“Hey, Rembrandt,” Patrick says. “I don’t know what these lovely ladies are doing here, but can I see this great work of art already?”
“I … Uh … I can’t.”
“You can’t? What, it’s still not ready?” Patrick stands up. “You’ve been working on this thing for three days!”
“Patrick, stop it,” I say. “Damian will show it to us when he’s ready.”
“Fine.” He throws up his hands and sits down in a chair.
Laura walks over to Damian, who is still standing in the doorway. “Calista and I came here to apologize.”
“I acted like a jerk,” I chime in. “At lunch. What I said … I’m really sorry.”
“Nobody meant to make you feel bad,” Laura says. “Especially me.”
“Okay,” says Damian, still not looking at either Laura or myself. “So, is it okay if I ask gorgeous, nice, unsweaty Patrick for a favor?”
Laura and I laugh, but Patrick doesn’t get it. “Yeah, sure. What’s up?” he asks.
“Can you help me carry the poster into the cafeteria?” Damian asks him.
Patrick blinks in confusion. “I thought you said it wasn’t ready?”
“I didn’t say that, you said that,” Damian says. “I just said you couldn’t see it. Of course it’s ready. The dance starts in five minutes.”
“Oh, yeah,” Patrick says. “Right.”
Damian walks over to Mrs. Henshaw’s office and takes out the poster, which is wrapped in giant brown paper. “Mrs. Henshaw says it’s tradition to reveal the painting in front of the whole school, right at the beginning of the dance. She says it’s more dramatic that way.”
Patrick rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” He picks up one side of the poster and Damian grabs the other. They start to walk out.
I call out to him. “Damian?”
He stops and looks at me. “Yeah?”
“You’re nobody’s charity case,” I say. “You’re a really nice person and a very talented artist.”
He finally cracks a small smile. “I appreciate that, thank you.”
“Let’s go,” Laura says. “The suspense is killing me.”
“It’s just a poster,” Damian says. “It’s not, like, life or death or anything.”
Patrick laughs. “Tell that to Calista! She’s freaking out right now.”
“Quiet!” I bark at Patrick.
He’s right, of course.
As the four of us walk down the hall, a strange feeling comes over me. At first, I can’t tell what it is, but then I get it. It’s the feeling of superiority. I’m walking with Calista and Patrick, the two best-looking, most popular people in our grade. I can’t help it; it makes me feel cool. Everyone is looking at us. Wishing they were us. Wishing they were me. In this moment, I know what being as popular as Calista and Patrick feels like.
It’s an illusion, of course, but I’ll take it.
As soon as we get to the cafeteria, the overhead lights start to dim. Everyone screams in anticipation. Someone spills soda on me. I turn around but they’re gone. Somehow, the floor is already sticky.
I glance across the dance floor and see Rachel with Danielle and Becky, two other girls from the soccer team. They’re cracking up at something. I wave, but Rachel doesn’t see me. Or maybe she pretends not to see me. I can’t be sure which.
“May I have everyone’s attention, please?”
A spotlight goes up on the little stage in the front of the cafeteria. Dr. Michener is standing there, with a microphone in her hand. Next to her is Mrs. Henshaw, the art teacher.
“Thank you all so much for coming tonight. We are so happy to begin another school year here at Silver Lane Middle School, and what better way to kick things off than with the First Week Dance.”
Another huge scream and cheer. Dr. Michener waits patiently for it to die down.
“This is the ninth year of this fabulous annual tradition. And as we do every year, we’ve asked an eighth-grade artist to draw the poster for this year’s dance. The poster will remain on display in the office throughout the first quarter of the year, and then be mounted next to all the other First Week Dance posters in the hallway leading to the Main Office.” Dr. Michener turns around. “And now, I’d like to ask Mrs. Henshaw to invite the artist and our two models up to the stage.”
Everyone cheers as Damian, Calista, and Patrick step forward. All of a sudden, I’m standing by myself. Even though most of the lights are off, I still feel totally exposed. It seems like everyone is staring at me, but of course they’re not.
“Thank you, Dr. Michener,” says Mrs. Henshaw. “I’m very pleased to say that we’ve chosen an extraordinary artist to create the poster for this year. He is a wonderfully talented, outstanding young man. Please give a warm hand for Damian White.”
More applause as Damian puts his hand up and waves shyly.
“As for our student models this year,” continues Mrs. Henshaw, “we couldn’t have asked for two more ideal candidates. Both Calista Getz and Patrick Toole are very good sports for agreeing to pose after school this week. And Calista is even a dance student, so she was able to coach Patrick along!” They both smile and giggle as laughter ripples through the crowd. Calista is twirling her hair just behind her left ear, which means she’s nervous.
“So,” Mrs. Henshaw says. “The moment we’ve been waiting for. Damian, please do the honors and unveil the poster for this year’s First Week Dance!”
I can feel the anticipation in the crowd as Damian walks up to the giant poster. He pauses for just one second, and he wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his red jacket. Then he takes a deep breath, and in one quick motion rips the brown paper off the frame, revealing the poster underneath.
I lean in closer to examine it. Everyone does.
