by Mindy Raf
I wait for Jenna’s copies to finish, hoping she doesn’t have a lot more for me to do today, that maybe I can sneak out to the art room and keep working on that new painting, or maybe just hide out in the back and get to talk to Blake some more and fantasize about—since Jenna has put the image in my head—making out with him amidst important art on Saturday.
Except when I get back, the theater is empty. I can hear the cast through the walls of the connecting choir room singing multi-note ohs and ahs. I can also faintly hear Jenna’s voice coming from backstage, lecturing someone—probably Meredith or Cara—about Oklahoma’s territory struggles, and how they should be more “deliberately represented through symbolic choreography.”
I tiptoe the photocopies to the stage, and then speed-tiptoe up the aisle to the auditorium doors. But before I can escape, I see one worn white sneaker and the top of a bright red cowboy hat peeking around the half-open door. The cowboy hat lifts to reveal Marcus’s face.
“Izzy! Thank God it’s you,” he whispers. “Are you alone?” His voice sounds strangely urgent.
“Yeah,” I say, and then jump back as Marcus pushes his way through the door—with his elbows since his arms are piled high with stuff up to his chin. Before I can ask if he needs help, Marcus is stumbling to the nearest empty row. The bright red, one-size-too-small cowboy hat slides forward on his head. He keels over the armrest, cowboy hat falling onto the seat along with some decorative fans, floral bonnets, two pairs of—I can’t believe I know what these are called—pantaloons, and a slew of other random items.
“Man is it good to see you, Izzy,” he says, turning to me.
“Um, good to see you too, Marcus.” I smile. “Um … you still have some …” And I can’t keep it in any longer and burst out laughing as I pull some pink ribbons and another pair of pantaloons off Marcus’s left shoulder.
His cheeks go a pale pink as I throw the items onto his pile.
“Yes, what you’re thinking is correct,” he says.
“That you’re suddenly into eighteenth-century cross-dressing?”
“Oh, um.” His cheeks go an even brighter pink and he laughs. “Well, I was going to lie and say a one-man Oklahoma! prop table-slash-rolling rack, but yes, you see right through me.”
“No, I just see bonnets and pantaloons.”
“Don’t forget these.” He produces a brown, high-heeled, lace-up boot from the pile and grins at me cross-eyed. Then he throws it back, wearily slumping into a seat in the next row.
“What happened to you?” I plop down next to him. “All I’ve had to do so far is make some photocopies.”
He looks at me like I’ve just told him I’ve won the lottery.
“Jenna happened to me.” He shakes his head and thrusts one hand into his newly matted cowboy hat hair, making it stand on end. “She dragged me to this practice room and started burying me alive with props and costumes. Then I was trapped there listening to Andy Mulvarose, or no, excuse me, Jud Fry, plunk out and sing the same line of his Jud song over and over again.” Marcus’s fingers fly to his temples and he circles them, repeating, “Poor Jud is dead, poor Jud is dead.” He drops his hands, and then, as if he’s seriously contemplating, asks, “If Jud is dead, why is he singing?”
I grin, but then nod my head solemnly. “Don’t make fun, that’s actually a really beautiful song.”
He responds by reaching back to his pile and throwing a plastic flower bouquet at me.
“Here, I got you some flowers to cheer you up,” I say, throwing it back at him.
“So”—he tosses the flowers back to his pile—“how are you? What happened to you this afternoon? I mean … everything okay?”
“Wait, what? Yeah, everything’s fine.”
“Oh. It’s just that … when I was coming back to bio after dropping some tests off in the main office, I saw you running down the hall.”
“Oh. Yeah …” I trail off, remembering my emergency bio exit. “Yeah … I … I left.”
“Wow.” He laughs, and then stops, squinting at me slightly with that eyebrow-shifting face he makes with Mr. Bayer when they’re comparing subjects in one of his scientific method experiments. “Really? You just … left?”
“Yeah. You know … learning about the Krebs cycle and the ground tissue of plants has never really … done it for me.”
“What, you don’t find parenchyma, collenchyma, and sclerenchyma exciting?”
“Yes, of course, when you say it I do. Say it again, please.”
