Art Geeks and Prom Queens (4 page)

“Um, what about?” I ask, clutching the banister.

“I think you know.”

I surrender. I let go of the banister and begin the long walk down the stairs toward ultimate doom.

I’m standing in front of her, bracing for trouble, when she shrieks, “What happened to your face?”

“What?” I panic, my hands racing to my cheeks. And then I remember how my chin hit the pavement a few hours earlier. “Oh, this? It’s nothing,” I say, patting it gently. “It’s just a scrape. I fell.”

She looks at me for a moment, eyes full of judgment, then she shakes her head and says, “The school called.”

“I know.”

“And what do you have to say for yourself?” she asks, using her damp towel to tap at a ring of yogalates sweat that’s formed around her neck.

“Um, not much.” I shrug.

“Rio, this just isn’t like you.” She shakes her head in frustration. “Do you have any idea how much we are spending on your education? Tuition to your little private school is costing us twenty-two thousand dollars a year, and that’s just tuition! It doesn’t include the extras like books and clothes and activities.”

“Dad can afford it.” I glare at her.

“That’s not the point. The point is that it’s a
privilege
to receive an education like that and I will not have you throw it all away. When I was your age—”

“Yeah, I know,” I interrupt her. “When you were my age, you were working as a model to put food on the table for you and Nana. You walked sixty blocks in the New York snow, just to save on cab fare.” I roll my eyes.

“Well, it’s true, Rio. I didn’t have the advantages that you do.”

Well you seem to be doing all right now, Mrs. Louis Vuitton-Yogalates!

But I only think that, I don’t say it.

“How’d you get home?” she asks, peering at my chin like it may hold the answer.

“Some friends drove me,” I say, studying the toe of my tennis shoe as though it’s fascinating.

“And who are these friends of yours?”

“Jas and Mason. They’re just some kids from school.”

“Are these your detention friends?” she asks.

Okay. Now I know what this is really about. It’s not about breaking school policy, or exorbitant tuition, or even the possible negative effect of detention on my academic standing.

Oh, no.

It’s about hanging with
the wrong crowd.

In my mom’s world, being popular with the princess posse takes precedence. And the fact that I’ve never belonged to a group like that
really
bugs her. But I just say, “Whatever,” and roll my eyes again. Mostly because I know how much she hates it when I do that.

She’s gripping her bottle of Evian so hard it makes a crackling sound, then she dabs at some sweat on her forehead and says, “I don’t like your tone, young lady. And let me tell you something else, your father is not going to be at all happy when he hears about this. He is working on a very big case right now and the last thing he needs is to hear this.”

“So let’s not tell him,” I say, looking right at her.

She stares at me for a moment, and I’m waiting for her to really lay into me. But when she doesn’t, I go, “Can I be excused?”

When she nods, I bolt upstairs to my room and close the door firmly. But I don’t slam it ‘cause that’s just asking for it.

I throw my books on the floor and rush over to my laptop, which is perched on a sturdy box in the corner. And when I check my e-mail I’m totally disappointed that my in box is empty.

So I tool around the Internet for a while, looking stuff up, and when my computer finally beeps I check my mail again. And I’m feeling all excited, until I see that it’s just a note from my dad. Not that that isn’t nice, because he’s back in New York, and I haven’t seen him for over a week. But still, it’s not the same as getting something from a friend.

I hit reply and tell him how I started school today, and about my new art project, but somehow I totally avoid mentioning detention. Then I tell him how much I miss him, and to hurry home.

And then Paige instant messages me.

PAIGE
: How’d it go 2day??????

ME
: Awesome!!! I got detention!

And the pathetic thing is, I do think it was awesome, because up until today nothing ever really happened to me. I mean, I’ve always just gone along and blended in. But now I’m in a new school, making a new start.

I can be whoever I want to be.

The next morning when I’m getting ready for school my mom “suggests” that I wear this new Michael Stars T-shirt she bought me, and I don’t even fight it. I just put it on, with the 7 for All Mankind (whatever the hell that means) jeans she also “suggested,” then I sit quietly on the edge of my bed while she attempts to cover my chin scab with her tiny, little makeup brush and a pot of Chanel concealer. And even when the final result is just a big, nasty,
beige
chin scab, I don’t protest. I just smile, grab my backpack, and let her drive me to school.

Then the minute she drops me off, I head straight for the bathroom where I cover the T-shirt with the “    ape        Crew” sweatshirt I had stashed in my backpack and go over to the sink, where I wash all the beige off my chin so that it’s back to being purplish red, but at least it looks natural.

When I sit at my desk in English I’m hoping that Kristi won’t stare at me all through class again. I mean, I’m so dressed down there’s really nothing to see. But she does it anyway. And every time I get the courage to look over and confront her she looks away.

