Starry Night (15 page)

“Yeah, I don't know if Harry Potter had some kind of influence on me or what, but I just can't get enough of drawing owls … Mrs. Rousseau?”

“Hmmm?” She was following the spine of my dragon with her finger up around the side of the bowl that I had turned into a road.

“Last night, I met Mr., um, Saint-Rémy Broc-someone?”

“Hmmm?”

“Yeah, well, he runs the Saint-Rémy program?”

“Oh, Mr. Brocklebank.”

“Right. It was pretty cool to meet him.”

“I'm sure it was. But meeting him will not get you into the program. How are your grades?” she asked, still engrossed in my drawing.

“I'm not sure I'll do so well in chemistry, but I think my English and history grades will be good, at least fine. Well, I think I'll pass. I hope.”

“If you submitted this piece you would get in,” she said softly, so the other girls wouldn't hear.

“I have to do a self-portrait and two other drawings of a bike and a shoe,” I reminded her. I took my chalk and darkened a line that was bothering me.

“What an adventure that self-portrait will be, yes?” She looked at me over her reading glasses.

“Uh-huh … I'm sort of scared of it though.”

“Technically, Wren, you have nothing to fear. You have a deep and solid understanding of light and dark and how to render.”

“Well, but it's not really about just drawing something that will look like me, right?”

“Right you are, dear. It's about drawing”—I knew what she was going to say so we said it in unison—“the truth of who you are.” And then I laughed, stupidly, because she takes that truth-of-who-you-are thing seriously.

“You laugh, Wren, but being able to find that truth, the truth that is in here.” She stuck her finger in my gut.
Oh my goodness, she is so dramatic,
I thought, and her fervor was getting the attention of the other girls.

“And here.” She pointed to my brain. I stood very still while her pointer finger was on my temple.

“But mostly, here.” She thrust her hand onto her own heart. Obviously I knew she didn't want me to draw what was in her heart, but what was in mine. I got it, even though she was skating on the edge of cheesiness.

“
That
is the challenge. That is where your work lies.”

The only thing that I felt in my heart at that moment was this boy that I would probably never be allowed to see again.

 

26

On my way into fifth-period
lunch
I ran into Vati walking out of the cafeteria. She must have had fourth-period lunch that day. She saw me, lifted her arms in the air, and flopped them down, so so sadly.

“Oohhhh, Vatter. What is going on? Farah only told me a tiny bit, and well, that guy, Nolan did too, a little.”

“Wren—are you insane? Do you know how much your parents freaked out? Have you gotten any of my texts?”

“No, well, I mean I know they freaked out but I got home late and they sent me to bed like I was five and took away my phone that I actually hadn't seen in hours, so no, I really don't know what is happening.”

“Well, it all
sucks.
” She burst into tears.

“Oh my god, Vat.”

“Freaking
Reagan—
who isn't even in school today.”

“She isn't?”

“No, you know her mother doesn't care what she does.”

“Oh, gosh, well.”

“Did you see Oliver?” She looked at me like,
Well?

“No, I didn't.” She gave me a look like
BS, lady.

“I did
last night
, but, Vati, I am in so much trouble.”

“I bet you are. I would ground you.”

“Wow, Vati, you are so mad.”

“I know!” She scrunched up her face, stamped her feet, and shrieked at little.

“What happened?” I asked.

“She flirted with him at dinner,
so
intensely, I could
see it
from our table.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “And he ate it up. He was looking at her like she was Gisele, and I don't get it because he has seen her every day or something since we were born and she's never even,
god
, he's
my
crush.” She started weeping again so I hugged her.

“He's my crush,” she repeated quietly.

“I know, Vati. You have been so devoted to Oliver for years.”

“I have, I really have.” She nuzzled my shoulder and cried. She was doing that two-quick-breaths-in-one-bigger-breath-out crying. Girls were walking in and out of the lunchroom, but nothing is shocking about a girl crying at Hatcher or probably any other high school in the country, so nobody stopped.

