Red (4 page)

“That stuff happens all the time,” Haylie said. “Since when is it our problem?”

“I guess it’s not. But they were standing right here being like, ‘Can we sit with you?’ What was I supposed to do, say, ‘No, please leave so I can talk to my friends?’ ”

“Well, yeah. That’s what anyone would have done. That’s what I was trying to do, before you were all, ‘Please sit down and be my BFF.’ ”

“Sorry,” Felicity said, a little desperate. “I didn’t know you would care that much. I was just trying to be a decent person.”

“It’s fine,” Ivy said. “It’s not a big deal. I think it’s nice that you stood up for them.”

Haylie tossed her bag over her shoulder. “Whatever. But if you want to be friends with brunette freaks, could you maybe do it on your own time?”

Ivy started laughing. “God, Hays, you’re such a jerk.”

“I am
so
not! I don’t see what’s so terrible about wanting to eat lunch alone with my own friends!”

Felicity followed Haylie and Ivy out of the cafeteria, only half listening to their bickering. Her head was starting to throb, and she closed her eyes and massaged her temples. She couldn’t let a simple conversation with a bunch of brunettes rattle her like this. After all, this was probably just the beginning of what was in store for her.

She was going to have to toughen up.

Felicity was exhausted by the end of the day, and she had to force herself not to skip the prom committee meeting after school. She had only joined the committee because they’d needed an artist to design the decorations, and it had seemed like the perfect compromise. Felicity could spend hours painting after school, and her mom never complained that she was wasting her time making art when she was surrounded by popular people, working for a “worthy cause.” She was always bored to tears by the meetings, but at least there were no brunettes on the committee, so she didn’t have to worry about being ambushed.

When she arrived, everyone except Madison Banks was grouped around Cassie, who was showing off something on her phone. Madison was perched on the teacher’s desk, sorting through a stack of papers and ignoring everyone. Their faculty adviser, Mr. Mulligan, was nowhere to be found. He had failed to show up so many times that most people had forgotten he had anything to do with the prom committee.

“Hey, Felicity,” Cassie called. “Come check out the pageant dress I’m ordering!”

Felicity squeezed into the huddle between Savannah King and Topher Gleason, the only boy on the committee, to get a look at the dress. It looked more like a large baby-blue shower loofah than an article of clothing. “Wow, Cassie,” she said. “That’s … pretty amazing.”

Cassie beamed. “I know, isn’t it? Have you gotten yours yet?”

“Not yet. I’m going shopping this weekend with Haylie and Ivy.”

Topher sighed dramatically. “Why can’t boys be in the pageant? I’d make a
killer
Miss Scarlet.” Felicity didn’t doubt it. Topher had better legs than most of the girls in the school, and he knew it. The majority of his pants were so tight, they looked as if they’d been spray-painted on.

Savannah stroked Topher’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Toph, you can dress up for prom.”

“Prom will be nothing but a disappointment unless I can borrow Cassie’s dress.” Topher looked at Cassie with big, pleading eyes. “Cass? What do you think?”

“Honey, if you can fit into it, you can wear it,” said Cassie, and everyone but Madison laughed.

Despite her ambivalence about the committee, Felicity was genuinely excited about prom night—she had never been to a formal event that didn’t involve being judged. Brent was sure to look spectacular in his tux, and they were meeting Haylie, Ivy, and their dates beforehand for dinner at a fancy Italian restaurant. Post-prom, they were throwing a party in Haylie’s backyard. Ivy was going with Darren, the captain of the boys’ swim team, who had been quietly pursuing her for months. Haylie’s date was Lorelei Griffin’s older brother, Ryan, who was the drummer in a band called The Crucial Douches. Felicity hoped Haylie would dispose of him after prom. His band was shockingly bad, and she didn’t want to have to feign enthusiasm for their screamy, atonal “songs.”

“Guys, can we
please
have our meeting?” snapped Madison. “We have a lot to talk about, and I have to get to cheerleading practice.” She sounded exasperated, as if this were the forty-fifth time she had called them to order instead of the first.

Felicity rolled her eyes and sat down next to Savannah and Kendall Forsythe, a senior from her art class. She tried to keep her mind from wandering as Madison ran through the items on her agenda, but it was a losing battle—she had no interest in deposits, dessert platters, printing costs, or sound systems. After forty-five minutes, Madison finally released them to meet with their subcommittees, and Felicity, Savannah, and Kendall headed to the art studio.

This year’s theme was “Paint the Town Red,” and Felicity had suggested a 1920s look. She’d designed an Art Deco–style cityscape backdrop to cover one of the gym walls, and the other three would be draped in gauzy red fabric she had borrowed from the drama department. They were renting replica 1920s streetlamps from a theatrical-supply company, and they planned to hang red paper lanterns between the basketball hoops and along the tops of the bleachers.

