“I could kind of feel him knowing where I was in the room all night—even after we went to our tables.”
“He was sitting with my parents!”
“I know. That did not seem to matter to him.”
The first bell rang loudly, startling us.
“Jesus,” Farah said. We had five minutes to be in our first class. I visualized the schedule in my binder. What did I have first? Studio. My whole body relaxed. I had a double period of studio art with Mrs. Rousseau. All I had to do was get my stuff into my locker and go up to the seventh floor.
“I have calculus,” Farah said. “I totally have to go, I think we are going to have a pop quiz. I didn’t even look at my books yesterday. Jesus.”
Farah shot up, opened her locker door, and pulled a fifty-pound math textbook out of an impeccably organized library. Farah is in Math A, I am in Math C. Math C is full of kids the school has given up on mathematically. Reagan is in C with me. We mostly learn how to balance checkbooks and read the stock tables in The New York Times.
“When is your lunch?” she said.
“Fifth period. Farah, how did your mom not know?”
“She’s away, remember? Marta just came in this morning, but I came home before that, at like six. I have lunch in fifth, too.”
“Oh man. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria,” I said. “I can’t believe Marta wouldn’t pick up on something,” I added, sort of to myself. “She knows you better than your mother.” Marta has been Farah’s nanny-now-housekeeper since she was born.
“Wrenny.” The tears came back into Farah’s eyes. “I slept with him.”
25
The art department takes up half of the seventh floor. It’s made up of three rooms filled with light, chalky dust, big shiny-leafed jungle plants, stacks of newsprint for drawing, paintbrushes of every shape and size, oversize jugs of blue, yellow, and red paint, and Mrs. Rousseau, our blousy art teacher, whose personality pervades the entire space. There is also the very shy and slight ceramics teacher named, funnily enough, Mr. Size. He is balding and wears wire-rimmed glasses, all tan clothing, and an apron that he never takes off. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in the rest of the school. It’s like he lives in the art room, sorting glazes with one hand resting on his tiny hip, like an art hobbit. As a third grader, the moment I smelled the oily wax of the Cray-Pas, my body opened up and all the anxiety of Mrs. Paynter’s rigid, impossible, and infuriating math class oozed out. But today I wasn’t sure if any art supplies in the oasis had the power to make the insanity in my head stop.
“We must start, girls!” bellowed Mrs. Rousseau, waving her arm over us. “One believes that a double period is an endless reservoir, but it ends all too soon. We must get to work.”
Mrs. Rousseau sounds like that old movie actress Lauren Bacall, and looks like a round version of the Wicked Witch of the West. You know how that witch was sort of beautiful? Mrs. Rousseau is too. Every day, she wears a black gypsy dress and the same well-worn neutral-colored smock that tucks under her ample bosom and wraps around her middle, tied in the exact same way, year after year after year. Her emotional outbursts are mimicked all over school. There are even Saturday Night Live-esque skits about her at talent shows. But she is all real. She can be brought to tears by a student’s work. I’ve seen it. And I’ll tell you something—her reaction makes you cry too, because it’s authentic. If someone truly feels something, everyone does.
“We don’t have much time.” Mrs. Rousseau slowly circled the room, her plump hands together as if in prayer resting on her huge chest. She wears silver and turquoise rings on every finger except for her ring finger, where the gold wedding band Mr. Rousseau had given her years ago is embedded.
“Now before you start, please take a moment to lie on the floor. It’s colder today, I know, but give yourself space to lie down and let the ten-sion and tur-bulence of your morning rush drain down, down into the floor until it seeps into Mr. Matheson’s social science class.” She laughed at her own idea, as if she had some beef with Mr. Matheson. “Take this time to find the truth of who you are,” she said, delivering her most important and repeated message in a chocolaty baritone voice while slowly walking around the tables.
I didn’t want to get on the floor.