He makes a show of taking off his glasses in slow motion, then looks into my eyes, freezes his face in a comically amorous expression, and takes his time saying, “Parenchyma, collenchyma, sclerenchyma.”
I swoon, pressing my palms to my heart.
“Actually …” Marcus clears his throat, his voice returning to normal. “I probably still have a lot of flashcards and notes and stuff from that class at home. You want them?”
“Really? Yeah, that would be great.” Better than the textbook anyway. “Thanks.”
“And also,” he adds, putting his glasses back on, “if you’re going to keep running away from class, you’ll need help studying, so I’d be happy to help. At rehearsal, maybe, or at study hall … I should be there tomorrow … or not, I mean if you just want to—”
“Yeah, no at ISH tomorrow would great.”
“Marcus?! Is that you?” Jenna shouts from backstage.
“Oh God, she’s found us.” Marcus cringes.
“She’s found you,” I whisper. “I’m sneaking out to the art room.”
He nods, and then grabs my wrists. “Go! Save yourself!”
I rise from my seat, clutch my hand to my heart, and say, “Will you survive without me?”
He reaches out to me like a saint in an old renaissance painting, and I play along, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. But when I turn to leave, he tightens his grip, pulling me back toward him. “Izzy, please don’t leave me here.”
I don’t know if it’s the tone of his voice or the crazy expression on his face, but I can’t help it—I burst out laughing.
“Oh fine.” He laughs too. “Just leave me here to die.”
“Marcus! Backstage! I need you!” Marcus releases my hand. He cocks his head to the door. “Get outta here, I release you.” He smiles.
I mouth a thank-you, still laughing as I push through the auditorium doors.
• • •
I’m bundled up and speed-walking home since I totally lost track of time and should have started work on the attic for Mom about ten minutes ago. I’m halfway home when I hear a car honk, and a “Get in, snow bunny!”
Allissa is waving at me and sticking half her head out the car window. Still driving at full speed, of course. She jerks the car to the side of the road and slams on the brakes, skidding in the slush.
“Do you not check your cell, Izzy? Are you blocking my calls?” she shouts out the window.
I attempt to trudge safely to the passenger’s side of Mom’s old red sedan that Allissa inherited when she turned sixteen and then promptly dented on three sides.
“I called you to tell you I was coming in a day early, and I was picking you up,” Allissa says as I pull the car door closed.
“Oh shoot, sorry. I guess my phone’s off.”
“How do you function?” she teases.
“I don’t,” I say, turning my cell on and stripping off my coat since Allissa has the heat up to at least ninety-five degrees.
“Please tell me you did not wear that to school?” she mutters, sounding so much like Mom, it’s scary, and grimacing at my sweatpants, old T-shirt, and hoodie combo.
I explain how I was in the art room and decided not to change out of my paint clothes since I knew I’d be working on the attic tonight anyway.
“Oh, yeah, wish I could help you with that”—Allissa veers back into traffic with a lurch—“but I can’t lift too much. I strained my lower back in yoga.”
“Come on!” I say, stomping t
he snow off my boots onto the car floor. “You’re here tonight and not helping me?”
“I have a fragile lower lumbar. Ew, that snow is yellow!” Allissa looks in horror at the now snow-covered floor mats.
“Allissa! You can’t be in both lanes!”
“Don’t you have friends to drive you home from school?” she asks, swerving back to the left. “Who walks? It’s like so far.”
“It’s only a mile.”
“It’s snowing.”
“I know. Unlike you, I’m dressed for winter.”
“I’m not outside right now. I layer,” she says, plucking at her Bedazzled tank top.
“Plus I need the exercise,” I add. “It’s good for my blood pressure.”
“Oh my God, you sound like an infomercial.”
“Well, everyone needs at least twenty to thirty—”
“No, please don’t go into a rant about your blood pressure,” she laughs, “or your thyroid again. It’s fine. You’re fine. Let’s talk about something interesting.”
