Miss Rose nodded sympathetically. “Well, I really enjoyed your short paper comparing the imagery of the novel to the Realist painting style of Gustave Courbet. I thought it was fascinating that you made those connections. Congratulations!” She handed Bree her paper back, with an enormous A+ on top. It was the first grade she’d received at Bridgeport. What a good omen for the day.
She nervously felt for the note Zane had slipped her at lunch. Butterflies frolicked in her stomach. Bree didn’t exactly have a stellar track record in her romantic relationships. And there weren’t many—her brief fling with beautiful stoner boy Kaliq had ended when she realized he was just using her to get back at his ex-girlfriend. Then there was her relationship with Damien, which had started out well, but she’d realized quickly that he bored her. Other than that, her romantic history included one molestation at the hands of creepy Jaylen Harrison and getting pawed at by Maurice Johnson on the first day of school. She was so inexperienced with relationships, no wonder she was nervous.
In the dining hall at lunchtime, Zane had flashed her a smile and dropped a folded piece of paper on her tray. She’d forced herself to pick up a tuna fish sandwich and make a salad at the salad bar. Then she sat down at an empty table off to the side, grateful that there were only assigned seats for formal dinners. She took a bite of her sandwich and unfolded the note.
Directions to the SECRET painting pasture. (Shhhhhhh…) Cross main quad toward woods. Take path to boathouse. Halfway to the river, there’s a patch of birches on the right. Turn into them (watch for low branches) and walk about twenty yards. It opens into a small clearing. Keep going and you’ll come to a bigger clearing. I’ll be there.
Walking across campus now with her brandless aviators bought at the street market in Union Square, Bree tried to calm down and enjoy the gorgeous afternoon. She wasn’t used to the damp dirt, cut grass, and drying leaves that greeted her every time she stepped outdoors. Even when you were so deep in Central Park you could imagine you weren’t in New York City, it never smelled like this, and you could still hear horns from cabs on Central Park West. As Bree approached the woods, the pleasant scents grew even stronger—pine, mingled with the freshwater smell of an unpolluted Hudson. She was grateful not to be riding the crosstown bus home from Emm Willard right now, as she would have a year ago, wearing her ugly school uniform.
When she saw the thatch of birches, the butterflies started up again, but she plunged through the trees, careful to keep the clutching branches out of her curls. She felt like she was stepping out of civilization and into a private world, one inhabited only by Zane. And now her. She crossed the small clearing Zane had mentioned, noticing a Zippo lighter near a collection of rocks. This obviously wasn’t the secret spot he was talking about.
She continued through the trees as they got closer together and any trace of a path disappeared. She was a little worried about getting lost—she’d never been a Girl Scout—before she caught a whiff of turpentine in the pine-scented air and knew Zane couldn’t be far away. The trees abruptly gave way to a much larger grassy clearing, but she didn’t see him at first. This had to be it, she thought, setting her bag down on a rock and admiring the beauty of her surroundings. The grass was the scratchy, wild kind, and tall stalks of purple asters and black-eyed Susans grew along the edge of the woods. She stepped closer to a giant rock just as Zane stood up from behind it and Bree’s heart skipped a beat, something she thought people just talked about happening. The sight of Zane, in his Levi’s and a baby-blue T-shirt that said FOOD NOT BOMBS, gave her such a thrill that her heart really did forget to beat.
Zane’s face broke into a grin. “I like your T-shirt,” Bree told him shyly, her long messy curls tickling the tops of her arms. “My dad has a button that says that.”
Zane looked down at his shirt, as if to remind himself of what he was wearing. “My father hates this shirt. He calls me a hippie when he sees it.” He had put together his easel and was setting out his tubes of paint, brushes, bottles of oil and turpentine, and a paint-stained cloth.
Bree stepped closer to him and started pulling her own supplies out of her bag, placing them on one of the large, moss-dappled rocks. “Well, my dad is kind of a hippie, so I know he’d approve.”
