Art Geeks and Prom Queens (6 page)

Anyway, I know my mom would love it if I came home and told her about the question Kristi just asked me, and that’s exactly why I won’t tell her. Because then she’ll start asking me about her every day and she’ll end up all disappointed when Kristi and I don’t become best friends. Since that will never happen. Girls like Kristi don’t hang with girls like me. And my mom always makes me feel like my choice of friends is one big disappointment. It’s like, I’m never popular enough, stylish enough, or cool enough to please her.

But I don’t care. I mean, I may look like my mom now, but I still think more like my dad.

When the bell rings Kristi slams her book shut, grabs her things, and leaves the room without once looking at me.

See? What did I tell you?

At lunch I follow Mason, Jas, and some other guys from the film club to this grassy area behind the art building. And despite it being only January, the day has grown hot and bright. So I take off my sweatshirt, throw it on the ground, then sit on top of it and peer inside my lunch bag.

Mason takes a bite of her Snickers bar, then lies back on the grass and closes her eyes, and Jas looks at me and goes, “So what’s going on after school?”

“Um, I don’t know.” I shrug, biting into my turkey and avocado sandwich and refusing to read anything more into that since I’ve been down this path before. “Don’t we have detention?”

“After that,” he says.

“I have to work,” Mason says with her eyes still closed.

“Where do you work?” I ask. I had no idea she had a job.

“Urban Outfitters. It’s in Costa Mesa.”

“That’s cool. Do you get a discount?”

She nods, still not opening her eyes.

“What about you?” Jas asks. “Do you want to come by and hang out? I can teach you to surf.”

“Isn’t the water freezing?” I ask.

“I’ll lend you a wet suit.” He smiles.

“Okay.” I shrug, and take another bite of my sandwich, trying to act like I’m not really excited about that, even though I am.

So we’re sitting in the sun and Mason’s dozing, and Jas is sketching, and the three guys from the film club are talking about that movie
Garden State,
which I make a mental note to rent, when Kristi and Company and a couple guys easily recognizable as jocks walk right by us and go, “Fucking stoners.”

Then one of the jocks throws an orange at us that just misses Jas’s head. And then they all start laughing.

And as they’re walking away Kristi’s looking back at me, but I turn to Jas and go, “What was that about?”

“Class wars.” He shrugs, ignoring the orange sitting on the ground right next to him, and continuing with his drawing.

“What do you mean?”

“They hate us,” he says, shrugging.

“But why? We weren’t bothering them.”

“They hate us because we’re not like them, and we don’t want to be like them.”

He continues sketching, but I just sit there staring at the orange, wondering if it’s really that simple.

So after detention I go to Jas’s house. I called my mom earlier when I was sure she wouldn’t be home, left a message telling her not to pick me up ‘cause I was hanging with friends, then turned off my cell so she couldn’t call me back. I know that sounds sneaky, but it’s the only way to deal with her. I mean, she really has no boundaries.

When we get to his house I’m all nervous to see that his dad is there, but Jas introduces us and his dad is really nice, and pretty much the exact opposite of my dad. Not that my dad isn’t really nice, because he is, but Jas’s dad is like a “cool dad.” He has brown hair with touches of gray that he wears kind of wavy and longish, and his face looks a lot like Jas’s except for the eye color. His are really dark brown, where Jas’s are more golden-bronze. And I’m not trying to be all poetic and creepy and love-struck, it’s just a fact that Jas’s eyes look like topaz.

Anyway, his hair was all wet because he said he just came in from surfing! I can’t imagine my dad surfing. I mean, the few times we got him to lay on the beach at our old house in the Hamptons he always had a stack of legal papers at his side and would end up on his cell phone talking strategy, barely noticing that there was an ocean in front of him. But it’s not like he’s boring or anything, he just takes his job very seriously. Because it is.

But Jas’s dad, Seth, is standing there talking about how the ocean is all really high curl or swell or whatever, and watching them talk they
seem more like friends than father and son. Then Jas tells him that I just moved here from New York.

So his dad goes, “Some of the best restaurants in the world are in New York.”

I just smile, because people say that, but really, how would I know?

“My dad owns a few restaurants in Newport and Laguna,” Jas tells me.

And I go, “Oh.”

Then his dad says it was nice meeting me and to have fun, and he disappears into another part of the house.

Jas looks at me and goes, “So, you ready for your lesson?”

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

He shrugs. “I can lend you some shorts, a T-shirt, and one of my old wet suits. How tall are you?” He squints at me.

“Almost five ten,” I admit, feeling kind of embarrassed.

“I should have something.” He nods. “Follow me.”

My first surf lesson was so not
Blue Crush.
I totally sucked. And even though Jas was really patient and nice about it (not to mention it being a good excuse to get him to put his arms around me and hold me steady), after wiping out on my third baby wave, and choking on salt water, it was pretty clear that I’m no surf Betty. So I called it quits, and swam to shore.

