Art Geeks and Prom Queens (9 page)

Oh, god.
Wah wah wah.
In my head I make her voice sound like the parents on the Charlie Brown Christmas special.

“And I don’t know why you reject perfectly nice girls like Kristi Wood,” she continues.

“Because girls like Kristi Wood aren’t exactly interested in hanging with me. They’re a pretty tight, exclusive group,” I say, my voice rising to dangerously high levels that could possibly disturb my father’s slumber.

“Well, maybe if you distanced yourself from the troubled kids you seem so fond of, the more popular kids would give you a chance. You know, Rio, water seeks its own level.”

She looks at me and I roll my eyes, but I do it when I’m looking at the ground again so that she can’t really see it.

“Why don’t you wear some of those nice clothes I buy you? Make an effort, and see what happens,” she says gently, but persuasively.

“Can I go now?”

“Yes. But, Rio, I don’t want you hanging with those kids anymore. Do you understand?”

I just nod my head and take the stairs two at a time.

If you think that when I got to my room I threw myself on my bed (without washing my face or brushing my teeth), and just lay there and cried until I passed out like a big pathetic loser—well, you’d be right.

So you can only imagine how scary I look when my dad wakes me on Sunday morning.

“Rise and shine, kiddo,” he says.

And as I roll over and open one eye, I briefly catch the fleeting expression of horror on his face. So I know it’s bad because he’s a criminal-defense litigator, he’s used to seeing some ugly stuff.

He quickly recovers and clearing his throat, he says, “I thought we could run over to Roger’s Gardens after breakfast, it’s supposed to be the best plant nursery around.”

In an attempt to spare him from further shocking images, I’ve taken my comforter and thrown it over my face, so through a thick layer of goose down and a duvet cover with a really high thread count, I say, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

And he says, “Take your time.”

When he’s gone I roll out of bed and go into my bathroom. And when I look in the mirror I totally admire his self-restraint. A lesser person would have screamed.

Because what stares back at me is truly awful. My eyes are not only
bloodshot, but puffed out to twice their normal size. And the ring of smeared black mascara that circles them looks like a police outline of a crime scene.

Which in a way, it is.

So I stand there and torture myself by staring at my own scary reflection. And I think:
Dumbass! Yes,
you
standing there with the smeared makeup.
You
the one who said, “Oh, Jas, I’ve been waiting for this
all night!”
And then closed your eyes to receive a kiss that never came. How will you ever face him? Do you think he’s laughing? Of course, he’s laughing. He’s probably laughing this very moment,
with Monique!
And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it because the words are
out there
and you can’t take them back! All you can do now is get your pathetic, dumbass self into the shower and try to salvage some crumb of dignity. It won’t be easy, but you better do it. Because if you don’t, then you’re a bigger dumbass than even
you
think
!

So my dad’s driving down the Pacific Coast Highway and I’m getting glimpses of the ocean between the clusters of gated communities with their giant McMansions and tiny, little yards, and I’m feeling really happy that it’s just us, and that my mom’s not here. Because when I’m feeling this bad about myself I usually don’t want to be around her. But my dad understands, because he’s a geek, too.

It’s like, if my house was a high school then my mom would be the prom queen, my dad would be the bramiac, and I would be the big weirdo art geek.

And my mom would refuse to eat lunch with either of us.

When he turns onto MacArthur Boulevard he says, “So, kiddo, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want, but from the looks of you this morning you either had too much fun last night or not nearly enough.”

And because it’s just us, I answer truthfully. “It was the latter,” I say, doing a double take as we drive past a bakery that’s just for dogs.

“Wanna talk about it?”

I peer at him through the sunglasses he suggested I wear to hide the evidence that lingered long after I showered, and I know that if I want
to get this off my chest, now’s my only chance, since by tomorrow he’ll be back on a plane to New York. And even though I’ve always bypassed my mom and gone straight to him with all of my problems, it feels kind of weird now. I mean, before it was always about stuff at school like grades, and projects, and friends. It was never about a guy. And I’m just way too embarrassed to talk to him about stuff like that.

So I look over and just as I’m about to lie and say I’m okay, he looks at me and smiles. And I break down and tell him everything.

Well, almost everything. I mean, I leave out the more humiliating moments that are really damaging to me. You know, like detention and falling down and the infamous “wardrobe malfunction” in Jas’s kitchen. But he gets the gist.

“Sounds like you really like this boy,” he says.

I shrug.

“Do you want me to go after him? Get an arrest warrant issued?” He smiles.

“What? For reckless disregard and endangerment of my poor teenage heart?” I say, laughing.

“I’m sure we can find a statute for it.” He looks at me.

“Nah. I’ve decided not to press charges. I’m moving on.”

“You sure?” he asks, parking the Range Rover and opening the door.

“Definitely. Now, let’s go look at some plants.” And when I get out of the car I give him a big smile.

But I’m not sure I’ve convinced either one of us.

So we ended up with four small palm trees, two hanging fuchsias, a couple pots of different decorative grasses, six trays of annuals, several curly bamboo stalks for my room, and a climbing rosebush for my mom.

It’s getting pretty late in the afternoon and we’re still in the backyard planting and planning for what we’ll buy next time, when my mom comes out and goes, “I just don’t get your attraction to dirt.” Then she smiles and sets down a tray of iced teas.

