Art Geeks and Prom Queens

by Alyson Noel

  “Hey, kiddo, it’s after noon and you’re still in bed? Are you okay?” My dad asks, poking his head in my room.

  “I’m not feeling well,” I say, as my mom plops herself down next to me.

  “Why? What happened?” she asks, eyes full of scrutiny.

  “Nothing happened.” I look at my dad then back at her. “I have cramps,” I whisper loud enough for him to hear, knowing he’ll get embarrassed and leave.

  Well, that’s one down.

  “Maybe you should get up and walk around,” my mom says, refusing to follow him. “Yoga really helps me.”

  “Mom, I’m not doing yoga. My cramps are really bad.” I roll my eyes and bend into a fetal-like position for emphasis.

  “Okay,” she says, sounding skeptical as she walks out the door. “I’ll be back to check on you later.” She says it like a promise, but I know it’s a threat.

  I ended up staying in bed, faking cramps, until they finally left. That’s the problem with lying. Once you start, you pretty much have to take it all the way to the bitter end.

  It’s not like they didn’t try though. I mean, my mom really thought she could lure me out of bed by offering:

  1. Brunch at the Ritz-Carlton.

  2. A few hours at Salt Creek Beach.

  3. Shopping and gallery hopping in downtown Laguna.

  4. Disneyland? (I think she was just testing me because it’s not in the five-mile radius of this particular field trip.)

  5. Ice cream at the Haagen Daz across from Main Beach.

  6. Browsing through the Laguna Art Museum.

  But I held my ground and refused it all. Then I remained in bed until long after they left. I mean, I was playing the part of a girl with cramps so well, I was reluctant to get out of character.

  By dinnertime they were back and I was starving, so I made my way downstairs to join them in the Venetian room.

  “How you feeling, kiddo?” my dad asks.

  “Okay,” I say, filling up the plate my mom had set out for me.

  “Cramps are gone?” She gives me that same skeptical look.

  I take a bite of corn on the cob and shrug.

  “You missed a good exhibit,” she says. “One Hundred Artists See God.”

  “Next time you should see One Hundred Artists See the Devil,” I say.

  “Is there such a thing?” my dad asks.

  “Yeah, it’s in Santa Ana.”

  “So what did you do last night?” my mom asks, sipping her wine all casual and nonchalant, but I’m onto her.

  “Nothing,” I say, cutting my salmon.

  “Nothing? Why, were you sick last night, too?”

  “No. I just wanted a break.” I steal a quick peek at her and it’s pretty clear she’s not buying it.

  “So let’s see,” she says, wineglass suspended in air. “It’s a Saturday night, your parents are out of town, and you don’t invite anyone over. Not even your boyfriend.”

  I roll my eyes. “Does it look like I had a party?”

  “I didn’t say you had a party.” She looks all excited now, like she just got a big break in the case. “You’re the one that called it a party.”

  Oh, nice work from the prosecution.

  I give her the eye roll-head shake combination, then look at my dad and go, “Can you please step in here? I’m in need of a good defense attorney.”

  So my dad looks at my mom and goes, “If Rio said she didn’t have a party, then I’m sure she didn’t.”

  That’s it? He gets paid all kinds of money for that?

  Then after giving me a long look, my mom takes a bite of her salad. And we all sit there quietly eating our dinners.

  But she’s still watching me. And it really bugs me, so I go, “God, Mom, I have cramps okay? You act like you don’t believe me or something.”

  “No one said anything about not believing you, Rio. Though I’m wondering if we should take you to the emergency room. Since if I remember correctly, you already had your period last week.” She takes a dainty bite of corn and smiles.

  Oh, god, I’m so busted.

  “This is so bogus!” I yell, dropping my fork and getting up from the table.

  “Where are you going?” my father asks.

  “Can I be excused? Because I’m really not feeling well.” I hug myself and bend forward, like I’m in terrible pain or something.

  “Go ahead.” He nods.

  And when he’s not looking, I glare at my mother and head for my room.

  Thirty-six

  Monday morning I was filled with dread. It wasn’t until after I’d showered and dressed that I realized not one person had called me this whole entire time, and the only e-mail I got was from Paige. And I’m still not answering those.

  I went downstairs and poured my usual cup of coffee, and even though I was armed and ready for battle, my mom didn’t mention one word about last night’s cramps.

  But by eight o’clock, when nobody had come to pick me up, and I was still just sitting there in total denial, she said, “Rio, do you need a ride to school?”

  I set down my mug, and said, “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  I got there just as the bell was ringing so I didn’t even have time to go to my locker. I just headed straight for English, not sure what to expect when I took my usual seat next to Kristi. I mean, I knew I wasn’t capable of pretending that nothing happened, but I wasn’t exactly sure what she was capable of.

  But when I sat down I noticed her seat was empty, so I took a deep breath, and tried to relax a little. Obviously she’s running behind, and even she’s not crazy enough to show up late then try to start something right in front of Mrs. Abbott.

  I place my pen, notebook, and John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath (that I was supposed to start reading over the weekend and didn’t), on my desk and wait for something to happen. Mrs. Abbott walks over to her podium, and leaning on it with both elbows, goes, “Kristi, can you please open your book and begin reading from page twelve?”

