Art Geeks and Prom Queens (7 page)

It’s like a mantra in my head. All through Calculus, all through Economics, on the field at lunch when we all just quietly doze in the
sun. It keeps running through my head, over and over again, like on continuous play.

He looked up and said, “You’re beautiful.” And then he looked down again.

But what exactly did he mean? Was it just an observation? Was he just being nice?

Or does he
like me
like me?

When I got home later that day I ran into my room and threw my books down onto—
my bed?

There’s a bed in my room. Which I know is not supposed to be strange because, after all it’s a
bedroom,
but where did it come from?

I turn around and yell, “Mom?”

But she’s standing in the doorway, laughing. “Do you like it?” she asks.

“Oh, my god, I love it!” And I do. It’s like the coolest room ever and I can’t believe how she picked it all out, and got it so right, without any input from me.

Everything is simple clean lines, and it all goes together perfectly without being too matched. (I don’t like it when things look all matchy-matchy.) She got me a new platform bed and it’s covered in this really pretty kiwi-green comforter with all these sequined and beaded throw pillows scattered around. There’s a dark wood desk for my computer, floating shelves for my books, two night tables, a really cool large dresser, and these beaded hanging lamps that I had found in a catalog and circled. She even had some of my favorite photos matted and placed in these beautiful silver frames.

“It’s so cool,” I say, bouncing on my new bed, then getting up to run my hand over my new desk.

“But how—” I start.

“I’ve been very busy this week. It’s not all yogalates you know.” She smiles.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, vowing to be nicer to her from now on. Really.

“Mine is supposed to arrive tomorrow. Let’s hope it gets here before your dad gets home.”

“Dad’s coming home?” I ask excitedly. “I thought it was going to be another week.”

“It’s just for the weekend. He has to go back on Monday.”

“Cool.” I start unpacking my books and stacking them on top of my new desk.

“I’ll start dinner,” she says, turning to leave.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?” she pauses, looking at me.

“What does it mean when a guy tells you you’re beautiful, but then he doesn’t really say anything else to you for the rest of the day?” I mean, let’s face it, if anyone’s used to being told she’s beautiful it’s my mom.

“It means you
are
beautiful. Rio.” Then she smiles and walks away.

These are the awesome things that happened today (Friday):

1. Kristi was absent from English, which meant I could relax because no one was staring at me.

2. My dad is due in at John Wayne Airport (I swear that’s what they call it. There’s even a statute of “The Duke” next to the baggage claim carousel).

3. Jas asked me out on a date. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

This is how number three came about. We were sitting on the grass at lunch, and when the bell rang Mason got up to make a quick phone call before her next class, and jas looked at me and said, “So what are you doing this weekend?”

And I shrugged and said, “Well my dad’s getting in today, so I’ll probably just hang with my family.”

And he went, “Well do you want to do something Saturday night?”

And as I picked up my trash, I was thinking:
This is it! He’s going to ask me to Winter Formal at the very last minute!

So I said, “Yeah, okay.”

And then he
smiled
and said, “Let’s do dinner. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

And I go, “Cool.”

Then we started walking to class. And I was in front, and he was in back.

And I tripped.

So I looked down to see what I tripped on, but of course there was nothing there. It was just me being my usual clumsy self.

But that’s not the point. The point is I’m going on a date with Jas.

So I’m in the Range Rover with my mom on the way to the airport, and I go, “Do you think we could go shopping tomorrow?”

“You want to go shopping with me?” She looks all surprised and happy, like that was the nicest thing I’ve ever said to her. Which sadly, it may be.

“Yeah,” I say.

And then she goes, “Rio! Are you going to Winter Formal?”

Great. I don’t want to disappoint her, but if I lie, I’ll be showing up for dinner in an evening gown. “No. I’m just having dinner with a friend and I wanted something new to wear.”

“Oh,” she says, hiding her disappointment, but not entirely. “Is this the same friend that told you you were beautiful?”

I nod, and look out the window, because I’m starting to feel embarrassed.

“So, what’s his name?” she asks.

“Um, Jas,” I say, hoping she won’t remember the last time she heard that name.

But she does.

“Isn’t that your detention friend?”

“Don’t call him that,” I say, mentally scolding myself for trying to open up to her.
God, I should have known better.

“I don’t know about this, Rio.” She looks in the rearview mirror as she merges into the arrivals lane.

“Fine. You don’t have to take me shopping, but I already said yes to the date.” I fold my arms across my chest and shoot daggers at her from behind my sunglasses.

“There’s your father,” she says between clenched teeth. “We’ll discuss this later.”

She pulls up to the curb and jumps out to hug my dad, and I climb into the backseat where I sulk until he notices me.

“Hey, kiddo, did you miss me?” he asks, reaching back for an awkward hug.

“Yeah, Dad, I missed you,” I say, hugging him with one arm.

We have dinner at this place called Roy’s, and like the minute my mom gets up to use the bathroom I pounce. “Dad, someone asked me out for tomorrow night, but Mom doesn’t want me to go because you’re home. But I kind of want to go, since I’m just starting to make friends here, and you and I can hang out during the day all day tomorrow and again on Sunday.”

“Go! Have fun! Don’t miss out on account of your old man.” He smiles and squeezes my shoulder.

That’s what I was hoping he’d say.

So when my mom comes back to the table, my dad looks at her and says, “I told Rio to go ahead and hang out with her friends tomorrow night.”

She looks at me and narrows her eyes into tight, angry slits.

“I figured we could find some way to entertain ourselves,” he says.

And then she looks at him and smiles. And he winks at her.

Gross.

But totally worth it.

