look over to where she’s looking. And sitting on the opposite side of the room, as far from me as possible, is Kristi. Her long dark hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and she’s all decked out in her cheerleading sweater and skirt. She looks right at me, but only for a second. Then she starts reading from her open book.

I look down at my desk and listen to Kristi, but I can’t concentrate, because it’s weird seeing her all the way over there when Mrs. Abbott is all about the seating chart. And since she knew where to find her when she called on her, that means Kristi must have asked permission to move. And it makes me wonder if she gave a reason.

I notice a few girls sneaking glances at me, but it’s not in the way they usually do. There are no smiles, or little waves, or anything remotely friendly. They just check out my clothes, then toss their hair over their shoulder and laugh (but quietly so Mrs. Abbott remains completely clueless). It’s like all these girls are tossing their hair and laughing at me and I have no idea why. But it reminds me of what Kristi said just as I was leaving her party. I guess I didn’t really believe it at the time, but now I wonder if it’s true.

After class I go to my locker to switch out some books, but I’m also kind of hoping I’ll see Kristi. I mean, it’s not like I want to hang with her after all the nasty things she said, but I really don’t need her as an enemy either. But no one’s around and there’s also none of the usual notes in my locker, or text messages on my cell. And it’s starting to feel even worse than the first day of school. Because back then the only reason people didn’t talk to me was because they didn’t know me.