by Mindy Raf
“No, actually, it’s for this … sculpture for the dance and—”
“Oh, cool. Yeah, that would be awesome!”
“Oh. Okay, great. Can I copy them to my drive?”
“Totally.” Meredith whips out her laptop and I grab my thumb drive.
Meredith cheerfully chats to me as the pictures are being copied to my drive. She’s going on and on about which of them she likes best and is telling me how excited she is to be part of one of my art projects, “even thought it’s just dance decorations,” and then she tells me how much she’s always liked my stuff.
“What? Really?” I look up at her from the computer.
“Yeah. I remember in like third grade when we had to draw our self-portraits in crayon or something, and yours actually looked like you.”
“What?” I stare back at her, trying to remember.
“Yeah! Remember? And Miss Middlesrat was like, ‘Everybody come look at what Izzy did!’ and I was thinking, ‘That’s my best friend, she’s going to be in museums, so get her autograph right now.’”
“You did not think that,” I say, my morning smile returning again.
“Oh before I forget, let’s go over a game plan for tomorrow. Ryan’s got his dad’s van, so he’s driving. He’s picking me up around the corner from your house around nine, so I figured if you’ll be on the lookout—”
“Well, I was thinking of actually going now … to the party, if that’s okay,” I add.
“Oh, cool! Yeah, that’s so great.” Meredith claps her hands under her chin. “Okay, well, then we’re going to have to re-strategize.”
“Wait, what do you mean?”
“Well, the party is actually not at Phil’s house anymore. It’s at his cousin Steve’s fraternity, so it won’t really get started until later, but that’s okay, because—” And Meredith starts to go over our new plan of action, and I’m fully nodding along but only half listening, thinking, Oh God, a frat house. Not that it’s a big deal or anything. It’s just that, so far, I’ve yet to actually attend an official frat party. It’s one thing just sneaking out to go to Cara’s brother’s Phil’s regular house. But now I’m sneaking out to go to a total stranger’s frat house. People go to frat houses to drink and have sex. I don’t drink, and Blake and I have only driveway-kissed. Plus, I have no desire to be in a Babes Gone Bananas video. Not that there would be skeezy Babes Gone Bananas people in Ann Arbor at this particular frat party, on this particular weekend. But what if I somehow end up flashing a video camera? My mom would officially disown me for the rest of my life. Well, first she would disown me for sneaking out.
Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
“Helloooooooo … ladies.” Miss S. circles our table. “Everything going okaaaay … ?”
“Uh-huh, yeah, totally,” Cara says, while Meredith confirms it with a nod and goes back to her photography notes.
“Ooooh, and what’s this little mirror medleyyyyy … ?” Miss S. circles my table, her pupils dilating as if they’re literally absorbing what they’re seeing. “And a new sculpture? Aaaaand … some multi-mediaaaaaa …” she adds, noting the open laptop.
“Oh, well, actually this is for the Dance for Darfur. For the decorations.”
“Mmmm,” Miss S. muses, her eyebrows shifting down and then up again.
“Yeah, my mom—she’s on the planning committee—she wanted some kind of sculpture. It’s going to be for the entryway. Actually, I had this idea yesterday to—”
“I seeeee …” Miss S. cuts me off as she curls her lips inward the way she does when she’s problem-solving or when it takes extra effort to be constructive.
Wow, her lips are tucked in so far right now that it looks like there’s an incision where her mouth should be. That’s not good.
“Weeeeeell …” she finally sighs, “I think it’s great that you’re helping out your mooooooom … This dance is important, I knoooow, but Izzy”—she says my name in this “I don’t know” tone—“I’m a little concerrrrned … about your priorities.”
“Oh.”
“It’s just that we’re heading towaaaaaard … this deadline and you still have hooooow … many full pieces to do?”
“Three,” I mumble.
“Yes, well, I think it best to not work on dance de-coooooor … during studio time, yes?”
“Yes, of course. I can … I can do this on my own time. Yes. Sorry.”