Then she jerked her head off my shoulder and looked at me with wet, wide eyes. I swear she looks so much like an Indian Katy Perry sometimes. “What
did
happen to you?”

“I'll tell you, but are you okay enough for me to talk about myself?”

She nodded, took a deep breath, and stopped crying. “I'm going to be late for chemistry, but I don't care.”

“So, first I took Nolan upstairs, to show him some paintings.”

“You
did
?”

“Yeah, but then we left.”

“No kidding,” she said sarcastically, which made me think she was kind of better.

“Well, we did, and he took me all the way downtown to this party, rave thing, that his friend was spinning at.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I know, and it was so totally amazing and cool and kind of scary. I mean, I would have been
so
scared if I was alone, or even with you guys.”

“Wren—promise me you won't ever be friends with Reagan again.”

“Oh, well, Vat, that's…” She restarted to cry. The second bell rang.

“Oh ratso-rizzo, I have to get upstairs,” she said.

“Okay, but let's walk home together. I have to go straight home. I'm in major trouble.”

“Yeah. Getting in trouble sucks.” Vati had gotten herself together again and was pulling her chem book out of her backpack.

“It will be okay, Vati. You are so awesome.” I gave her a huge hug. Vati
is
awesome, and my brother was an idiot.

 

27

Farah was already sitting at lunch
with one of her complicated salads from the salad bar.

“Hi, let me just go grab something.” I wish I liked all those different textures and could get chic salads, but I really don't. It's something to do with my ADD, I think. Mouth-feel is imperative to me. I can eat a lot of things, but anything I eat has to feel good in my mouth. This is what does:

Pork chops

Steak on a baguette

Pizza with no cheese

Very hard cheddar cheese

Raw carrots or broccoli with no dressing

Pears, but there can't be any soft spots

Black beans and rice

Meat sauce

PowerBars but not granola bars

Other stuff too, but basically I need my food to be hard or chewy, except for chocolate pudding. Lunch was meat loaf, which I do like, but it can't have sauce and it has to be on a roll, which this was. I put my tray next to Farah's and sat.

“You should have something colorful, Wren.” I sighed, got up, went to the salad bar, and got a small bowl of raw spinach.

“Happy?” I asked. She smiled at me and handed me a CD.

“What is this?”

“Your boy.”

“What?”

“I told Mr. Weiner I had to use the computer lab for some calculus thing, and I went and found these songs on a Columbia website. Last night Oliver told me that Nolan is playing there for Harvest Festival, so I looked and there was a link to
Nolan's
website so I downloaded three songs. I always have blank disks in my binder.”

“Farah, whoa, you're like a love spy.”

“Not really. I didn't have time to listen to the music because I was being rather clandestine.” Holding the CD felt like I was holding his hand.

“Thanks, Farah.” That is what I love about Farah. She appears to do nothing but think about herself, shop for good clothes, and get entwined in inappropriate dalliances with famous old people. But really she's thinking about you and downloading music of the boy you have a crush on.

“Put it away now,” she said, spiking six different vegetables and seeds onto her fork. I put it in a pocket in my binder.

“So,” I said, mashing my sandwich down with my hand.

“So, I'm freaking out,” she said calmly.

“You really slept with him?”

“Yes, I really did.”

“Gosh.” I took a bite of the now-flat meat loaf sandwich.

“Wren, when you are a virgin that might seem like a big deal, but for me, it's not.”

“How is it not a big deal, Farah?” I looked around at the various girls eating lunch in clusters. Nobody was that close to us, but I whispered to respect her privacy. “You have only slept with Hans.”

“Yes, well, I know, but I see him on Fire Island every summer.”

“So?”

“So, we have had sex at least”—she tilted her head up and looked at the ceiling, mentally counting—“well, twice last summer.”

