“Yeah.”
Mom puts her arm around me. “Sick of these photos?” she asks. She thinks I’m bored. My own mother can’t even tell when I’m sad.
“Not at all,” I say.
Part of me wishes that Jewel would come in right now and we’d just face each other. It has to happen sooner or later. If I haven’t lost my best friend forever.
Chapter Eight
•
•
•
It’s like Jewel and I had agreed to avoid each other.
He misses two days of study hall.
I plan to skip the school art show on Thursday night. My entry is one of the watercolors of the canal that got rejected by the Green Bean. It could be hanging with Jewel’s photos there right now, but it’s not good enough. So it’s tacked to a bulletin board in the school lobby. I wish I had a beautiful glass sculpture to display—something colorful and amazing.
Mr. Smith expects us all to go, but I hope he won’t notice if I’m not there. In a pinch, I could mention what’s going on. Not that I’d tell him everything, but he’d probably understand that if Jewel and I are fighting, it would be officially not cool for us both to go to the show.
The people from my workshop set up for the show during class on Thursday. I mix up fruit punch while Vanessa cuts a block of sharp cheddar into little cubes and sticks toothpicks in the middle. The toothpicks have those sparkly cellophane curlicues at their tops, some kind of fancy.
I remember a time in fifth grade when she was at my house and we made cookies with whatever we could yank out of my cupboard: marshmallows, hot cocoa mix, butterscotch chips, walnuts.
We leave everything on Mr. Smith’s desk so he can put it in the staff room fridge.
“Hey, Vanessa,” I say. “What are you putting in the show?”
She looks at me from under her heavy black eyelashes. “That city I made.”
The city is cardboard boxes painted in metallics. She made them somehow look heavy and solid. Jewel mentioned wanting to photograph the city. It’s good. Unique. “Cool.”
“You?”
“Nothing special.”
We’re standing here in the art room, talking. Why do I feel so uneasy?
I pick up my bag and get out of the room. Vanessa’s schoolbag is made out of silver duct tape. She follows me.
“Did you make that bag?” I ask her.
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s easy.”
It reminds me of doing magazine collages with her on my bedroom floor; we ran out of glue and resorted to masking tape. The results weren’t pretty. I smirk at the memory.
“What?”
“I was just … do you remember those collages we did?”
She stops walking and looks at me.
“Collages? For Smith’s class?”
I guess she doesn’t remember. I guess it doesn’t matter. “Never mind.”
We keep walking and, at the door, go our separate ways.
I can’t stay away from the art show completely. I do care about it. Any event that brings out the curlicue toothpicks is something I don’t want to miss, pathetic as that sounds. I don’t get into the coffee shop art shows like Jewel does; I’ve gotta take what I can get.
Thursday night, I’m staked out on the brick side of the school, kneeling in the garden by the big window. I’ve worn a black sweatshirt, hoping I won’t be spotted.
Inside, Mr. Smith is gesturing at Vanessa as everyone mills around, eating the cheese and drinking the punch. Clara and Jeremy hold hands.
No one is standing in front of my painting. I kind of want to bite the bullet and go in.
I watch Jewel in front of his exhibit, up-close photos of the troll. Like the one with my note. They show the troll’s fingers, his one eye, the VW. The grooved details of his wavy hair. The pink graffiti.
Vanessa walks up to Jewel, smiling.
They talk.
He touches her upper arm, bare because she’s wearing a black sequined tank top. Just once. But it’s enough to make my stomach jump.
I’m pretty enough; Vanessa’s maybe prettier. I’m an okay artist; she’s great. I’m out here in the shadows.
We have a lot of classes together,
Mom puts her arm around me. “Sick of these photos?” she asks. She thinks I’m bored. My own mother can’t even tell when I’m sad.
“Not at all,” I say.
Part of me wishes that Jewel would come in right now and we’d just face each other. It has to happen sooner or later. If I haven’t lost my best friend forever.
Chapter Eight
•
•
•
It’s like Jewel and I had agreed to avoid each other.
He misses two days of study hall.
I plan to skip the school art show on Thursday night. My entry is one of the watercolors of the canal that got rejected by the Green Bean. It could be hanging with Jewel’s photos there right now, but it’s not good enough. So it’s tacked to a bulletin board in the school lobby. I wish I had a beautiful glass sculpture to display—something colorful and amazing.
Mr. Smith expects us all to go, but I hope he won’t notice if I’m not there. In a pinch, I could mention what’s going on. Not that I’d tell him everything, but he’d probably understand that if Jewel and I are fighting, it would be officially not cool for us both to go to the show.
The people from my workshop set up for the show during class on Thursday. I mix up fruit punch while Vanessa cuts a block of sharp cheddar into little cubes and sticks toothpicks in the middle. The toothpicks have those sparkly cellophane curlicues at their tops, some kind of fancy.
I remember a time in fifth grade when she was at my house and we made cookies with whatever we could yank out of my cupboard: marshmallows, hot cocoa mix, butterscotch chips, walnuts.
We leave everything on Mr. Smith’s desk so he can put it in the staff room fridge.
“Hey, Vanessa,” I say. “What are you putting in the show?”
She looks at me from under her heavy black eyelashes. “That city I made.”
The city is cardboard boxes painted in metallics. She made them somehow look heavy and solid. Jewel mentioned wanting to photograph the city. It’s good. Unique. “Cool.”
“You?”
“Nothing special.”
We’re standing here in the art room, talking. Why do I feel so uneasy?
I pick up my bag and get out of the room. Vanessa’s schoolbag is made out of silver duct tape. She follows me.
“Did you make that bag?” I ask her.
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s easy.”
It reminds me of doing magazine collages with her on my bedroom floor; we ran out of glue and resorted to masking tape. The results weren’t pretty. I smirk at the memory.
“What?”
“I was just … do you remember those collages we did?”
She stops walking and looks at me.
“Collages? For Smith’s class?”
I guess she doesn’t remember. I guess it doesn’t matter. “Never mind.”
We keep walking and, at the door, go our separate ways.
I can’t stay away from the art show completely. I do care about it. Any event that brings out the curlicue toothpicks is something I don’t want to miss, pathetic as that sounds. I don’t get into the coffee shop art shows like Jewel does; I’ve gotta take what I can get.
Thursday night, I’m staked out on the brick side of the school, kneeling in the garden by the big window. I’ve worn a black sweatshirt, hoping I won’t be spotted.
Inside, Mr. Smith is gesturing at Vanessa as everyone mills around, eating the cheese and drinking the punch. Clara and Jeremy hold hands.
No one is standing in front of my painting. I kind of want to bite the bullet and go in.
I watch Jewel in front of his exhibit, up-close photos of the troll. Like the one with my note. They show the troll’s fingers, his one eye, the VW. The grooved details of his wavy hair. The pink graffiti.
Vanessa walks up to Jewel, smiling.
They talk.
He touches her upper arm, bare because she’s wearing a black sequined tank top. Just once. But it’s enough to make my stomach jump.
I’m pretty enough; Vanessa’s maybe prettier. I’m an okay artist; she’s great. I’m out here in the shadows.
We have a lot of classes together,
Similar Books