I’m sitting on the sand watching Jas and I guess I never really noticed before (being from a place that worships Derek Jeter and not Kelly Slater), but surfing is like this incredibly beautiful sport. I mean, it’s almost poetic, like man and nature melding together in one perfect, seamless moment.

I reach into my bag, pull out my camera, and take what I hope will be some really great photos of Jas in the middle of the curl (or whatever they call it). And then I get up and head over to the tide pools and take some close-ups of sea urchins, hermit crabs, and things like that.

As I’m heading back, Jas is walking toward me with his board under his arm, and he looks so amazingly cute that I make sure I use my very last shot on that.

“Hope you weren’t too bored,” he says, sticking his board in the sand, unzipping his wet suit, pulling it down to his trunks, and rubbing his hair with a towel.

“No, it was great,” I tell him, trying not to drool over his tight, tan abs. “I think I got some good shots.”

“So how’d you like your first lesson?” he asks, grabbing his board and leading me up the steps to his house.

“I think I have a long way to go.”

“It takes practice.” He nods. “I’ve been surfing since I was a little kid. My dad used to put me on his board with him.”

The stairs lead right up to his backyard and when we get to the top, Jas stops, pulls off his wet suit, and drapes it over one of the lounge chairs we ate lunch on the other day. So I unzip and wriggle out of mine too, and I do it quickly since I’m on high alert for Holden the crotch-sniffer. But I don’t see him anywhere, so I relax and follow Jas through the sliding-glass doors, and into the kitchen.

I’m standing next to the sink, and I feel really bad because the tank top and shorts I’m wearing are so wet that I’m dripping water all over the Spanish tile floor. So while Jas looks for something to drink, I drop my towel on the ground, and use my foot to kind of slide it around and dry it off. “Um, I’m dripping everywhere. I’m really sorry,” I tell him.

“No worries,” he says, closing the fridge, and turning to hand me a bottle of beer.

But when I go to take it from him I notice he’s looking at my chest, and his face is all red. And when I look down, I see why.

Talk about a wet T-shirt contest!

Ohmygod! Everything is on display! I quickly fold my arms across my chest and say, “Um, I think I better go change now.”

And he just stands there looking at me with his mouth kind of open like he’s about to say something, but I leave before he can.

As he’s driving me home we’re mostly quiet, but I’m not sure if it’s because he’s tired from the surfing or if he’s embarrassed because just ten minutes ago I was pretty much topless in his kitchen. And when we finally get to my house, he looks at me and says, “See you tomorrow.”

And I go, “Okay.” And it’s like I can feel him watching me as I walk to the door, but when I look back, he drives away.

As I walk in the house I’m braced for my mom’s inevitable inquisition. So I quickly pop a breath mint and run through my made-up story. But when I go into the kitchen I see I won’t have to use it.

“Oh, good, I want you to meet my daughter, Rio.” My mom is sitting at the white, plastic, temporary kitchen table across from some lady who I’ve never met but looks strangely familiar.

“Rio, this is Kristi’s mother, Katrina. We’re in yogalates together.”

Oh, god, that’s why she looks so familiar. She’s like Kristi with fake boobs and Botox. “Hey,” I say, noticing that she’s staring at me almost as hard as her daughter does.

“Were you working on the Winter Formal decorations, too?” And then without even waiting for a response she looks at my mom and says, “The girls are so excited about the dance! You should see the adorable dress Kristi’s wearing.” She shakes her head and smiles at me, and I smile back, kind of. “Did you get your dress yet?” she asks.

And before I can even answer, my mom says, “Well, Rio’s still getting settled in. This is only her third day of school.” Jeez, she sounds so defensive, like she’s embarrassed or something.

They both turn and look at me, but I just stand there and shrug. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Apologize for not being an “IT” girl?

“Mom, I’ve got a ton of homework, so I’m gonna go upstairs,” I say, ignoring the disappointed look in her eyes, because it’s nothing new, I’m always disappointing her. “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Wood.”

“You too! I’ll tell Kristi you said hi,” she singsongs.

“You do that,” I say, heading for the stairs.

Then my mom goes, “Rio, why is your hair wet?”

But I just keep climbing, ignoring the question.

The next day in Art I’m still feeling really embarrassed about the very unfortunate
Girls Gone Wild
incident in Jas’s kitchen. But he’s acting totally normal toward me, so I guess if he can pretend it never happened, then I can, too.

I’ve decided to do my art project on beauty. But not beauty like you’re probably thinking. Not in the usual way of a heavily made-up pop star or a perfectly cultivated rose. But in how it can be found in the unexpected, like in the curve of a teacup, or the dance of a light object caught in the wind.

So I tell Ms. Tate, and after she approves and is walking back to her desk, Jas looks up from sketching and goes, “You’re beautiful.”

Just like that.

Then he goes right back to his project and doesn’t say anything else for the rest of class.

“You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.
You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.
You’re beautiful. Yo
—”