Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential) (4 page)

The gymnastics club met every day, but new people could only try out on Mondays. I skipped Fishcoteque and slipped into a leotard after school. I had no idea that the gymnasts were expected to do anything involving coordination on the trampoline, nor that the trampoline would be so bouncy. Weren’t they supposed to have spotters by the sides? Did people in London sue for injuries like they did in Seattle?

“Miss Smith! You all right?” The coach came running to my side as I lay on the cool mats several feet below the trampoline. Great. I’d be known as the Bounced Beach Ball.

“I’m . . . I’m fine.” I tried to pull myself up off of the floor. One kind-looking girl held out her hand and pulled me to my feet. She smiled at me before heading back to do some perfect turns on the balance beam.

The coach made sure I was all right and then asked, “Have you done a lot of work in gymnastics?”

“Not blooming likely,” I heard someone behind me mutter.

I shook my head. “I guess I should try the art club?”

“An excellent idea. If you fancy art, you should give it a go.” She nodded approvingly and went back to the balance beam.

Well, no, I don’t fancy art, actually. I fancy journalism.
I went to change back into my school uniform. Maybe an e-mail would be waiting for me when I got home.

Tuesday morning I got up early and, after putting on my uniform, headed off to school.
Jesus, I need some help,
I prayed as I made my way around campus.
I’m trying, but nothing’s working out right. And to tell You the truth, it’s pretty lonely.

I looked for the school newspaper at one of the stands—it was supposed to come out on Tuesdays—but surprisingly, none were there. None were anywhere on campus, as far as I could tell. I’d been hoping to see if a new writer’s byline was listed. If not, maybe I still had a chance. It was possible—I’d been spying on the newspaper table during lunchtime, and I hadn’t seen any new faces yet.

I had to drop off a transfer form at the office, and miraculously, as one of the Aristocats was leaving the office, she commented on my purse.

“Nice bag,” she said, offering a small smile. Her friends just turned their backs and continued their own private conversation.

“Yeah. I like Dooney & Bourke,” I said. It sounded incredibly dull, I know, but it was the first thing that came into my head.

“I’ve designed some bags of my own in art club,” she said.

“Art club?” My interest was piqued.

“Yes,” she said. “Do you draw?”

I have to admit, I was tempted to tell the world’s tiniest little lie, but my previous fib was a little too fresh, and I wasn’t exactly trying to hit a double.

“I like photography,” I said.

“Come along after school,” she said. “I’ll bet you can draw, too. See you later!”

She turned and walked away with her friends, but the invitation had been extended. Was this my first potential friend? What would Hazelle say if she saw me sitting at the Aristocats’ table?

Of course, this girl might not have invited me if she’d known what I knew.

I couldn’t draw to save my life.

There was a handful of people in the art room when I walked in. The adviser seemed nice enough—he handed me a scribble pad and some pencils. “Have you got much experience in art?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I’m interested in writing and photography and other creative things.”

“Fine, fine,” he said. “Have a seat.”

I sat down in an open row, hoping there would still be a space available when the girl who’d invited me arrived. Of course there was a chance the other Aristocats would come to art club, in which case my chances of sitting with them were nil.

I opened the pad and started sketching on the edges of the first page just so I wouldn’t look all prim sitting there doing nothing and talking to no one. A couple of minutes later, by some kind of miracle, that Aristocat girl came in and recognized me.

“Hullo,” she said and slid into the seat next to me. I noticed her charm bracelet. Nice touch. I felt she was a kindred spirit right off.

“Hi,” I said.

“Ah yes, ‘hi.’ You’re American, right?”

I nodded. “My name is Savannah, but I go by Savvy. We moved here in August.”

She set her wool book bag down and then drew out a sketchbook and a brass pencil case. “My name is Penny. Year eleven.” That means she was fifteen going on sixteen, like I was.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m year eleven too.”

The instructor began talking and pointed to a large sandstone sculpture on a pedestal up front. “We’ll be sketching this today,” he said. “I’ve got it on the rotating platform so you can look at it from all angles as you draw. Pay attention to the clean lines, and the placement of the eyes and nose. See how there is no emotion? Be sure to copy that exactly.”

Penny grinned at me and set her pencil to a clean piece of paper about halfway through her well-worn notebook. “He gets cheesed off if you waste paper,” she warned me.

I chewed on the eraser and looked at a blank page one.

Oh well, here goes.

I tried to use short sweeping motions followed by long lines like Penny and the others did, but somehow mine just didn’t look the same. I did get the face outlined okay, but actually placing eyes, a nose, and a mouth inside its borders was challenging. I didn’t even try to make it three dimensional. I knew that was way beyond my abilities.

After a few minutes, the instructor came by, looked at Penny’s, and said, “Brilliant!” She flushed, and I was pleased for her, knowing that teachers here didn’t offer praise lightly.

He looked at mine and said, “We all have to begin somewhere.” But he wouldn’t look me in the eye, and he knew what I knew: I wasn’t going to make it much beyond the beginning.

Penny looked at my drawing, and I could tell she was struggling to say something kind. “I think the only place my artwork is going to be hung is on the refrigerator,” I said.

She laughed. “You’re a good sport about it, anyway.” She stared at my work, in which the eyes didn’t line up and one nostril was much larger than the other. “It looks like modern art to me.”

I laughed with her. I didn’t care if I’d be known as the Stick Figurer.

“Speaking of modern art, have you been to the Tate?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know what the Tate is.”

“It’s a fantastic museum. Chockablock full of great art—modern art, mostly.”

“We haven’t had a lot of time to sightsee,” I admitted. “And we’re not really sure where to go.”

“Well, it’s rather important you have some idea of what to do.” She flipped the page on her notebook. “I’ll write a list of places you might want to visit. And,” she said, smiling, “I’ll put down a few of the best places to shop, too.”

Penny scribbled out a list, then wrote a number at the bottom of the page. “My mobile,” she said. “You can text me if you have a question about it later.”

“Thanks,” I said and punched her number into my contacts list. “Here’s mine.” I wrote it down on a piece of paper. She slipped it into her bag but didn’t enter it into her phone.

As the instructor had said, we all need to begin somewhere.

The club was over, and I handed my notepad and pencils back to the faculty adviser. I think we were both relieved when I told him I probably would not be back.

I stopped by the newsstand on my way out. Still no newspapers. Odd. Something was up.