I was too anxious about what Farah had vomited on me, and I was worried about poor Vati and starting to get infuriated with Reagan, and maybe even Oliver? And I didn’t have my phone, which gave me that horrible feeling like I had forgotten something, or like I was naked. I hadn’t not had a phone in my backpack since I was twelve. I was feeling terribly guilty about Charlie and Bennet and even Rachel-the-hair-lady. What would happen when I got home from school? “Mrs. Rousseau, I think I should just start working, I can’t get on the fl—”
“Douwn, Wren,” she commanded with the Irish-sounding accent she uses when she is being especially dramatic.
The floor was cold and hard but it had a mellowing effect. It felt like when someone puts a soaking washcloth over your fevered forehead. I sucked in air through my nose.
I could smell Nolan. I swear, I could smell him. I almost shrieked. I was bombarded with flashes and images of him kissing me in the cab. I let out an audible sigh/moan.
“That is right, Wren, let it all out, let out whatever you are holding on to so you are free to work from an open and available place. One more minute, girls.”
I lay there, shut my eyes, and thought about Nolan looking at that luminous Vermeer. He really studied it, like he wa trying to figure it out. What boy does that? I breathed in deeply, hoping I would be able to smell him again. A beam of sun burst through a cloud outside and shone in through the window onto me. If I had opened my eyes it would have been too bright, so I kept them closed and felt the warmth on my face.
“Oooookaaayy. Find your places and let’s begin,” said Mrs. Rousseau.
We were all drawing the same still life that was set up in the middle of the room. Wooden bowls, fruit, glass jugs, spoons, books. It was an exercise in shape and we had been working on it for ten days. Although I drew the light and dark, found the negative space, and worked with my chalk to define edges, mine had morphed into a medieval village. I added buildings jammed together and rivers, some bridges, and I even stuck a dragon in there, snaking through the cobblestone alleys. My picture also had an inordinate number of owls tucked into windows and perching on spoons.
“This has become a wild mastah-piece, Miss Noorlander. Wow, wow, wow,” Mrs. Rousseau said, reaching into the pocket of her smock and taking out her tortoiseshell reading glasses to get a better look.
“The detail, Wren. I looove it. What is it with you and these delicious owls? Look at this one with all his plooommage.”
“Yeah, I don’t know if Harry Potter had some kind of influence on me or what, but I just can’t get enough of drawing owls … Mrs. Rousseau?”
“Hmmm?” She was following the spine of my dragon with her finger up around the side of the bowl that I had turned into a road.
“Last night, I met Mr., um, Saint-Rémy Broc-someone?”
“Hmmm?”
“Yeah, well, he runs the Saint-Rémy program?”
“Oh, Mr. Brocklebank.”
“Right. It was pretty cool to meet him.”
“I’m sure it was. But meeting him will not get you into the program. How are your grades?” she asked, still engrossed in my drawing.
“I’m not sure I’ll do so well in chemistry, but I think my English and history grades will be good, at least fine. Well, I think I’ll pass. I hope.”
“If you submitted this piece you would get in,” she said softly, so the other girls wouldn’t hear.
“I have to do a self-portrait and two other drawings of a bike and a shoe,” I reminded her. I took my chalk and darkened a line that was bothering me.
“What an adventure that self-portrait will be, yes?” She looked at me over her reading glasses.
“Uh-huh … I’m sort of scared of it though.”
> “Technically, Wren, you have nothing to fear. You have a deep and solid understanding of light and dark and how to render.”
“Well, but it’s not really about just drawing something that will look like me, right?”
“Right you are, dear. It’s about drawing”—I knew what she was going to say so we said it in unison—“the truth of who you are.” And then I laughed, stupidly, because she takes that truth-of-who-you-are thing seriously.
“You laugh, Wren, but being able to find that truth, the truth that is in here.” She stuck her finger in my gut. Oh my goodness, she is so dramatic, I thought, and her fervor was getting the attention of the other girls.
“And here.” She pointed to my brain. I stood very still while her pointer finger was on my temple.
