I could just hug her anyway. Which is proof that I am totally losing it.
Other students start filtering into the classroom. I hastily wipe off the board and make a beeline for one of the workstations. The good thing about art class is that it is devoid of jocks and most populars. I’m here only because it’s the easiest elective available, and it sure as hell beats Shop (such a misleading title!) or Personal Finance (my only interest in money is spending it, not budgeting it).
If previous experience is any indication, the art freaks will be too consumed with fostering their existential angst and crafting abstract pieces out of coat hangers, Styrofoam, magazine cutouts and black paint (to symbolize their dark, tortured souls, of course) to heed me any attention. A few weeks ago I was comparing schedules with my friends and lamenting the fact that none of them had this class, but considering my new circumstances, I’m relieved. The tardy bell rings, and I think maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally be able to actually relax.
And then Sam Weston walks into the room.
My heart plummets to my feet, and for an awful moment I am convinced I am going to either pass out or throw up in front of everyone. I’ve been so preoccupied worrying about Kristen and the others that I hadn’t even thought to prepare myself for running into Sam. Sam, who I don’t know a lot about, but the one thing I do know is that he is best friends with Noah.
He rubs a hand over his rumpled, wavy dark hair and scans the room from behind his black framed glasses, searching for a seat. I do the same, realizing with growing dread that the only space available is at my workstation. When he catches up to my realization, his gaze flicks to mine for a second, and I look away, silently willing him to sit somewhere else, anywhere else. It doesn’t work. My avoidance of eye contact doesn’t deter him from walking over and setting his backpack on the seat next to mine.
Why? Why is this happening to me?
Oh, right, because God hates me and wants me to suffer. Obviously.
I’m careful to keep my eyes on my sketchpad as Ms. Kinsey explains our first assignment. We’re supposed to imitate another artist’s style. Awesome. Who am I supposed to attempt, Monet? Van Gogh? That’d be nothing short of a train wreck. Maybe the flower lady—what’s her name? Oh, right, Georgia O’Keefe. Yes, that’s exactly what I should do. Paint big flowers that look like vaginas. It’s not like I haven’t already alienated myself from the student body enough. Why not go for broke?
It’s less nauseating to think about flowery vaginas than it is to focus on what I am so acutely aware of—Sam’s very, very near proximity. But as Ms. Kinsey drones on (and on, and on, and on), I can’t help but wonder if he’s going to try anything. At any moment he could make a nasty comment, tell me to fuck off and die, or do something worse, like mess with my stuff. Or with me. The art room has plenty of arsenal: scissors, permanent markers, superglue, X-Acto knives. Oh, God, I didn’t even think about X-Acto knives. I’m going to have to channel Jason Bourne now if I want to survive high school. Assess the situation! Know your exits! Everything is a weapon!
If I’m lucky, Sam’ll just give me the cold shoulder like everyone else. Even though I don’t know him very well—or at all, really, aside from sharing a few choice classes over the years—he’s never come across as a particularly potent brand of douche bag. But then, neither did Derek, so what do I know about anything?
When Sam’s elbow accidentally knocks against mine, I nearly jump out of my skin. So much for playing it cool. He glances at me with big blue eyes, clearly surprised by my crazy overreaction, but doesn’t say anything. I blush and try to return my attention to whatever Ms. Kinsey’s still discussing.
“…and four weeks from now we’ll have the presentations,” she says.
Oh, right, the project. I’m looking forward to it so much I could just shoot myself in the face in anticipation. Ms. Kinsey beams brightly at me, and I struggle to look less outwardly like I feel, which at the moment is borderline suicidal.
“So why don’t you go ahead and partner up, and you can start deciding who you want to choose as your subject.”
Wait. Partners? What?
Please, please, please tell me I heard that wrong.
I didn’t. Everyone in the classroom shuffles around, making the migration to other workstations, meeting up with the partners they arranged via silent hand signals and elbow nudging during Ms. Kinsey’s ramble. Everyone except me, of course. And, oddly enough, Sam. I notice he hasn’t moved from his spot. Doesn’t he have friends?
I try to remember who I’ve seen him with in the past. Noah, mostly. And I know they hung out with a lot of groups, but I can’t think of any specific one—they’re not art freaks, or super academics, or straight edge, or burnouts. I’ve seen them both skateboarding, but they don’t hang out with the skaters, either. Definitely not the jocks, even though Noah plays soccer. They just…floated from group to group. Somehow they still managed to be friends with practically everyone. Cool but still accessible. Which is the reason Noah was allowed to come to the party in the first place.
I chance a glance at Sam as he drums his fingers on the countertop. He sees me watching and stops abruptly.
“Uh…” he starts to say. He looks everywhere else before he settles his gaze on me, and then he does the hair rubbing thing again, like it’s a nervous tic. “It looks like everyone else paired off. Guess that leaves us.”
Sam doesn’t look happy about it, but he isn’t looking at me like he wants to stab me in the face with his pencil, either, which isn’t something I can claim with the least bit of confidence for anyone else in this class. If he can handle this, so can I.
He flicks open his sketchbook to a fresh page. I notice there are a bunch of other drawings on the ones before it, but he flips past them too fast for me to see what they are.
“I don’t know if you had any ideas,” he says, “but I was thinking maybe something more modern. Like Salvador Dali.” He writes the name down on the pad.
I’m not really crazy about the idea of recreating dreamscapes with melting clock faces—that is way beyond my skill level—so I make an apathetic face at the suggestion.
Sam notices my unenthused expression and mutters, “Or not,” crossing out the name sharply. He drops the pen onto the sketchpad and looks me straight in the eye. “You know, I realize this isn’t exactly a dream collaboration for either of us, but it’d be nice if you’d contribute a little something more than a judgmental glare.”
I’m considering how to respond to this without actually responding when Ms. Kinsey flutters over to our station. She looks over Sam’s shoulder at our blank page of brainstorms.
“Need any help?” she asks.
We both shake our heads.
“Think we can handle it,” he tells her, but he doesn’t sound like he believes it.
“I just want you to know,” she says to me, “that I am very much willing to work around your spiritual commitment. All I ask is that you find another way to participate if you aren’t going to speak. Use your imagination! Be creative!”
From the way she says it, I can only assume she’s expecting me to break into an interpretive dance for our presentation. Which is just not going to happen in this lifetime. Or any other.
I give
