Art Geeks and Prom Queens Page 5

  “What does it mean when a guy tells you you’re beautiful, but then he doesn’t really say anything else to you for the rest of the day?” I mean, let’s face it, if anyone’s used to being told she’s beautiful it’s my mom.

  “It means you are beautiful. Rio.” Then she smiles and walks away.

  These are the awesome things that happened today (Friday):

  1. Kristi was absent from English, which meant I could relax because no one was staring at me.

  2. My dad is due in at John Wayne Airport (I swear that’s what they call it. There’s even a statute of “The Duke” next to the baggage claim carousel).

  3. Jas asked me out on a date. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

  This is how number three came about. We were sitting on the grass at lunch, and when the bell rang Mason got up to make a quick phone call before her next class, and jas looked at me and said, “So what are you doing this weekend?”

  And I shrugged and said, “Well my dad’s getting in today, so I’ll probably just hang with my family.”

  And he went, “Well do you want to do something Saturday night?”

  And as I picked up my trash, I was thinking: This is it! He’s going to ask me to Winter Formal at the very last minute!

  So I said, “Yeah, okay.”

  And then he smiled and said, “Let’s do dinner. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  And I go, “Cool.”

  Then we started walking to class. And I was in front, and he was in back.

  And I tripped.

  So I looked down to see what I tripped on, but of course there was nothing there. It was just me being my usual clumsy self.

  But that’s not the point. The point is I’m going on a date with Jas.

  So I’m in the Range Rover with my mom on the way to the airport, and I go, “Do you think we could go shopping tomorrow?”

  “You want to go shopping with me?” She looks all surprised and happy, like that was the nicest thing I’ve ever said to her. Which sadly, it may be.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  And then she goes, “Rio! Are you going to Winter Formal?”

  Great. I don’t want to disappoint her, but if I lie, I’ll be showing up for dinner in an evening gown. “No. I’m just having dinner with a friend and I wanted something new to wear.”

  “Oh,” she says, hiding her disappointment, but not entirely. “Is this the same friend that told you you were beautiful?”

  I nod, and look out the window, because I’m starting to feel embarrassed.

  “So, what’s his name?” she asks.

  “Um, Jas,” I say, hoping she won’t remember the last time she heard that name.

  But she does.

  “Isn’t that your detention friend?”

  “Don’t call him that,” I say, mentally scolding myself for trying to open up to her. God, I should have known better.

  “I don’t know about this, Rio.” She looks in the rearview mirror as she merges into the arrivals lane.

  “Fine. You don’t have to take me shopping, but I already said yes to the date.” I fold my arms across my chest and shoot daggers at her from behind my sunglasses.

  “There’s your father,” she says between clenched teeth. “We’ll discuss this later.”

  She pulls up to the curb and jumps out to hug my dad, and I climb into the backseat where I sulk until he notices me.

  “Hey, kiddo, did you miss me?” he asks, reaching back for an awkward hug.

  “Yeah, Dad, I missed you,” I say, hugging him with one arm.

  We have dinner at this place called Roy’s, and like the minute my mom gets up to use the bathroom I pounce. “Dad, someone asked me out for tomorrow night, but Mom doesn’t want me to go because you’re home. But I kind of want to go, since I’m just starting to make friends here, and you and I can hang out during the day all day tomorrow and again on Sunday.”

  “Go! Have fun! Don’t miss out on account of your old man.” He smiles and squeezes my shoulder.

  That’s what I was hoping he’d say.

  So when my mom comes back to the table, my dad looks at her and says, “I told Rio to go ahead and hang out with her friends tomorrow night.”

  She looks at me and narrows her eyes into tight, angry slits.

  “I figured we could find some way to entertain ourselves,” he says.

  And then she looks at him and smiles. And he winks at her.

  Gross.

  But totally worth it.

  On Saturday afternoon while my mom and dad were looking at linens in some specialty shop in South Coast Plaza (which is like the most amazing mall in the universe), I was wandering on my own looking for something to wear for my big date with Jas.