At first I can’t quite tell what’s happening in the painting, then it slowly comes into focus.
Two figures are intertwined with the night sky, dancing through the solar system. Patrick looks amazing, almost like a god, as he is seen spinning a female figure through space.
The female figure, however, isn’t Calista.
Or is it?
I step forward, just as everyone starts to murmur. As I get closer, I see why they’re murmuring. The body looks like Calista. The hair looks like Calista. But the face is something completely bizarre and unrecognizable. It’s contorted and misshapen, almost like a gargoyle, or some sort of ogre. The eyes are in the wrong place and the nose has only one nostril. The skin is red on the left side of the face, and blue on the right. The only part that looks like Calista is the mouth and the smile. It is definitely her smile.
The face is bizarre, and freaky, and stunning, and brave, and terrible, and beautiful.
It takes a minute for the room to realize what is happening. Murmurings start to rumble through the crowd. “Is that Calista?” “What happened to her?” “The poor thing.”
Then, the laughter starts.
At first, only a few kids are giggling, but then, slowly, it starts to ripple throughout the room.
Soon, the only thing you can hear is roaring laughter. The whole student body, laughing at Calista. Or, some freaky version of her.
“It’s not funny!” I say, but no one can hear me. “It’s not funny!” I scream, louder.
My eyes search for Calista, but I can’t see her—too many people are crowding around the painting. Then, suddenly, there she is. She’s off the stage. Her head is in her hands. Dr. Michener is trying to comfort her.
I’m not sure what to do. I glance back at the painting and notice something I hadn’t seen before.
Damian has painted gold lettering just above the figures.
THIS YEAR, LET’S REACH FOR THE STARS.
At first, I have no idea what I’m looking at.
That’s not me.
That can’t be me.
The room is silent. Everyone is staring at the painting, except for one person. Damian.
He is staring at me, waiting for my rea
ction. I can feel his eyes on me, even though I can’t look at him. I can’t look at anyone except myself.
Or I should say, that horrible version of myself.
I feel my eyes start to well up, and finally I turn away. I can hear people whispering, wondering, asking each other, “Is that her?”
I hear a voice I recognize. “Oh my GOD!”
Ellie, of course.
She is shrieking with laughter. “That is AMAZING!”
Ella’s voice comes next. “No WAY! No WAY!”
I can’t help myself. I look over at them, but they don’t see me, because they’re staring into their phones, taking pictures of the poster, no doubt getting ready to post them online for others to enjoy. More and more people take out their phones to do the same thing.
Then I hear a noise. It gets louder. People are laughing. Laughing at me.
“Are you okay? Calista?” I look up to see Dr. Michener standing over me, and I realize I must have sat down at some point. I’m sitting on the edge of the stage, but she reaches down to pull me up, and I let her. She steers me off to the side, out of the light, where finally I let the tears come.
“Why would he do this to me?” I stammer.
Dr. Michener shakes her head. “I’m not quite sure. But it’s important to remember, artists interpret real life for their own vision. That’s what they do. Picasso, perhaps the greatest artist of them all, painted some of the most beautiful women in the world, and made them look very unusual. But their beauty was still very much alive.”
“Calista,” a voice says. Patrick is standing there, unsure of what to do, where to go. “Are you okay? I’m really sorry about this.”
“Go away, please,” I say, and before either of us can say anything else Will pounces on his back. “Awesome poster!” Will bellows. “You guys look like the perfect couple up there in space! Just don’t scare all the planets! HAHAHAHAHA!”
Patrick says something, but I’m too far away to hear it. I don’t even realize it, but I’m on the move. I’m walking, then running.
“Calista?” calls the principal. “Are you all right? Where are you going?”
That’s a good question, I say to myself.
If only I knew the answer.
I see Calista talking to Dr. Michener. I want to do something, say something, but I can’t because Mrs. Henshaw is talking to me.
“… not in the spirit of the assignment,” she is saying. I missed the first part of the sentence, but I’m pretty sure I get the gist of what she’s saying.
“I’m sorry,” I say to her. “I’m sorry.”
“I just don’t understand.” Mrs. Henshaw shakes her head. “You’re a very interesting artist, Damian, and all artists should have original ideas of course, but this is taking it too far. What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It just happened.”
“Well, I’m quite sure we cannot hang this poster in the hall.”
“Okay,” I say. “Will you excuse me? I have to go.”
“What? Go where?” says Mrs. Henshaw, but I don’t answer her. I see Calista walking, then running out of the cafeteria. I start to follow her but feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to see Jeffrey standing there, eyes wide.
“Dude!” he says, over and over again. “Dude! Dude! That drawing is like, super intense!”
“I have to go,” I say to him. “And it’s a painting, not a drawing.”
“You’re like, a true artist!” Jeffrey yells.
I ignore him and start running again, hoping no one else will stop me.
But someone does.
I wind up in the gym.
For some reason, the lights are on. Then I remember that they always keep the gym open for dances, so the kids who are too shy to actually dance can hang out in here, shooting baskets. I’ve never been one of those kids before. But I’m one now.
I take off my high heels and start shooting baskets.
