As I waded through the laughing, gyrating crowd, I thought to myself, This is what I’ve been missing, being part of the unpopular set? Houses bursting to the seams with loud, obnoxious people and head-pounding music you can’t even understand the lyrics of? Frankly, I’d have preferred to be home watching Nick at Nite and eating spumoni.
But I guess that was just me.
When I got to where I thought the drinks were, all I found was a keg. A keg! Smooth move, Kris. I mean, she had known perfectly well David was coming and that he’d be bringing the Secret Service with him. Hmm, she wasn’t going to get too busted or anything.
And you know what? Couldn’t say I felt too sorry for her, either.
The soda, someone informed me, was in a cooler in a room off the kitchen. So I plunged back into the hordes until I emerged into a laundry room.
And wouldn’t you know it? My sister and Jack were in there, making out on top of the dryer.
Lucy let out a squeal and hopped down from the dryer.
“You came!” she cried. “How’s it going? Where’s David?”
“Out there somewhere,” I said. “I’m getting us sodas.”
“Idiot,” Lucy said. “He‘s supposed to get you the sodas. God. Stay here a minute. I want to get the girls.”
By girls, of course, she meant the rest of the cheerleading squad.
“Luce,” I said. “Come on. Not tonight.”
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport,” Lucy said. “Stay here with Jack, I’ll be right back. There’re some people who are dying to meet the real live son of an actual President . . .”
And before I could say another word, she’d taken off, leaving me alone with Jack.
Who regarded me thoughtfully over the plastic cup he’d just drained.
“So,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” I said. “Surprisingly good. Thursday, Susan Boone, she made us draw this huge chunk of meat, and it was really cool because I’d never really looked at meat before, you know? I mean, there is a lot going on in meat—”
“That’s great,” Jack said, apparently not realizing he was interrupting me, even though the music wasn’t nearly as loud in the laundry room. “Did you get my painting?”
I looked up at him, uncomprehending. “What painting?”
“My entry,” he said. “In the From My Window contest.”
“Oh,” I said. “No. I mean, I don’t know, I’m sure they got it. I just haven’t seen it yet. I haven’t seen any of the paintings.”
“Well, you’re going to love it,” Jack said. “It took me three days. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”
Then Jack started describing the painting to me in great detail. He was still going on about it a few minutes later when David showed up in the doorway.
I brightened when I saw him. I couldn’t help it. Even though the object of my affections was standing right there beside me, I was glad to see David. I told myself it was only because that story about the salad-serving utensils had been so cute. It had nothing to do with the whole frisson thing. Nothing at all.
“Hey,” David said, with the grin I now realized was practically his trademark. “I wondered where you’d disappeared to.”
“David,” I said. “This is my sister Lucy’s boyfriend, Jack. Jack, this is David.”
David and Jack shook hands. Standing together, I saw that actually they looked a lot alike. I mean they were both over six feet tall, and dark-haired. There I guess the resemblance sort of ended though, since Jack’s hair was shoulder-length, while David’s only just hit his collar. And Jack, of course, had the ankh earring, while both of David’s lobes were unpierced. Of course Jack also had on his party clothes—Army fatigues with a long black coat—while David was dressed pretty conservatively.
I guess they didn’t look that much alike after all.
“David’s in my art class,” I said, to break the awkward silence that immediately followed their handshake.
Jack crumpled up his plastic cup and said, “Oh, you mean your conformity class?”
David looked confused. And no wonder. Jack is a very intense person, who needs some getting used to.
I said, hurriedly, “No, Jack, it turns out it’s not like that. I was totally wrong about Susan Boone. She just wants me to learn to draw what I see before I go off, you know, and do my own thing. You have to learn what the rules are, you see, before you can go around breaking them.”
Jack, staring at me, went, “What?”
“No, really,” I said, sensing he wasn’t getting what I was saying. “I mean, you know Picasso? He spent years learning to draw, you know, whatever he saw. It wasn’t until he’d totally mastered that that he started experimenting with colour and form.”
Only Jack, instead of finding this particular fact endlessly interesting, as I had, looked scornful.
“Sam,” he said. “I can’t believe you, of all people, would fall for that pedagogic bull.”
“Excuse me?” David sounded kind of mad.
Jack raised both his eyebrows. “Uh, I don’t think I was talking to you, First Boy.”
“Jack,” I said, a little shocked. I mean, Jack is an amazingly artistic person, and having that kind of, you know, creative energy bouncing around inside can be exhausting (as I well know). But that’s no reason to call anybody names. “What is wrong with you?”
“What is wrong with me?” Jack laughed, but not like he actually thought anything was very funny. “That’s not the question. The question is, what is wrong with you? I mean, you used to think for yourself, Sam. But now all of a sudden you’re falling for all this “draw what you see” crap like it’s been handed down from the gods on a freaking stone tablet. What happened to questioning authority? What happened to making up your own mind about the creative process and how it functions?”
“Jack,” I said. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I mean, Jack had always said it was imperative for artists to be open to all new things so that they could soak in knowledge like a sponge. Only Jack certainly wasn’t acting very sponge-like. “I did make up my own mind. I—”
“Hey, you guys.” Lucy suddenly reappeared, a posse of cheerleaders, each one wearing more body glitter and Lycra than the next, trailing along behind her. “Oh, hey, David, I’ve got some friends who want to meet—”
But I was still trying to make Jack understand.
“I looked it up, Jack,” I said. “David’s right. Picasso was a technical virtuoso before he began experimenting with line and—”
“David,” Jack said, rolling his eyes. “Oh, yes, I am sure David knows all about art. Because I’m sure he’s had paintings publicly exhibited before.”
Lucy looked from Jack to David to me, as if trying to figure out what was going on. When she spoke, it was to Jack. “Like you have?” she asked, with one raised eyebrow.
Lucy really is the most unsupportive girlfriend I have ever seen.
“Yes,” Jack said. “As a matter of fact I have had my paintings exhibited—”
“In the mall,” Lucy pointed out.
Jack didn’t even look at Lucy, though. He was looking at me. I could feel his pale-blue eyes boring into me.
“If I didn’t know better, Sam,” he said, “I’d think it wasn’t your arm you broke that day you saved this guy’s dad, but your brain.”
“OK,” David said. There was no trace of that secretive little smile on his face now. “Look, dude, I don’t know what your problem is, but—”
“My problem?” Jack jabbed a finger at himself. “I’m not the one with the problem, dude. You’re the one who seems so perfectly willing to let your individuality be sapped by a—”
“OK,” Lucy said in a bored voice, slipping between Jack and David and laying both hands on the front of Jack’s long black coat. “That’s it. Outside, Jack.”