by Aimee Ferris
“Good. I don’t think you’ve blown it entirely.”
The jogging made my blood pump loudly in my ears. “I didn’t what?”
“Just saying, I think it’s salvageable. Guys have big egos, so naturally he had to take a step back. Besides, this might be good. Now he knows you’re not going to fall all over him like ‘Maria’ does.”
I shook my head and wondered if an endorphin hit to the brain was the reason none of her words made sense. I slowed as we reached her street. “What are you talking about? And who’s Maria?”
“Maria, you know—the blonde. I don’t even know her real name—that girl playing the lead in Sound of Music. She was all into T-Shirt before I snagged him out from under her. So she moved on to easier prey. No offense.”
“David?” I wasn’t sure why I suddenly had a knot in my stomach. Must be the run. I’d somehow reached the top of the hill without even noticing.
“Yep. She’s been chasing David in the most embarrassing way ever since he signed on to do sets. I mean, holy cow, she’s playing Maria! Some nun, huh? Obviously doesn’t put much stock into that whole getting-into-character thing.” Something in my face put Anne in Mama-tiger mode. “Look, Quigley—you can totally take her. I mean, she’s a freshman! The only reason she’s even after David, or was after T-Shirt, for that matter, is that she wants to go to prom, and you have to be asked by a senior. Pathetic. Totally pathetic.”
“Pathetic,” I agreed. I chose not to mention Anne’s freshman-year antics when she ended up triple-booked for the dance after spending every afternoon for two months loitering in the senior parking lot. “So David’s with her?”
“Well, obviously not too with her, considering he was asking you out four days ago.”
“True.” And that was despite little “Maria” making an unholy play for him. Maybe it was the brief glimpse of another side of my longtime foe or my mom’s comment, but I caught myself wondering if I had judged him too harshly. He seemed genuine enough when I mangled his attempt to ask me out.…
Anne grinned. “Oh my God, you’re going to go for him!”
“Am not!” I tried not to smile.
“Are so—you totally are so. I know these things. I’m the expert.”
I flopped onto Anne’s front steps in defeat. “This is insane. I hate David. I can’t stand him. He’s a—”
“Pompous jerk and no-talent art hack?” Anne rolled her eyes.
“Shut up.”
“So maybe that ‘Art King’ thing was all an act. Maybe he was jealous of your artistic abilities. Maybe it was all like putting your pigtail into the Indian ink or whatever you art types use.”
“India ink. And no. This doesn’t add up. He’s never paid me any attention, except to make it clear he thinks he’s a better artist.”
“Well, what would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever had a real boyfriend or anything,” Anne said.
She immediately smacked both hands over her mouth. It would have been comical if the comment hadn’t stung so badly.
“I’m so sorry! I swear I didn’t mean—”
I shrugged and tried to smile. “S’okay. It’s true, isn’t it?”
We sat there in an awkward silence and watched a couple third-graders smacking each other with their backpacks as they walked home. They were about the same age Anne and I were when we first became friends. It was hard to stay mad at someone you’ve known practically your whole life.
I tried to joke our way back to normal. “So, now that we both agree that I’m clueless when it comes to guys, I concede to the wisdom of the expert. What do you think the deal is with David?”
Anne squeezed my hand as a thank-you for letting her comment slide. She took a deep breath and rubbed her temples trying to channel her inner yenta. Anne took her relationship guru status seriously. “Well, first—you have similar interests. That’s good. You are both passionate about your art. Also good. He’s tall and has surprisingly ripped abs, which I checked out for you when he changed out of his paint shirt the other day. That’s better than good. And you’ve been doing this whole Betterment Plan for almost two months. A plan I devised, I might add, so that must be good. Maybe he’s noticed the change in you and decided now was the time?”
I tensed my legs and checked out the newly discovered, though faint, definition in my muscles. “The Betterment Plan? Shouldn’t a guy be into you for a better reason than the fact that you ditched cheese sauce for a few weeks?”
