by Alyson Noel
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.
Which are all the things I like best about it.
Jas is walking straight toward me and I start to get all nervous until I realize that he’s actually just walking toward his table, and not necessarily toward me. But I close my folder anyway and shove it in my bag, and just as I start to get up, he goes, “Rio. Here. Happy birthday.”
He’s holding this big silver-wrapped package, and I just stand there staring at it like a total retard. And after a few moments of that, I get a grip on myself and take it from him.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” he asks.
“Oh, right now?” I look at him briefly, then back at the gift. I’m starting to sweat.
“Well, I know today’s not your birthday, but I finished it early and I wanted to give it to you,” he says, smiling eagerly.
So I remove the blue ribbon, and I’m guiding my stub of a fingernail very carefully under a strip of tape, when he goes, “Remember when you were a little kid, and your parents gave you your birthday gift, and you couldn’t wait to get at it?”
I look right into his eyes and smile.
“That’s how all presents should be opened.”
So I poke my finger right through the paper, making a big gaping hole, and then I rip it all the way down the front, uncovering the most amazing replica of the Duran Duran Rio album cover.
Only the girl is me.
And I know she’s me because she has honey-blond hair and green eyes, like I do.
Ohmygod!
I just stand there staring at it. And I know I have to say something but I don’t trust my voice because my throat is all tight and awful-feeling. And I don’t trust my heart because it will make me say something stupid and embarrassing.
So when he goes, “Do you like it?”
I go, “Um, yeah. It’s incredible.” And as I’m looking at him the bell rings.
Then he leans toward me like he’s going to hug me, and even though I desperately want him to, I also really wish he wouldn’t since I’m all sweaty, nervous, and pretty much an emotional wreck. Not to mention that the last time he moved toward me like this it didn’t end so well. So I grasp the painting against my chest, and it makes the hug all bumpy and awkward. And when he pulls away, I wrap the torn paper back around it, and head to my next class.
Twenty
The painting is too big for my locker, but luckily it fits in this black canvas tote that I sometimes use to carry my camera, film, and other art supplies. So at lunch when I sit next to Kayla, I slide the bag off my shoulder and set it on the empty space next to me.
And Jen Jen looks over and goes, “What’s that?”
But before I can even answer, Kristi goes, “That’s her new lunch bag.” Then she starts laughing.
Very funny. You know, it really bugs me how she’s always commenting on how much I supposedly eat. I mean, I always thought I ate like a normal person, but according to her (she who lives solely on coke—both Diet and Colombian), I’m well on my way to being a total heifer.
But I just roll my eyes, and say, “It’s just some art supplies.” Knowing that they’ll immediately lose interest, since they’re not into art.
Sure enough, Kristi starts talking about last night’s date/hookup with Drew and how hot it was, and what he wore, and what she wore, and how cute they were together, and blah blah blah. But I just totally tune her out since I already had to listen to this story on the way to school, and then again in like a zillion text messages she sent during English.
And I’m relieved to have this little mental break, because I’m completely obsessed with the painting in my bag. It’s like I just can’t stop thinking about it, and wondering what it means. For Jas to spend his free time making something like that must mean that he likes me, right? But if he really liked me wouldn’t he break up with Monique and ask me out? And if by some chance that did happen, would I even go? I mean, I pretty much promised my friends that I wouldn’t like Jas anymore. And I don’t! I mean, not really, not like I used to. Anyway, he probably does stuff like that for all of his friends because that’s just the kind of person he is. Which is still kind of weird since it’s not like we’re really friends anymore. But maybe he started it back when we were friends, and just decided to finish it so he could cross it off his list, or whatever. Yeah, that must be it. I’m sure it doesn’t really mean anything to him, so it really shouldn’t mean anything to me.
“Hel-lo? Is anyone home?” Kristi’s glaring at me.
“I’m sorry, I spaced,” I say.
“I asked if you’re coming to the mall with us after school?” She does an exaggerated eye roll. Well, so much for yesterday when I was her new best friend.
“Oh, I can’t,” I lie. “I have to help my mom with something.” I smile at them, hoping they’ll buy it, because the truth is, I’ve got to get this picture home, since I know Kristi will totally flip if she sees it. And even though I shouldn’t care about things like that, we all know that I do.
When I get home from school, my mom’s not there, and since I know Kristi and Company won’t be coming by, I take the painting out of my bag and prop it on my desk against the wall. And then I sit there and stare at it.
For longer than I care to admit.
I must have fallen asleep because later, when I open my eyes my room is much darker, and I can hear my mom banging around in the kitchen. So I change into some sweats, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and go downstairs to join her.
“Oh, good, you’re up.” She turns and smiles. “I just grilled some tuna, are you hungry?”
My head feels foggy with sleep so I just nod and take a seat in the Venetian room, since the kitchen table is being custom-made in Thailand so it will fit in perfectly with her and Michael’s burgeoning “Asian kitchen” theme. I wonder how many people in Bangkok have Sub-Zero fridges?
She sets down our plates and takes the seat across from me. “Your father called, but you were asleep.”
