“Is she a friend of yours?” she continues, ignoring my comment.
“Not really.”
“Well, she must like you or else why would she drive you home?” she asks hopefully.
“Got me.” I head upstairs.
“What’s her last name?” She’s following right behind me.
Jeez, I can’t believe her. We’ve been here like what? A week? And she’s already familiar with the local who’s who. “I think it’s Wood,” I say, going into my room and throwing my books on the floor in the corner since I still don’t have any furniture, which is getting really old by the way.
“Wood. Wood,” she says, squinting at the wall. “I think there’s a Wood in my yogalates class.”
“I don’t doubt it.” I boot up my laptop and make myself comfortable on the floor.
“Rio, you’re not e-mailing Paige and Hud are you?” she asks, standing over me, all disapproving.
“No,” I lie. “I’m doing homework.”
“Good. Because, we live here now, and it’s really time you made some friends at your new school. Kristi seems really nice and I think you should give her a chance.”
“Mom, can I please just do my homework?” I point at my computer. “Of course,” she says, smiling. “I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”
And the second she leaves I instant message Paige.
Seven
The next day in AP English I’m sitting at my desk when Kristi looks over and says, “Hey, Brazil.”
But I don’t correct her this time because I know she knows my real name. She’s just trying to be all cute or something.
“Is your mom Jahne Jones?” She stares at me, waiting for an answer.
And while I’m hesitating, Mrs. Abbot says, “Open your books to page one twenty-five. Hunter, would you read for us starting with the second paragraph?”
And luckily I’m off the hook for now. Because I don’t know if she meant Jahne Jones from her mom’s yogalates class, or Jahne Jones former almost-supermodel. And the truth is, I don’t really feel like talking about either one.
My mom is complicated. Well actually, my mom is pretty simple, it’s our relationship that’s complicated. I mean, it’s not that she’s a bad person or anything because she’s not. It’s just that she’s extremely interested in things that don’t really do it for me. Like she’s really into shopping, and I don’t know why, but even though I like nice things, I think wearing a ton of labels is kind of embarrassing. She’s also really into her looks, and I never feel comfortable with mine.
But now that I’m taller and my braces are gone, people are starting to say we look alike. Which I guess is a compliment, but to be honest, I’m not really comfortable with that kind of attention like she is. It’s like, my mom lives to be in front of the camera, but I’d rather be behind it.
And for the record, Jahne is not her real name. She was born Jane Jones. But when she became a model they thought that was too plain so they added an h and changed the pronunciation to Jahne. She started traveling the world on fashion shoots when she was only fourteen, so she didn’t really finish high school, but she took her GED and she reads a lot so she’s not stupid.
Because of her job she met all these famous people, like rock stars, movie stars, and other models you might have heard of, and even though she was once on location with Christy, Linda, Cindy, Naomi, and Claudia, she never quite made it to their level. She’s more like someone people vaguely recognize but they’re not sure why.
Then, when she was around twenty-four, she was on a flight from L.A. to New York, and sitting in first class right next to her was Griffin Jones (her future husband/my dad). They started dating, blah blah blah, and within three months they got married and she didn’t even have to change her last name. (I just hope somebody had the good sense to make sure they’re not related or something because how gross would that be?) When she had me at twenty-five and a half, they moved to the ‘burbs and that was pretty much the end of her modeling career.
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.
Eight
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, h
is 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.
Nine
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—”
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.