“You’re lucky.” He didn’t say anything else, and Bree assumed he didn’t get along too well with his father. But she didn’t want to press it. Instead, he grinned at her. “Glad you found me.”
“It’s beautiful,” Bree said, meaning it. “I can see why you like coming here to paint. It’s so peaceful.”
“Yeah, it’s great.” Zane stretched his arms above his head, his T-shirt raising a little so that Bree could see the top of his Calvin Klein boxers peeking out from his jeans. “So, did you look through the art syllabus yet?”
“Syllabus?” Bree had no idea there even was a syllabus for art.
“Yeah,” Zane teased. “You know, those things the teachers hand out at the first class?”
“Yes, smarty-pants, I know what a syllabus is.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “I just don’t remember getting one for art.”
“Well, the midterm project involves incorporating portraiture into the landscape. Any media we want, any subject, any setting.” He looked at Bree sheepishly. “I knew right away what setting I wanted”—he indicated the field around him—“and I was hoping you’d be my subject.”
Bree had to keep her jaw from dropping. Zane wanted to paint her? Here? “You didn’t tell me that’s why you wanted me to come out here! I thought we’d both be…um, working.”
“Oh, you can work too,” he said with a smile. “You can talk or draw as long as you don’t move too much,” he said, repeating her words to him in art class. “I didn’t get a chance to draw you in class, remember?”
“I can’t believe you’re working on your midterm project already!”
“I know.” Zane’s dark eyes searched hers. “I’m not normally an overachiever, by any standards. But the wildflowers will be gone soon, so it seemed like the perfect chance. I’ve always wanted to paint someone here…” He trailed off after that, looking suddenly nervous.
Always wanted to, Bree thought. Meaning, never had. He’d never painted Crystal here? Wow. It was as if he’d been waiting for her. Bree could barely believe this was possible.
“I don’t have to be naked, do I?” Bree asked suddenly, and immediately regretted it. Her cheeks burned. “I—I’m not sure I’m ready for the entire art class to see me naked yet,” she stammered. “Even in a painting.” Never mind the art class; she couldn’t imagine what Zane would do with her boobs. He’d run out of paint!
Zane frowned in mock disappointment. “Clothes are okay.”
Bree looked around awkwardly. “Should I pose or something?” She fiddled with her necklace, a silver magnolia leaf on a leather cord wound twice around her neck, suddenly aware that the leaf looked like an arrow pointing directly downward toward her ample cleavage. As if Zane needed any signs to point him there.
He stepped toward her and clasped his chin in thought. “I was thinking Klimt by way of Modigliani, if that makes sense to you? On the grass, if it’s not wet and you don’t mind. Somewhere with wildflowers. I know it sounds totally corny, but I think I can make it work if I don’t use too much pink.”
Bree thought she was more likely to be compared to the full-figured girls in a Rubens than the elongated figures of Modigliani, but let Zane see her however he wanted to. It was just so nice that he knew about art. Kaliq had posed for a series of portraits that she’d ultimately destroyed, but he’d just looked back at her vacantly with his blank stoner stare whenever she mentioned anything about art. If it didn’t involve a bong or boobs, he definitely wasn’t interested.
Bree glanced around. It was a beautiful sunny day, the ground was dry, the sun was warm, leaves were rustling. Zane led her to a flat area of the pasture, and she spread out on her side, her sketchbook in front of her. Zane gave her his iPod
, and she scanned through the songs. They both had Drake and a fair share of Kanye West, but he had more Kendrick Lamar and J.Cole where she had Beyonce and Rihanna. She picked an artist she hadn’t heard before and took out her pastels. The sun beat down on her, warming her face. She closed her eyes and let the late-summer sunshine bleed through her eyelids, wondering if, years later, she would be telling her children about this moment, in the woods with Zane, how this was the start of it all. The way their parents met.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, sleepy.” Zane shook her gently. Her eyes opened to see him kneeling beside her. He had a smear of yellow paint on his nose. Bree laughed, hoping she hadn’t dozed off long enough to have nap breath.
