Dad’s diploma receives a one-fingered wave as I pass by. The kitchen is quiet, tile floor cold upon my bare feet. And I guess I’m so caught up in thinking of what I would do to the Kingsley family if I ever met them I don’t notice the whiskey bottle in the cupboard until my hand is right next to it, reaching for a glass.
Early that morning, I leave before either of my parents wake up, sticking a note on the kitchen counter that says I have a project due for school. A lie. But I don’t want to talk to either of them.
Staring down at Zoe’s iPod as the freeway whirrs beneath me, I imagine what Dad’s expression will be the next time he goes to pour a drink and finds his whiskey has turned to sludge. In the kitchen last night, I added spoonful after spoonful of flour to the brown liquid, making it thick and nasty and impossible to pour out. Hopefully, he won’t have the money to buy another bottle.
I press play on the play list Zoe had titled “Mania.” I have no idea what it means, but the first song is called “Make it Stop.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“You can do this,” I whisper under my breath, unclasping my bra. It falls across my hands and I stuff it into my bag. “Take deep breaths.” My jeans drop to the floor. “Like being with Derek. No one will really care.” My underwear falls on top of my jeans and I wrap the pink robe around me. “Just like Hunter said, you are not a sexual object.”
After folding the rest of my clothes, I walk down the cold, empty hall to the classroom where Hunter has told me to meet him. He thought if I arrived before the students, some of my uneasiness might be alleviated. Considering my nerves are pulsating inside me as fast as Nikki’s vibrator, I’m not so sure.
“You have five minutes before the students come in,” Hunter says as I enter. “Why don’t you practice a few poses, figure out which ones you’ll want to start with. I’ll be in my office if you have any questions.” He’s out the door with only a nod from me, the strain in his voice still lingering in the room. He doesn’t trust me. Yet. And I’m sure he’s thinking he’ll have to be the model. Again.
An upright mirror stands in the corner of the room and, vaguely recalling Hunter’s words from last week about the first poses being the shorter, more uncomfortable ones, I start reaching and twisting my body in various ways, imagining with X-ray vision what my body looks like beneath the robe.
A few girls wander into the room and start gathering supplies. They exchange a wary glance when they think I’m not looking.
“I’m not running out,” I say, but it comes out all choked and they look over at me and I consider repeating what I’ve said, but by then I don’t care what they think. I turn my back to them and in my head finish creating the poses I’ll do. It feels like only a minute has passed when Hunter declares the start of class.
A boy, the scrawny one with blond hair to his chin, switches on the light near the platform then Hunter looks at me. I inhale one deep breath, and, before my legs have the chance to run, I force them toward the middle of the room.
Step one, two, three, up. Breathe in, out, in.
I want to stay at Loyola.
I will not go to Oceanview.
My fingers loosen the sash and my robe is off and my eyes are still closed because I don’t want to see the expression on anyone’s face. With one foot in front of the other, I crouch forward and rest my head in my hand. My other arm extends behind me, fingers curled upward.
And then I wait.
Shoes scuff the floor, pencils scratch across paper, and when I’m pretty sure everyone is over the initial shock of my naked body, I peek out from under my arm.
Most of the students are standing with their sketchpads in hand, gazes flicking up and down, up, down. Others are walking around or crouching low to the ground.
“One minute,” Hunter says to the class. He’s near an easel with a stopwatch in his grasp, a wary grin on his face. “Time starts now.”
My eyelids fall.
Zoe pulls me into the bathroom.
“I’m sneaking over to Evan’s tonight. Cover for me if Mom gets suspicious.”
“What do you want me to tell her?”
She shrugs with a huge grin. “I have a headache or something.”
“Switch,” Hunter calls out. I’m fairly certain he’s talking to me, but I don’t want to open my eyes so I change positions, wrapping my arms across my stomach, feet together.
“Time.”
Shuffle, shuffle. Scratch, scratch.
“Check you out,” Dad says as Zoe descends the stairs. Her hair’s curled into ringlets, boobs tucked tightly into a little black dress, legs looking mile-high in her new shiny heels. She’s totally going to have sex tonight.
