by Nall, Gail
“So, what did Trevor say was so great about this movie?” I ask, totally fishing for clues.
“Oh, not much. Just that it’s his favorite. It’s got some killer dialogue.”
“That sounds good.” I pretend to look in my purse for something. “I don’t remember him ever mentioning it. I must’ve zoned out.”
“Huh. He went on and on about it in the car the other day.” Amanda floors it through a yellow light, which is not very Amanda-like at all. I narrow my eyes a bit. She’s nervous about something. Probably a Trevor-something.
Amanda’s phone buzzes.
“Who’s texting you this early?”
She plucks it from the cup holder and passes it to me.
I click the phone on. And I want to cry.
Watch the movie 2nite?
A text from Trevor. Practically inviting himself over to her house. What the hell?
“Well, if you’re not going to read it to me . . .” Amanda brakes at the light at Wabash next to Holland’s one-and-only Walmart (parking lot packed, as usual) and snatches her phone back.
I put a hand to my chest like that can stop my heart from beating so fast. “I thought you didn’t like him.”
“I don’t!” She reads the text again. “Look, he probably just wants to know what I think about that movie. Maybe there’s something in there that applies to The Sound of Music.”
I take a couple of deep breaths. I have to trust her. Besides, I’m going to be there, so it’s not like anything can happen. And maybe I can figure out what’s going on—or not—between them. I hate feeling like this, so it’d be nice to put a rest to it.
“I’m going to tell him no,” Amanda says, starting to type.
“Say yes. Tell him to come over. Hurry up, before the light changes.”
“Casey, I don’t know. . . . I’m not sure if that’s the best idea.”
I yank the phone from her hand. “You drive. I’ll text.” I tap out a quick yes response to Trevor and drop her phone back into the cup holder.
Tonight I’m going to get some answers. And then I’m going to make sure I’m over Trevor for good.
When Harrison and I arrive at one of the big art studio rooms on the third floor, the Throw-In is already well under way. Someone’s put on some kind of reggae music, and pottery wheels spin like mad.
“Harry! Casey. I’m so glad you came.” Alexa dashes up to us, her hands dripping in wet clay. She pushes her mane of hair out of her face with an arm. “Hey, everyone, this is Harrison and Casey!”
Some people look up and murmur, “Hi.” But others are too intent on their work to notice that Alexa said anything. Those, I decide, are the serious artists. Well, except for that same guy I saw at the Bohemian Brigade’s lunch table Wednesday. He’s got his head down on a pottery wheel, eyes closed. Someone should check to make sure he’s still breathing.
“Grab a wheel and some clay and make whatever your heart tells you,” Alexa’s saying. She drifts off back to her wheel.
The clay is cold and wet and makes a plopping sound when I drop it on a wheel next to Necklace Girl.
“So . . .” Harrison eyes the lump on his wheel. He’s carefully pushed up the sleeves of his Henley and is poking at the clay, like it might come to life and start moving across the wheel. “How exactly do we do this?”
“You have to roll it first,” Necklace Girl says in her singsongy voice. “Ask the bubbles to leave. Like this.” She reaches over to my lump and begins kneading it, while humming something that’s entirely different from the Bob Marley reverberating through the room.
“Thanks, um . . .” I have no idea what Necklace Girl’s real name is, and calling her Necklace Girl seems sort of rude.
“Rain,” she says.
“Rain?” Harrison adjusts his glasses. I give him a good elbow in the ribs. Everyone knows that super-artsy people pick new names. He’s going to make us look like we don’t belong here.
“Rain.” She looks as if she’s going to say something else, but her eyes take on this glassy look. She starts humming again and spinning the clay on her wheel.
“All right, then,” Harrison says under his breath.
“Come on, let’s do this . . . Autumn Leaves,” I say.
“No,” he replies, glaring at me through his glasses.
“Fine. You’re more of a Storm Clouds anyway.” I pull my stool up to the wheel, dig my hands into the clay, and start rolling it the same way Rain did. It makes tiny burping noises as I move it back and forth under my hands. It’s fun, like squeezing bubble wrap. And I can kind of see how the narcoleptic guy in back could fall asleep doing this. It’s like a meditative, zoning-out sort of experience. Which is definitely something I can use right now.