“God, I’m so glad you’re in charge of the decorations this year,” Kendall said as they unrolled the half-finished backdrop on the floor. “Last year was just embarrassing. The theme was ‘Moulin Rouge,’ but the dumb-ass strawbie designer made a New York City skyline
and
an Eiffel Tower and put them up on the same wall.”

Savannah piled her long coppery hair on top of her head and stuck a pencil through it to keep it from falling into the paint. “How did a strawbie even get to be the designer in the first place?” she asked.

“Who knows? But it’s not a mistake we’ll be making again any time soon. Right, Felicity?” Kendall gave her a wide, friendly smile and offered her a paintbrush.

Felicity’s stomach clenched. “Right,” she said, accepting the brush. “Of course.”

“Speaking of embarrassing, how did Ariel Scott get into the pageant?” Savannah asked. “Her hair is practically
blond
.”

“They always put one strawbie in,” Kendall said, echoing Ivy’s words from Scarlet Sunday. “Jillian Wells competed last year, remember?”

“I don’t get that at all. It’s the Miss
Scarlet
Pageant. Hey, should I start painting this part at the bottom, Felicity?”

“Yeah, go ahead.” Felicity tried to focus on painting, which usually soothed her, but it was impossible to relax. She couldn’t very well stand up for Ariel, but joining the strawbie-bashing seemed equally awful. “Don’t worry, Ariel won’t win,” she finally said.

“Damn right she won’t. Not with us in the picture.” Savannah rewarded her with a grin. “Hey, did I tell you guys I’m singing ‘Red-Letter Day’ by Invisible Stallion for my talent?”

Felicity stayed quiet as Savannah and Kendall chattered on. She wondered whether either of them would ask her why a bunch of brunettes had been sitting at her lunch table, but nobody brought it up—fifth period was eons in the past, and new gossip had already eclipsed the old. Felicity spoke up only to answer questions about the drop, which was taking shape exactly as she’d planned. The girls deferred to her opinions automatically, letting her artistic vision guide their hands.

If they only knew they were taking orders from another “dumb-ass strawbie designer,” Felicity thought, her life would be over.

F
elicity was terrified to open her locker. She was staring at the metal door, trying to imagine what fresh hell might be lurking behind it, when Haylie and Ivy arrived.

“Are you okay?” Ivy asked, reaching for Felicity’s mocha. “You look pale, even for you.” That said a lot—Felicity’s complexion was almost transparent. You could read the road map of her veins right through her skin without even trying.

“What? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I just haven’t been sleeping well.” Felicity took a deep breath and spun the dial on her lock. Her hands were trembling so much that it took her three tries to get the combination right. When the lock finally clicked, she said a silent prayer and pulled open the door.

A little red envelope tumbled to the ground at her feet.

“Ooh, what’s that?” Haylie asked, reaching for it.

“Nothing!” Felicity frantically snatched the envelope out of her friend’s fingers and shoved it deep into her pocket.

For a moment, Haylie looked wounded, but then her eyes lit up. “Oh my God, do you have a
secret admirer
? What is Brent going to say?”

Felicity nearly laughed—what she had was pretty much the opposite of a secret admirer. “Trust me, it’s nothing like that,” she said. She shoved her books into her bag in record time, then slammed her locker shut much harder than necessary, as if the violence might scare away any future envelopes. “I have to go.”

Haylie put a hand on her arm. “Hey, you’re not mad, are you? I was just kidding about the secret admirer thing.”

“No, it’s not that. I just … I’ll see you guys later.” Felicity tried to smile, but she feared it was one of those forced, manic smiles that looked more crazy than happy. As she walked away, she heard Haylie say, “What is with her lately? She’s been acting so weird.”

Felicity locked herself in a bathroom stall, then clawed the envelope open with shaking fingers. Inside was another piece of creamy stationery.

Well done yesterday. You will continue to make overtures of friendship to every brunette you encounter. In addition, there is a CD in the art show submissions box containing a painting of hyenas. You will include the painting in the gallery show. Fail to do so, and you know what happens.

Seriously? Her blackmailer was using her to get a painting into the
student art show
? How absurdly petty. Felicity stuffed the note into the bottom of her bag, feeling much more relaxed for the moment. At least this was a demand she knew she could meet.

When she arrived in the art room after school, Jonathan was already there with the box of submission CDs. He gave her a big smile as she dropped her backpack and sat down next to him; he seemed a lot calmer in the sawdust-and-turpentine-scented classroom than he had been in the chaotic hallway.

“I hope some of this stuff is decent,” he said as he slipped the first CD into the computer. “But I guess if it all sucks, we can just curate a whole show of horrible art, and then we can pretend it’s really deep and profound and go around spouting pretentious art criticism all night. There’s a whole museum in Massachusetts that does that, and people actually go.”