“When’s he coming home?” I ask.
“He’ll be home for your birthday this weekend.” She cuts into her tuna.
“Cool.” I nod, taking a bite of mine. My mom’s a pretty decent cook.
“You know, Rio, I hate to admit it, but with the move, and the decorating, and all the work involved in getting settled in, I’m afraid your birthday completely slipped my mind.”
Can you believe she just said that?
I mean, she has one kid. That’s just one kid’s birthday to remember and it slips her mind. But I don’t say that, instead I just shrug and take a bite of my salad.
“So while you were sleeping I called your friend Kristi, and we decided to throw a party for you.”
What?
She’s smiling excitedly, and nodding, like I’m supposed to get all excited too. But unfortunately I’m on the opposite end of excitement. I don’t want some stupid party. And I definitely don’t want her calling my friends. So now I’m wishing my birthday had just stayed forgotten.
“You called Kristi?” I ask incredulously.
“She thought it was a great idea. She’s putting together a guest list.”
“But why didn’t you just ask me?” I set down my fork and glare at her.
“Because you were sleeping,” she says, taking a sip of chardonnay.
“I took a nap, Mom. It wasn’t intended to be some Disney fairy-tale hundred-year snooze. Besides, I don’t want a party.”
‘What are you talking about? Of course, you want a party!”
“Mom, I just said that I don’t.”
“Rio.” She shakes her head in exasperation. “It’s perfect timing. Think about it. You’re new i
n town, you’re making all these wonderful friends, it will be a chance to get everyone together and sort of seal your place.”
“So this isn’t really about my birthday, then is it?” I say, getting increasingly angry. “This is like some kind of campaign you dreamed up. So I can rise among the social ranks into a position of power.”
“Why do you always have to be so difficult? It’s just a party. It’s supposed to be fun.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, we don’t have much time to plan it, so Kristi’s going to call me back with the guest list later this evening. Would you like to look it over?”
“No thanks,” I say, pushing away from the table and my plate that’s still half-full. “I’m sure you and Kristi can handle it.” Then I go upstairs to my room and e-mail Paige.
Okay, I admit, I haven’t e-mailed Paige in over a week, even though she still e-mails me like every other day. And I feel kind of guilty about it, especially since I’m only e-mailing her now so I can vent. But I can’t help it. I just really need to communicate with someone normal. And at the moment she’s the only normal person I have access to.
So when I see she’s online I write:
How R U? Sorry it’s been sooooo long. Blah blah blah.
And after we go back and forth with polite small talk, I spill the beans. I tell her about the picture Jas made, about my mom calling my friends while I’m asleep, and about my new friends being really cool, and really popular, but also kind of controlling. Though I leave out the stuff about the drugs and drinking since you have to be careful with what you put in writing.
And then I wait for her reply.
But when it comes, it totally pisses me off because she writes some crap about being true to myself, and all kinds of touchy-feely nonsense that I don’t really feel like reading right now.
Because who is she to say that to me?
She’s not the one that was forced to move all the way across the world and start over in some foreign place where practically everyone’s rich, and beautiful, and perfect. And they all play by these insane social rules that you can’t figure out until you break one and are banished forever!
So after reading her sanctimonious little message, I just simply don’t respond. I just sit there and let her message me two more times, before I make up some lie about having a ton of homework to do and having to sign off.
Then I take that pill Kristi gave me the other day. Because if I ever needed help chilling, it’s right now. And right as I’m falling asleep I hear the phone ring. And I know it’s Kristi calling with the guest list, but I don’t care. I just let sleep take me away until morning.
Twenty-one
The next morning when Kristi picks me up she’s all excited, talking about my party, how totally cool my mom is, and how awesome it’s all gonna be even though it’s totally last minute. I don’t do much except nod and go along, partly because my head feels completely sand-bagged from that pill I took, and partly because I’ve made the decision to just let it go. I mean, my mom working alone is bad enough. But my mom paired with Kristi is a force I just don’t have the energy to fight.
“Um, what was that pill you gave me the other day?” I ask, leaning my head against the neck rest, and totally interrupting her.
“Just Valium. Why? Did you take it?” Her eyes light up.
“Yeah, but I’m not sure if I liked it.”
“What do you mean?” She looks at me closely.
“Well, my head feels a little funny. And like, it totally knocked me out.”
“That’s the point. I’ve got more. My mom has a cabinet full of stuff from her shrink and all of her surgeries.”
She looks over and sees the expression on my face. “Plastic surgeries. You didn’t really think her nose and boobs were real, did you?” She laughs.
I just shrug.
“Anyway, your mom even promised that she’ll only be there for the very beginning then she’ll bail so we can have fun. I’ve arranged it so that your parents are going to dinner with my mom and stepdad. And trust me, the guest list is totally A-list, and since it’s your birthday, you get first crack at all the guys!”
She’s looking at me and I know I’m supposed to be superexcited by that, so I give her a big smile that hopefully resembles someone who is.