“What do you do after the air bubbles are out?” I ask Rain.
“Hmmm?”
I feel bad, like I’ve pulled her from a trance. “Once the bubbles are out, what’s next?”
“Oh, you have to get your hands wet, and then center the clay on the wheel. Then you . . . create.” She’s already engrossed in her clay again, so I figure that’s all I’m going to get.
“What are you going to make?” Harrison asks once we’ve done what Rain said.
“I don’t know yet. I think I’ll just see what form it takes.” That seems like the artsy thing to do. I push the pedal and my wheel starts spinning. I place my hands on either side of the lump of clay. It’s cool and smooth.
“Huh. I think I need a plan first.” Harrison looks at his clay as if it’s going to jump off the wheel and make itself into something.
I close my eyes and feel the wet clay move beneath my hands. The room is a chaos of music and pottery wheels and chatter and I think someone’s singing “Kumbayah.” This is it. This is what I’m going to do with my life. I feel like I can shape a whole new world—or at least a college major—with just a lump of clay. Trevor could be texting Amanda right this very second, and I wouldn’t care. Mostly.
“Um, Casey?”
I open my eyes. “What?”
“You’re humming. You’re humming ‘Kumbayah.’”
“I am?” I start singing it instead. But more in tune than the guy across the room.
“Ooookay . . .” Harrison turns back to his clay. “I think I’ll make a bowl.”
“Very original, Gunther Engelbert,” I sing.
“Shut up. At least I know what I’m doing now. All you’re making is a clay ball.”
“I’m going with my muse. And she doesn’t like to be directed.”
“Hmmph.”
I ignore Harrison and concentrate on my clay. I point my finger into the top of the ball and create an indentation. It looks like a funky vase. I poke the top edge and make a dip. Now it looks like a vase-bowl, whatever that is.
I look around the room. Rain is making some sort of tall, thin thing. “Kumbayah” Guy has a wide, flat platter going on. Alexa’s using a paper clip to create lines on a bowl. Now that’s an idea. I glance at the stuff littering the shelves in the studio. A paintbrush. Chicken wire. (What in the world is even remotely artsy about chicken wire?) Styrofoam cylinders. Calligraphy pens.
That’s it! I lift my foot off the pedal and grab one of the calligraphy pens.
“What are you doing?” Harrison pushes his lips together in a suspicious pout.
“Being creative. Stepping outside the box. Isn’t that what art’s all about?” I tap the pedal again and reshape my vase-bowl into a ball. Then I hold the calligraphy pen to the side of the clay, just like Alexa’s doing with her paper clip. The sharp nib of the pen makes a tiny dent all around the ball.
“Um, Casey?” Harrison stops his wheel.
“What?” I push the nib a little farther into the clay. It makes a deeper indentation, but much narrower than my finger could ever make.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to use that for pottery.”
“That’s so sweet,” Rain says. She’s staring at the pen and the little line it’s making in my clay.
I think it’s putting her into another trance.
“I’m not sure—” Harrison starts.
“Look, Harrison, did Jackson Pollock always do what he was supposed to?”
“Who?”
“Are you being serious with me right now? You don’t know who Jackson Pollock is?” Harrison can name every star of every Broadway show ever, but he’s never heard of Jackson Pollock? How does he have better grades than me, again? “What about Georgia O’Keefe?”
“What does she have to do with anything?”
I shake my head. Harrison and his regular-guy Henley and his basic bowl. He’s never going to make it in the art world. Or art school, for that matter.
I push the calligraphy pen even farther. It divides my big ball of clay into two half balls, held together by an inch or so in the middle. Rain gasps in delight and claps her hands together like a little girl. At least someone has faith in my creation. Harrison just sits there, frowning.
“Casey . . .” he says again.
I ignore him. If I could just get that little connecting piece of clay a bit thinner, it would be perfect. I dip the calligraphy pen just a little bit more.
Big mistake.