Felicity laughed, surprised. She hadn’t known Jonathan had a sense of humor hidden under his agitated exterior. “Honestly, I think that’s what they do in most galleries,” she said. “Can we wear berets? It’ll make us look more official.”

“Definitely. And black turtlenecks. They don’t let you say things like ‘The semiotics of this piece are so antediluvian’ if you’re not wearing a black turtleneck.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon going through the CDs and choosing the best pieces to display in their own “gallery space,” which comprised the school’s two squash courts. Felicity’s favorite submission was a photograph of a girl reclining in a bathtub full of Skittles. Even after staring at it for five full minutes, neither she nor Jonathan could tell whether it was Photoshopped.

Every time Jonathan inserted a new disc, Felicity wondered whether it would be the hyena picture. And when the painting finally made an appearance late in the afternoon, her stomach plummeted toward the floor. She had assumed it would be a realistic depiction of wildlife, but nothing could have been further from the truth.

As advertised, the piece featured a group of five slobbering hyenas, but each of them was dressed in a garish formal gown trimmed with ruffles, sequins, and lace. They were fighting over a sparkly tiara on a velvet pillow, ropes of drool hanging from their gaping mouths. Each hyena’s head was topped with red hair decorated with flowers and sparkly combs.

The painting was titled
Miss Scarlet,
and the dimensions were listed as seven by four feet.

Felicity wrapped her arms protectively around her stomach, suddenly afraid she might be sick. Jonathan snorted in disgust. “Are you kidding?” he said. “She can’t have thought we’d actually put this in the show. This has to be some kind of joke, right?”

Felicity knew it wasn’t. And as she looked at the painting more closely, she realized that the hairstyles on the hyenas weren’t arbitrary. One of them had two buns secured with butterfly barrettes. Another wore its hair in a messy pixie cut. A third had long bangs swept to the side. Felicity’s breath caught in her throat as she recognized herself and her two best friends.

“It’s really well crafted for a joke,” she said. “Looks like someone spent a lot of time on it.” Her voice sounded strangled, and she took a big sip of her Diet Coke.

Jonathan shook his head. “This is ridiculous. I mean, I’m a guy, and I don’t even have red hair, and
I’m
offended.” He closed the window on the screen, and the picture disappeared.

Once it was out of sight, Felicity found it a little easier to focus, and something Jonathan had said suddenly registered. “Wait, you just said, ‘
She
can’t have thought we’d actually put this in the show.’ Do you know whose this is?”

“Yeah, it’s Gabby Vaughn’s. She’s in my art class. She’s been working on it all month. I bet you can imagine how much the rest of my class loved that.”

Felicity’s head was suddenly spinning, and she gripped the edge of the table. Here was concrete proof that Gabby was involved in the blackmail scheme. Though Felicity had been looking for this information all week, having it only made her feel worse. Any of the other girls could have been tormenting her based on speculation. But Gabby might very well have evidence of Felicity’s strawbie status. She was by far the most dangerous adversary. Felicity wondered if she was working alone or if her friends were in on it.

“Hey, are you okay?” Jonathan’s voice seemed to be coming from very far away.

“Yeah. Just … Can I see the painting again?”

Jonathan seemed reluctant, but he reopened the file, and Felicity stared at her hyena counterpart. The neon-orange dress it was wearing was so bright it made her brain throb. Even if she managed to confront Gabby tomorrow, the terms of the note were very clear: if this painting didn’t appear on the list of winning pieces first thing in the morning, everyone would find out what she really was. For the moment, she had no choice but to obey.

Felicity swallowed hard. “I think we should include it,” she said.

“What?” Jonathan stared at her, incredulous. “Really? I mean, don’t you think it’s kind of … vicious?”

“It doesn’t bother me,” she lied. She prayed he wouldn’t see the truth on her face.

But Jonathan was too busy squirming to notice her false tone. A blush was creeping up his neck, and a bright red splotch blossomed high on each cheekbone. “But—I mean, Felicity, isn’t that … isn’t that supposed to be
you
?” With a pained look, he gestured to the center hyena. “I don’t want to, you know, do that. To you.”

Was it possible that a non-redhead could be so concerned about hurting her feelings? Jonathan seemed even more uncomfortable than she did. “I know it’s not exactly flattering,” she said. “But there are lots of people who don’t like the pageant, and they should get to express their opinions. I think we should put it in the show.”

They both stared at the painting on the screen for a long minute. Felicity examined the ropes of drool dripping from the Haylie hyena’s gaping maw.

“You really think so?” Jonathan asked.

“Sure. Yeah. Art’s supposed to be controversial, right?”

Jonathan was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You’re right. And I really respect that you think that and that you aren’t, you know, taking this personally. I’m okay with putting it in if you are. But, Felicity?”

“Yeah?”