On Saturday afternoon while my mom and dad were looking at linens in some specialty shop in South Coast Plaza (which is like the most amazing mall
in the universe
), I was wandering on my own looking for something to wear for my big date with Jas.

Not that Jas seems like the kind of guy who cares hugely about
clothes, and not that my closet’s not already full of things that my mom buys for me and sticks in there, I just kind of wanted something new to mark the occasion.

So as I’m about to go in some store called Ron Herman that has a very cool window display, I bump straight into Katrina Wood and her Mini Me, Kristi. I’m not kidding. They’re both wearing low-slung jeans, with pastel thongs (sandals, not underwear!) that match their pastel pedicures and little velour Juicy Couture hoodie tops (that match the thongs and the pedicures), and they both have long dark hair, flat-ironed into submission.

“Hi, Rio!” they both say like they’re actually happy to see me.

“Oh, hey.”

“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Wood asks, while her daughter stands there and stares at me just like in English.

“I’m just shopping around. My parents are looking at stuff for the house.”

“Are you going tonight?” Kristi asks.

“Where?” I ask nervously, wondering how she could possibly know about Jas and me.

“Winter Formal!”

I can tell she wants to add
“Duh?
” to the end of that statement, but doesn’t because of her mom.

“Oh, no. I’m not going.”

I don’t think I sounded depressed when I said it, but Kristi and Katrina exchange sad looks, then Mama Wood goes, “Oh, honey. You got a late start. You’ll be going next year, you’ll see.” Then she smiles tenderly and gives me a little pat on the arm. Gag.

When I’m finally rid of them, I go inside the store and browse through this rack of amazing ninety-dollar T-shirts. I mean, at first you might think they look like every other T-shirt in the world, but on these hangers and under these lights, you somehow start believing they’re worth it. So I grab a white one and a black one, then I walk around, collecting other stuff like tank tops, jeans, and cargo pants.

And when my arms are nearly full, and I’m heading for the dressing
rooms, I pass this section filled with all this stuff that girls like Kristi wear. You know, like little miniskirts and beaded, silky girly tops. I look around to see if anyone’s watching (not that they would care), then I grab some of that and take it all into the dressing room.

I try on the girly stuff first.

And when I’m standing in front of the three-way mirror in this frayed denim mini (not unlike the one I already own, but refuse to wear), and this tiny pink halter top that covers
only
the areas required by law, I barely recognize myself. I guess I’m so used to hiding under baggy sweatshirts and jeans that I had no idea this was even possible. I mean, this may sound crazy, but I look like a blond version of Kristi!

I release my hair from its usual ponytail and flip it so it falls wild and wavy around my face, then I reach into my purse, grab my lip balm, and cake it on until my lips are thick and glowy. I turn and gaze at myself, adjusting the mirrors so I can see every angle. And then, I admit, I start posing and dancing around with an imaginary headset, lip-synching just like Britney.

I look seductively into the mirror and jump and kick and spin around and around until I’m dizzy, and just as I’m catching my breath I notice a sign on the dressing-room wall:

THIS DRESSING ROOM IS UNDER SURVEILLANCE

Under surveillance?

Ohmygod! Am I being watched?

I frantically look behind the mirrors, up at the ceiling, and even under the little bench piled high with clothes, anxiously searching for the hidden camera that may have captured a moment that
can never be made public!

But just because I don’t find one doesn’t mean it’s not there, so I quickly pull off the skirt and top, placing them carefully back on their hangers (just in case I really
am
being observed). Then I pull my hair back into a ponytail and calmly try on the kind of clothes I’m more used to wearing.

Dressed in a new pair of cargo pants, a white tank top, some little beaded flats that look like Moroccan slippers, gold dangly earrings with little red stones, and a denim jacket in case it gets cold, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed waiting for Jas, because I don’t want to go downstairs and be interrogated by my mom.

I mean, I was really hoping that my parents would just go out to dinner or something so I’d be spared the introductions. But my mom decided to stay home and cook. And I know she’s doing it just to spite me.

So the second the bell rings I come charging out of my room, and down the stairs at a potentially leg-breaking speed. “I’ll get it!” I shout.

But my mom, who’s already downstairs, and therefore has a major head start on me, walks calmly out of the kitchen, reaches for the door handle, looks pointedly at me, and says, “
I’ll
get it.”

Great.

When she opens the door, Jas is standing there smiling and looking like a total hottie in his crisp, dark denim jeans, cool vintage T-shirt, black leather jacket, and hair still slightly wet from the shower.

“Hi, Mrs. Jones,” he says. “I’m Jas.” He shakes her hand.

“Won’t you come in?” My mom holds the door open and smiles.

Oh, God, here we go.

She leads him into the living room where my dad is busy watching a very exciting program on C-SPAN, and after all the introductions are made my dad asks where the “young man” is taking me.

“We’re having dinner at one of my dad’s restaurants,” Jas says, smiling patiently.

And after a never-ending conversation about
that,
I go, “Um, we should be going now.”

Then my mom says something about a curfew, which I swear she just made up right then since I wasn’t even aware that I had one. So I make sure I get in one really good eye roll directed right at her, that she sees but my dad misses. And then, mercifully, we’re out the door and in Jas’s car.

“Sorry about that,” I say. “My parents are so lame.”

“Most parents are lame,” he says, starting the engine.

“But your dad seems really cool.” I catch a glimpse of his profile and think how lucky I am to be going out with him.

“He has his moments.”

Then right as he’s pulling out of the driveway, he goes, “Listen. Mason was going to meet us there but there’s been a change of plans so we’re gonna pick her up, okay?”