Art Geeks and Prom Queens

  “It kind of seems like you already do,” I say.

  “True.” She shrugs. “Anyway, I’m just really glad you decided to move here, because I finally feel like I have someone I can totally relate to. It’s like Jen and Kayla are kind of limited in every way, don’t you think?”

  I know I probably shouldn’t say anything bad about them because they’re my friends too, but I can’t explain how great it feels to hear Kristi say all these nice things to me. I mean, she thinks we’re on the same level! And she’s totally confiding in me! I know for a fact she doesn’t do that with just anyone. So I go, “Well, they’re not in any AP classes, and they’re all wrapped up in cheerleading and stuff.” I stop in a panic. Oh, god, Kristi’s a cheerleader. Why did I say that? And who cares about AP classes?

  But she just laughs. “Totally. You should have seen them at cheerleading camp last summer, they were all practicing and asking questions, and paying attention.” She rolls her eyes. “I had to hang with some girls from another school, just to have a little fun. Anyway, don’t tell them you were here today, ‘cause they’ll get all jealous and I so don’t have time for that. Deal?” She looks at me.

  “Deal.”

  As we’re climbing out of the Jacuzzi and reaching for our towels, some old guy I’ve never seen before walks into the backyard and goes, “Hey, Kris, who’s this?”

  His gray hair is all puffed up and folded over like he’s trying to hide some major baldage, and he’s looking at me in a way that totally gives me the creeps. I mean, gag, he’s probably older than my dad.

  I wrap my towel completely around me, while Kristi glares at him and motions for me to follow her.

  “Does she have a name?” He’s right behind us.

  “None of your business,” she says, picking up the pace.

  “You can’t talk to me like that, you little ingrate.” He sounds seriously mad.

  “I just did!” she shouts, walking into the house and locking the door behind her.

  I follow her upstairs to her room and when we’re inside I ask, “Who was that?”

  “Stepdaddy number two,” she says, dropping her wet towel on the middle of the floor along with her wet bathing suit.

  I turn away and undress in segments. Like first I take off my top and immediately replace it with my bra, and I try to do it fast since I’m not supercomfortable being naked in front of other people. But my skin is still kind of damp in spots so my bra kind of drags and scrapes as I yank it around, and it hurts, but I pretend like it doesn’t.

  And when I’m trying to pull up my underpants with my towel still wrapped around my waist (which is definitely more difficult than it sounds), I can hear him banging on the sliding glass door downstairs. “Aren’t you going to let him in?” I ask.

  “No,” she says, slipping into a red silk robe, and tying the sash tight around her waist. “The other doors are unlocked. He’ll figure it out.”

  “You must really hate him,” I say, changing back into my school clothes, and sitting on the edge of her bed.

  But she just shrugs. “He’s an ass, but he’s my mom’s problem, not mine. He’s like my second stepdad in the last six years.” She sits on the chair across from her bed and looks at me. “But it’s not like he has any authority over me. I do whatever the hell I want, and there’s nothing he can do about it.” She reaches into the drawer of her nightstand, and pulls out a tiny glass vial. “Want some?” she offers.

  “What is that?” I ask, squinting.

  “Coke.” She shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

  “You mean, cocaine?” I say, my voice sounding louder than I planned but she doesn’t seem to care.

  “Well, it ain’t the kind you drink but you still need a straw!” she says, chopping and sweeping it into a perfect little runway. “So are we sharing?” She looks at me briefly, then sticks a tiny straw up her nose and leans down.

  I shake my head no and try not to stare, but I can’t help it. I’ve only seen coke in movies, never in real life. “You just keep it in that drawer?” I ask, feeling really uncomfortable and completely out of my element.

  “Where am I supposed to keep it?” She sits up, rubbing her nose and blinking rapidly.

  “But what if they find it?” I ask.

  “They have no business coming in here. And believe me, they don’t want to find it. They’re in complete denial and that’s how they like it. As long as I don’t interfere in their life, they don’t interfere in mine.” She starts chopping and sweeping again, carving out another line. Then she looks at me and goes, “I need you to do something for me.”