Chapter Thirteen
The top half circle of my perfect creation flies off the pottery wheel like a smooshed baseball and hurtles toward Rain. She shrieks and dives to the floor. It finally thumps to a stop on Rain’s wheel, knocking her tall, thin, vase-looking thing to the floor—where it lands on Rain herself.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” I kneel down in front of her.
She sits up and blinks, lumps of clay clinging to her hair.
“Casey, what did you do?” Harrison joins me on the floor, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“I don’t know, exactly.” I look at the calligraphy pen in my hand. And drop it like it’s a gun at a crime scene. I reach out and pull some of the clay from Rain’s hair. “I’m so, so sorry,” I say again.
Tears leak from her eyes.
“I think she’s hurt. Dammit, Casey, why don’t you ever listen to me?” Harrison says.
I kind of stare at him. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Harrison this mad. Except for that time tickets to the touring production of Newsies sold out before we could buy them.
“Where does it hurt?” he’s asking Rain. “Did the clay hit you in the head? How many fingers am I holding up?”
The tears turn into a full-on wail, and the rest of the room goes silent (minus Bob Marley).
“Rain! What happened?” Alexa flies over to us and wraps an arm around Rain’s shoulders.
“It was an accident—” I start to explain.
“My elbow,” Rain Sprite says in a gulping breath between her sobs. Alexa stretches her arm out to check the injury. Rain uses her free hand to pull a lump of clay from her pin-straight hair and drop it to the floor, before dissolving into tears again.
“Nothing’s broken, but you’re going to have a nice bruise, sweetie,” Alexa says gently.
“I’m really sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. I wish it hadn’t happened, but it’s not like I did it on purpose.
By now the entire room is gathered around us, and even the slightly dead guy is awake and staring. Rain’s still crying. I’ve never wished to be out of the spotlight so badly. This is a disaster. The stage direction for my life would call this scene and demand I exit stage left.
“Harry, I’ll fire your piece for you next week,” Alexa says in a quiet voice. “Right now, I think it’s best if you both go.”
Did we just get fired from the Bohemian Brigade?
“I’m sorry,” I repeat for the millionth time. I move to stand up, but Rain suddenly pulls away from Alexa and gives me a glare, as if I broke her elbow and every other bone in her body. She reaches forward with her uninjured arm and pulls the beads from around my neck.
All right, then. Fired and stripped of my badge. Good one, Casey.
Harrison tugs at my elbow. When we’ve cleared the room and are a good way down the hall, he says in a seriously grouchy voice, “Well, that didn’t exactly go well. And why don’t you ever listen to me?”
I sigh. “Sorry. I guess art isn’t my thing.” I’m not really that disappointed. It was fun to work with the clay, but I didn’t have any great creative pottery vision. Those heavy beads were giving me neck strain, and I’m not sure that I’m a reggae kind of girl. All it really did was make me stop thinking about Trevor for a while.
“Yeah, I’m not sure I’d want to do pottery all the time either. I think I’ll have clay stuck under my nails for a month,” Harrison says. “And it’s all over my shirt.”
I stop on the steps in front of school and drop my bag. The warm air lifts hair that’s escaped from my braid as I fish through the outside pocket until I find The List. “We’ve got four more things on The List. I suppose we couldn’t expect the first thing we tried to be the perfect fit. Number Two is horseback riding. You want to try that next week?”
“Sure. What are you up to tonight?”
“I’m going to Amanda’s to watch a movie with her and . . . Trevor.” I sort of mumble Trevor’s name, hoping it’ll slide right by Harrison. “You?”
“First, I’m going to take a shower and de-clay myself. Then I’m supposed to hang out with Chris and some guys from band.” He doesn’t say anything about Trevor, thankfully.
“If they find out you’re looking for a new possible college major, they’ll want you to join, you know. Band is like a cult,” I tease.
“Nah. Chris still remembers my sax piece. He christened it ‘An Elephant Dying.’” Harrison moves down the steps as I tuck The List back into my bag.
“Hey, um, I need a ride home,” I call after him.
He stops at the bottom of the stairs and turns back to me. “What’ll you give me?”