My sister thinks talking about anything other than pop culture is disturbing. Meanwhile, she watches soap operas and refers to the characters in her everyday conversations. What’s more disturbing, a conversation about my potentially diseased fate, or one about why Mark poisoned his wife Jill’s wine because he impregnated her second cousin Samantha, the recovering alcoholic schizophrenic? I’m sorry, but I’ve got absolutely nothing to say about All the World’s Children Turn the Minutes of Our Lives or whatever stupid show she’s obsessed with now.
“You know, Allissa, the thyroid controls my hormones, and my hormones affect my organs, so—”
“God, spare me. Enough about you, how’s Mom looking?” My sister glances at me, her face serious.
“She’s looking the same … good, but … not a huge appetite still, but—”
“Well, she never really was a big eater to begin with, so—”
“STOP!” I shout as Allissa runs a yellow light and almost ends the life of a slow-walking man and his Portuguese water dog.
“Izzy, don’t shout! You can’t scare a driver like that.”
Allissa leans forward to turn the radio up, and I check to make sure my seat belt strap is at its shortest length.
I debate asking her why I’m not included in Mom’s birthday furniture surprise scheme, but decide against it. I guess it’s good that Allissa is picking out furniture for Mom’s attic office, because they do like the same stuff. She’ll probably get her some kind of lacey throw. Or maybe a floral couch cover. And I’ll just give Mom the stuff I ordered online and make her another birthday painting, a still life of a vase of flowers, or maybe if I don’t have time to paint her something new, I’ll give her all my portfolio rejects, my trinity series of paintings: Leroy the Cat: Stretching, Sleeping, Boring.
We turn into our driveway and then Allissa jerks the car to a stop. “Whose car is that?”
I look up and see a black Jeep blocking our path, parked at the end of our circular drive. “I have no idea,” I say as Allissa reverses. She pulls into the other end of the driveway and, after three attempts, gets the car into the garage without clipping off the side mirrors.
We walk into the house and—
Oh, holy cow.
Blake is there. In our house. Sitting at the kitchen table. Smiling. With my mom.
CHAPTER 7
I love cleaning out the attic.
Blake Hangry is sitting at our kitchen table. He’s sitting at our kitchen table looking just so … so … good-looking. And I’m … well, I’m in a pair of old sweatpants and a raggedy T-shirt with paint stains on it.
“You’re back,” he says, bolting up with a cheerful, somewhat desperate smile. And, oh no, wait, he’s still wearing his mesh shorts and boots outfit. “I ran into your mom at the gas station on my way home and I tried to call you to let you know, but—”
“She never turns her cell on,” Allissa says, looking him up and down, and then turning back to me with an amused smile.
“Oh. Hey, I’m Blake.”
“Allissa,” she says, and then walks slooowly—God, Allissa—by him to give Mom a hug.
“Hey, sweetie! Why are you dressed for Florida? Where’s your sweater?” And then Mom’s ushering all of us into the living room, where she’s already put out appetizers.
“Hey, sorry,” Blake says to me quietly, hanging back. “I’m pumping gas, and I drop my credit card, and this lady picks it up and she says, ‘Blake Hangry from Broomington High?’ And I’m like, ‘Yeah.’ And it’s your mom! And she asks me to follow her home for a snack and a chat, and then she starts heating up all this food, and she says to hold tight, that you’ll be home soon, and so, I do … I did.”
“Wow,” I say, feeling a little shell-shocked, but realizing—after listening to how fast he’s regurgitating this info—that Blake’s much more nervous to be here than I am about him being here.
“So Blake,” Mom calls out to us from the living room, “you were just in the middle of telling me about your sister, Jillian?”
“Yes,” he says, hurrying into the living room. “My sister, Jillian. She was actually one of Izzy’s campers a couple summers ago, I think. At art camp. She’s totally good. Like Izzy is. A lot younger but, you know, has potential. Anyway, I thought it would be great for Jillian to hang out with Izzy, and also pretty sweet for Izzy to see the new wing of the museum. Oh, and also”—he pauses to wipe what I can only guess are sweaty palms on the sides of his mesh shorts—“also Izzy had mentioned to me, earlier, that there was this artist she wanted to see by the name of … Rora—Rura—”
“Roriago,” I chime in.