“About time,” I spout from the couch. “I was seriously thinking you died in there.”
“Shut up.” Zoe scowls at me, but can’t hold it for long and cracks a smile. She knows she looks incredible.
“Honey,” Mom says, snatching her camera from the kitchen, “isn’t that dress a bit short?”
Leave it to Mom to state the obvious.
Zoe looks at Dad. “It’s not too short. Right, Daddy?” She gives him her best suck-up look. He glances at Mom for only a split second then, of course, he falls for it.
“You’re old enough to dress yourself, darlin’.”
A knock rattles the door. Zoe claps her hands and click-clacks over to it.
Evan. In a black tuxedo holding a plastic container with flowers. Their eyes meet and they have a telepathic conversation. I can hear every word:
You look absolutely amazing.
So do you.
We are so having sex tonight.
I’ve done ten poses when Hunter announces we’ll be moving on to the longer ones. Without thinking, I sit, pull my legs in close and drape my arms over my knees. I tilt my forehead down. I want to disappear. So I do.
For the second pose, I sit on my knees and lay my forehead against the platform, gripping clumps of hair into my hands. I will the wooden platform to open up and swallow me whole. It doesn’t and instead my knees start to ache and the heat from the lamp prickles the skin on my thigh.
After a short break, during which I cover up with my robe and remain on the platform, I’m asked to assume my last pose. I lie on my back, cross my thighs and drape one arm over my breasts, the other over my face. All of the positions, so far, I’ve managed to hide my parts. Unlike Sia up there on the wall, I’m not really comfortable with everything completely hanging out.
A few seconds into the pose and someone in the room says, “Are we ever going to see your face?”
Huh? Is he talking to me?
I glance out from under my arm. Sitting cross-legged on the floor with his drawing board in his lap, the skinny blonde stares at me. He’s pulled his long hair back into a low ponytail and he actually has the nerve to look irritated.
Didn’t anyone tell him this is my first time doing this? Ever?
Hunter interjects with a disapproving glance at him. “Billy, you know we don’t influence the model’s positions.”
Billy grunts and a few others murmur indecipherable agreements or protests or…I don’t even care.
I open her door.
“God, Quinn, do you ever knock?”
Zoe’s sitting on her bed, a thick textbook in her lap. She wipes her face on her sleeve.
“Evan’s on the phone. Why are you crying?”
“Get outta here.” She shuts the book and heads for the phone. I stand there because it hurts my insides to see Zoe cry, and when she notices me she flips her arms out with a jerk.
I adjust my glasses. It must be PMS. “You need to get a sign that says ‘I’m on the rag’ and hang it on your door. Then we’ll know when Demon Girl has arrived.”
She walks toward me and slams the door in my face.
“I’m not on the rag!”
The last of the students exit the classroom.
“You did well,” Hunter says, pulling at his double chin. “Your poses felt natural, not f
orced like some first-timers. But Billy was right. Maybe you could find a way to show some of your other angles? And I know this is probably because you were nervous, but I’d like to see your eyes open in some of the poses too.”
Pinching my robe tight at the collar, I swallow. And swallow again. Twice more. “Of course. I’ll come up with some before Thursday.”
Outside, the smell of salt in the air is a nice replacement from the burn of turpentine that must be deep-seated into the cinderblock walls from years and years of exposure. I find a seat on the tree ring to the left of the art building and a cigarette in my bag.
Just as I light it and inhale, someone says, “Smokey.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Muscles. That’s all I see walking toward me. Rock-hard muscles.
“No chance I’m changin’ your name now,” Torrin says. Eyeing the cigarette pinched between my fingertips, he lifts a teasing smirk. I grimace and hide the cigarette behind my back because, really, I’m not in the mood for this.
Okay, that’s not true. I’m sort of in the mood for it because it is loosely fascinating. I’ve obviously charmed the guy out of his mind.
“I only took one drag. This cigarette shouldn’t count.”
