tell what it was. Luckily, Connor answered his own question. "That's Madison Square Garden in
surround sound."
"Not too shabby," I said. "But won't those great acoustics make it all the more depressing when they lose?"
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"Ouch, woman. You're harsh." I could tell from his voice that he was smiling, and I smiled, too. I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor.
"Well, if the shoe fits," I said.
"Listen, you," he said. "Just because you're cute, don't think you can get away with dissing the home team."
Connor Pearson had just told me I was cute. I bit down on the telephone cord to keep from
screaming.
In the background, I heard the announcer say something.
"All right, I'm gonna go watch, Red. I'll call you at half time, okay?"
"Okay," I said. Connor hung up, but I waited a minute before standing and putting the receiver
back in the cradle. I could see from the light that Mara and my dad were still talking on line one.
Normally I might have gotten annoyed, but tonight I didn't care. Let them talk until dawn if they
wanted.
I had a game to watch.
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Chapter Ten
I would have said that nothing could make me not like Ms. Daniels, but after she told us we'd be
spending the next two months working on self-portraits, I wasn't so sure. As far as I'm
concerned, the whole point of making a painting is you can stop thinking about yourself for as
long as you're working. What's the fun of an art class spent looking in the mirror?
At lunch, just as I was explaining to Madison and Jessica the difference between a still life and a
portrait, Kathryn Ford came over to the table where we were sitting. She was with a girl so
beautiful she actually gave Kathryn a run for her money. With her thick, curly brown hair and
enormous blue eyes, she looked like a Victoria's Secret model in the flesh. This was one woman
who definitely did not need a padded bra.
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"Hey," said Kathryn. She tossed her Prada bag on the table and dropped into a chair.
"Hey," said the other girl, tossing her own Prada bag down and collapsing into a chair next to
Kathryn.
"Hey," I said. Madison and Jessica said, "Hi."
"So, what's up?" Kathryn asked, like her sitting with and talking to us was something that
happened every day.
"Not a whole lot," said Madison, playing the same game of pretend. "What's up with you?"
"Not much," said Kathryn. She looked over at me. "I like your shirt," she said.
"Oh, thanks." I was wearing an ancient Ramones T-shirt my dad got at a concert back before I
was born. My mom had tie-dyed it all these wild, psychedelic colors. It's pretty faded now, but I
still like it.
"So, you're going out with Connor," she said.
Was she asking me or telling me?
"Yeah, she's going out with Connor," Jessica piped up. She spoke defensively, like Kathryn had
better watch herself.
Kathryn laughed. "Chill," she said to Jessica. Then she turned to me. "Connor's adorbs. He's practically like my brother." She laughed. "And anyway, I don't go out with high-school guys."
She laughed again, and so did the rest of us, as if the idea that Kathryn Ford would date a high-
school guy was nothing short of hilarious. When we all stopped laughing,
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Kathryn bumped her beautiful friend's shoulder. "No offense," she said. "None taken," purred the beautiful girl, and the two of them started laughing again.
"Anyway," Kathryn continued, "I just wanted to know if you need a ride to the game Friday."
"Oh, no," said Madison. "We're good."
Kathryn kept looking at me, as if Madison hadn't even spoken. "Thanks," I said evenly. "We're all set."
"Suit yourself," said Kathryn. She stretched her arms over her head, and her tiny tee slid up to reveal her perfectly flat stomach. "I guess we'll see you there."
"Yeah, sure," I said.
As soon as they were gone, Madison turned to me. "She is such a phony." She made her voice high and squeaky. "'Do you need a ride? Connor's practically my brother. I like your shirt.' God."
"I know," Jessica said. "Adorbs? Puh-leeze."
I didn't say much as the conversation wound past all the ways Kathryn Ford was a phony, two-
faced hypocrite who wasn't nearly as pretty as she thought she was. Because there was only one
aspect of Kathryn Ford's phony, two-faced, hypocrisy that had the slightest effect on me.
I don't go out with high-school guys.
Somehow I got the feeling that if Kathryn ever decided to change her policy, I was going to be in
serious trouble.
***
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Friday afternoon a few people had stayed in the studio after class ended, including Sam Wolff.
Except for me and Sam, everyone was talking more than they were working. Sam was focusing
really hard on his painting, and I was focusing really hard on the clock, wishing the hour I'd
sworn to spend drawing would pass faster. And it wasn't just because I had zero ideas for my
self-portrait. All I could think about were my plans for the night. I'd take the late bus, which left
at five and would get me home at five-thirty, plenty of time to shower, get dressed, and let my
hair dry before Madison and Jessica picked me up at seven. Not only was tonight a crucial game
for making the states, there was a huge party afterward at some senior's house. And the coach had promised the guys that if they won, they could have a night with no curfew. Needless to say, I
wasn't going to be mentioning that to Mara. Just thinking of all the hours I'd get to make out with Connor gave me goose bumps. I wanted it to be five o'clock now.
At four fifty-five, I grabbed my bag and Connor's jacket, shoved my sketch pad in my drawer,
and started for the door. As I passed his easel, I couldn't help noticing the painting Sam was
working on.
"Wow," I said. It was a still life of a dining room table after a massive meal has just been
consumed-- there were half-eaten plates of pasta, empty serving dishes, crumpled napkins, and
abandoned knives and forks. The painting was spectacular: a still life in tiny, colorful squares. I
leaned in to see the squares up close
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and realized the designs in them weren't just designs; each was actually a tiny image. The wine
bottle was made of bunches of grapes, the melting ice cubes were actually a minute, snow-
capped mountain range. Stepping back from the finished section of the painting you saw the
contour of each thing made from the shapes and shades within the squares. Only when you were
standing right at the canvas could you see the specifics of the little images.
"That's amazing." I wanted to touch the rich, thick paint. "You know who it reminds me of?
Chuck Close." Chuck Close is an artist I'd first seen years ago, when my dad and I made a pre-
Mara trip to New York and went to the Museum of Modern Art. Ever since then he's been one of
my favorite artists. Close does the same thing Sam had done, squares of shapes and colors that
create a figurative image.
Sam didn't say anything. In fact, he didn't even look at me.
Once again I felt what I'd felt that day in the museum: the urge to put him in his place. "You