“Uh-huh.” What I wanted to say was
But Cy Dowd is in his thirties and you are fifteen!
I couldn't because Farah doesn't roll like that. She would have shut up like a clam.

“Okay, back the bus up. How did you even start talking to him?” I said.

“After dinner, while your parents, Charlie, and Vati were all mental about finding
you.
” She lifted her eyebrows.

“Yeah.” I smiled inappropriately.

“Cy,” she said his name like he was her husband, “just
found
me. He came right over and started talking to me.”

“Were people looking at you?”

“Yes, well I suppose they were looking at him, really. Wren, he's, well, he's a living
genius.
He asked me to come see his studio, so we left together.”

“Oh eww, Farah! Did my parents see you?”

“I don't think so.” She forked another salad bite into her mouth.

“Why are you so calm about this? Isn't his studio in Brooklyn?”

“Yes! He had a car though.” I gave her the you-are-unreal look, and really couldn't think of anything to say.

“I know this is unusual, but then this morning, I started to think it makes all the sense in the world. I've always been mature.”

“Okay.” I said. I took another bite of my sandwich and chewed slowly. “It was just a one-night thing though. Right?”

“Wrong,” she said. “He said he wants to see me again and I want to see him too.”

“But, Farah, he's really an adult. It's, well, like Charlie said just yesterday. It's illegal.”

“Not if nobody knows.”

I looked at my sandwich. “No, not true, Farah. It is totally illegal whether nobody knows or not. And, sorry, but it's weird.”

“It's weird to be attracted to one of the most important and famous artists in the country? It's
weird
to respond to the advances of a fascinating, charismatic man?”

“Yeah, I think it's weird.” She looked stung and like I was an idiot.

“Just don't tell anyone.” She looked at my meat loaf sandwich with disgust. “Got it?”

“Got it. Jeez,” I said, widening my eyes at my sandwich.

“I wish I hadn't told you.” Now she was staring at me.

“Fine!”

“Fine.” She put her fork and knife on the tray to the side of her salad bowl, then she stood up and hoisted her Patagonia backpack over her shoulder. “I have reading to do. I'm going to the library.” She stood there for a minute like maybe she thought I might stop her. “If you see Vati, she is really upset, and Reagan isn't even in school today.”

“Yeah, I know. I already saw Vati. We're walking home together.”

“Fine,” she said.

“Fine,” I said.

 

28

Padmavati was already downstairs
with her parka, hat, and scarf on, waiting by the front door, when I came down at 3:20.

“Let's go,” she said, unchanged from the weepy state I had seen her in hours before.

“Have you signed out?” I asked trying to zip up my backpack and go through the mental list that I am supposed to go through every time I leave the school so I don't space on anything.

Homework (check)

Reading book (check)

Computer (check)

Notes to parents from teachers (weren't any, check)

Sign out

“Did it already,” she said.

“Okay, let's go,” I said, forgetting to sign out.

Vati leaned against the heavy glass door with its shiny brass fixtures, waiting to be buzzed out by Mr. Fisk, the young receptionist guy who sits in a little office in the front of the school and lets people in and out all day. We waved at him and walked through the foyer to the second set of doors to the outside. It was freezing.

“I almost want to take a taxi home. I am so exhausted and starving,” Vati whined.

“I have no money,” I said, and yanked out my scarf from the middle pocket of my backpack. I tried to tie it in the French way like Farah does, but failed.

“I just have six bucks and my bus pass. Let's take the bus then, six bucks won't get you and me home.” Vati said. “It's too cold to walk through the—”

I was already at a dead stop because
right
outside the school, leaning against a car, with a guitar strapped to his back, was Nolan.

“Is that Nolan?” Vati sort of shouted, like she had no impulse control.

“Yes. Hi.” He was even better-looking than I remembered, if that was possible. It's because teenagers in suits, even older teenagers, look awkward. There's no way around it. That day he looked like a guy in a J.Crew catalog without the stupid we-have-a-perfect-life thing all their models seem to have.