who's always getting compliments on her athletic acumen from hot senior guys, I totally froze. I
just stood there, a deer in headlights.
35
Luckily my response (or lack thereof) didn't matter at all. Before even the wittiest person could
possibly have tossed off the cleverest response, he was gone.
The art room was empty, but it didn't feel deserted. Handel's Water Music was playing on the
tiny radio Ms. Daniels has on her desk, and the room's familiar smell of paint and turpentine and
brewing coffee was all the company I needed. I flopped down on the paint-spattered sofa in the
corner, pulled my sketch pad out of my bag, and idly flipped through the pages while nibbling
the tasteless sandwich I'd just purchased. Was Ms. Daniels right? Was my art taking a direction?
As I turned the pages, I tried to see my work as a stranger might, looking for patterns in the
random sketches I'd drawn over the course of the past month. But as far as I could tell,
everything looked more or less the same. I wanted to believe Ms. Daniels, that I was developing
as an artist. But even calling myself an artist (albeit a developing one) seemed pretentious. I
looked across the room at one of Sam Wolff's paintings. It was of a tree in winter--no leaves,
dollops of wet snow dripping off branches. Like all of his work, it pulled you in, made you feel
you were there, that if you touched the tree's bark, February's cold and damp would seep into
your skin. Now, he was an artist. Unfortunately, he was also an antisocial jerk.
Was it possible for a person to have talent and a normal social life?
36
Maybe the real question was: Why am I, who has neither, fantasizing about having both?
When I got to the cafeteria on Friday, the sandwiches weren't out yet, which meant I had to stand
alone waiting by the cash register for about ten years. I tried to cultivate a cool, disinterested
demeanor, as if I were so above high school I didn't even know I attended one. I'm actually deep
in thought about extremely important intellectual trends. Even if you tried to approach me, I
probably wouldn't respond. When the cafeteria lady finally dumped a pile of sandwiches into the
basket, I just grabbed one, not bothering to check its contents, threw some money in her
direction, and raced toward the door.
I was halfway to freedom when I heard my name being called.
"Hello! Lucy Norton!" I looked around. Jessica Johnson and Madison Lawler were sitting at a
table, waving frantically in my direction.
For a split second I considered pointing to myself and mouthing, "Who, me?" but considering
that A) I am not a character in a sitcom, and B) they were both staring directly at me while
Jessica yelled my full name, I chose instead to walk across the cafeteria to where they were
sitting. As soon as I got to the table, Jessica grabbed my arm so hard her nails dug into my skin.
"Hey," I said. My greeting was casual in spite of
37
Jessica's clutching at me like I was the only thing standing between her and a lifesaving organ
transplant.
"Can I just say that we thought you were never going to get here," said Jessica, pulling me toward her. She turned to Madison, who was nodding encouragingly. "Didn't I say, 'I'm totally
going to start searching for her if she doesn't show up soon'?" Madison kept nodding, her
ponytail following her head up and down, like punctuation.
"Oh," I said, though I considered asking, Do you possibly have me confused with someone else?
Madison expertly flicked a wisp of hair out of her face. Then she pointed at a chair across the
table from her. "Sit."
I pulled out the chair and sat, waiting for my next command. Bark! Roll over! Jessica raised her
eyebrows at me. "So," she said.
"So," I repeated.
"So," said Madison, "what fiery redhead who's new in the sophomore class has caught the eye of which--"
"Excuse me," said Jessica loudly, "I believe this is my little announcement." But Jessica didn't really seem to mind being interrupted. In fact, she smiled at Madison, and then both of them
giggled. The whole thing was starting to make me very, very nervous. I squeezed my mystery
sandwich, my hand sweaty against the Saran Wrap.
38
"Okay," said Jessica, taking a deep breath. "Who is the cutest guy in the entire school? Hint: he's a senior and he's on the basketball team."
Was this a trick question? Both Dave and Matt were seniors. I decided to stall for time.
"Well, that's kind of subjective," I said carefully.
While Madison made a face (either because of my stalling or because she didn't know what
subjective meant), Jessica continued, "Does the name Connor Pearson mean anything to you?"
For a second I didn't say anything; I just opened and closed my mouth, like a fish. Then, as
calmly as I could, I repeated, "Connor Pearson?"
Jessica leaned back without saying a word and raised her eyebrows, first at me and then at
Madison. For a split second, I went cold with fear. Was this some elaborate, humiliating joke
they'd concocted? I stayed silent, trying to re-create the set of circumstances that would have
resulted in Madison and Jessica's deciding they wanted to take time out of their busy lives to
torment me, but it was impossible. Let's face it: if Madison had the creative energy to come up
with a scheme like the one I was imagining, she probably would have been in a more advanced
math class.
"What about Connor Pearson?" I asked, keeping my voice even. Maybe this was simply some
kind of Glen Lake High citizenship quiz. What is our school mascot? How would you get from
the science lab to the theater
39
without going through the lobby? Who is the cutest senior in the school?
Jessica shook her head, clearly bewildered by how difficult I was making this for everyone. Then
she reached across the table and touched my hand, like maybe physical contact could penetrate
my obtuseness. "How about this about Connor Pearson." She paused dramatically and squeezed my fingers. "Connor Pearson likes ... drumroll, please ..." She turned to make sure Madison was
staring at her as intently as I was before turning back to me. "Lucy Norton."
A warm tingly sensation started in my head and proceeded to make its way down my body.
Unlike most redheads, I don't have freckles and I don't blush--at least on the outside. But I could
feel myself growing warmer; a trickle of sweat formed underneath my bra strap, and the
sandwich almost slipped out of my hand.
Madison turned to Jessica. "She's speechless," she announced, grinning.
Jessica was grinning, too. "I told you she would be." She raised her eyebrows at Madison before
turning back to me. "Connor told Dave to tell me to tell you that you should come to the game
tonight. He said he thinks--" she paused to make eye contact with both of us, "you're cool."
My heart was pounding and something was suddenly wrong with my head, which seemed to be
floating somewhere high above my body.