12
Instead, he said it like, Could you possibly crawl back into whatever hole you crawled out of and
stop bothering me?
Needless to say, I have stopped pursuing friendship within the Glen Lake artistic community.
On Wednesday, I spent all of art finishing up a charcoal still life of a glass of water, a lemon, and
a notebook on a shelf by an open window. When the bell rang I headed to my drawer to put my
stuff away, and Ms. Daniels gestured at me to come over to where she was culling the most
ancient tubes of paint from a cupboard and chucking them in the trash. She flipped open a tube,
tested the paint on the back of her hand, then returned it to the shelf before taking my drawing
from me.
"This is looking good, Lucy," she said, tracing her finger along the edge of the page. "I love how diaphanous the curtains are."
"Thanks," I said. I was really proud of the curtains; I'd drawn just the edges and a few lines to indicate folds; I wanted the fabric to seem material but weightless.
She handed back the sketch and put her hands together in front of her chin, tapping her index
fingers against her lips. "Lucy, do you know Francesco Clemente?"
Ms. Daniels and I have talked a lot about different artists we like, but I'd never heard of
Clemente. I was tempted to pretend I knew who he was so I wouldn't
13
disappoint her, but at the last second I changed my mind. I mean, what if he wasn't even an
artist? What if he was the Prime Minister of Spain or something?
I shook my head. "Who is he?"
She wrapped her long hair into a loose bun at the base of her neck. "He's an artist here in New
York," she said. "His stuff is just extraordinary. It actually reminds me of Picasso's later work.
All that talent and joy." She slipped a pencil through the bun to hold it in place. "He has a
retrospective at the Guggenheim. You should check it out."
I wondered if she'd told anyone else about his show or just me. Since January I'd wanted Ms.
Daniels to think my work was somehow special. Was this the sign I'd been waiting for? Without
my even being conscious of it, I felt the corners of my lips edging upward, something that hadn't
happened in a long, long time. It was sort of a miracle my smile muscles hadn't atrophied.
Thinking out loud, I said, "Maybe I'll go." I could ask my dad if he wanted to go, too. Of course that meant I couldn't go this Saturday. This Saturday had been reserved by Mara to be spent in
pursuit of her own personal holy graiclass="underline" the late American-Victorian breakfront without which the
front hallway looks, and I quote, "as if nobody loves it!"
"Clemente's painting is just thrilling," Ms. Daniels said. "And I think you'll find it particularly interesting in terms of the direction your art is taking."
My art was taking a direction?
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"Sounds amazing," I said, making the decision to go right then and there. "I won't miss it.
Thanks."
I thought Ms. Daniels's compliment would at least carry me through the week, but no sooner had
I pushed open the door to the cafeteria than the chill of social exile penetrated the warm fuzzy
feeling I'd gotten talking to her. I bought a turkey sandwich and grabbed a chair at an empty table
where someone had left today's sports section. Reading about basketball might have cheered me
up if there hadn't been a front-page article about how the Lakers were guaranteed to lose to
Chicago tonight. My dad grew up in L.A., and I was born there. So even though I've lived most
of my life in San Francisco, I'm a huge Lakers fan. As if the gloomy article wasn't bad enough,
who should decide to sit in the empty seats just down the table from me but Jessica and Madison.
"Okay, can I just show you the bear?" asked Madison. "Because you're going to die! " I glanced over at them. Madison's subtly highlighted hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and her lips
were a plummy color I knew even my stepsisters would approve.
Jessica finished ripping the foil off her yogurt and looked up at Madison. "Give," she said,
reaching out her hand and wiggling her fingers.
Madison looked like she was about to explode with happiness as she handed Jessica the bear.
"You have to squeeze it," Madison explained.
15
Jessica squeezed the bear, which announced, "I love you."
Madison gave a little cry of excitement, like she'd been waiting an eternity for just such a
confession from this particular bear. "I know it's completely dumb," she said. "But it's so cute."
"You guys are nauseating," said Jessica, but she said it in a nice way, like she didn't really mind having a friend who was one half of a nauseating couple.
"Thanks," said Madison. "I was telling him that since it's our three-month anniversary, he
should--" Suddenly she pointed across the cafeteria. "Hey," she shouted. Then she started waving her arms. I glanced in the direction she was waving and saw Matt and Dave, Madison and
Jessica's boyfriends, walking toward the table we were all sitting at.
With them was Connor Pearson.
I stared at him as he crossed the room. It was like my eyes were acting of their own accord; they
couldn't not admire Connor's long legs and broad shoulders, his graceful, athlete's walk. And
who could blame them? If Michelangelo's David strolled out of L'Academia wearing a Glen
Lake High School Basketball jacket, you'd stare, too.
When the guys got to the table, Madison jumped up and gave Matt a PG-defying kiss. As if
inspired by their peers' passion, Jessica and Dave started making out with equal, if imitative, lust.
16
Finally Madison pulled away and slapped Matt on the upper arm. "I hate Matt," she said in a
little girl voice.
"Whoa," he said, mock rubbing his arm. "What's that for?"
"For watching the game with these guys tonight instead of seeing a movie with me," she said.
"Matt. Is. A. Jerk." She pounded him on the chest with each word.
"You don't understand," Dave explained to Madison as Matt warded off her blows. "This is
going to be the game. L.A.'s going down." He and Matt high-fived.
And then, out of nowhere, as if support for the home team is some kind of autonomic response, I
muttered, "Yeah, right."
As soon as I realized what I'd done, I tried to focus my eyes on my paper, like the words I'd
spoken had been elicited not by my eavesdropping but by something I'd read. Only it was too
late. Dave, Matt, Connor, Jessica, and Madison were all staring at me as if I were a piece of
furniture that had suddenly been given the power of speech.
"Are you crazy?" said Dave. "Did you see the way Chicago played last night?"
I gave up trying to avert my eyes and looked at him. "How'd they play?" I asked. "The Lakers'
two best players were out and the ref called five totally insane fouls. Chicago was handed the
game."
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"Handed the game?" Dave was practically choking with indignation. He dropped his arm from Jessica's shoulders. "Did you see that three-pointer at the buzzer? Did you?"