  Not that Jas seems like the kind of guy who cares hugely about clothes, and not that my closet’s not already full of things that my mom buys for me and sticks in there, I just kind of wanted something new to mark the occasion.

  So as I’m about to go in some store called Ron Herman that has a very cool window display, I bump straight into Katrina Wood and her Mini Me, Kristi. I’m not kidding. They’re both wearing low-slung jeans, with pastel thongs (sandals, not underwear!) that match their pastel pedicures and little velour Juicy Couture hoodie tops (that match the thongs and the pedicures), and they both have long dark hair, flat-ironed into submission.

  “Hi, Rio!” they both say like they’re actually happy to see me.

  “Oh, hey.”

  “What are you doing here?” Mrs. Wood asks, while her daughter stands there and stares at me just like in English.

  “I’m just shopping around. My parents are looking at stuff for the house.”

  “Are you going tonight?” Kristi asks.

  “Where?” I ask nervously, wondering how she could possibly know about Jas and me.

  “Winter Formal!”

  I can tell she wants to add “Duh?” to the end of that statement, but doesn’t because of her mom.

  “Oh, no. I’m not going.”

  I don’t think I sounded depressed when I said it, but Kristi and Katrina exchange sad looks, then Mama Wood goes, “Oh, honey. You got a late start. You’ll be going next year, you’ll see.” Then she smiles tenderly and gives me a little pat on the arm. Gag.

  When I’m finally rid of them, I go inside the store and browse through this rack of amazing ninety-dollar T-shirts. I mean, at first you might think they look like every other T-shirt in the world, but on these hangers and under these lights, you somehow start believing they’re worth it. So I grab a white one and a black one, then I walk around, collecting other stuff like tank tops, jeans, and cargo pants.

  And when my arms are nearly full, and I’m heading for the dressing rooms, I pass this section filled with all this stuff that girls like Kristi wear. You know, like little miniskirts and beaded, silky girly tops. I look around to see if anyone’s watching (not that they would care), then I grab some of that and take it all into the dressing room.

  I try on the girly stuff first.

  And when I’m standing in front of the three-way mirror in this frayed denim mini (not unlike the one I already own, but refuse to wear), and this tiny pink halter top that covers only the areas required by law, I barely recognize myself. I guess I’m so used to hiding under baggy sweatshirts and jeans that I had no idea this was even possible. I mean, this may sound crazy, but I look like a blond version of Kristi!

  I release my hair from its usual ponytail and flip it so it falls wild and wavy around my face, then I reach into my purse, grab my lip balm, and cake it on until my lips are thick and glowy. I turn and gaze at myself, adjusting the mirrors so I can see every angle. And then, I admit, I start posing and dancing around with an imaginary headset, lip-synching just like Britney.

  I look seductively into the mirror and jump and kick and spin around and around until I’m dizzy, and just as I’m catching my breath I notice a sign on the dressing-room wall:

  THIS DRESSING ROOM IS UNDER SURVEILLANCE

&
nbsp; Under surveillance?

  Ohmygod! Am I being watched?

  I frantically look behind the mirrors, up at the ceiling, and even under the little bench piled high with clothes, anxiously searching for the hidden camera that may have captured a moment that can never be made public!

  But just because I don’t find one doesn’t mean it’s not there, so I quickly pull off the skirt and top, placing them carefully back on their hangers (just in case I really am being observed). Then I pull my hair back into a ponytail and calmly try on the kind of clothes I’m more used to wearing.

  Dressed in a new pair of cargo pants, a white tank top, some little beaded flats that look like Moroccan slippers, gold dangly earrings with little red stones, and a denim jacket in case it gets cold, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed waiting for Jas, because I don’t want to go downstairs and be interrogated by my mom.

  I mean, I was really hoping that my parents would just go out to dinner or something so I’d be spared the introductions. But my mom decided to stay home and cook. And I know she’s doing it just to spite me.