“Puh-lease. Have you been watching reruns on the Family Channel again? He’s a guy! They don’t look deeper until you train them to.”
“Sounds like a real catch.”
“No offense, but who else are you going to catch in the next five weeks, Quigley? Prom will be here soon. So unless you have a hot second cousin from another school who your mom can call in as a favor—which if you did, I’d be pissed you didn’t introduce us—but if not, it’s time to lower the standards to something approaching a normal human being.”
I loosened the laces of my shoes with a sigh. “Well, I guess David does qualify as ‘something approaching a human being.’ ”
“That’s the spirit! So you’ll clear things up on Monday?”
I picked at a loose bit of tiled mosaic on the step. “Ripped abs? Really?”
“I know! Shocker, isn’t it? But I had visual confirmation. He must work out at home or something. Shows you shouldn’t judge the book by the cover.”
“I’m not sure that’s what they mean by that … but, okay, I guess. Monday.”
“Excellent! Now, come in. I have to show you what T-Shirt got me yesterday.”
I ran up the stairs behind Anne. Ms. Parisi seemed to have redone the walls in the hall. “Cool … it’s fabric!”
Anne snorted. “I didn’t even notice. SD must be in the tabloids again.”
“SD?”
“Sperm Donor. That’s what all those bitter old women call father figures like Mr. Unmentionable when they are online whining to each other.”
I decided not to comment on how not “old” or “bitter” Ms. Parisi seemed. It was better to let Anne vent like this with me, instead of having to watch her do it when her mom was actually in the room. “Online? Your mom doesn’t exactly seem like the support-group-online-chat type.”
“No, she just makes a few calls and orders new men every time Pops hits the newsstands.”
“OMG! Your mom does the escort thing?” I wondered why she never seemed to date. She was young and gorgeous and idolized by half the fashion world; it seemed a woman like that would have men falling all over her.
Anne laughed. “Gawd, no. Her preferred men come bearing rolls of wall coverings or antique side tables instead of diamonds and roses. Wait a sec. I guess I shouldn’t talk! Like mother like daughter—I’ve got my own guy presenting me with décor!” Anne threw open her bedroom door. “Ta-daaaaa.”
I stared at the DANGEROUS CURVES road sign Anne had hung over her bed. Not exactly Ethan Allen.
“Umm …” It was the nicest thing I could say.
“It’s from T-Shirt! His latest acquisition. At first he was going to get me a DIP sign—luckily they came across this on their way back to town, or I might have let little Maria-the-freshman-nun have him.”
“Where do you even buy such a thing?”
“Buy? That would be tacky. This is hard-earned, baby! It’s just a little collecting habit some of the stage-crew guys have.”
I could see a scuff on the reflective yellow backing of the sign. She was right. It was the real deal.
“Isn’t it great?”
“Yeah. Pretty cool. But, aren’t those signs sort of necessary? You know, on the road?”
“Paranoid, are we? It’s not like it’s a stop sign or something. Don’t act all stuck up—T-Shirt saw it and thought of me. I think it’s sweet. Come on, grab your notebook. Now that I got my guy, we need to work on a strategy for hooking you an Art King.”
I gave a last uneasy look at the sign and fo
llowed her down to the kitchen.
Chapter Six
I stood by the door and fiddled with my sketchbook. After seeing Zander’s struggle to capture his wedding couture design, I decided to make this into a working afternoon out. His apology for depicting my bustled behind about twelve sizes bigger than my head was hard to take as sincere, considering he had to wipe his eyes from laughing so hard.
After we looked through the photography exhibit, we could head to the sculpture hall and work on sketching figures. I checked the side pockets on my cargo pants to make sure I’d grabbed enough of the gray gummy eraser. Two should be enough. They felt like industrial-strength silly putty and didn’t wreck the paper, even if you had to erase twenty times in one spot. I hiked my baggy pants back up. My favored slouch style was getting a little too slouch what with all of Anne’s Betterment Plan harassment. The resulting gap between my khakis and my black tee was bordering on obscene.