And then all through English she sends me like a zillion text messages about the party. By the sixth one I am so totally over it, I feel like turning it off. But I don’t, because you just don’t ignore Kristi. So I keep that fake smile firmly plastered on my face, and send little messages back, while Mrs. Abbott drones on and on about Hemingway’s spare, masculine, journalistic style.
When I get to Art (late, again, and yes, on purpose), Ms. Tate is in the middle of a slide presentation. And right between projections she stops lecturing and says, “Rio, welcome. Starting tomorrow could you please make an effort to get here on time?”
Wow, I guess even the laid-back Ms. Tate has her limits. I mumble an apology, slink toward my desk, and sit next to Mason who glances at me briefly, then focuses her attention back on the screen.
So I look at Jas, trying to determine if there’s anything different between us since he gave me that picture. But he just nods and smiles and looks back at the screen.
And I hate to admit it, but I don’t look at the screen. I just open my notebook and doodle more crap.
When I get home from school my mom’s not there, so on my way to my room I stop by the kitchen to grab something to eat. But when I pass the downstairs guest room I do a double take. She can’t be serious.
I push the door all the way open and gape at the fake potted palms, the double-layered mosquito nets, and the dust ruffles resembling gigantic grass hula skirts, and I can only wonder whose “genius” idea this was—my mom’s or Michael’s? I mean, it looks just like a room you might find in a cheesy Caribbean hotel, or a Disney theme park.
Jeez, I’m starting to feel like I need a passport just to move from room to room.
I close the door so I won’t have to look at it again and go upstairs to my room, which is like the only normal place in this house. Then I drop my books right in front of—the picture Jas made!
Ohmygod! What if my mom saw it?
I meant to hide it this morning, before I left for school, but I was so messed-up from that stupid Valium I forgot. I quickly grab it and shove it under my bed, covering it up with my “ ape Crew” sweat-shirt. Then I sit at my desk and take some deep cleansing breaths and pray she didn’t see it.
So imagine my surprise the next day, when my mom drops me off, and all the important juniors, and even a few seniors are waving around their very own postcard-sized version of Jas’s painting.
“Hey, Brazil! Check it out!” Kristi says, running toward me, waving one in the air.
I grab it, flip it over, and quickly scan the back. I’m completely horrified when I realize it’s an invitation to my party.
“Where’d you get this?” I ask, with barely concealed panic.
“Your mom had them made! Aren’t they awesome? Oh, my god, everyone’s coming, including Drew and some of his hot friends. It’s gonna be so great!”
I just stand there feeling completely ill, and when I look up, I see Jas.
Oh, god.
But Kristi sees him, too, and as he walks by she goes, “Hey Jas, nice work.” Then she hands him one so he can see it all up close and personal.
I just stand there watching him trace his finger over the front, before he flips it over and reads the back. When he’s done he hands it back to Kristi, but his eyes are on me.
I know I should say something, anything. But I just continue to stand there like a total retard. Then the first period bell rings and Kristi looks at Jas and goes, “Ciao, loser!” Then she puts her arm through mine and drags me all the way across the quad.
And I don’t try to stop her, and I don’t look back. Not even once.
I want to ditch Art.
And I seriously consider it, until I see Ms. Tate in
the hall and she says, “So, how’s your project coming along?”
“Oh. Um, okay.”
“Good.” She nods. “I’m very interested in seeing your interpretation of Beauty.”
“Uh, yeah,” I mumble, reluctantly following her into the classroom and wondering if I should hold my breath and try to faint or something, since at this point I’d rather be rushed to the emergency room than face Jas. But awful as I may feel, I can’t just faint on cue. So I suck it up and head for my seat.
The second I sit down Mason goes, “Hey, what’s up?”
And I go, “Um, nothing.” And then I shrug. And then I smile. But she just looks at me, and then at Jas (who I’m still afraid to look at), then she gets up and goes over to her easel.
I can feel Jas staring at me, and I know I have to say something, so I take a deep breath and go, “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know my mom was going to do that. She swiped it out of my room without asking. And you have to believe me, because I never would have allowed it.” When I finally glance at him, I feel even worse, because he’s looking at me like I’m some horrible person.
“So you bootleg my work, and I don’t even get an invite?” he says.
Okay, I’m just gonna go with the truth. I mean, I owe him that. So I say, “Jas, I’m really sorry but I can’t invite you.”
“Why? Concerned about fire codes?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I can’t invite you because my mom and Kristi are planning the party, and my mom thinks you’re a bad influence.”
“What? Why?” He leans toward me, waiting for an answer.
“Well,” I say, my eyes glued to the scarred wood tabletop. “Because I was with you when I got detention.”
“Yeah, and I picked you up to go to dinner a few days later. She didn’t seem to have a problem with me then.”
Okay, technically that’s true. But I can’t exactly tell him how I came home that night totally freaked-out and red-faced because I discovered he had a girlfriend just seconds after throwing myself at him. And how my mom totally misread it—and I let her. So I just say, “Well, she waited up for me, and she knew I’d been drinking, so she said I couldn’t hang with you guys anymore.”