Swish. Swish. Swish. I sink six in a row before I finally clank one off the rim. It must be the ball’s fault. I kick it to the other side of the gym.
I feel like a character in one of those movies where someone who’s about to die sees their whole life flash before their eyes. But I’m not dying—except on the inside—and it’s not my whole life that flashes before my eyes, just the last week. The pimple. The rash. The bashed nose and the black eyes. The mall. The book. The nurse’s office. The fights with Ellie and Ella. The fights with Laura. The trip from pretty to ugly and back, and then back again to uglier than ever. The confusion about who my friends really are—about what friends really are. I thought Damian had become my friend.
I guess I was wrong.
I run down to the other side of the gym and start shooting on the other basket. Four more swishes in a row. I’m really on fire tonight, for some strange reason.
The gym door opens.
I whirl around, expecting to tell whomever it is to go away. I’m not in the mood for anyone trying to make me feel better. I just want to be alone.
It’s Mr. Cody, my English teacher.
Not who I was expecting.
I don’t say anything, and neither does he. In fact, he just stands there, at the door of the gym. Not moving. After a minute, I start shooting again. The shots aren’t falling anymore. That’s what happens sometimes—hot one minute, cold the next.
I shoot, the ball clanks off the rim and into Mr. Cody’s hands. I’m not even sure how he got under the basket, but there he is. He passes the ball back to me, still not saying anything.
I shoot ten more times, he gets ten more rebounds.
“What?” I say finally.
“What, what?” he says back.
“What do you want?”
“To rebound your shots.”
Seven more shots. Five misses.
“Remember in Curious Incident,” Mr. Cody says after the seventh shot, “when Christopher goes by himself to London to find his mom?”
I hold the ball. “Yeah, why?”
Mr. Cody shrugs. “I liked that part.”
“It was okay.”
“What was your favorite part?”
“I guess the ending.”
He nods. “You mean the ending that you pretended you’d already read, the first time I asked you about it? That ending?”
I refuse to smile. “Yep, that’s the one.”
After I make the next shot, Mr. Cody holds the ball. “Damian is waiting by the door. Can I tell him he can come in and talk to you?”
“No.”
“He really wants to talk to you.”
“No.”
Six more shots. Five misses.
“Fine,” I say.
I see Mr. Cody look toward the door and nod. I keep shooting until I hear Damian’s voice. “Hey.”
“I’m going to go see how the dance is going,” Mr. Cody says. “I’m also going to lock the door, so no one else can come in. When you guys are done in here, just leave it open.”
“Okay,” I say.
“See ya,” he says.
I take three more shots. Swish. Swish. Swish.
Looks like I’m hot again.
Calista keeps shooting. She doesn’t look at me. I don’t blame her.
Finally, I decide what to say.
“I thought you would like it,” I say.
She doesn’t answer. Just takes more shots. Most of them go in.
“I didn’t realize you were so good at basketball,” I say.
“You didn’t realize a lot of things,” she says.
I don’t have an answer for that, so instead I say, “Want to play one-on-one?”
She looks at me, finally. “Seriously? Absolutely not.”
“Okay.”
After another minute, I ask again. “Are you sure?”
She laughs, sadly. “You’re crazy.”
“I guess.”
“Okay,” she says. “One game.”
We start playing. I take it easy at first, and she goes ahe
ad, 2-0. Finally I decide to use my height advantage and score three quick baskets. I take an outside shot—nothing but net.
“Nice shot,” she says. We’re both starting to breathe hard.
“Thanks.”
She points at my jacket. “Are you going to wear that for the rest of your life?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”
The score is tied 6-6 when she makes a nice drive to the basket. I could easily block her shot but I decide not to. It goes in.
“Game,” I say.
“You gotta win by two,” she says, and immediately hits a three-pointer. “Now it’s game. Even though you let me win.” She heaves the ball down to the other end of the court. “It’s the least you could do, I guess.”
“I thought you would like the poster,” I say, again. “I really did.”
“YOU THOUGHT I WOULD LIKE IT?” She’s yelling now, all of a sudden.
“Yes, for some reason I did,” I say. “I guess—I guess I thought you would get it.”
“Get what?” she says, a little calmer, but not much. “That you think I’m ugly? That I’m disgusting? That I’m GROSS??!?”
“NO!” I say, raising my own voice.
We’re both breathing really hard now, and it’s not just from basketball. I can feel the sweat dripping down the front of my neck.
“I just don’t—I want to go home,” Calista says, and she starts to leave.
“You’re a lot of different things!” I blurt out.
She stops. “Excuse me?”
I pause for a second. “I thought you would get that I was painting you as a lot of different things, with a lot of different feelings. Because that’s who you are.” I walk up to her. “You’re nice, but sometimes you can be mean. You’re like the most popular girl in school, but sometimes you can be lonely and insecure. And sometimes you think you’re ugly, even though you’re beautiful.”
“That’s the craziest thing I ever heard,” she says, but her eyes are a little softer. “And thanks for making me ten times more insecure than I ever was before, by the way,” she adds.
I take off my jacket, and wipe my face with my shirt sleeves. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
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