  “What?” I ask, feeling panicked that she’s gonna make me do it, like to prove my loyalty or something, even though I know how ridiculous that sounds.

  “Don’t mention this to Jen and Kayla, okay? I mean, it’s so not a big deal but still, they’d totally freak. This will just be our little secret. Deal?” she asks, looking at me, waiting.

  “Deal,” I whisper, watching her lean down again.

  When she’s finished, she wipes her index finger across the mirror, collecting the white powdery remnants and rubbing it into her gums. Then she gathers all her stuff and sticks it back in her drawer so quickly that it almost seems like it didn’t happen.

  “So where’s your real dad?” I ask, desperate to say something.

  “My parents split like ten years ago and my dad lives on Lido Isle.” She looks at me and shrugs.

  “Oh, that sounds exotic and faraway. I mean, you probably don’t get to see him much, huh?”

  “Please. It’s like ten minutes from here.” She laughs. “And believe me, there’s nothing exotic about it. It’s just a little island full of rich people, just like everywhere else in Newport. But you’re right, I don’t get to see him as much as I used to because my stepmom’s a total bitch. We totally had it out last Thanksgiving, and if she thinks she’s gonna inherit the family fortune, she better think again.”

  I watch her go over to her giant walk-in closet, and brush her hand across a row of dresses hanging from white padded hangers, pulling out a dark pink silky one. She looks in the mirror, holding the dress against her, and after studying her reflection for a while she shifts her gaze to me and goes, “I’ve had two stepdads and two stepmoms. My first stepmom used to baby-sit me when I was little. Can you believe that?” She looks at me and shakes her head. “You know, you’re really lucky Rio, ‘cause your parents are still together and stuff.”

  We look at each other for a moment and I feel really bad for her. And I’m just about to say something to try to make her feel better, when her cell rings. She drops the dress on the floor, and flipping her phone open, goes, “Drew, hey. Listen, hang on a sec.” Then she looks at me and whispers, “I’m hooking up with Drew tonight, so I kind of have to get ready.”

  I know when I’m being asked to leave. So I lean down to pick up my wet towel but she says, “Don’t worry about it. The maid will get it.”

  And just as I’m leaving she goes, “Hey, Brazil, wait.”

  She tosses something to me, and I close my hand around it. When I open my palm there’s a small pill lying there. “What’s this?”

  “Take it when you want to chill.” Then she waves and says, “Bye!”

  I drop the pill in my pocket and as I’m making my way downstairs I think about all the stuff that Kristi just shared with me. I mean, I knew her original parents were divorced and stuff, but it’s weird how someone can seem like everything is so perfect on the outside, when really the inside is just a big, complicated mess. But it’s really cool how she trusted me enough to tell me all that. I mean, Kayla and Jen Jen might already know that stuff, but only because they’ve been around forever. I know it because she chose me to confide in.

  And even though it was totally shocking and kind of disturbing to see her doing coke, it’s not like she pressured me to do it too. And it just feels so awesome to know that someone like Kristi actually trusts me with all her secrets.

 
When I pass the living room I see her stepdad sitting on the couch, watching TV, and drinking a beer, and he gives me such a creepy smile that I scootch out of there as fast as I can, running all the way down the long driveway ‘til I get to the street.

  I’m all winded and out of breath (yes, just from that—pathetic, I know), when I hear someone go, “Rio!”

  I look across the street and see Jas standing next to his car like he’s about to go somewhere (like maybe on a date with Monique).

  “Hey,” I say, smiling and waving, and continuing down the street.

  “Come here.” He motions with his hand.

  But I don’t really want to talk to Jas. Okay, maybe I kind of do, but it’s better if I don’t. So I point at my watch, like I really have to be somewhere, but he just goes, “Come on,” and keeps waving.

  So I look both ways, and then I cross the street until I’m standing right in front of him. He has his keys in his hand, so for sure he’s going somewhere, but he’s acting all relaxed like he’s not in any hurry. “What’s up?” He smiles. But I refuse to let it affect me like it used to.