  And I’m thinking: What?

  The chair next to me is empty and there are no other Kristis in this class. So I look back at Mrs. Abbott, and then I look over to where she’s looking. And sitting on the opposite side of the room, as far from me as possible, is Kristi. Her long dark hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and she’s all decked out in her cheerleading sweater and skirt. She looks right at me, but only for a second. Then she starts reading from her open book.

  I look down at my desk and listen to Kristi, but I can’t concentrate, because it’s weird seeing her all the way over there when Mrs. Abbott is all about the seating chart. And since she knew where to find her when she called on her, that means Kristi must have asked permission to move. And it makes me wonder if she gave a reason.

  I notice a few girls sneaking glances at me, but it’s not in the way they usually do. There are no smiles, or little waves, or anything remotely friendly. They just check out my clothes, then toss their hair over their shoulder and laugh (but quietly so Mrs. Abbott remains completely clueless). It’s like all these girls are tossing their hair and laughing at me and I have no idea why. But it reminds me of what Kristi said just as I was leaving her party. I guess I didn’t really believe it at the time, but now I wonder if it’s true.

  After class I go to my locker to switch out some books, but I’m also kind of hoping I’ll see Kristi. I mean, it’s not like I want to hang with her after all the nasty things she said, but I really don’t need her as an enemy either. But no one’s around and there’s also none of the usual notes in my locker, or text messages on my cell. And it’s starting to feel even worse than the first day of school. Because back then the only reason people didn’t talk to me was because they didn’t know me.

  Now they don’t talk to me because they do.

  When I walk into Art my eyes are glued to the floor as I head for my table since I’m determined to avoid all contact with Jas after that totally humiliating moment on the street. I can’t even imagine wha
t I would say to him at this point anyway. He’s probably totally disgusted by me, and wondering why we were ever friends in the first place. And that’s assuming he thinks of me at all.

  Thank god, Ms. Tate has another slide show planned. So when she turns out the lights and starts talking about Impressionism, I lay my head on the desk and close my eyes until the bell rings.

  By lunch I’ve decided that despite the fact that everyone seems to be avoiding me, I’m still going to eat lunch with my friends. What happened is just between Kristi and me. I mean, Kayla and Jen Jen weren’t even there when Kristi and I fought, so it’s not like they can be mad at me, too.

  So with lunch bag in hand, I smile and make my approach. And just as I’m about to slide onto the end of the bench, everyone (without even looking at me!) spreads out so quickly, I end up on the ground.

  I’m sitting there, flat on my ass, but they just continue laughing and joking like I’m not even there. So I get up, brush myself off, clear my throat, and go, “Hey, you guys.”

  But they just keep on like that, acting like I don’t exist. And it’s not like I can force them to see me, so I look over at the senior tables and since Tyler’s not there, I decide to sit with them. I mean, I’m still good friends with everyone else.

  But when I get there one of the girls looks at me and goes, “Sorry, no sluts allowed.” And everyone busts out laughing.

  “Excuse me?” I say My breath feels panicked and cold in my throat.

  “This table has a strict no-sluts policy,” she says, staring me down.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I stand there hoping no one can see how bad I’m shaking.

  “It means you go out with the two hottest, sweetest guys in school and you cheat on both of them. Everyone knows you slept with Drew.” She shakes her head, and gives me a nasty look.

  “You have no idea what really happened,” I say.

  “Everyone saw you with half your clothes shoved in your purse.” She looks across the table and points. “Marc was there, you were doing it right in front of him!”

  “That’s not true!” I look at Marc, but he just sits there and shrugs. Then I remember how he saw me flirting with Drew and kissing him. And how he left before the bad stuff happened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. But I’m losing steam, because now I see it how they see it, and it’s not pretty.

  “Everybody’s sick of you walking around like some big celebrity, tossing your long blond hair, and telling all the guys you’re a virgin. What a joke.” She gives me a hateful look. “Why don’t you go back where you came from, skank?”

  I just stand there, speechless and humiliated.

  “You can go now,” she says.

  So I do. And as I’m walking away people start pointing and laughing, and someone throws something at my head. It hits me, but I just keep walking.

  When I go inside the library a few people look up, but only briefly, and it’s kind of nice to be in a place where no one actually knows me, because the fact is there isn’t one person I used to hang with that would risk being seen in here during lunch because at this time of day the library is strictly geek territory.

  I walk toward a table in the very back, throw my bag on the floor, flop onto this hardwood chair, and lean forward, pressing my forehead against the cool wood table. I stay like this for a long time, telling myself everything’s gonna be okay, even though it’s pretty obvious that it’s not.

  And then someone goes, “Rio?”

  I don’t want to look up. But I know if I don’t they’ll say it again, only louder. So I slowly raise my head until I see Mason standing there, wearing some cool, vintage fake-fur capelet, with a rhinestone pin fastened at the top. Her arms are loaded down with books and papers.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Are you okay?” She looks concerned.