“Still does.” He sits on the wall next to me. A camera swings under his arm.
“What if I’m really stressed?”
Jutting out his chin, he slips the camera strap off his shoulder. “Get rid of that thing and check this out.”
I take another drag and blow it out in front of me. He waves the smoke away from his face.
“That’s disgusting.”
I grin. “Someone twisting your arm to sit here?”
He ignores my question and sets the camera in my lap. I’m no camera expert, but I do know this one’s probably over a thousand dollars by how heavy it is and the overabundance of buttons and dials and digital screens. I should run with it, sell it to pay for my tuition—
“A Nikon D300. Ever use one of these?”
I shake away the thought. It’s crazy. And I doubt I’d be able to outrun him.
“No.”
“Check out the LCD screen. Three inches.”
I pick it up. At the same time he leans in and presses a button on top. An intricate menu displays on the screen with words and acronyms that may as well be a foreign language: JPEG compression, NEF (RAW) something or other.
I am so stupid. So stupid. I told him I was into photography, and that’s why he’s here trying to camera-talk with me, but maybe I should’ve said I like to look at photos. He’s obviously much more experienced and equipped and, God, I hope he doesn’t expect me to be the same.
“I’ve had this for a few months,” he says. “I’m still learning how to use it. The manual is over four hundred pages.”
I lift the camera to my face, peer through the lens at a teacher walking in the distance. Jackie McNamara. Science department. She spoke to my dad once about funding for telescopes. Bet she didn’t do something ridiculously illegal to get them.
Lowering the heavy black box, I meet his gaze. “I’ve never held such a fancy camera before.”
He nudges me with his elbow. “C’mon. I’ll show you how to use it.”
My stomach twists.
“No.”
He blinks. “No? Why not?”
I stand. Because I’m not at Pacific Rim to make friends. I’m here to earn money and I’m done doing that for the day and should be heading back to school for whatever ghastly concoction Loyola’s cafeteria decides to call dinner.
I return the camera to his hand.
“I can’t.”
“Why?” He stands too, looks down at me. “You have somewhere else to be?” His head cocks curiously to the side. “A boyfriend’s house?”
“No.” The word comes out too fast. Dammit. I grab my bag. “I mean, yes.”
“Well, which is it?” He grins. “You seem a little unsure.”
My head is telling me I need to walk away right now. Right now. Before I have to say anything more, but my hands are the only ones listening, and they’re shaking and my feet won’t move.
I need to kill this conversation.
“Listen, Torrin. You’re not getting in my pants. Not today. Not ever. So you can go find some other girl to charm. It won’t work on me.”
“Wow. That’s…bold.” He stutters like I expect he would because I doubt someone as good-looking as him has ever been shot down before. “I’m not—”
“Really?” I study him. I’m not usually so audacious, but this little talk has gone on much too long. “Why else would you be talking to me?”
“I thought you’d appreciate a photo session with an awesome camera.”
“And fuck me in the process?”
He’s completely flabbergasted. Maybe a tad offended too. I wonder if anyone has said this to him before. I suspect he’s a nice guy and is no immediate threat to my vagina, but I have to stop this before he gets the idea I’m a normal, datable girl.
I want to fade away. So I leave Torrin there in front of the art building with a camera hanging from his shoulder.
CHAPTER NINE
“Fuck Connor.”
Nikki hits my arm. “Quinn.”
Matisse sniffs and stabs her fork into her enchilada.
“What?” I look at Nikki because watching Matisse cry over a boy is just too pathetic. Plus, the image of Torrin standing at school, shadows of leaves flickering across his face, keeps popping into my head which is pissing me off. “Fuck him.”
“They just broke up. You are so heartless.”
Heartless. I like it. Can’t fall into the trap of love if you have no heart.
I shrug. “It’s better this way. She may not know it now, but she’s saving herself.”
Nikki taps her fork to her plate then takes a bite. “From what? Someone who actually loves her?”