“But mostly, here.” She thrust her hand onto her own heart. Obviously I knew she didn’t want me to draw what was in her heart, but what was in mine. I got it, even though she was skating on the edge of cheesiness.
“That is the challenge. That is where your work lies.”
The only thing that I felt in my heart at that moment was this boy that I would probably never be allowed to see again.
26
On my way into fifth-period lunch I ran into Vati walking out of the cafeteria. She must have had fourth-period lunch that day. She saw me, lifted her arms in the air, and flopped them down, so so sadly.
“Oohhhh, Vatter. What is going on? Farah only told me a tiny bit, and well, that guy, Nolan did too, a little.”
“Wren—are you insane? Do you know how much your parents freaked out? Have you gotten any of my texts?”
“No, well, I mean I know they freaked out but I got home late and they sent me to bed like I was five and took away my phone that I actually hadn’t seen in hours, so no, I really don’t know what is happening.”
“Well, it all sucks.” She burst into tears.
“Oh my god, Vat.”
“Freaking Reagan—who isn’t even in school today.”
“She isn’t?”
“No, you know her mother doesn’t care what she does.”
“Oh, gosh, well.”
“Did you see Oliver?” She looked at me like, Well?
“No, I didn’t.” She gave me a look like BS, lady.
“I did last night, but, Vati, I am in so much trouble.”
“I bet you are. I would ground you.”
“Wow, Vati, you are so mad.”
“I know!” She scrunched up her face, stamped her feet, and shrieked at little.
“What happened?” I asked.
“She flirted with him at dinner, so intensely, I could see it from our table.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “And he ate it up. He was looking at her like she was Gisele, and I don’t get it because he has seen her every day or something since we were born and she’s never even, god, he’s my crush.” She started weeping again so I hugged her.
“He’s my crush,” she repeated quietly.
“I know, Vati. You have been so devoted to Oliver for years.”
“I have, I really have.” She nuzzled my shoulder and cried. She was doing that two-quick-breaths-in-one-bigger-breath-out crying. Girls were walking in and out of the lunchroom, but nothing is shocking about a girl crying at Hatcher or probably any other high school in the country, so nobody stopped.
Then she jerked her head off my shoulder and looked at me with wet, wide eyes. I swear she looks so much like an Indian Katy Perry sometimes. “What did happen to you?”
“I’ll tell you, but are you okay enough for me to talk about myself?”
She nodded, took a deep breath, and stopped crying. “I’m going to be late for chemistry, but I don’t care.”
“So, first I took Nolan upstairs, to show him some paintings.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, but then we left.”
“No kidding,” she said sarcastically, which made me think she was kind of better.
“Well, we did, and he took me all the way downtown to this party, rave thing, that his friend was spinning at.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I know, and it was so totally amazing and cool and kind of scary. I mean, I would have been so scared if I was alone, or even with you guys.”
“Wren—promise me you won’t ever be friends with Reagan again.”
“Oh, well, Vat, that’s…” She restarted to cry. The second bell rang.
“Oh ratso-rizzo, I have to get upstairs,” she said.
“Okay, but let’s walk home together. I have to go straight home. I’m in major trouble.”
“Yeah. Getting in trouble sucks.” Vati had gotten herself together again and was pulling her chem book out of her backpack.
“It will be okay, Vati. You are so awesome.” I gave her a huge hug. Vati is awesome, and my brother was an idiot.
27
Farah was already sitting at lunch with one of her complicated salads from the salad bar.
“Hi, let me just go grab something.” I wish I liked all those different textures and could get chic salads, but I really don’t. It’s something to do with my ADD, I think. Mouth-feel is imperative to me. I can eat a lot of things, but anything I eat has to feel good in my mouth. This is what does:
Pork chops
Steak on a baguette
Pizza with no cheese
Very hard cheddar cheese
Raw carrots or broccoli with no dressing
Pears, but there can’t be any soft spots
Black beans and rice
Meat sauce
PowerBars but not granola bars
Other stuff too, but basically I need my food to be hard or chewy, except for chocolate pudding. Lunch was meat loaf, which I do like, but it can’t have sauce and it has to be on a roll, which this was. I put my tray next to Farah’s and sat.