Jonathan’s blush was intensifying, and his gaze dropped to the floor. “I just want to make sure—I want you to know that I don’t think—um—
that
. About you.” He gestured toward the hyenas.

Felicity’s heart did a strange little flip. Hearing something so personal come out of Jonathan’s mouth was disorienting, and she was speechless just long enough for the situation to become intensely awkward. Finally, she blurted out, “Well, I hope not. I make a pretty big effort to keep my drooling under control. At least in public.”

Jonathan laughed, and the tension eased a little. He ejected the CD, and they moved on.

It took almost three hours to choose the twenty-eight best pieces. “Should we map out how we’re going to arrange everything?” Felicity asked when they had finished.

“Sure. But we haven’t seen each other’s stuff yet. Do you want to do that now, so we have a complete idea of what we’re working with?”

“Oh, right.” Felicity had felt good about her sculpture earlier, when Ms. Kellogg had praised it in class. But now that it was time to show it to Jonathan, a swarm of butterflies seemed to have taken up residence in her stomach. She really wanted to earn her place in the art show—lately, she’d had a few too many reminders that she often got things she didn’t deserve.

“I’ll go first,” she said quickly. Jonathan’s painting was sure to be of Rembrandt quality, and her piece would probably look like third-grade macaroni art by comparison. Better to get it out of the way.

She collected her sculpture from the back of the art room, where she had tucked it under a protective drop cloth. She set it down in front of Jonathan and removed the fabric with a self-conscious little flourish. “It’s called
Skin-Deep
.” She could hardly bring herself to look at his face.

The piece was a self-portrait, created using a technique she’d invented that combined sculpture, photography, and papier-mâché. Felicity had built a life-sized wire sculpture of a seated female figure hugging her knees to her chest, her cheek resting against them as if she were pensive or exhausted. Then she had taken hundreds of digital photos of herself smiling, laughing, dancing, joyfully tossing her vivid hair. She had printed them on translucent paper and brushed them onto the frame with a glue mixture so they formed a skin. A small part of her hoped someone would see her piece and walk away with a deeper understanding of who she really was. But a larger part hoped nobody would look past the shiny outer layer.

Jonathan circled the sculpture slowly, taking it in from all angles. Then he crouched down, looked at it up close, and ran his finger gingerly over the figure’s papier-mâché shoulder. Felicity’s own shoulder tingled sympathetically.

It seemed like it had been way too long since either of them had spoken, and she grew increasingly anxious. Maybe Jonathan was trying to find a tactful way to tell her that the sculpture wasn’t good enough for the show. “If you don’t like it, I have other stuff,” she finally said to break the silence. “I’ve mostly been working with this technique lately, but there are other things I could show you if—”

Jonathan stood up. “I love it,” he said. It was the most declarative thing she’d ever heard him say.

Felicity felt her cheeks flood with heat. “Really?”

“It’s so original. I’ve never seen anything like this. She’s awesome.” Felicity loved how Jonathan referred to the sculpture as “she” instead of “it.” He crouched again and looked closely at the photographs. “Did you take all these yourself?”

“Yeah. It took forever.”

He walked around the sculpture again. “I think—I mean, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, it’s your piece—but I think we should put her up on a pedestal so people can see the photographs better. Otherwise, I’m worried they might miss the point.”

So Jonathan got the point. Did that mean other people would, too? A spark of terror ran through Felicity as Jonathan looked up from the sculpture and stared intently into her face, as if a puzzle piece had just clicked into place in his mind. Exactly how much did he suddenly understand about her? Maybe she had revealed too much. Putting this work on display suddenly felt intensely personal, almost like stripping in public, and she had to fight the urge to throw the drop cloth back over it.

But Jonathan’s gaze was kind and warm, respectful and supportive. There was no judgment in it at all. Felicity noticed that behind his glasses, his hazel eyes were flecked with green.

She nodded, then quickly looked away. “Can I see your painting?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. It’s not nearly as interesting as this, though.” Felicity followed him as he crossed the room and pulled a drop cloth off several canvases, which were leaning against each other, their faces to the wall. “I have a bunch of options, actually. I wasn’t sure which one was best for the show, so I … Why don’t I just show you all of them, and you can choose.” Jonathan’s hands were getting fluttery again as he prepared to spread out the paintings. Was he actually
nervous
about showing them to her? That didn’t seem possible.

“I’ve been doing a lot of landscapes this semester,” he said as he flipped the first canvas around. It was a painting of the most beautiful place Felicity had ever seen. In the background, huge, majestic rock formations reared their heads out of a stretch of turquoise ocean. There was a light sprinkling of boats in the water, and the foreground was filled with magenta flowers. Though the colors and the composition were gorgeous, the most striking thing about the painting was how confident and sure each brushstroke was. It was obvious that Jonathan hadn’t painted over anything. He’d gotten it all right the first time.