Текст книги "If I Have a Wicked Stepmother, Where's My Prince? "

Автор книги: Melissa Kantor

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Chapter Nineteen

Monday at lunch Jessica and Madison wanted me to hang out in the cafeteria so we could discuss

the newly announced prom theme (Now and Forever), but I begged off. If I didn't get started on

my self-portrait, I was going to fail the only class I was taking that I didn't hate.

When I got to the studio, Ms. Daniels was sitting at her desk going through Gardner's Art

Through the Ages with a pile of Post-its. She gave me a little wave.

"Feeling artistic?" she asked.

"Panicked," I corrected, going over to her desk. "This never happened to me before. I just can't figure out how to start."

"Well, what if you start by thinking about a painting that means a lot to you?"

"You mean rip something off?"

Ms. Daniels laughed. "I mean consider using it as a

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commentary on who you are." She took the heavy textbook in both hands and passed it over the

desk to me, grunting with the effort. "Here. I've got to get to a meeting. Why don't you look for

yourself."

Two-thirds of the way through the book, I still couldn't see the point of Ms. Daniels's exercise.

Did she really expect ten million pictures of Renaissance churches to inspire one twenty-first-

century portrait?

"Hey."

I looked up to see Sam standing by the end of the couch. I hadn't even heard him come in. "Hey,

yourself," I said.

"Thanks again for coming Friday night." He took off his glasses and rubbed one of the lenses

with his shirt-tail. "It was great having you there." He put his glasses back on and gave me a

really nice smile.

"It was great being there," I said. "Thanks for inviting me." With everything that had happened since I'd left Sam in the city, I'd almost forgotten how cool it had been to be at the gallery. I was

actually really glad to see him.

"Did you make it back in time for the 'big game'?" he asked, putting quotation marks around the

last two words.

"Ha, ha. As a matter of fact, I did."

"What a Renaissance woman you are," he said. "Art. Sports." He looked down at the book in my lap. "And you're even looking at pictures of the

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Renaissance." He shook his head in mock amazement. "Incredible."

"You're hilarious."

"It's a gift." He looked around the room. "Seen Ms. Daniels?"

"She's got a meeting."

He whistled softly to himself. "No worries," he said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

"Catch you later."

"Later," I said.

Sam's interruption seemed as good an excuse as any to give up on my self-imposed exile and go

find Jessica and Madison in the cafeteria. But then I flipped to the end of the book, and suddenly

I was staring at a reproduction of The Dancers. It was a little weird to come upon a painting I felt so possessive of there in Art Through the Ages for everybody to see. I looked at Matisse's

strange, fluid figures and touched my finger to the shiny page. Maybe I could–

"Hel– lo!"

"Okay, we can't live without you." It was Madison and Jessica.

"Hey, check this out." I turned the book toward them.

"Cool," said Madison, but she didn't really look at the painting.

"We have the sickest gossip for you," said Jessica. "Kathryn and her boyfriend broke up," said Madison.

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"No way," I said.

"Way!" said Madison. "She wanted to go to the prom with him, and he said he didn't want to

party with a bunch of high-school kids. He's, like, thirty years old or something."

"He's twenty," Jessica corrected her.

"Whatev," said Madison. "Isn't that crazy?"

"Totally," I said, closing the book. I'd deal with my self-portrait later. I stood up and grabbed Connor's jacket, dropping Art Through the Ages on Ms. Daniels's desk as I walked past.

"I wonder if she'll ask a junior, like Jane Brown did," said Jessica, holding the door for me.

Sam accepting an invitation to the prom seemed so mainstream of him. I figured he must really

like Jane.

"Just as long as she doesn't ask a sophomore," said Madison. "We three are the only sophomores going."

"Speaking of which," said Jessica, "do you want to look at dresses after school?"

I shook my head. "Can't," I said. "I'm meeting Connor."

At three-ten, when I got to the exit by the senior parking lot, Connor was already there.

And he was talking to Kathryn Ford.

Kathryn's tiny, perfect shoulders were up against a locker, while the rest of her body formed a

triangle with the wall and the floor. Connor stood over her, looking

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into her Barbie-blue eyes and nodding emphatically. She reached up and brushed something out

of his hair.

"Hey, Lucy!" Somehow sensing my presence, Kathryn swiveled her head in my direction but left

the rest of her body facing Connor, like a praying mantis.