  I just shrug. “Not much. I was just over at Kristi’s. Doing homework and stuff,” I say, wondering why I just lied about what we were doing.

  “So I guess you guys hang out a lot now, huh?” He leans against his car and squints at me.

  “Yeah.” I shrug and look down toward the end of the block so I won’t have to look at him. Crossing the street was a bad idea and I’m starting to feel really uncomfortable.

  “Isn’t your birthday coming up?” he asks.

  He remembered my birthday? Does that mean something?

  “I remembered, ‘cause I’m exactly three months older than you.”

  Oh.

  “Do you have any plans?” he asks.

  “Not really.”

  “You should do something memorable. You gotta really celebrate all your birthdays ‘cause you never know how many you’ll get,” he says.

  We stand there looking at each other, and I wonder if he feels that way because he lost his mom early on. “What’d you do for yours?” I ask.

  “We went hot-air ballooning in Napa.” He smiles.

  Notice the use of “we.” And you know me, I just have to torture myself, so I go, “That sounds like fun. Who’d you go with?” But I ask it all casual, like I couldn’t care less who he sailed over the vineyards with.

  He looks at me and hesitates. “I went with Monique.”

  Well, there you have it! The answer I was anticipating. I mean, I can just imagine the gloriously beautiful Monique clutching Jas’s strong, taut arms as the big pink heart-shaped balloon (fueled on nothing but high-octane teenage lust) sailed high above endless acres of plump, juicy Napa Valley grapes.

  But I just go, “Oh.”

  And then I nod.

  Then I give him a really big fake smile and say, “Well, I should be going. My mom’s expecting me.” And then I look at my watch, because I just lied, which makes it difficult for me to look at him. I mean, my mom is expecting me. But only eventually. Not at this exact moment like I made it sound.

  “I’ll give you a ride,” he says. “Hop in.”

  But I shake my head. “Thanks, but I really want to walk.” And I say that because I cannot explain to him that I can’t be near him for two reasons—both of which are equally despicable.

  1. Because my friends won’t allow it and

  2. because I can’t get over him if I’m around him.

  When I turn to walk away he goes, “See ya.” And it sounds like a question.

  But I just wave without looking and continue down the street.

  Nineteen

  By the time I got home the dining room was finally decorated, and my mom was sitting at the brand-new, extra-long dining-room table having a glass of wine with an obvious admirer. He was also obviously gay, so it wasn’t like I had anything to worry about.

  “You must be Rio!” he says, setting down his chardonnay and pressing his hands together in a prayerlike position. “And you look just like your mom! Lucky you!”

  In my mind, I roll my eyes and stick out my tongue. But in real life I just go, “Oh,” followed by a tiny fake laugh.

  “What do you think?” my mom asks, basking in the glow of new furniture and a new gay admirer to replace those she left behind in New York.

  “Really nice.” I drop my bag onto the table and look around the room. “Is this supposed to be like, Italy or something?” I ask, noticing the fancy, etched oversized mirror hanging on the opposite wall, and the colored-glass chandelier suspended from the ceiling.

  “It’s Venetian! And it was Michael’s idea. You know, I was going to go traditional, but Michael said that was boring. So then I thought Tuscany! But he said everyone in Newport Coast did Tuscany and it’s over. So then he came up with this. He’s a genius,” my mother gushes.

  “Please. All I did was order. Your mother has a wonderful eye for decorating,” he gushes back.

  I lean against the shiny black table and smile politely.

  “You’ve got to get her into modeling!” he whispers loudly.

  “That’s what I keep telling her, but she says she doesn’t want to.” My mother looks at me with great disappointment.

  “But it’s every girl’s dream!” He’s staring at me with his fingers resting against the neck of his tight black turtleneck sweater and it’s making me really uncomfortable, so I grab my bag and just as I’m about to leave the room he goes, “I know a genius photographer that would absolutely worship her.”