  So the second the bell rings I come charging out of my room, and down the stairs at a potentially leg-breaking speed. “I’ll get it!” I shout.

  But my mom, who’s already downstairs, and therefore has a major head start on me, walks calmly out of the kitchen, reaches for the door handle, looks pointedly at me, and says, “I’ll get it.”

  Great.

  When she opens the door, Jas is standing there smiling and looking like a total hottie in his crisp, dark denim jeans, cool vintage T-shirt, black leather jacket, and hair still slightly wet from the shower.

  “Hi, Mrs. Jones,” he says. “I’m Jas.” He shakes her hand.

  “Won’t you come in?” My mom holds the door open and smiles.

  Oh, God, here we go.

  She leads him into the living room where my dad is busy watching a very exciting program on C-SPAN, and after all the introductions are made my dad asks where the “young man” is taking me.

  “We’re having dinner at one of my dad’s restaurants,” Jas says, smiling patiently.

  And after a never-ending conversation about that, I go, “Um, we should be going now.”

  Then my mom says something about a curfew, which I swear she just made up right then since I wasn’t even aware that I had one. So I make sure I get in one really good eye roll directed right at her, that she sees but my dad misses. And then, mercifully, we’re out the door and in Jas’s car.

  “Sorry about that,” I say. “My parents are so lame.”

  “Most parents are lame,” he says, starting the engine.

  “But your dad seems really cool.” I catch a glimpse of his profile and think how lucky I am to be going out with him.

  “He has his moments.”

  Then right as he’s pulling out of the driveway, he goes, “Listen. Mason was going to meet us there but there’s been a change of plans so we’re gonna pick her up, okay?”

  Mason?

  Mason is going on our date?

  Ohmygod! They really are boyfriend and girlfriend, and I am a total idiot!

  But all I say is, “Okay.”

  Ten

  So after picking up Mason, we head back toward the coast to Mirapois, which is the name of Jas’s dad’s restaurant in Laguna Beach. And I’m now sitting in the backseat since I figured the two lovebirds should be together, right?

  They have the stereo cranked up really loud and we’re all singing along to some White Stripes CD. But I’m the only one faking it. Partly because I don’t really know the words, and partly because what I really feel like doing is hurling myself out of this car, just to see if anyone notices.

  When we get to the restaurant there’s this tall guy with bleached blond hair and black framed glasses standing near the door, and when he sees Mason he comes over and hugs her.

  And then he kisses her.

  On the lips.

  And Jas just stands there.

  Huh?

  When they break apart Mason’s lipstick is all smeared, and there’s even some on her teeth, but she’s all smiling and happy and she goes, “Rio, this is my boyfriend, Zane.”

  And he goes, “Hey, you’re the girl from New York, right?”

  And I go, “Yeah.” I shake his hand and then I look at everyone and I try to get a handle on this latest turn of events.

  There are four of us.

  And Mason just called Zane her boyfriend.

  So does that mean I’m back to being Jas’s date?

  It turns out that Zane is two years older than us and he goes to Cal Arts, which is some art school in L.A. He and Mason have been dating for like a year, but she pretty much only sees him on weekends because of the distance.

  When we get to our table, Mason sits next to Zane so that leaves me next to Jas, and after we order everyone is all quiet, so I go, “You know, up until now, I totally thought you guys were a couple.” I point at Jas and Mason. “I guess because you’re together a lot with film club and the zine and stuff. I mean, not that you’re romantic or anything.” (I want to make that clear so Zane doesn’t think something and get all jealous.)

  Jas and Mason look at each other and bust out laughing, and Zane smiles, and looking back on it, it does seem pretty lame and even slightly paranoid.

  So we’re all eating and Zane, Mason, and Jas are talking about that movie Eternal Sunshine of the blah, blah, blah. But I’m just sitting there cutting and chewing, partly because I haven’t seen the movie, and partly because all of my attention is now centered on the fact that Jas’s shoe is touching mine and I wonder if he realizes it.