“Good.” She places a hand flat on my arm, drumming her long fingers across my shoulders. “No worries now, loosen the chest, loosen it all, and deeeeep breath, remember? Stay loooose …” she reminds me.
I nod and start to take a breath as Miss S. sway-walks over to the other side of the studio. But it’s not a good, loose, deep breath. I don’t let the air flow to all my muscles the way Miss S. always tells me I should. I gulp the air down instead, thinking about how I just lied.
I just lied to Miss S. because I can’t do this dance map sculpture thing on my own time, because I don’t have any of my own time. I have Jenna-time for play rehearsal, Mom-time for getting the attic together, Mom-time for designing and selling dance tickets, Mom-time for doing medical research and reading everything I can—most of it going over my head—about the stomach muscle and all the things that can wrong with it, and—
I rapidly start picking up my bits of mirror, putting them piece by piece back into my plastic supply bin. And if I don’t have any of my own time now, I definitely won’t have any of it going forward either. I clear the last pattern of mirror shards off the table. Especially if everything I’m reading turns out to be true, if Mom really hasn’t gotten that much better from last summer. If maybe she’s even gotten worse.
I seal up my storage bin and shove it underneath the table, using my knees to push it farther back and out of sight. My mental snapshots from last summer are back now, mechanically moving through my head like a kid’s View-Master. All that sick-Mom-time, click. All that me-not-working-on-my-portfolio-time, click, click, click.
I can’t believe I was willing to spend the one official portfolio hour I have today to work on dance decorations for my mother. My mother, who blatantly lies to my face, and who will probably hate this whole sculpture anyway. Or ask me to make what she thinks is a one-minute change, but that will probably take me eight hours.
I rise up from under the table and stare down at my map sculpture. I stare and gulp down three more breaths, feeling anything but loose. In fact, the more I stare at that stupid map, the tighter every single muscle in my body feels. Which is probably why my hands immediately clench and clamp down onto the edge of the table when I hear Jacob Ullman’s repulsive seagull laugh. I grind my fingers into the table, trying to ignore that honking, throaty sound. But then I can’t help it and turn my head because it’s not just Jacob laughing, it’s a whole table of boys and they’re all—
Oh my God. The whole table of 101 boys are all wearing my mom’s color therapy glasses.
I snap my head back around fast, my forearms aching from gripping the table so hard. Then I slowly pivot my body back around so I can sneak a look at the boys.
Yup, there they all are, all seven colored lenses. If they weren’t my stolen glasses, if they weren’t meant for very important medical purposes, then I guess a ROYGBIV spectrum of boys engaging in an unintentional color therapy session in the art room would be kind of funny. Which I guess is why Robert Stern laughs as he walks by and asks what’s going on.
“Izzy got these for us,” Nate replies, taking off his indigo pair, and reading the little card attached to the frame. “These are supposed to aid in ‘sinus and pituitary gland function.’” He strokes his chin with his fingers, feigning an “I’m impressed” face.
“What?” Robert snorts. “Lemme see.”
“Okay, ha-ha, very funny, Nate.” I hope I sound casual. “Just give them back to me.”
“Oh my God, what are they wearing?” Meredith giggles in my direction but then stops when she sees my face.
&nbs
p; “They’re mine. Nate stole them from me this morning,” I say, trying to hold it together. “They’re for my mom. They’re really expensive and—”
“Give them back, asshats!” Meredith turns to the table.
“Relax, Meredith.” Jacob seagull-laughs at her, and then makes a fist with his hand, moving it back and forth toward and away from his face. “I miss you,” he adds, making the rest of the table laugh even harder.
“You wish,” Meredith snaps at him, the color draining from her cheeks a little, but her voice getting louder.
“Just give them back,” I say, louder now, riding on Meredith’s energy.
“Okay, okay.” Nate laughs and then throws the pair of indigo glasses at us. I follow their trajectory as they fly past Meredith and me, landing on the floor next to the table behind us, skidding a little, then coming to rest still in one piece. I sigh. And then a second later, Roopa Sheti walks through the tables holding a canvas over her head and steps right on them, shattering both lenses and the frames as well.
