sits there, looking like the Buddha or something.
The Buddha reminds me of Vanessa’s new Zen thing.
I wonder what Vanessa would say about my boy situation. As if I would ever ask her.
I already know the answer, anyway. Deep down. Yeah. Yes. If Jewel had kissed me and Simon hadn’t, I’d be with Jewel. I’d be his.
We’d stay in our cocoon.
Tuesday morning, I take a quick shower, put on my sweater, jeans, and orange puffy vest, grab an apple in the kitchen, yell goodbye to my parents shuffling around in their room, and start my walk.
Dad used to drive me to school on his way to the university. But I like walking. School is one mile away, almost exactly, which gives me enough time to mellow before hitting the hallowed halls.
I head down Phinney and almost step on a slug. I think it’s a fat stick at first. Then I stoop to look at it. It’s a teeny alien, with those eyes on top of its head. Now that I think of it,
I
feel a little alien: a strange girl on an even stranger planet that should look familiar but doesn’t.
I remember the Chihuly slug from the museum. I have glassblowing on Saturday.
I keep walking, careful where I step.
Jewel and I usually meet at Thirty-fourth and Phinney.
He’s not here.
Still mad, then. Still … whatever. Hurt.
I keep walking, having an imaginary conversation with him.
“Morning,” I say, in my head.
“Morning,” he says. “How’s my girl?”
And his eyes shift toward me.
I smile.
And then maybe he’d touch my elbow and we’d walk along. He’d tell me his dreams.
I reach Ultra Convenience, four blocks from school,and Simon’s car is parked out front. I stop, considering running into him.
He walks out of the store.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I’ll drive you the rest of the way.”
Nothing wrong with this.
I ignore the swarm of bees in my stomach as I get into his car.
He gives me some Juicy Fruit from his fresh pack. You can totally smell that stuff on his breath all day. Now it’ll be on mine, too.
We drive slowly past the park.
“I wish I could still play at the park,” I say.
“Like a kid?”
Maybe I’m being weird, talking about this stuff. Maybe he wants to talk about parties or something.
Before I know it, we’re in the school parking lot. Then he’s holding open the front door for me.
I don’t think anyone even saw us come in together. Good. Or maybe not.
Mr. Smith asked me to come up with a design for the cover of our “portfolio showcase,” which will come out right before Thanksgiving break. I’m doodling.
For the showcase, Mr. Smith takes photos of our paintings, drawings, and sculptures and then gets the portfolio made at Kinko’s. If we have a few bake sales, we can get color copies.
I guess it’s an honor to be asked to do the cover, but really I think Mr. Smith suggested it because lately I’ve been doing more staring at the wall than actual art.
I doodle the shape of an artist’s palette, but that’s lame.
Apparently, Vanessa thinks so too. “Creative much?” She peeks over my shoulder.
“Constantly.”
She raises the red oil-soaked brush in her hand over my paper and for a second I think she’s going to ruin my scribbles.
She lets the brush dangle only millimeters away from my paper.
“Va—” I start, but before I can finish she’s walking toward the sink.
That night after dinner, Mom and Dad ask me to walk to the café by the railroad tracks to see Jewel’s photos on the wall.
“All right,” I say.
“Think he’ll want to come with us?” Mom asks.
There’s no way I can invite him anywhere right now. “He’s in the darkroom.”
At the café, I sip ice water while my parents drink decaf Americanos as they walk around to each of Jewel’s photos. I stay close. I spend as much time looking at my feet as I do looking at the photos.
“Grayfur is so cute,” my mom says.
Hearing the cat’s name makes me flash on such a vivid memory of tying on her superhero cape; I feel stricken.
The Buddha reminds me of Vanessa’s new Zen thing.
I wonder what Vanessa would say about my boy situation. As if I would ever ask her.
I already know the answer, anyway. Deep down. Yeah. Yes. If Jewel had kissed me and Simon hadn’t, I’d be with Jewel. I’d be his.
We’d stay in our cocoon.
Tuesday morning, I take a quick shower, put on my sweater, jeans, and orange puffy vest, grab an apple in the kitchen, yell goodbye to my parents shuffling around in their room, and start my walk.
Dad used to drive me to school on his way to the university. But I like walking. School is one mile away, almost exactly, which gives me enough time to mellow before hitting the hallowed halls.
I head down Phinney and almost step on a slug. I think it’s a fat stick at first. Then I stoop to look at it. It’s a teeny alien, with those eyes on top of its head. Now that I think of it,
I
feel a little alien: a strange girl on an even stranger planet that should look familiar but doesn’t.
I remember the Chihuly slug from the museum. I have glassblowing on Saturday.
I keep walking, careful where I step.
Jewel and I usually meet at Thirty-fourth and Phinney.
He’s not here.
Still mad, then. Still … whatever. Hurt.
I keep walking, having an imaginary conversation with him.
“Morning,” I say, in my head.
“Morning,” he says. “How’s my girl?”
And his eyes shift toward me.
I smile.
And then maybe he’d touch my elbow and we’d walk along. He’d tell me his dreams.
I reach Ultra Convenience, four blocks from school,and Simon’s car is parked out front. I stop, considering running into him.
He walks out of the store.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I’ll drive you the rest of the way.”
Nothing wrong with this.
I ignore the swarm of bees in my stomach as I get into his car.
He gives me some Juicy Fruit from his fresh pack. You can totally smell that stuff on his breath all day. Now it’ll be on mine, too.
We drive slowly past the park.
“I wish I could still play at the park,” I say.
“Like a kid?”
Maybe I’m being weird, talking about this stuff. Maybe he wants to talk about parties or something.
Before I know it, we’re in the school parking lot. Then he’s holding open the front door for me.
I don’t think anyone even saw us come in together. Good. Or maybe not.
Mr. Smith asked me to come up with a design for the cover of our “portfolio showcase,” which will come out right before Thanksgiving break. I’m doodling.
For the showcase, Mr. Smith takes photos of our paintings, drawings, and sculptures and then gets the portfolio made at Kinko’s. If we have a few bake sales, we can get color copies.
I guess it’s an honor to be asked to do the cover, but really I think Mr. Smith suggested it because lately I’ve been doing more staring at the wall than actual art.
I doodle the shape of an artist’s palette, but that’s lame.
Apparently, Vanessa thinks so too. “Creative much?” She peeks over my shoulder.
“Constantly.”
She raises the red oil-soaked brush in her hand over my paper and for a second I think she’s going to ruin my scribbles.
She lets the brush dangle only millimeters away from my paper.
“Va—” I start, but before I can finish she’s walking toward the sink.
That night after dinner, Mom and Dad ask me to walk to the café by the railroad tracks to see Jewel’s photos on the wall.
“All right,” I say.
“Think he’ll want to come with us?” Mom asks.
There’s no way I can invite him anywhere right now. “He’s in the darkroom.”
At the café, I sip ice water while my parents drink decaf Americanos as they walk around to each of Jewel’s photos. I stay close. I spend as much time looking at my feet as I do looking at the photos.
“Grayfur is so cute,” my mom says.
Hearing the cat’s name makes me flash on such a vivid memory of tying on her superhero cape; I feel stricken.
Similar Books
