Someone to Love

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “Hey...Jackson,” I stutter.

  My stomach instantly hurts.

  “Olivia.” He smiles. Jackson’s all teeth and eyebrows. He talks to people like a salesman. Like they’ll all be potential clients someday. I’m not interested in him, but he’s the one hosting the party so I pretend to flirt. I have to be there.

  “Is...that a new suit?” I ask. “You look great.”

  God. I’m an idiot. What a suck-up.

  “You do too,” he says. “That color is hot on you.”

  Did he really just say that? I try to stifle a laugh, but this ugly, garbled half chuckle, half groan comes out of my mouth. Who takes sexy yearbook photos?

  I can feel Sam following behind, so I grab Jackson by the elbow to get away. I haven’t told Sam about my plan yet. He would think I’m being stupid. Or shallow.

  “Going inside?” I ask, propelling him forward. “I hate school photos but really love our photographer, don’t you?”

  I don’t even know what I’m saying. I do this thing when I get nervous and start talking about anything to avoid an awkward silence.

  “She’s all right,” he says without much enthusiasm. “Made my teeth look big.”

  “No!” I say to Jackson. “I mean, not too big. Plus, big teeth are in these days. Don’t you watch Silver Lake?” The entire reality cast has giant teeth, like they’re a bunch of big-toothed piranhas about to attack the cameras and each other in every scene.

  “No...” he says. “Should I?”

  “They all have them,” I say. “That big teeth thing.”

  He stops, runs his tongue across his top teeth. “They do?”

  I turn around. The hall is filling up. Here comes Sam. And Zach. And Felicity Pace. She’s basically a teenage socialite, with her bouncy blond hair, which she swings back and forth as she walks down the hallway, linking arms with Cristina Rossi.

  A massive crowd of students begins to descend on us like a horde of gorgeous, perfectly groomed, well-dressed zombies. No. No. No. I need to talk to Jackson alone. It’s the only way I’m going to get invited to that party. Maybe I’ll never have a chance with Zach, but I might still have one with LeFeber. I have to talk to him.

  I grab his arm again. We head into the photo studio and join the queue.

  “So that boat party,” I squeak. “The one in Marina del Rey?”

  “What about it?” Jackson asks.

  “Dad mentioned...”

  I don’t want to tell him I overheard Felicity. Embarrassing.

  “Yeah?” he says. “Aren’t he and Sean pals?”

  I nod. Ever since Sean Clark campaigned for my dad for the House, they’re tight. Dad totally went Hollywood.

  My family is nearly perfect—at least to the public. There’s Mr. and Mrs. Blakely, the charming political power couple, Mason, who turned his life around after rehab and now works in venture capital in Silicon Valley, and Royce, who has already had an article published in the New York Times while in college.

  Then there’s Olivia Blakely.

  I’m just trying to survive my junior year of high school.

  “That’s cool,” he says. He seems like he’s about to say something else, but he looks over my shoulder. I whip around to see Zach and his entourage walking toward us.

  Cristina. Felicity, her best friend. Thin. Tan. Fashionable.

  “Do you need us to bring anything Friday?” Felicity asks. “My parents bought a case of St. Germain. It’s delicious with champagne.”

  “You lovely ladies just bring yourselves,” Jackson says. “Zach and I will take care of the rest. And don’t worry, we’ll make sure the girly drinks are there.”

  My feet feel heavy. My purse feels like it’s hiding an entire system of gravity and slings toward the floor. I barely catch it. The girls are laughing at something Zach says.

  It’s like they’re all talking in slow motion.

  So charming. So at ease with themselves.

  I can’t outwardly hate them. They haven’t actually done anything mean to me other than to be.

  But they don’t have to weigh every single piece of food they put in their tiny bodies like I do. They don’t have to count ounces and measure milliliters. Their brains don’t constantly tell them that they’re ugly and fat and should give up on their diets because they’re never going to meet their goals anyway. They probably drink to have fun with their friends. Not to numb the hunger long enough to fall asleep.

  Jackson turns away from me to talk to Zach.

  I don’t even register on his radar.

  There goes my stomach again. It feels full. Gorged. I wish I hadn’t eaten at all this morning. I’ll be bloated for the pictures.

  Then I really start to feel it. The invisibility. The cloak. Like an atmosphere, it surrounds the real me. The fullness is totally noticeable now. My stomach is bursting. My brain burns with shame. I’m fat. Everybody can see how huge I am right now. From my cheeks to my fingers. My waist. My hips. My thighs.

  I just want to be perfect. I want to be worth noticing.

  Is that too much to ask?

  I ate half a grapefruit for breakfast.

  I drank two cups of green tea.

  Took two pulls of the vodka hidden in my closet.

  Just to take off the edge.

  I feel every pound I weigh, and every ounce, like my life, is too much. Even though I already threw up at the end of class, I feel like I have to get it all out again. I excuse myself and run back to the bathroom and start heaving in the empty stall.

  Something has to come out.

  Something. Anything.

  t w o

  “Creativity takes courage.”

  —Henri Matisse

  “Can anyone figure out the origin of this painting?” Ms. Day asks, fluffing her afro with one hand. Her gold hoop earrings glint under the light of the projector.