Or a cobra.

I walked over to where they were standing. "How's it goin', Red?"

"Um, okay." Standing so close to Kathryn, I suddenly felt enormous, like one of those giants that entire towns must unite to defeat. "Thanks again for the ride Friday," I said to her.

"Oh, sure," she said. "Tonight, though, it's me passed out in the passenger seat." She hip checked Connor. "You ' re driving, right?"

"No way, Jose," he said. "Senior City Night? I'm crawling."

"Well, I gotta cruise," said Kathryn. "See you kids later." She peeled herself off the wall and brushed her hair forward over her right shoulder. It positively gleamed. Gleamed. As if she'd

stepped out of a Pantene ad. "Bye, bro." Kathryn stood on her tiptoes and wrapped not just her

arms but her entire body around Connor. While they were still embracing, she turned to me.

"Doesn't he just give the best hugs?"

Kathryn, perhaps you'd to take a bite of this shiny, red apple I have in my hand. I made it

specially for you.

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"Oh, yeah," I said, snapping out of my reverie. "Totally."

Finally they let go of each other, and Kathryn started down the hall.

"Come on," Connor said to me, shouldering the door open. "Let's go get something to eat." As we crossed the senior parking lot, it was hard to erase from my mind the memory of Kathryn

pressing her body up against Connor's. What if tonight in the city he suddenly realized he was

tired of me, that I wasn't fun enough or cool enough or ... Kathryn enough? But just as I was

picturing the two of them riding off into the sunset together, Connor's SUV towering protectively

over Kathryn's mini, Connor picked me up and threw me over his shoulder.

"Who's my girl?" he asked.

"Connor, put me down!" I screamed.

"Say it," he said. "Who's my girl?" He mock slapped me on the butt.

"Connor," I repeated, laughing, "put me down."

"Not until you say it."

"I am!" I yelled. "I am. Now put me down."

"That's more like it," he said, and when he put me down and wrapped his arms around me, the

perfect kiss he planted with his perfect lips perfectly deleted the image I'd just had of my

perfectly princeless future.

***

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At dinner my stepmother not only directly addressed me, she actually made my day.

"Lucy, your father and I discussed it, and we want to thank you for being such a big help on

Saturday night. We really appreciate it. You should feel free to make whatever plans you want

for Friday night."

I didn't even wait for my dad to call, just hightailed it downstairs as soon as dinner was over and

dialed Connor's cell.

"Yo, what's up? It's Connor. You know what to do."

"Hey, it's me," I said. "I have good news. Call me later." After I left the message, I realized Connor hadn't known I was grounded–I'd told him I needed to be home right after our afternoon

deli-run, but I hadn't told him why. So maybe my being un-grounded wouldn't qualify as good

news to him.

Still, it was good news to me.

The day after Senior City Night was Senior Cut Day. I didn't know if it was Connor's being

absent, but everything seemed a little unreal, like I was walking around in a watercolor instead of

a three-dimensional world. I couldn't focus at all. In math, Jessica took advantage of Mr.

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

I've got a meeting in about..." She looked at the clock. "... Three minutes. So if you want to hang out until five-thirty I can do it. Or we could wait until tomorrow."

"Can I help?"

They both turned to look at me.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" asked Ms. Daniels. "It's not heavy, it's just cumbersome."

"Really, you don't have to," said Sam. "I can bring it home another time."

"No," I said. "I'd like to." It was the least I could do considering how he'd invited me to my first and only New York gallery opening. Besides–it would be fun to hang out with Sam. "Just tell

me what to do."

I couldn't see how the enormous painting we were carrying had a snowball's chance in hell of

fitting into the backseat of Sam's car–a gorgeous, yellow VW bug that dated back to the days of

Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin–without getting completely scratched up. Luckily I didn't voice

my doubts, since with just a little pulling and pushing, the canvas slid easily into the

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minuscule space; there was even room for us to sit in the front with our seats more or less

upright.

"That was incredible," I said, shaking my head with awe as we pulled out of the parking lot. "I won't lie to you–when I first saw the proportions of the objects in question, I had some

concerns."

"Oh, ye of little faith," said Sam. He stopped the car and turned to me. "Wait. Where am I taking you?"

"Home, I guess." I gave him my address.

"I'm sure I'll be able to recognize it," he said, driving on. "It's the one with the turret room accessible only by ponytail, right?"