  And if he does, then what exactly does it mean? Is it like foreplay—like first we rub feet and then later …

  Okay, I know it sounds stupid since (as far as I know) the side of the foot is not exactly an erogenous zone, but it’s not like I can explain that to my thrashing heart and sweaty palms.

  “So what do you think?”

  Everyone’s looking at me.

  “What? Oh, I don’t know, I’ve never seen that movie,” I say, carefully placing my fork on my empty plate and trying to fake like I’ve been listening the whole time.

  “I was asking if you wanted dessert.” Jas gives me a strange look.

  “Oh. No. I’m good,” I say, immediately followed by nervous, retarded laughter. Oh, god.

  So while Mason and Zane decide to share a bowl of assorted sorbets, Jas goes, “Come on. Let’s take a walk.”

  And as I get up from the table Jas grabs my hand, wraps his fingers around mine, and leads me through the restaurant and back into the kitchen where he introduces me to the head chef.

  It’s total chaos back here, and I’m all worried about being in the way, but Jas just pulls me toward this big silver pot on a stove and goes, “You have got to try this.” He holds a spoon full of thick red sauce to my lips.

  I swallow the sauce, look into his eyes, and go, “Mmm.” Which is my totally pathetic attempt at flirting, which makes me blush, and leaves me feeling like a total cheeseball.

  “Good, huh?” he says, pouring us each a glass of wine.

  “What’s this?” I ask, sipping cautiously since I’m really not used to drinking wine in restaurants, or anywhere else for that matter.

  “Silver Oaks cabernet.” He swirls his wine and looks around the frenzied kitchen. “This is my dream,” he says, smiling.

  “But I thought your dad already owned this place,” I say, taking another sip.

  “He does. What I mean is I want to be a chef.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, I love this life. I grew up in it. And if you think about it, food is just another art form, another medium.” He smiles. “Just think, I could wake up every morning and surf, paint, and sculpt all afternoon, then head for my restaurant in the evening where I whip up one culinary masterpiece after another. A perfect life!” He clinks his glass against mine.

  He’s smiling, and his topaz eyes are sh
ining, and his teeth are so white and straight, and his bottom lip has this tiny glistening drop of red wine resting right in the center, and I’m so tempted to lick it off that I distract myself by nervously gulping down the rest of my wine. Which was really stupid because now I’m left with nothing but a dorky smile, a headrush, and an empty glass.

  “Want some more?” he asks.

  I shake my head no and watch him finish his. Then he puts his hand on the small of my back and goes, “Let’s go see if they’ve ditched us yet.”

  Sure enough, when we get back to the table Zane is standing and Mason is grabbing her purse.

  “I knew you were gonna run out on us.” Jas laughs.

  “We’re taking off. We haven’t seen each other for two weeks,” Mason says, leaning into Zane. “What are you guys gonna do?”

  I look at Jas wondering if he’s planned something else, something romantic. But he just shrugs and goes, “Whatever Rio wants.”

  If he only knew!

  We end up wandering through some of the art galleries across from Main Beach, which is the beach they always show on postcards and stuff. During the day it’s always supercrowded with body boarders and volleyball players, but at night people like to just hang on the benches and listen to the ocean.

  As we’re walking into this big gallery called Artist Hut, our hands accidentally bump together, and Jas leaves his like that, warm and lingering against mine. And right when I think he’s going to hold my hand for real, he points at this painting and goes, “Can you believe that?”

  Hanging on the wall in front of us is this huge canvas depicting the most dreadful rendition of a New York City skyline I’ve ever seen. The city lights are symbolized by tiny Day-Glo-colored boxes, and the buildings and the sky have such liberal doses of black and charcoal paint that it looks like one of those Tijuana velvet paintings from the seventies. The plaque next to it says the piece is titled, NYC 24/7. As a native New Yorker, I’m totally offended.

  “Oh, my god, it’s awful!” I whisper.