  My mind wanders from the class, thinking about how the photo I took the last period turned out. The photographer took the picture before I was ready, and I’m almost certain I had a deer-in-the-headlights kind of look, but they only take one shot before they shuffle you off and move on to the next person in line.

  “Look at the subject,” Ms. Day adds, patiently waiting for the class to respond.

  The painting on the screen behind her shows a young woman wearing a pale pink dress being pushed on a swing above an admiring young man. The two figures aren’t touching each other, but the artist painted their movements so dynamically that they seem like they’re about to leap across the painting to embrace each other. A lush garden surrounds the lovers. Every leaf and flower has been painted with an incredible amount of detail and attention to light and shadow.

  A girl at the front—Emma—raises her hand.

  “The fashion definitely looks English or French,” she says.

  Ms. Day nods. She’s not giving any hints.

  I have her for two classes. AP art history and studio art. She’s the only teacher I feel like I can actually talk to honestly about my future goals. Not because I like her subject the most—though that’s true—but because she never mentions my parents. Or my brothers. Not that they would have ever dreamed of taking an art class.

  “I’d say French,” Emma’s friend sitting next to her adds. “Even though she’s wearing stockings, the way her legs are exposed is too scandalous to be English.”

  “Forget her legs.” Nate, a boy who sits in the back, snickers. “He’s looking up her dress. Bet he’s totally going to get him some.”

  “Our very own connoisseur of the romantic arts speaks,” Ms. Day says. “Tell us more, Casanova!” The other boys snicker, but Nate’s too embarrassed to say anything else. I love how salty she can be with her students. She’s my favorite teacher.

  Ms. Day turns away from the painting and gives him some seriou
s side-eye. She puts her hands on her hips and sighs. “It is French. French Rococo, to be exact. The painting’s official name is The Swing. It was painted right before the Revolution by an artist named Jean-Honore Fragonard. The painting was commissioned by the notorious French libertine Baron de St. Julien as a portrait of his mistress. That’s all I’ll say for now. What do you think this painting is about? What’s the context?”

  The class is silent again. “History is important to understanding art,” Ms. Day continues, asking us for our analysis of the piece before she gives us her interpretation. “But becoming a truly great artist means keeping your soul trained on the future. What will someone hundreds of years from now think or feel when they view your painting? What speaks across time and culture? Think about what truly moves you as a viewer.”

  Emma raises her hand again. “It’s kinda playful.”

  “That’s right.” Ms. Day paces across the front of the room. “Many of the painting’s critics called it frivolous. Why do you think they might have used that word?”

  “Well,” I say, leaning forward in my seat to see the painting better. “It’s not like the subject is an important religious or historical person or event or anything. And the painting’s focal point is clearly her pink dress.”

  “You think there’s more to the painting than that...” Ms. Day walks up the aisle and pauses by my desk, gesturing toward the painting. “Don’t you, Olivia?”

  “She always has something to say,” Nate groans.

  I ignore him. This is pretty much the only class in which I feel in my element.

  “That playfulness that Emma mentioned? I think she’s right. I also think the painting is about seduction. Except the moment doesn’t seem so planned out. It’s like their desire is spontaneous.” I wonder whether someone will ever feel that way about me. Why do so many things have to come together perfectly for people to fall in love?

  “The French would call that joie de vivre,” Ms. Day adds. “That translates to a cheerful enjoyment of life. An exultation of the spirit. Of the soul. Everything one does becomes filled with joy. Conversation. Work. Play. Eating.”

  I wish I could feel joy when I eat. The only thing I feel is dread.

  “Why do you think the painting is about seduction?” Ms. Day asks.

  “Besides the fact that the man on the ground is pretty much looking up her dress?” I pause for a moment. The boys in the back laugh. “They know they’re being provocative. She’s letting her shoe fly off her foot like she’s Cinderella. He’s her Prince Charming. They’re gazing directly into each other’s eyes. Maybe they’re in love.”

  “Or lust,” Ms. Day says. The class murmurs like they’re scandalized.

  I trail off, thinking about Zach’s eyes and what I might feel if he ever looked back at mine that way. I’d probably melt into a puddle on the floor.

  While I’ve been thinking about Zach, Ms. Day has moved on to analyzing other parts of the painting. “What details do you notice? Look at the background.”

  The class goes silent. We’re stumped.

  “See this statue of a cherub on the left?” Ms. Day walks up to the screen and touches the left side of the painting. “Can you see what he’s doing?”

  “Oh my god,” Emma squeals. “I totally see it.”

  Everybody squints and leans forward. We’re still all confused.

  “The little cherub? He’s holding his index finger in front of his lips. He’s trying to keep everything a secret.”

  Ms. Day smiles and draws circles around the other statutes in the garden with her finger. “What about the other sets of cherubs? The ones below the humans looking up?”

  A few students respond to her question.

  “They look concerned.”

  “More like afraid for her.”

  “I think they’re scowling.”

  “Yes. This is obviously an illicit love affair,” Ms. Day says. “Yet the painter casts off the moral concerns of the day to illustrate a moment of lighthearted pleasure. It is frivolous. Free. In fact, the painting’s alternate title is The Happy Accidents of the Swing.”