  I sit up straighter and yawn like I was just sleepy or something, and go, “Yeah, I was just napping. What’s up?”

  “I was just doing a little research,” she says, sitting on the chair across from me and placing her stuff on the table. I glance at the titles quickly and notice most of them are art books.

  “I heard you opted out of the exhibit,” she says.

  “Yeah, I’ve just got so much other stuff going on.” I run my index finger along the wood gram, unwilling to meet her gaze.

  “That’s too bad. Your stuff was really good.”

  I can feel her looking at me, but I don’t want to talk about art anymore. So I go, “How’s Zane?”

  “We broke up. For real this time.”

  Okay, so why is it that I only seem to experience deja vu on the most uncomfortable moments of my life, and never the good ones? “Sorry,” I say.

  She shrugs. “It’s okay. He’s a really cool guy and we’re still friends, but the distance got to be too much, and he’s in college now so he should be free to experience that. And it’s not like we were gonna get married or anything, so, it’s just better this way.”

  “But you guys seemed really good together,” I say, feeling kind of depressed that they couldni make it work.

  “Yeah well, things change. You know that.”

  I sit there for a moment, not really knowing what else to say, then I glance at her stuff. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a stack of papers.

  “The ‘zine. Want one?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s our last one on paper,” she says, handing me a copy. “Next month, we’ll be online. Well, I’m gonna get to class a little early. See you around.” She picks up her books and heads for the door.

  I look at my watch. I still have some time ‘til the bell rings, so I pick up the ‘zine and stare at the picture on the front. It’s a take on Edvard Munch’s most famous painting, The Scream. Only this one’s more modern and it depicts girls instead of boys, and school lockers instead of a river in Oslo. In the foreground there’s this ordinary girl holding her hands up to her ears, and her eyes are closed and her mouth is wide-open because she’s screaming. And she looks like she’s in so much pain that you wonder what happened. But then you notice the two girls in the background and they’re pointing at her and laughing, so you can kind of figure it out. I mean, it reminds me of me, twenty minutes ago.

  The picture is so amazing that I just sit there staring at it. Then I notice the signature in the bottom right-hand corner, it’s Mason’s.

  I think about how Kristi, Kayla, and Jen Jen are always making fun of her clothes, and calling her a lesbo and stuff. And even though I didn’t always join in, I usually did nothing to stop it. I guess I always thought of Mason as being such a strong, independent person, that it never occurred to me she might actually be hurt by stuff like that. But by the looks of this picture, I guess she is. And now that it’s happening to me, I feel even worse about doing nothing to help her.

  On the next page there’s an article she wrote titled, “R U Guilty?” And it’s all about how girls torture one another with gossip and rumors and stuff. It’s like the word version of her cover art.

  When the bell rings a few minutes later, I ignore it. I just sit there reading until I’m finished.

  After school I call my mom and ask her to pick me up. And when she meets me out front by the office she goes, “What’s going on, Rio?”

  And I go, “Nothing, okay? Jeez.” Then I roll my eyes and slump way down in my seat, wishing she’d just leave me alone.

  “Well, something’s going on. Because this morning I had to drive you to school, and now I was in the middle of redoing the living room when you called. Did you and Tyler have a fight?” She looks at me, face full of alarm.

  “No, we didn’t have a fight,” I say, looking out the window so I won’t have to look at her. But it’s not really a lie, since Tyler and I haven’t even spoken, much less had a fight.

  “Well, good,” she says, clearly relieved. “Because you’ve got those four beautiful new dresses for the Moondance next weekend, and we’ll need to na
rrow it down in the next couple days so we can decide what to do with your hair and makeup!”

  She says that like it’s sooo important. But I guess in her mind it is.

  “And Rio, I’m going to be really booked for the rest of the week, trying to finish up the house, and get myself in shape for the photo shoot. So you need to make arrangements with your friends to get to and from school. Because this is the last day I’ll have time to do this for you.”

  I just nod and continue looking out the window.

  The first thing I do when I go in my room is throw my backpack onto my bed. The second thing I do is check my e-mail. But there’s nothing. Not even from Paige.

  Determined to handle this before it gets any worse, I message Kayla and Jen Jen. And even though I can see they’re online they won’t respond. So I pick up the phone and call. And when Jen Jen finally answers I go, “Hey, what’s up?” As though everything was perfectly normal.

  “Oh, hey, Rio,” she says, sounding normal, too.

  “Um, are you guys mad at me?” I ask, my voice betraying my nervousness.

  “What are you talking about?” she says innocently.

  “Well, like, you guys never called me all weekend, and then you totally ignored me, and pushed me off the bench at lunch!” My face feels hot and my hands are all sweaty.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says.

  “Jen, I’m serious, you know you did that. And I just don’t get it because even though Kristi’s mad at me, that doesn’t mean you guys should be. I mean, it’s between me and her.”

  “You’re totally delusional.” She laughs. “Why would Kristi be mad at you?”

  “She said some pretty harsh things when I was leaving the party.”

  “She was probably drunk.”

  “Well, yeah, I guess she was drinking and stuff. But still, she seemed pretty serious. And then today in English she sat all the way across the room.”