“Yeah. So she’s going to be presenting this kind of crazy, like whacked-out performance piece she does. I don’t really know much about her … maybe Izzy, you could …”
“Um, oh, well, she’s a performance artist and … I can show you a video later, Mom.”
“Yeah, so anyway,” Blake says, nodding, “that is, the plan … ma’am.”
I see Allissa biting her nails really hard, probably to keep from laughing when Blake called Mom ma’am.
“Well, all right …” Mom says, scanning Blake with her eyes like she’s trying to extract his bar code or something. “Oh,” she adds, “and who will be driving?” But before we can answer, Pam bursts through the door, talking a mile a minute, shuffling over to us, her nose buried inside a book of fabric samples.
“Linda, I’m loving this color for my kitchen. I’ve made up my mind. And let’s just go with it, because you know how indecisive I can be. If you like Salsa Dancing Red, then I like Salsa Dancing Red. Okay? Good!” She kisses Mom hello and then almost drops her book of fabrics when she sees Blake.
“Mr. Hangry, well, hello there,” she says to Blake and then looks back at Mom with a “Well, what do we have here?” face.
“Hey, Miss Rubinstein,” Blake says. Which is kind of funny to hear, because Pam has always just been Pam to us.
“Allissa! I didn’t even see you sitting there! Hi, sweetie pie, gimme some love!”
“Hey, Pam,” Allissa says, disappearing into Pam’s bear hug.
“Look at your little chicken legs! Look at your thin little chicken legs!”
“Aw, thanks!” Allissa says, even though I’m pretty sure Pam didn’t mean it as a compliment.
And now we’re all just standing here, in the living room. I don’t know what to do, but I have to do something, so I bend down and grab a once-frozen stuffed mushroom off the coffee table. Pam takes my cue and grabs two. Then I catch Blake looking at Leroy, who’s pouncing around our box-covered foyer, his fat droopy white belly dragging across the tops of the boxes.
“Are you guys moving?” Blake asks, gesturing at the boxes.
“Oh no, no, not at all,” Mom says. “We’re just doing a little winter cleaning—cleaning out our attic.”
“Actually, I’ll be cleaning out the attic since Allissa apparently is yoga injured.” Allissa verifies this with
a sad nod in Mom’s direction and a shrug at me.
“Well, I’d be happy to help if I’m needed,” Blake says. And this must really impress my mom, Blake offering to help, because she says, “Sure, we could use a guy around to lift the heavy things,” and then she turns around and winks at me! What?!
One minute my mom’s unhappily lecturing me about being suggestive, and the next she’s my wingman?
Mom’s smiling at the two of us now and nudging Pam, who finally gets the hint and says, “So Linda, why don’t we discuss my new kitchen … in your kitchen. Allissa”—she gestures wildly—“come on, I need youth perspective.”
Mom and Pam drag Allissa with them to the kitchen so I can have Blake all to myself to … watch me slovenly eat a stuffed mushroom.
“So …” I pause with an awkward gulp. “I guess we should …” Make out right here, right now, in my living room, on the couch, on the floor, against those drapes?
“… get to work,” Blake finishes for me, clearly needing to polish up on his mind-reading skills.
• • •
Ten minutes ago Blake smiled at me in this way that was just … girlfriend. But then he mentioned his sister and how his mom’s thrilled that I could potentially be her new art mentor in a way that was totally, well … art friend.
I’m in the attic, taping up a dusty cardboard box, and playing my new favorite game: Art Friend or Girlfriend. I’ve also been testing my lung capacity by holding my breath sporadically because I’m sure there have been mice up here and I really want Mom to have a nice office and all, but there is no way I’m dying of hantavirus for it.
“Man, I’m not good with parents,” he says, coming back from bringing boxes downstairs.
I gasp out a short breath, surrendering to potential mice bacteria. “No, you’re fine.”
“I still feel like I might puke.”
“Come on,” I laugh. “It’s just my mom.”
“She’s very … serious,” he says, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Man, I’m getting a full workout today.” He picks up the bottom of his button-down shirt and uses it to wipe more sweat off his face. And when he does, I get a small peek at what apparently his whole drama class has already seen. Yowza.