  “They’re definitely, like, living life to its fullest or whatever,” Emma says.

  “YOLO,” Nate adds.

  “Exactly.” Ms. Day laughs. “Homework for tonight is to research...”

  I lose myself in my thoughts while she gives us tonight’s assignment.

  I can barely remember the last time I felt truly happy like the woman on the swing. When I was younger, tapping into that feeling of freedom seemed so much easier. I could ride my scooter fast down the street. I could get on a swing and pump my legs until I was soaring high over the playground. What happened to that girl? Did I lose her?

  Am I living my best life? Am I even trying to?

  The bell rings for lunch and all the students start piling out the door. I slowly put my notes and my textbook in my backpack while Ms. Day turns off the projector.

  “Olivia,” she says. “I wanted to tell you something in studio art this morning, but you were out the door too fast. Do you have time to stick around for a few minutes?”

  Of course I have time. It’s not like I actually eat lunch anyway.

  I have only one rule about eating at school. I don’t do it.

  “Yeah,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “There’s an opportunity that would be great for you.” She walks to her desk and grabs a neon-yellow flyer. “One of my old friends from grad school is part of the staff at an art gallery that wants to feature young artists from the area.”

  My pulse quickens. This could be huge. “Which gallery?” I ask.

  “It’s called the Wynn. It’s fairly small, but they have a great schedule of contemporary artists lined up for this year. It would be a huge deal when you’re applying to art schools to say you’ve shown your work there already.”

  “Sounds...great,” I say, unsure.

  I’ve heard of the Wynn before. It’s an up-and-coming gallery that mostly features artists early in their careers, but I’m not sure I’m good enough. I sketch and paint constantly, but I don’t like showing my work to people. I come up with these concepts in my mind, but I can never seem to execute them exactly the right way. Sometimes I feel as if my skill will never match up with my vision.

  “It’s a ways off—the show won’t be until near the end of the school year—but you have to submit a portfolio to be considered. They’re going to take only two or three artists total.”

  How can I pull off a full show in eight months?

  I’m a perfectionist. I take forever to put together a painting.

  “That sounds pretty intense,” I say. “I don’t know what I would paint.”

  Ms. Day puts down the flyer and looks at me. “Olivia. You need to start believing in your work. Really. It’s time for you to push yourself. Find your voice. You’ve been experimenting with figure drawing lately. Why don’t you try painting live models?”

  I want to ask Ms. Day what she means by finding my voice, and exactly how I should go about doing that, when the fire alarm goes off.

  “Really?” Ms. Day shakes her head. “We’ve had three of these damn things this week already. Wish I could catch whatever little delinquent is responsible for this.”

  Lights flash on and off as the alarm buzzes. The school installed these alarms with strobe lights that practically blind you. It’s most likely a false alarm, but they’re so annoying they make you want to leave the room.

  She heads for the door. “You don’t have to decide now,” she says, holding the flyer out to me. “You’re the only student I am recommending for this, so please promise to think about it.”

  “Yeah,” I say, taking the flyer, my stomach tightening with nerves. “I promise.”

  t h r e e

  “You live but once; you might as well be amu
sing.”

  —Coco Chanel

  I’m sitting with Mom and Dad at a table at Musso & Frank Grill on Hollywood Boulevard, dining under the chandeliers in the ambience of mahogany decor and literary ghosts. Faulkner. Hemingway. Fitzgerald. Steinbeck. Parker. You name the writer—they ate here. The restaurant is old Hollywood classy. Waiters wear red jackets and black ties. Mom and Dad love this kind of stuff. A sense of history appeals to them.

  I had to go home after school to change just so I could go out to dinner with my parents, even though I have absolutely no interest in eating.

  It’s Thursday. Today was supposed to be a fast day.

  I’m trying to break a plateau. My goal is to get down to 100 pounds, and I’m not going to get there by eating ham steak or a rack of lamb or whatever.

  When the waiter delivers my salad, Dad starts doing this thing he always does at these dinners, as if his life suddenly revolves around my eating habits.

  “A house salad?” Dad asks. “That’s it?”

  I get irritated with them at dinners because they’re always commenting on what and how much I put on my plate, making me feel guilty for whatever I do or don’t eat.

  Believe me. I already judge myself enough for my own eating habits. Like those two Rice Krispies treats Mom made that I binged on yesterday? They made me feel terrible.

  Words slip out before I have a chance to process. “Why do you care?”

  Sometimes I want to stand on the table and inform the congressman: Sir, my life isn’t about shoving millions of calories of dead cow into my body.

  They were the ones who encouraged me to lose weight in the first place. When I came home crying about how fat I was after Ollie dumped me freshman year, Mom was the first to help me go on a diet. She bought me weight loss guidebooks, exercise tapes and a food scale. I would give her a special list of what to pick up at the grocery store.

  I counted every calorie. Weighed every ounce. Recorded every mile. It was healthy at first. I started to lose weight. Fast. I really did need to ditch some of the weight, but I couldn’t stop even after I lost all the weight I had gained.