Palmer's chewing out John Marcus for answering his cell during class to ask if Connor had told
me the details of how last night he, Matt, and Dave all puked on the street outside some club. I
shook my head.
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"Sometimes those guys totally piss me off," she whispered. "Matt told Madison they were doing shots of tequila all night." She made a face. "Whatever. Hey, do you want to go look at prom
dresses after school?"
"Miss Johnson, Miss Norton, are you quite ready for tomorrow's quiz?" Mr. Palmer was glaring at Jessica from the front of the room.
"Sorry, Mr. Palmer," said Jessica.
"Yeah, sorry," I said. When he went back to writing on the board, Jessica rolled her eyes at me. I nodded, but I couldn't quite stave off the flicker of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. Dave had
called Jessica. Matt had called Madison.
Why hadn't Connor called me?
After class, Madison met Jessica and me in the hallway.
"Okay, are we prom dress-shopping it later?" Jessica asked as we walked to the cafeteria.
"Let's wait until spring break," said Madison. "My mom's totally on my case about this warning notice I got in math." She took a swig of water and pushed open the door of the cafeteria with her
hip. "Matt said he threw up six times already," she said. "How totally gross is that?"
"Totally," Jessica agreed. "Dave said he'd been puking all morning."
I didn't say anything, very self-conscious about the fact that I had no idea how many times
Connor had
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puked in the past twenty-four hours. It was what they wanted to hear, right? Well, Matt may have thrown up six times and Dave may have been throwing up all morning, but since he is the most
popular boy in school, Connor, naturally, has thrown up more than both of them put together. I
know this because I am his girlfriend and, as such, am responsible for disseminating information
about His Majesty's gastrointestinal functions.
They sat down at an empty table. "I just need to get a sandwich," I said, not sitting.
Both Madison and Jessica gave me a look. "What?" I asked.
"You okay?" asked Madison.
I shrugged. "Yeah, sure."
Jessica reached for my hand. "Looocy," she said, sounding just like Ricky Ricardo. "You got some 'splainin' to do."
I pulled out a chair, sat down, and closed my eyes, too embarrassed by what I was about to say to
look at them. "Connor hasn't called me all day."
Jessica started laughing, and so did Madison. But when I didn't join them, they stopped. I opened
my eyes. "You're not seriously worried about that?" asked Jessica.
"It's been, like, twenty-four hours," I said. Jessica put her arm around me. "Honey, he is so into you."
"You think?" I asked, feeling better already.
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"Totally," said Madison. "He's probably way too busy praying to the porcelain god to remember to call."
"Maybe you're right," I said.
"No maybe about it," she said.
As I crossed the cafeteria to buy my sandwich, I felt about a million times happier than I had five
minutes ago, though I had to admit my good mood wasn't exactly born of altruism. I mean,
Jessica had just convinced me that my boyfriend was physically unable to lift a telephone.
Shouldn't I have been overwhelmed with sympathy and concern?
But instead of being sad for him, I felt glad for me. Because everyone knows it's better to have a
boyfriend who feels too sick to call than one who just doesn't feel like calling at all.
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Chapter Twenty
After school I went to the studio. The idea I'd gotten looking at The Dancers yesterday had
stayed with me, and the longer I worked on my sketch, the stronger my feeling grew that this
idea might go the distance. I barely took my eyes off the page all afternoon, and the one time I
did, I made eye contact with Ms. Daniels, who'd looked up at that exact second.
"You look pretty intent there," she said, gesturing to my sketch pad. "I've been taking that as a good sign."
"Here's hoping," I said.
"Want to show me what you've got?"
I looked down at what I'd been drawing. "Yeah, sure," I said, not feeling sure at all. I unfolded my legs and went over to her desk, where she looked up at me expectantly.
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I pressed my notebook to my chest. "I'm afraid you're going to hate it," I said. "Do you hate it?"
she asked. "No."
"Do you like it?" I nodded.
"Well, why would I hate it if you like it?"
"Because you hated all the other ones."
She laughed. "First of all, I didn't hate them. I said I didn't think they were going to yield a self-portrait that was very interesting. And second of all, if you'd defended any one of them for even
a second, I would have let you convince me."
I couldn't believe what she was saying. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. You just never seemed particularly excited about any of the drawings you showed
me."
"I guess," I said, and even though I sounded hesitant, I knew what she'd said was true. All the
other ideas I'd considered had been born of desperation, not inspiration.
"Now," she said, holding out her hand. "Let's see what you've got for me."
Silently, I handed over my sketch. Ms. Daniels looked it up and down, not saying anything. Then
she took my pencil from me.
Uh-oh, here it comes.
"See how there are three figures here and none here? You could move this one up just a little,
and it might be
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more balanced. Then you'd have less empty space here," she pointed at the left side of the page,
which was almost entirely blank, "and more here." Did this mean ...
"Wait, are you saying I can ... that it's, you know, okay?"
She looked up at me. "Do you think it's okay?"
I looked at the figures I'd drawn, a line of Lucys holding hands, each just a little bit different
from the others and looking off in a slightly different direction. The way they were
simultaneously connected and yet isolated, each looking at something different, but looking at it
the same way, expressed something about who I am that I didn't think I'd be able to put into
words. I hoped Ms. Daniels wouldn't ask me to explain it.
"I really like it," I said.
"I thought so," she said. "And I, for one, think it's worthy of you. So why don't you start painting tomorrow?"
"Seriously?"
Ms. Daniels smiled. "Seriously." Right then Sam came over to stand on the far side of the desk.
"Sorry, am I interrupting something?" he asked.
"We're done," I said, flipping my sketchbook closed. Even as I said the words, I didn't quite
believe them.
"Well then, if it's okay with you," he said to
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Ms. Daniels, "I'll take that painting home now."
Ms. Daniels made a sad face. "I guess I can't keep it forever." She looked over at the wall, and I realized they were talking about the painting of the tree that I liked so much. "But--and I'm not
just saying this to hold on to it for one more day--I don't think you can carry it by yourself, and