“It’s not dirt,” my dad tells her. “It’s nature.”

“And just what does a city boy like you know about nature?” She
vamps, shaking her blond shoulder-length hair, and approaching him with her old runway walk, with hips leading and swiveling.

Oh, god, they’re flirting again. Gross.

I watch my dad, with his face all tan from a day in the sun, and his gray-streaked hair messed-up and matted with sweat, and I guess I never really noticed before, but he’s actually pretty handsome. I mean, he’s just my dad you know, so it’s not like I’m used to looking at him objectively.

Well, his clothes are all covered in dirt, but he spreads his arms wide and chases after my mom, trying to hug her. So she squeals and darts around the patio in her little kitten-heeled shoes, pretending like she’s running away. But of course she lets herself get caught. Then they hug and kiss and laugh and even though it totally grosses me out, I guess in a way it’s kind of nice. I mean, at least they’re not screaming at each other like Hud’s parents used to.

And then it hits me: My dad’s a brainiac geek, but who did he marry?

Another brainiac?
No!

An art geek?
No!

He married the prom queen!!!!!!

Ohmygod. Even the smart ones want the one that’s not so smart. And if you don’t believe me then here’s the proof:

Exhibit A: My dad and my mom.

Exhibit B: Jas and Monique.

Okay, I don’t really
know
that Monique’s not smart, but what I do know is that the first thing a guy’s gonna think when she walks into a room
isn’t
“nice brain.”

I quickly wash my hands under the hose, kick off my shoes because they’re all full of mud, and make a run for the house.

My parents both turn and look at me, and in perfect unison they go, “Where are you going?”

“My room. I have work to do!” I yell, running through the open French doors.

The next morning when I’m walking down the stairs so my mom can drop me off before she takes my dad to the airport, she sees me and goes, “Are you really wearing that to school?” She looks shocked.

Damn. I knew I went too far. I never know when to stop. “Should I change?” I ask, suddenly dreading her professional critique.

“No, you look amazing!”

“I do? Really?” I ask, wondering if she’s just saying that.

“I can’t believe you’ve never worn that skirt before. You’re lucky you got my legs,” she says, as my father walks into the room.

“Don’t you have uniforms at this school?” he asks, in mock dismay.

“Nope, they let us wear whatever we want.”

“Well, he won’t know what hit him,” he whispers, as we walk out the door.

“That’s the plan,” I say, catching a fleeting glimpse of my Burberry plaid miniskirt, my favorite black motorcycle boots, and tight black turtleneck sweater as I pass by the mirror on my way out.

When I get to English I’m really nervous. All the bravado I felt in the Range Rover is long gone, and I’m wishing I’d just stayed in the safety zone of my usual jeans, ponytail, no makeup, and contraband sweatshirt.

When Kristi sits next to me she does a complete double take. “Nice skirt,” she says, eyeing it with approval.

“Thanks,” I say. Then risking an actual conversation I go, “How was the dance?”

“Boring. But, you know.” She rolls her eyes.

And I nod my head and roll my eyes too, like I really do know Even though I have no idea what she’s talking about.

Then like the complete dork that I am, I spend the next fifteen minutes trying to think of something else to say. Because if I can just come up with something good, then maybe she’ll invite me to hang at her locker after class. And we can stand around, laughing at an inside joke, while all the hot guys flirt with us. And then maybe Jas will walk by, see me surrounded by hotties, and—

So when Mrs. Abbott calls on me and asks, “Rio, can you tell us what it means when the characters in Hemingway’s
The Sun Also Rises
are referred to as ‘the lost generation’?” I’m caught completely off guard.

And in an attempt to stall for time I go, “Um, sorry? What was the question?” As I quickly scan the back of the book looking for the answer.

So Mrs. Abbott repeats it. And when she’s done I go, “They’re referring to the post-World War I generation, and their moral bankruptcy, godlessness, and lack of illusions,” I say, paraphrasing what I just read.

And she goes, “Why do you say that?”

And I go, “Because that’s what it says on the back of the book.” Then everyone starts laughing. And Kristi looks over at me and smiles.

And even though Mrs. Abbott doesn’t think it’s one bit funny, I have to admit, it was totally worth it.

When class is over I’m still feeling pretty good about making everyone laugh. I’m walking right behind Kristi and when we start to veer off in separate directions, she turns and goes, “Ciao, Brazil.”

And I go, “
Ciao, Kristi!
” Then I give her this big smile and wave, even though she’s long gone and no longer looking at me. But I just
continue to stand there, like a dog hanging out a car window, grinning into air.

I walk into Art just as the bell is ringing. And if I’m gonna be honest, then I have to admit that I timed it like that on purpose so that Jas could look up and see the
new me.
You know, kind of like the much anticipated, climactic moment in one of those makeover shows.

And then what?

He forgets about the stupid, “Oh, Jas, I’ve been waiting …” comment?

He falls in love?

Drops Monique?

‘Cause that’s not what happened.

What happened was he didn’t even look up. He just kept right on sketching and when my chair made that scraping noise against the concrete floor, he mumbled, “Hey, Rio.”

“Hey, Jas!
” I say, all overanimated.