I was trying to decide whether I had to switch to jeans when Zander pulled up in a tiny dark green convertible. If that wasn’t shocking enough, he got out wearing a crisp blue button-down shirt over fitted cream jeans. I’d gotten so used to seeing him in his clingy dark gray V-neck tees and faded jeans, I thought it was his personal uniform. His hair was different, too. A second look at the GQ fashion plate walking up my driveway sent me scurrying up the stairs. I had to find something else to wear and quick, or I’d look ridiculous walking in next to him.
I yanked off my trainers and ripped through the hangers in my closet. Near the back was a strapless dress Anne bought me with diagonal purple, black, and teal lines running down the body. The top was way too bare, but maybe I could put my black top back on over it. I pulled the stretchy material on and groaned. Anne being Anne had bought a vavoomy too-short style that was more “club scene” than “art museum.”
At the sound of the doorbell, I grabbed my strappy black sandals and ran down the stairs. I looked ridiculous, but my parents were out and I didn’t want him to think I had flaked and leave if no one answered. I began to pull my black tee on over the slinky dress as I opened the door.
“Wow,” Zander said.
My head poked through the neckline. I stuck my other arm in and pulled the T-shirt smooth over the dress with a sigh. “I know. Awful, isn’t it?”
“Um, no. I mean, on you, yes.” His eyes widened at my gasp. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just not you.”
Watching Zander stammer and turn red on my porch was pretty fun. “So—on someone else, this dress would be great … but not on me?”
Zander took a deep breath and slowly exhaled before smiling. “I’m going to shut up now.”
“I just didn’t know you were going to dress up. I saw you walk up and couldn’t find a skirt, so grabbed this. If you just want to wait a minute, I’ll go find something less idiotic to wear.”
“No, wait a sec.” He gestured toward my dress. “May I?”
I shrugged. “You’re the expert. But someday you’re really going to have to stop treating me like your personal Barbie doll.”
Zander felt the material and spun me around for a better look. “Actually, I was never much into Barbie.”
“Ken, then?” I don’t why it came out of my mouth.
Zander raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Of course. Because everyone knows all male fashion designers are gay.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“If you say so. But you’ll need to stop turning that horrible shade of red. It’s clashing with the dress.” Zander laughed. “Actually, I was going to say I didn’t care for Barbie because she was disproportioned. Now, suck it in.”
I stuck out my tongue at the “suck it in” remark.
Zander knelt and took the sides of the dress in both hands and gave it a sharp yank down. Under my T-shirt, the former bodice of the dress slid snugly over my hips, and the bottom of the dress-turned-skirt swirled around my ankles in a graceful arc.
“There,” he motioned to the mirror. “Now that is you.”
“Wow.” I resisted the urge to twirl. “You are the master.” I pulled on my shoes, grabbed my sketch pads, and followed him out to the car.
He paused at the front bushes and plucked a purple flower. “Did you know that in Hawaii, to wear a flower behind your right ear means you’re free and behind your left means you’re taken, but in Fiji, it’s the opposite?”
“Oooh, South Pacific trivia day!” I stepped up as he opened the passenger’s-side door. “I did not know that.”
“So, which is it?” He twirled the flower between his fingers.
“Well, I guess the right.”
Zander stepped in and tucked the flower behind my ear with a smile. He fluffed out my hair with a happy sigh. “Excellent.”
I wasn’t sure if he was referring to my answer or the look he created. Something intense about his eyes caused a weird flutter in my stomach. “Of course, I didn’t say whether I was a Fijian or Hawaiian.”
Zander laughed and hopped into the two-seater. “Too true.”
I looked around the tiny car. The leather glistened and the wood inlays gleamed. Three little wipers lined up across the windshield. Someone had a thing for cars. I wouldn’t have guessed that about him. I was starting to wonder what else there was about Zander I didn’t know. A metal box of chalk pastels was tucked between the seats.
“I’m so glad you brought your pastels! I thought you were going to give me a hard time about wanting to sketch at the museum. We are so on the same wavelength.”