“Please.” I plunge my spoon into the cup of yogurt, pull it out, and lick it. “Tug your head out of your fairy-tale ass. You can’t possibly think two people can be so in love everything’ll be perfect and they’ll live happily ever after. The real world isn’t like that. She was bound to figure it out sometime.”
Matisse starts to cry harder. “I’m right here. And he,”—sniff—“broke up with me,”—sniff—“so he can’t possibly love me anymore.” Sniff.
Nikki rubs Matisse’s shoulder. “You know breaking up with you was only because he’s transferring up north, not because he doesn’t love you.” Then she jabs me with her finger and whispers, “Is that why you’re with Douchebag Derek? Because being happy in a relationship isn’t possible?”
I look away; it’s the closest she’s ever come to figuring it out, and the first time she’s ever called me on it. “Better than crying my eyes out over someone,” I tell her in a whisper to keep my words from snapping.
We walk Matisse to her room and hand her off to Bellamy who pats the crying girl’s shuddering back and coos in her ear like a mother speaking to a child. I don’t know how they do it—these two—acting so compassionate over something so ridiculous.
“My mom called,” Nikki tells me as she shuts the door to our room. “Looks like I won’t be taking any trips for spring break with you guys…business isn’t doing so great right now. Sugar Maple Borers have destroyed, like, half of the trees.” Nikki’s parents own some syrup company in Vermont. I shrug, crossing the room to my desk.
“I’ll have to work anyway,” I tell her even though I’m pretty sure Pacific Rim’s break is the same as ours, which means no classes to model for.
“It just sucks.” She flops onto her bed. “I always pictured my first college spring break to be something sort of memorable. A Mexican cruise or trip to Hawaii. Dancing in night clubs with sexy non-Americans, not jumping through all sorts of administrative hoops just to stay here, trapped with the same old boys we’ve been stuck with all year.”
I laugh, imagining the thoughts that go through her living-in-a-novel mind. “I heard about
a party over at the G-Phi-B house. Why don’t we go? Get out of our room for a while.” She opens her mouth and I point at her. “And no using homework as an excuse.”
~*~
“Don’t let me drink too much,” Nikki says as we push our way through the crowd to the end of the cul-de-sac. “I might have to talk to my Sociology professor tomorrow and I don’t want to look hung-over.”
“Your grade?”
She shakes her head, black curls falling over her bare shoulder. “Book recs.” A smile puffs out her cheeks.
“Extra reading?” I pinch her arm then dodge a tree branch hanging low above the sidewalk. “You’re such a kiss-ass.”
“Better than being a smart one.”
I laugh. “Ass? Smart-ass? You can say it, Nik. It’s not going to kill you.”
“No need. You just did.”
“Your goodie-goodie mouth isn’t fooling me, Miss Queen of Smut.”
She swings open the front door to the G-Phi-B house, sticking her tongue out at me in the process.
The air inside the house is tight and hot, flavored with the sharp odor of beer and cigarettes and I wonder if it always reeks in here or if it’s just all these drunken bodies, huddling together, exhaling clouds of alcohol fumes.
Nikki takes hold of my arm and tugs me toward the kitchen. Clustered near the base of the stairs, she waves to a group of Loyolians—a guy named Jared who she tells me is in her Spanish class and another whose name I don’t know but face I remember because his neck is so long he looks like a giraffe. Bellamy is there too, leaning into the arm of a burly football-ish type, discretely tugging at the hem of her white sundress.
Nervous about a boy? Please. I’d rather jab thumbtacks under my fingernails.
Bellamy blows us a kiss and holds up her red, plastic cup. Nikki responds with a thumbs-up.
In the kitchen, we grab two cups from the counter and stand in line for the keg. From the glower of the boy manning the spout, it looks like we might be here for a bit.
“Hey,” Nikki says, elbowing my arm. “Isn’t that Derek over there? Talking to that redhead? Geez, look how short her skirt is.” She points her cup in the direction of the glass slider I assume leads to the backyard and, sure enough, Derek’s standing beside it, a beer in one hand and a long strand of the girl’s auburn hair in the other.
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