“I can’t believe I fell asleep. I didn’t snore or anything, did I?” she asked, sitting up. He stood and reached out a hand to pull her to her feet. She tried to memorize the feel of his warm fingers wrapped around hers. Even standing, Zane towered over her. He made her feel tiny.
“No.” He grinned and pulled her toward the easel. “But you were talking in your sleep.”
She gasped, knowing that her brother, Mekhi, would often pound on her bedroom door at night because she’d been babbling in her sleep. “You’re joking! What’d I say?”
Zane scratched his head and pretended to look embarrassed. “You were kind of mumbling, so I couldn’t really be sure…but it sounded sort of like…‘Zane Taylor, you’re my hero.’”
God, he was so cute. “Very funny. But I usually only talk about movie stars in my sleep.”
“Now that you mention it, you did say something about me reminding you of Michael Ealy.”
Bree laughed, realizing they were still holding hands. The air smelled like turpentine and Ivory soap and flowers. He smiled at her and she looked at his ever-so-slightly, adorably crooked teeth. His face was so close to hers, if she just…leaned…in…
“Let’s see the painting.” Her voice was overly bright to drown out the noise of her pounding heart. She’d had a million fantasies about kissing Zane, but he’d just broken up with Crystal yesterday. The amazing thing was that he seemed to understand. “It’s really just a basic sketch, so don’t be too disappointed or anything.”
When she looked at the canvas, she wouldn’t have recognized herself. It was a close-up of a girl, stretched out in the sunny grass with wildflowers surrounding her, exactly as she must have looked the past two hours. A sketchbook open in front of her, the telltale white earphones of an iPod, the same white shirt and jeans and pink shoes, her head leaning on her arm, the cascading black curls. But the face—it was the most finished part of the painting, but it couldn’t be her. Perfect hazelnut skin, rosy cheekbones, slightly open mouth, sleepy eyes covered with thick, lush lashes—it was very dreamlike and surreal, as if Zane had known what Bree wished she looked like. Was it possible that he actually saw her that way? The whole painting, even only half finished, seemed to capture what it had felt like, lying there and listening to Zane’s music, enjoying this secret, private space with him as if it were the only place on earth. Zane must have felt that way too.
“Wow,” she said finally.
“Just wait till it’s finished,” he said a little dreamily. They packed up their things slowly. Zane held the branches back for Bree as they made their way through the woods. Once they emerged, they walked side by side down the path back toward the quad, their legs brushing against each other comfortably as Zane held up the large canvas by its wooden stretcher boards.
That’s when they saw Jade crossing the quad in front of them, dressed all in black and carrying a tiny red suede handbag. Bree immediately took a step away from Zane and felt like she was caught, even though Jade didn’t appear to notice them coming from the boathouse path.
“It’s okay,” Zane whispered. “She’s not going to bite. She didn’t even see us.”
But Bree wasn’t so sure about either of those things.
To: [email protected];
[email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: Thursday, September 12, 3:25 p.m.
Subject: URGENT
Hello ladies,
It’s a beautiful day—waaaaay too gorgeous to go to practice. Better idea: let’s spend the afternoon at the Bridgeport Inn bar sipping cocktails and not mentioning a certain boy whose name starts with that cursed letter Z and who S-U-C-K-S.
Bring your fake ID and look sophisticated. The bartender’s ancient, so put on your best perverted smile and we’ll be safe.
And what’s with the midnight sneak-ins? I know you too well, Naomi Lenore Peterson, and I’m calling your bluff. Forced BFF threesome bonding will commence at 4 p.m. C u there…
Xoxo,
Crys
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: Thursday, September 12, 4:16 p.m.
Subject: Sunday?
Hey,
Thanks for letting me paint you today. I had a genuinely, seriously good time.
Maybe you’d want to come meet Credo on Sunday?