“Jesus, what the—” She looks around, annoyed.
I stare at the crushed pile of indigo. Then every muscle in my body tightens together like I’m some kind of human spring being pushed all the way down, and then suddenly—“Give me my glasses! Give them back!”—I release, springing at the table of boys, barreling toward Jacob Ullman and trying to snatch my red lenses right off his face. But Jacob manages to get up and books it away from the table, his seagull laugh ringing.
I chase him around the table, reaching out my arms. All I can see is Jacob Ullman and my red glasses. And then—
CRASH.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Ina Lazebnik’s mouth open so wide to speak. Except she’s not really speaking, she’s just swearing, and now … crying.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,” Jacob repeats to her, his voice going soft.
I rush up to them both, stopping at Ina’s broken sculpture on the floor.
“I’m so sorry. I’m … I’m so, so, sorry.” I don’t know what else to say, so I bend down to help her pick up the pieces.
“No, don’t! I got it.” She shakes her head at me, sniffling, and shooing me away.
“Oooooh, oooooh.” Miss S. rushes over to us. She picks up one of the clay pieces and cradles it in her hands like a small, wounded animal. She puts one arm around Ina, and then turns to Jacob and me, her hazel eyes hard.
“It was an accident,” Jacob mumbles, relinquishing the red lenses to the tabletop.
“Izzy?” Miss S. turns to me, most of her braids now tumbled down around her shoulders.
“Jacob was … running from me because he had my glasses and—” I stop because it just sounds so utterly stupid.
“It was Jacob’s fault,” Meredith chimes in. “He stole Izzy’s glasses and then he starts running around the room and—”
“Okay, enough,” Miss S. says. She seems to gather herself together. “Jacob, let’s go to my office and discuuuuss … how we can try and help Ina replenish and re-creaaaate … going forward.”
She gestures for Jacob to follow her and then gently tells Ina to go take some time and get cleaned up. “Izzy …” She pauses, turning to me again with a severely inward-lipped mouth. “You know better.”
I watch them walk away, wishing I could rewind it all.
“This was so not your fault,” Meredith reassures me, bringing over and then holding open a small garbage bag.
I toss in the pieces of what was once Ina’s awesome sculpture and my mom’s indigo color therapy glasses, thinking that maybe I belong inside that bag as well.
CHAPTER 12
I’m a clueless cyberchondriac.
I can’t get to the main lobby and the ticket-selling table fast enough. Not that I’m looking forward to selling dance tickets on my lunch hour, but I am looking forward to finally seeing Jenna.
I throw my backpack on the floor next to the folding table. Jenna’s already got it set up in the lobby with the display sign I made weeks ago taped to the front. I drop my battered box of glasses, sans indigo, on top of the table and scan the lobby. Here’s the table, but there’s no sign of Jenna. I take a seat on one of the folding chairs, trying not to replay the snapshots of the day—Robert Stern’s laugh, the crunch of Roopa’s shoe, Ina’s dazed, sniffling face.
I should offer to help Ina with whatever new project she’ll be working on now. Or maybe I should offer her money for more supplies. I should write her an apology note. Miss S. is right, I should know better. What is wrong with me? And why was Robert Stern laughing at those glasses anyway? He’s smart. He should know how expensive color therapy glasses are. Ugh. Where is Jenna? I slide the box of tickets on the table closer to me and open it up. Then I see, sitting right on top of the assembled tickets, the pile of blank envelopes I was supposed to decorate. There’s a Post-it stuck to the top one that says “Still blank …” in Jenna’s handwriting.
“Two please. Thanks, Izzy.”
I look up, say hello to Derrick, and then quickly check my wallet for bills since there’s no cashbox here to make change.
“Would you like to donate any of the following amounts in addition to the price of your ticket?” I add, mimicking Mom’s client smile and handing him a donation form. Derrick declines with a “Nah,” and so I give him two tickets, but in one of the blank envelopes, which I’ve suddenly decided to reserve for non-donators.