After class when I’m switching out books at my locker, I glance over toward her locker where she’s talking to these two other cheerleaders. They’re laughing hysterically at something she said, and it’s kind of obvious that Kristi’s like the CEO and they’re competing to be
her apprentice. I mean, just because I’ve never been popular, doesn’t mean I don’t get how they operate.

But while I’m standing there watching them and thinking all this, Kristi looks over and sees
me
staring at
her!

Oh, god. Now that I’ve been caught I know I have to do something fast, but I just continue to stand there like the biggest geek on the planet. And then Kristi says something to her friends and they all turn and stare. Then the redhead waves and they all start laughing again. So I quickly slam my locker shut and make a run for my art class. Real smooth, I know.

When I get to our table Jas isn’t there yet, but Mason is. So I lean toward her and whisper, “Did you get in trouble?”

“Yeah,” she says. “You?”

“Totally.” I roll my eyes. “My mom gave me this big lecture about disadvantaged youth, how lucky I am, and how much they spend on this school. Please.” I roll my eyes and shake my head.

“I’m here on full scholarship,” she says. “I live with my mom in a tiny apartment in Costa Mesa.”

Silence.

She’s looking right at me, but I don’t know how she can even see me because I’m like half an inch tall now and I’m choking on my own foot. “Sorry,” I whisper.
God, I really am a spoiled brat.

“Whatever.” She shrugs.

Jas arrives then, and completely unaware of our girl-on-girl tension, he says something funny.

But it’s one of those moments when you’re busy inside your own head, listening to a continuous play of the stupid, hurtful, snotty thing you just said. So you can’t really hear the words that were just spoken to you, but you can tell by the delivery that you’re supposed to laugh.

So I do.

But apparently a little too loudly, ’cause Jas looks at me strangely and a bunch of students turn and stare, and I’m thinking maybe I should just hang out in the darkroom until graduation.

I guess this upcoming art show is like a pretty big deal. Mason really wants to go to an art school like Parsons or something, so she’s pretty serious about working on her portfolio and not wrecking her chance at a scholarship by getting into any more trouble. At least that’s what she said right before getting up from our table and heading for her easel.

Then Jas got up and went over to the potter’s wheel, and with his hands immersed in clay, he looked completely gorgeous and intense. So before I could do or say anything stupid I asked Ms. Tate if I could walk around campus and see if I could find something inspiring for my own project.

She hands me a hall pass that’s dangling on a long string, so I slip it around my neck, grab my camera, and head out.

In New York, my old school was like this big, imposing brick building that you entered at eight and left at three, and you rarely saw any daylight in between. But here, it’s the exact opposite. Instead of one big building, it’s like several smaller ones made of smooth beige stone with green-tinted glass windows, and they’re all connected by these sun-dappled, rambling walkways lined with flowers on one side and color-coordinated lockers on the other. There’s even a view of the ocean from the lunch area! I mean, it looks more like a resort than a high school, but then everything in Newport Beach is so polished and glossy and new (even the people!) that sometimes I wonder if we’ve accidentally moved to Stepford.

I head out to the big athletic field behind the gym where there are some guys running around the track. And as I stand there watching them take the corner, I contemplate doing a whole “motion, speed, and glory” kind of theme. But since I’m not really into sports, I doubt it will hold my interest.

I’m resting my camera against my shoulder, and trying to come up with something creative, when I notice Kristi and company sitting on the grass just a few feet away, and they just stop what they’re doing (inspecting their cuticles and gossiping) and stare.

It’s the first time I’ve seen Kristi out of her cheerleading ensemble
but there’s no doubt it’s her. She’s wearing the same kind of terry-cloth drawstring shorts like my mom wears, a pair of silver Nikes, and a T-shirt with a picture of a seagull on it that says “Sea Crest High School” (which is what they make us wear when we do PE), and her long dark hair is in two braids. Her two friends are like total clones of her except that apprentice wanna-be number one has brown eyes and long red hair in two braids, and number two has long brown hair with major blond highlights, but I can’t see her eyes because they’re hidden behind a pair of big, black Versace sunglasses.

So then all of a sudden they lean in really close to one another and give me this big fake smile and wave. And it seems really strange. And I’m not sure what to do. So I just sort of stand there and give a little wave back.

And then Kristi goes, “Hey, Brazil. Take the picture already!”

Brazil? Oh, very cute. And then I realize they’re posing for me. But I don’t really want to photograph them. But I also know that actually telling them that would make me a social casualty for the next two years (if I’m not one already).

So I fake-take it.

And then I go, “Thanks.”

But when I turn to walk away, Kristi says. “I didn’t hear it click. You better take another.”

So I go, “Oh. Really?” And then I peer at the camera, angling it in all these different ways, like I’m looking for a defect.

Then Kristi says through clenched teeth with her lips barely moving, “Just take another one before my face cracks from smiling.”