I pulled the box out to see which brand he used. Wow. Rembrandt Soft Pastels, the good stuff. Zander plucked the little envelope off the front of the top-of-the-line set so quick I almost didn’t catch my name printed in small even letters.
“Yep. Exact same wavelength,” he said, and shoved the crumpled paper into his pocket. “It’s eerie almost, isn’t it?”
I pretended to study the neighbors’ lawn gnome and wondered what it all meant.
I gazed deep into the last of the photographs on the wall. The artist had done some sort of technique with bridge traffic that looked like all the cars had come to a screeching halt.
“Wonder what it was?” Zander asked.
“What what was?”
“It’s like everything froze. Something big must have happened. Something … important.” Zander leaned in to inspect the large print. “Doesn’t it just drive you crazy not knowing what it was?”
Somehow when he discussed art, it didn’t sound as ridiculous as many of the conversations going on around us. It wasn’t just the words the people were using, it was almost like half the people turned British when they walked through the museum’s doors. Long, drawn-out-vowels and clasped-hands-in-church-clothes people mingled with wild gesticulators wearing all black or bright flashes of clashing colors.
Sprinkled throughout the crowd were dressed-down student types making notes. They looked so at home sitting cross-legged on the benches gazing at the works, it was obvious they attended the attached design school. This art program didn’t quite reach the Art Institute of Chicago in my mind’s eye, but it was well respected and likely my only shot with the way the rest of my grades seemed to be going. I allowed myself to daydream about wandering through the exhibit halls of the museum in Chicago as a student, feeling like an insider.
Zander shook his head and gave up trying to dissect the photograph’s meaning. He shrugged with a grin. “Pretty cool, anyway.”
“Want to go do some sketching?”
Zander groaned.
I laughed and grabbed his hand so he couldn’t escape, dragging him through the crowded archway into the next hall. Which is when I ran into someone I was not expecting to see. A very familiar someone.
“Quigley?”
“David!”
David’s surprised smile fell as he took in my hand still holding Zander’s. I dropped it like a hot coal, which was about the stupidest thing to do because now I was caught between David’s hurt expressio
n and Zander’s. My mouth was opening and closing like a fish’s, but I wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t make things worse.
“Well, I’m glad you got to see the exhibit.” David nodded with a tight smile and then walked fast toward the exit.
I fought the urge to run after him. There was no point. I could tell him that Zander was just a friend, but he probably wouldn’t believe that anyway. I didn’t owe David anything, but it hadn’t even occurred to me that I’d run into him.
Zander studied me with the same intensity he had used on the photography exhibit for a long minute before shrugging and looking away with a small smile.
“I’m sorry.” I had no idea why I was apologizing, but it just felt like the thing to do.
“No worries.”
I motioned toward the exit. “That was just—”
“Let me guess. The pompous no-talent art hack?”
“Yes.”
“I figured.”
We stood in awkward silence in the narrow archway until a woman in a big fur coat brushed past me and nudged me into his chest. I didn’t remember his wearing cologne in the design studio, but the light citrus scent seemed perfect for him.
“Maybe we should stand somewhere else,” I said.
Zander reached down and took my hand again and swung it lightly. “Want to go sketch?”
I let him lead me to the much less busy sculpture hall. I was feeling a little too confused by his sudden interest in sketching, or maybe the fact that we seemed to be walking through a museum holding hands, to be in charge. He picked out a small room with two female bronze figures on opposite sides of the gallery. Between the two sculptures was a wide flat bench.
“Perfect! Which do you want?” he asked.
“We’re not sketching the same one?”
“Not unless you want to shred the last bit of confidence I have left in me today,” he said with a laugh.
“Okay. I’ll take her.” I pointed at the young mother figure and left the dancer to him.
“Good.” Zander placed my sketchbook and the box of pastels on one end of the bench and then sat cross-legged facing the other with a thick triangular stick of charcoal and his own pad. “Give those pastels a try for me.”