Hope so…
Zane
12
The Bridgeport Inn was a short hike from campus, and Naomi regretted wearing her green snakeskin pointy-toed pumps that looked sexy and sophisticated but pinched her feet. In her brand-new Marc Jacobs black pencil skirt and ultra-feminine shell-pink blouse, Naomi felt surprisingly glad to be on her way to a “forced threesome BFF bonding” no matter how fucked up it sounded. In her mind, she vowed to be nicer to Jade. After all, Jade had saved their asses by taking the blame for the E incident and had spent the whole summer thinking she was expelled—even if she probably hung out with fine South African guys the whole time—and she’d been totally displaced by Bree. But Naomi hadn’t heard any rumblings about her being a giant Jersey girl liar, so maybe she should cut Jade a break.
She stepped into the Bridgeport Inn lobby, headed past the dusty grand piano and straight into the bar. The hotel was the closest one to campus, where parents most often stayed, and its look of shabby opulence seemed befitting to the school. The bar had clearly passed its golden age and settled into a period of slow, depraved decline. It was nearly empty except for Jade and Crystal, already seated at a wooden booth in the corner with three drinks in front of them.
“Your amaretto sour,” Jade greeted Naomi, indicating the one drink that wasn’t half empty.
Naomi slid in next to Crystal, looking like a film producer or gallery owner in her emerald silk top and a cropped cardigan, her wavy black hair held back from her face by a pair of vintage gold barrettes. She would have looked very pretty, but her face seemed a little haggard, like she hadn’t been getting her requisite ten hours of beauty sleep.
“You guys are awesome.” Naomi grabbed the glass and took a small sip. Strong, just the way she liked it, but it still made her wince as she swallowed. Jade was wearing a plain short-sleeve black T-shirt and jeans, but with her red lips, she had the air of a movie star sneaking out for a quick drink under the paparazzi’s radar.
Naomi leaned back against the wooden bench and looked at the framed nineteenth-century ink drawings of the Bridgeport campus. “It’s been too long since we’ve been here. I kind of missed it.”
“It doesn’t look like they’ve dusted since we were last here either.” Crystal sniffed the musty air. “But beggars can’t be choosers.” She took another big sip of her drink, and Naomi noticed that her glass was already empty. Wow. She was taking the breakup with Zane pretty hard.
“How was your day, Crystal?” Naomi asked awkwardly, and Crystal stiffened, like she could tell Naomi was feeling sorry for her.
“It was fine. You know, I’m going to survive. But I just…don’t want to talk about Zane for a while, okay?” Crystal looked sadly at her friends and twirled a thick lock of hair around her finger. “Let’s talk about other things.”
“Other boys, you mean
?” Jade chimed in, polishing off her drink. “You get started without me. I’ll get another round.” She slid out of the booth.
Naomi was still nursing her first drink and already feeling a little light-headed.
“How’s the D-man?” Crystal suddenly asked.
“The D-man?” Naomi repeated. “Come on, that makes him sound like a bad DJ or a pervert who only likes large-breasted women.”
“Does he?” Crystal put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Only like large-breasted women?”
“Apparently not.” Naomi stuck out her own barely B-size chest. “He seems to think these are all right.”
“How well has he gotten to know them?” Crystal giggled, then sucked at her skinny cocktail straw, making the ice cubes rattle around her empty glass.
“They’re acquaintances, I’d say.” Naomi toyed with her gold earrings. The first half of her drink had gone straight to her head, and she was starting to feel a little more vocal than usual. This is how you get yourself into trouble, she thought. For some reason she was reminded of the night freshman year when she and Crystal and Jade had bought graham crackers and Hershey’s chocolates and marshmallows and sneaked over to the field house. Behind it was a giant charcoal grill that was used sometimes at pep rallies and Bridgeport picnics. Somehow they had managed to fire it up, and the three of them had toasted marshmallows and made gooey s’mores and drunk a bottle of red wine. Everything tasted so much better because the rest of campus was asleep.
Naomi felt a burst of warmth toward Crystal and was about to say something more about Eric when Jade reappeared with the grandfatherly bartender in tow, carrying a tray with three champagne flutes and a bottle of Moët.
Bridgeport Academy #2 Page 7