“You should have something colorful, Wren.” I sighed, got up, went to the salad bar, and got a small bowl of raw spinach.
“Happy?” I asked. She smiled at me and handed me a CD.
“What is this?”
“Your boy.”
“What?”
“I told Mr. Weiner I had to use the computer lab for some calculus thing, and I went and found these songs on a Columbia website. Last night Oliver told me that Nolan is playing there for Harvest Festival, so I looked and there was a link to Nolan’s website so I downloaded three songs. I always have blank disks in my binder.”
“Farah, whoa, you’re like a love spy.”
“Not really. I didn’t have time to listen to the music because I was being rather clandestine.” Holding the CD felt like I was holding his hand.
“Thanks, Farah.” That is what I love about Farah. She appears to do nothing but think about herself, shop for good clothes, and get entwined in inappropriate dalliances with famous old people. But really she’s thinking about you and downloading music of the boy you have a crush on.
“Put it away now,” she said, spiking six different vegetables and seeds onto her fork. I put it in a pocket in my binder.
“So,” I said, mashing my sandwich down with my hand.
“So, I’m freaking out,” she said calmly.
“You really slept with him?”
“Yes, I really did.”
“Gosh.” I took a bite of the now-flat meat loaf sandwich.
“Wren, when you are a virgin that might seem like a big deal, but for me, it’s not.”
“How is it not a big deal, Farah?” I looked around at the various girls eating lunch in clusters. Nobody was that close to us, but I whispered to respect her privacy. “You have only slept with Hans.”
“Yes, well, I know, but I see him on Fire Island every summer.”
“So?”
“So, we have had sex at least”—she tilted her head up and looked at the ceiling, mentally counting—“well, twice last summer.”
“Uh-huh.” What I wanted to say was But Cy Dowd is in his thirties and you are fifteen! I couldn’t because Farah do
esn’t roll like that. She would have shut up like a clam.
“Okay, back the bus up. How did you even start talking to him?” I said.
“After dinner, while your parents, Charlie, and Vati were all mental about finding you.” She lifted her eyebrows.
“Yeah.” I smiled inappropriately.
“Cy,” she said his name like he was her husband, “just found me. He came right over and started talking to me.”
“Were people looking at you?”
“Yes, well I suppose they were looking at him, really. Wren, he’s, well, he’s a living genius. He asked me to come see his studio, so we left together.”
“Oh eww, Farah! Did my parents see you?”
“I don’t think so.” She forked another salad bite into her mouth.
“Why are you so calm about this? Isn’t his studio in Brooklyn?”
“Yes! He had a car though.” I gave her the you-are-unreal look, and really couldn’t think of anything to say.
“I know this is unusual, but then this morning, I started to think it makes all the sense in the world. I’ve always been mature.”
“Okay.” I said. I took another bite of my sandwich and chewed slowly. “It was just a one-night thing though. Right?”
“Wrong,” she said. “He said he wants to see me again and I want to see him too.”
“But, Farah, he’s really an adult. It’s, well, like Charlie said just yesterday. It’s illegal.”
“Not if nobody knows.”
I looked at my sandwich. “No, not true, Farah. It is totally illegal whether nobody knows or not. And, sorry, but it’s weird.”
“It’s weird to be attracted to one of the most important and famous artists in the country? It’s weird to respond to the advances of a fascinating, charismatic man?”
“Yeah, I think it’s weird.” She looked stung and like I was an idiot.
“Just don’t tell anyone.” She looked at my meat loaf sandwich with disgust. “Got it?”
“Got it. Jeez,” I said, widening my eyes at my sandwich.
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