I watch as Derrick disappears through the cafeteria doors across from me, and then I scan the lobby again.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve decorated ten envelopes, arranged them in multiple flower patterns on the table, sold three pairs of tickets and gotten two very small donations, and texted Jenna four times. I really think you should let a person know if you’re planning on just not showing up for something. Especially when that person is spending their free evenings showing up for you. And especially when they need you—logistically, I mean, because I’m almost out of change. Really, at least leave a person a cashbox.
At that very moment, a metal box lands, rattling my flimsy folding table. It’s not the universe hearing me and making cashboxes fall from the sky. No, it’s Marcus Mason, smiling at me and saying, “Try not to spend it all on art supplies.”
“Hey. Thanks. Where’s your sister?”
“I don’t know. She texted me to get this to you and help out if I’m needed.”
“Oh. She texted you? Is she okay? Is she sick?”
“Nah, I don’t think so.” He joins me behind the table. “Sorry, you look … disappointed that I’m your co-seller?”
“No, no, it’s not that. It’s good that you’re here.” I gesture to the nonexistent line of people in front of us. “As you can see, I’m swamped.”
“Yeah.” He smiles. “Good thing I came along when I did.”
Marcus and I do end up pretty busy and selling tickets nonstop for a while near the end of the hour. After our last big rush, I plop down in my chair, doodle-decorating one of the blank envelopes, wondering why Jenna never bothered to text me as well.
“So I have to ask”—Marcus turns to me, closing up the cashbox, and gesturing to my package on the far edge of the table—“what’s in the box?”
“Oh. Some … glasses.” I pop open the cardboard flap so he can see inside.
“Wow. All for you?”
“No. Well … um, they’re not mine. I mean, I ordered them, but they’re not mine. I mean, they’re mine, but they’re for—”
“Wait a minute.” He sifts his fingers through the contents, looking at me now the way Allissa does when I tell her about a new symptom. “Why did you order glasses in every color of the rainbow?”
“Um … it’s actually … it’s for color therapy,” I mumble really fast.
“What?”
“Color therapy,” I repeat, taking out a pair—the green ones—and handing them to him. I watch as he holds them up by the stems, like a lab specimen. Maybe Marcus can actually tell me more about how color therapy works sinc
e he knows so much already about science and anatomy. Maybe he even knows the details about what certain colors do, or the best ones to use.
“Color therapy,” he repeats. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, frowning.
“Is this for class? Did Bayer cover light refraction or …?”
“Oh. No, no, I read about it myself. I was on Symptomaniac and this guy commented on a thread and linked to this site and … anyway, then I read about them and how certain colors can balance out certain organs and—”
“Oh. But why did you— No wait, first, why were you on Symptomaniac?”
“Oh, um …” Crap. Well Marcus, I go on Symptomaniac for a lot of different reasons. For instance, I had a headache last week that wouldn’t go away even after I took three Advil, and I read this article once that said headaches that don’t go away can be a sign of a brain tumor. Then I saw on the news that they think now cell phones give you brain tumors, and I use my cell phone a lot. Also, one of my breasts is oddly bigger than the other. Have I ever mentioned that? No? Oh, and did I tell you I’m aging prematurely? Or that, most disturbingly, I’ve recently had trouble breathing? “I don’t know,” I say at last. “I’m just bored sometimes, I guess.”
“Oh. Well, I think it’s more fun reading medical journals. They’re more reliable than the websites and sometimes they have really detailed pictures too.”
“Really?” I ask, excited about the detailed pictures.
“Yeah, my dad has tons of them in his office.”
“So you really check to see what kinds of diseases you have in medical journals?”
“Check to see—no, no, I don’t think I have any diseases. Just interested in anatomy, medicine …”
“Wait, I thought you wanted to go into engineering or something?” I ask, hoping for a subject change.
“I don’t know. I’d like to end up doing something with computers, but medical school isn’t completely out of the question. I guess it just depends— Wait, you look up diseases and stuff for personal reasons? Because you think you have them?”
“No, of course not. I mean sometimes I do, sometimes I think I may have a symptom or something, but I’m not sure, so I look and …” I stop myself and trail off.