  “What’s his name?” my mom asks. Just because she’s no longer in the biz doesn’t mean she stopped reading the credits.

  “Mario Saldana. He’s very in demand.”

  “Oh, he does great work!” my mom says, turning to look at me excitedly.

  “I can set something up,” Michael, the decorator-coconspirator, singsongs. “What do you think?”

  I’m standing in front of them and they’re looking at me with so much hope, and excitement, that it makes me want to shout, “No! Quit gaping at me and leave me alone!”

  But I’m not doing very well with the whole peer pressure thing lately. And I know that if I say anything remotely like that, then I’ll be in for at least half an hour of pleading and cajoling. So instead, I just shrug and say, “Maybe.”

  Michael claps his hands together, and my mom’s eyes go wide with false hope. Then she looks at her new best friend and gives a silent nod to proceed to the next step. And before I can change my mind, he pulls out his cell phone and places the call.

  But it’s not like I’m gonna stick around to listen to that, so I grab my backpack and head upstairs to my room. Leaving them alone to plan my future together.

  I immediately go over to my computer and check my e-mail. There’s one from Paige and one from Kristi. I read Kristi’s first:

  Rio—

  I saw U talking 2 loser Jas. I thought we already discussed this.

  Lucky 4 U no1 else saw. So I won’t tell K & J. But U really need 2 B more careful. Have a GR8 nite!

  C U 2morrow!!!!!!

  Kristi

  I don’t respond. Not that night or even the next morning when Kristi picks me up. I just get in her car, ask her about her date with Drew, and for the next twenty minutes that’s all she talks about.

  I get to Art pretty late because I was in the office asking (actually, begging would be more accurate), if I could switch to another elective because I don’t want to sit across from Jas anymore. And it’s not as simple as moving to another table, since it’s a small class and he’s a big presence (well, at least in my mind). So I figured I would ask (beg), to switch to just about anything else.

  And that’s how I found myself sitting across from Mrs. Rove, the very serious, very conservative, somewhat scary Sea Crest High guidance counselor.

  “Are you having some sort of problem with Ms. Tate?” she asked, gripping the edge of her dark wood desk and leaning forward with
barely suppressed excitement, like she’d been planning a right-wing coup on the pierced and frizzy-haired art teacher for years now.

  “No! No! Not at all! Ms. Tate is great!” I said, which believe me, did not score any points with Mrs. Rove. “I was just, um, curious about other electives.” Jeez, what a dumbass answer. I should have rehearsed this better. I cross and uncross my legs, and stare at the thin gold chain hanging up, over, and out of her red turtleneck sweater.

  “Well, Rio, I’m sorry, but unless you’re having a legitimate problem—” she stops and peers at me, giving me one last chance to fess up. When I don’t, she sighs and continues, “Well, you can’t just go switching electives out of sheer curiosity. Here at Sea Crest, we honor commitment.” She gives me a stern look.

  “Okay,” I said, rising from my seat, anxious to get out of there.

  “How are you doing in your other classes?” she asked, reaching up to pat her obedient brown bob.

  “Fine.” I shrugged.

  “Good. And Rio, give it a chance. Art’s not entirely horrible. You might even find the experience will be good for you.”

  I nodded like I couldn’t agree more. Then I got the hell out of there.

  The first thing I do when I walk in the room is scope for Jas. But in a subtle way, you know, just kind of glancing around. But I don’t see him anywhere. So I go over to our table, grab my notebook, and start doodling in it like I’m thinking about my project, when really I’m just making these crappy, meaningless doodles. And every now and then I look up to check on Ms. Tate, but she’s so immersed in her own abstract painting that she doesn’t really notice that I’m totally wasting class time on nothing.

  By the time I’ve filled two entire pages with random markings, Jas walks in, and nods at Ms. Tate. And she just smiles and nods at him.

  And I’m thinking: That’s just the sort of thing that would really irritate Mrs. Rove. That complete lack of order, discipline, and commitment in this classroom. Not to mention the ability to just come and go as you please.