I rifle through my purse. “How about two dollars and some ChapStick?”
“You poor starving-artist types,” he says with a shake of his head.
I ball up the two bucks and throw it at him.
I spend an obscene amount of time in front of my closet that night. Again. Only this time I’m trying to perfect an outfit that reflects my new life as a horse person. The most important decision: brown boots or black boots. Brown is more down-to-earth, very I-muck-stalls-and-get-poop-on-myself-for-the-love-of-my-horse. While black just looks more polished. I go with black.
I pull the chosen boots over my leggings and check my reflection in the mirror. Not bad. I look posh. As if I’ve just come off the Olympic equestrian tour and am now deigning to spend time with the locals.
My phone chimes. I dig through the pile of clothes on my desk to find it.
C—no movie 2nite. T sick. Amanda.
Seriously? After I spent all that time going back and forth over my boots? Okay, maybe I should stop thinking about myself for three seconds. I can have a little empathy for the guy even if I’m not making out with him between classes. What’s he got? I type back to Amanda as I bury the jealousy that bubbles up from the simple thought of the two of them texting about plans.
Don’t know but says he was sick all day. OK to do girls’ night next weekend? I’m gonna wk on lines 2nite.
Sure. See ya.
Now what am I going to do? Harrison and Chris already have plans. Kelly’s out of town at her dad’s for the weekend. Maybe I’ll just—
Wait. Amanda said Trevor was sick all day. But he was perfectly fine when we did our improv skit in acting class earlier. And he was more than fine in Choral Ensemble. He even sang a few notes when the teacher asked for someone to sight-read, and spent the rest of the time joking around with Johnny Grimaldi. Also, there’s no way Amanda would up and cancel on me just to run lines by herself.
Something’s not right here, and I’m about 99 percent sure it involves Amanda lying to me.
I race down the stairs, yell to Mom that I’m going to Amanda’s, and fly out the front door. I stride down the street as fast
as I can in my boots. Four blocks later, I’m at Amanda’s. The curtains are shut, and only Amanda’s car is in the driveway. I feel like a stalker, so I walk on.
Now would be an excellent time to have a car to drive. And a license with which to drive it. I hate it when my friends are right. Especially when one of those friends is currently up to no good.
Ten minutes later, I’m back. A red car turns the corner, and I jump behind a giant rose of Sharon bush near the sidewalk. The car slows and turns into Amanda’s driveway. I’d recognize that Honda anywhere, mostly because I’ve spent hours in it with Trevor.
“I’ll be home by eleven. I swear, Mom. Get off my back, all right?” Trevor’s smooth, slightly annoyed voice wafts from his phone through the branches where I’m hiding. Trevor’s parents act parental in phases, half the time not caring if he stays out all night, and the other half trying to make up for the not-caring times.
Trevor shoves the phone into his pocket, and a few seconds later, the front door opens.
“Hey!” Amanda says. “Come on in. Casey can’t make it, so—”
The door shuts.
Casey can’t what?
Chapter Fourteen
I dig my nails into my palms. What kind of friend is Amanda anyhow? She swore up and down that she didn’t like Trevor, but it sure doesn’t look that way now. My suspicions were right on target. I tap the toe of my (very cute) black boot on the dirt and cross my arms. Instant guilt settles in my stomach. I pretty much told her she could have him. I don’t have any claim on him, that’s for sure.
But it’s still so wrong on so many levels. A friend just doesn’t do something like this, especially after insisting there’s nothing there.
I have to know what they’re doing. But I shouldn’t—because it’s weird. Except I should, because it’s clear that Amanda sure as hell won’t tell me. I need to find out for my own sanity (and potential revenge plot).
I slink out from behind the rose of Sharon and sneak up to the side of the house. I climb over the boxwoods and crouch beneath the family room window. I slowly rise to peek inside, like some creeper from one of those true crime shows. Trevor’s sitting on the couch, remote in hand. Amanda walks in—right in front of my nose—from the kitchen. I duck down just in time. Counting ten seconds, I look in the window again. Now they’re both sitting on the couch, a bowl of popcorn between them, scripts on the table.