"Well, yes and no. There is a secret tunnel that runs under the moat to the basement where I'm locked up at night, but it's guarded by a fairly aggressive dragon."

"Of course," said Sam. "I would have been disappointed with anything less." Without taking his eyes of the road, Sam fished around the pocket of his car door for a CD, found it, and popped it

in. Subterranean Homesick Blues filled the car as Sam reached across me and opened the glove

compartment. I thought he was looking for a different CD, but he took out a box of Raisinets.

"Chocolate?" he asked, holding the box between his knees as he opened it one-handed.

"Sure," I said, and he shook some into my hand.

"So, how's it going? I see your stepmother has yet to hire a local woodsman to take you into the

forest and kill you."

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"Well, she tried," I said, throwing a few Raisinets into my mouth. "But it's really hard to get good help nowadays. You'd be amazed how much trouble she's having just finding a local

woodsman."

"These things take time," acknowledged Sam. We drove along in silence until finally I couldn't

keep quiet about what was on my mind for one more second.

"Guess what," I said, when we stopped for a red light. I was almost giggling with excitement.

"What?" asked Sam. He looked over at me expectantly.

Sam's look made me feel a little silly. I mean, it wasn't like my news was all that thrilling. Still, it

felt thrilling to me. "I finally got an idea for my self-portrait."

"Hey, that's great," said Sam, smiling. A car behind us honked, and Sam put the car in gear. "Can I ask what it is, or are you not ready to say yet?"

I wrinkled my face and shook my head. "I don't mean to be rude, but..."

"Wait, you're worried that I'll judge your poor etiquette?" asked Sam, laughing. "Didn't you once nominate me for the Rudest-Person-Alive Award?"

I turned toward him. "Oh, yeah, what ever happened with that?" I asked.

He made the left onto my block. "They gave it to some guy in Manhattan who clips his nails on

the subway."

"Too bad," I said. "Are you upset?"

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Sam shrugged. "Win some, lose some." I pointed out my house, and Sam pulled up in front of it

and killed the engine. "Do you mind if I ask what your inspiration was?"

"Gardner's Art Through the Ages. I'm a shameless thief," I admitted.

"Well, like Picasso said, 'Good artists borrow. Great artists steal.' And as you know, I myself

have stolen more than my fair share of ideas. Which is not to say I'm a great artist," he added

quickly.

"I don't know," I said. "You're pretty great." I watched a blush creep up his cheeks as he tapped out a drum solo on the steering wheel in an attempt to ignore what I'd just said. "God, you're so

easy to embarrass," I said. "Look at you, turning all red."

"Come on," he said. I watched him fight the smile teasing the corner of his mouth.

"This is so much fun," I said. "It could be a new parlor game. Make Sam Blush."

"Ha ha," he said.

"What a brilliant artist you are, Sam," I said loudly. "What natural talent. What technique."

Sam was smiling, but he was also beet red. "Are you going to stop?"

"And your brushwork." I kissed the tips of my fingers. "It's nothing short of genius."

He turned on the engine. "Well, bye, Lucy. Thanks for all your help."

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"Not to mention your extraordinary use of color."

"Really, thanks for everything." He cranked up the volume on Dylan's wail.

"Seriously, Sam, you should rent yourself out for parties. You're more reliable than Old

Faithful."

Sam cupped his hand around his ear. "What's that, Lucy?" he shouted. "You say you have to

go?"

"Actually, I do have to go," I shouted back. Teasing Sam was pretty great, but I'd told Madison

I'd check out a dress she'd e-mailed me a picture of. It was already later than I'd expected to get

home. If I didn't call soon, she could go into prom dress-related conversation withdrawal.

"Thanks for the ride," I said, as I opened the door.

Sam held his hands out and then pointed from the stereo to his ear, shaking his head. "Sorry,

Lucy, can't hear a word you're saying," he shouted. "Thanks again."

Laughing, I shut the door and watched Sam pull away from the curb just as my cell phone rang. I

grabbed it. "I'm walking into the house as we speak," I said. "I'll look at it and call you right back."

"Five minutes," she said.

"Five minutes," I promised. I'd been planning on grabbing a snack, but now I figured I'd better

go online first. When you say you'll call someone in five minutes, you can't call them in twenty.

Being royalty is no excuse for being rude.

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