Art Geeks and Prom Queens (28 page)

10. Listen to everyone hurl insults from their cars as I walk home.

11. Go up to my room and log onto my computer only to be deluged with nasty e-mails and instant messages.

But today was different. Because today, during break, I had to go to the bathroom. Usually I try to avoid going anywhere near there during that time since that’s when everyone else is in there, but I just couldn’t hold it any longer.

I’m just getting ready to exit the stall when I hear some girls walk in, and one of them goes, “Oh, my god, you guys, remember how Rio was always bragging about her mom being this big-time supermodel?”

What???
I freeze, dreading what I’ll hear next.

“Well, Amber was over at Caitlyn’s, and Parker and Hunter were there and they were fooling around on the Internet, and they totally saw pictures of her mom on this porno site!”

“No way!” they squeal.

“Way. They said, it looked just like her! It was totally her!”

“Like mother like daughter,” one of them says.

“What a loser!”

“Fucking skanky whore!”

Listening to that makes me feel totally sick to my stomach. But hiding from it makes me feel worse. I throw the door open so it bangs loudly against the side and when they see that it’s me, they exchange these phony, horrified looks.

I head straight for the sink they’re standing next to, and begin filling my palms with pink grainy soap from the dispenser, watching them through the mirror as they rifle through their purses, and elbow each other.

I rinse my hands until the water runs clean, then I grab a paper towel and dry off. And the second I leave, I hear them burst out laughing.

Friday when I got home from school, the living room had changed—again. This time there was no Tuscan Villa, French Country, Moroccan Royalty, or even Indian Palace, because this time it was completely empty.

“Where’s the living room?” I ask, dropping my bag on the floor and staring at the open space.

“I couldn’t live with it,” my mom says, coming over and handing me a glass of iced tea. “Katrina says she read an article in
Interiors
about minimalism being the next big thing.”

“So you’re leaving it empty?”

“No.
I’m just going to find a new decorator with more pared-down tastes.”

“I thought you said Michael was a genius?”

“I did. But Katrina says—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Katrina lived here,” I interrupt.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She frowns at me.

“Well, it’s
our
house, but it seems like you’re decorating it for everyone but us. I mean, why is Katrina’s opinion more important than your own?”

“It’s not that simple, Rio.” She shakes her head. “People judge you on your home, so making a good impression is imperative.”

“Oh, I think I might know a thing or two about being judged,” I say, reaching for my bag, and heading up the stairs.

“So how was practice?” she asks, following closely behind.

“Okay.”
God, I never should have lied about getting to school early and staying late for cheerleading tryouts. But how else was I supposed to explain my new schedule?

“Why don’t you show me,” she says, coming into my room.

“Show you what?”

“Your cheer.”

“Not, now,” I say, lying on my bed, and closing my eyes.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m tired.”
God, I wish she’d just leave me alone.

“Well, I still think you should have let me hire a coach. You’ve never been a cheerleader, and Katrina says that’s how everyone makes it on the squad.”

“Oh, well.” I shrug, eyes still closed.

“Also, you have to decide on your dress for the dance. It’s tomorrow night! You can’t keep putting it off.”

“Okay,” I mumble.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

“What?” I ask, opening one eye to peer at her.

“Mario called and he wants
you
in the Gap ad!”

“Why me?”

“Well, it seems all of us models have children now, so they decided to do some family shots. And you
cannot
say no! This is a perfect opportunity for you—you’ll get great exposure! Just think, a national Gap ad on your very first shoot! I had to do a year of catalog work before I got something like that. What do you think?” she asks excitedly.

“Whatever,” I say. But I say it just to placate her because there’s no way I’m doing it. I’ve had about all the “exposure” I can handle thank you.

“Great. I can’t wait to tell Mario! Oh, and we’ll just be having salad tonight, since we need to slim down for the shoot. And you might try to join me for yogalates, you know, just to tighten up a little beforehand.”

“Whatever.”

“Great! I’ll call you when it’s ready,” she singsongs.

And the second she’s gone, and my door is closed, I grab some scissors.

Then I go into my bathroom, and cut off all my hair.

Well, most of it. I mean, I’m not
bald
or anything.

And it’s not like it was easy since it was all the way down to my waist. But now it’s up to my ears. And there’s a big heap of honey-blond on the floor, and on the counter, and even in the sink. So I scoop it all up and throw it in the trash. Then I look at myself in the mirror and trim up the front and sides.

And when I’m finished, I smile at my reflection.

Because I really do feel better.

That hair was becoming a burden.

When my mom calls me for dinner I put on some lip gloss, run my fingers through my two-inch strands, and go down the stairs, two at a time.

I grab my usual seat, and when she walks in carrying the big wood salad bowl she looks at me and screams.

And I mean
screams.
Like a scary movie scream.

“What. Did. You. Do. To. Your. Hair?” she asks, standing there all stiff, with her mouth wide-open.

“I cut it,” I say, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious.

“Why?
I don’t understand!
Why
would you do this to yourself?” she asks, carefully setting the bowl on the table, while maintaining a safe distance from the newly shorn crazy person.

“I wanted a change.” I reach for the salad tongs, wishing she would just sit down and stop gaping at me. I mean, it’s
rude.

“Now?
” she asks, while her right hand searches in vain for her non-existent hip, eventually settling for the back of her chair.
“Now,
you want a change? Oh, I don’t suppose this has anything to do with
the Gap ad
then does it?”

She’s glaring at me, but what she doesn’t understand is that I’m used to being glared at and it just washes right over me. So I reach for the olive oil, extra-virgin (like me!), and drizzle it over my greens.

“Answer me!” she says, barely controlling her rage.

But I don’t answer her. “Please just sit down,” I say.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on!”

“You really want to know?” I look right at her.

“Yes.”

But I can hear the hesitation in her voice, like maybe part of her really doesn’t want to know. Well, that’s just too bad, because now I’m finally ready to talk. “If you’ll sit down and stop yelling, I’ll tell you.”

She slips slowly onto the seat across from me and takes a sip of her chardonnay, and I play with the salad tongs, wondering where I should start. Finally, I take a deep breath and say, “I just wish you would stop putting so much pressure on me.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She sounds really defensive.

“You’re always interfering with what I wear, what I eat, who I hang with. It’s like nothing I do is ever good enough. I can never live up to your expectations,” I tell her.

“That’s not true! You always look beautiful, and you know how wonderful I think your friends are.”

“But that’s just it. They’re
not
wonderful. And they’re
not
my friends, not anymore. They all hate me.” I look down at my salad, determined not to cry. “I haven’t told you what’s going on, because I didn’t want you to know. But I’m tired of lying all the time just to keep you happy.”

“Rio, what’s going on?” she asks, and she almost looks scared when she says it.

“Okay.” I force myself to face her. “The truth is I’m
not
trying out for cheerleader, and I’m
not
going to the dance this weekend. Tyler and I broke up, and he’s going with Kristi, so it’s fine if you want to return all the dresses. Also, no one will drive me to school anymore, so I walk.”

“You. Walk. To. School?” She looks even more shocked and horrified than when she first saw my hair.

“It’s not that bad.” I shrug.

“Rio, how did this happen? Why haven’t you said anything?”

“Because I didn’t want you to know what a total loser I am. And I didn’t want you to judge me.”

“Going through a rough patch does not make you a loser,” she says. “I’m sure whatever happened between you and your friends will work
itself out, and everyone will get back together.” She’s actually smiling now.

“It’s not a rough patch! You can’t sugarcoat it like that! And I don’t want to get back together! And I don’t want to be a cheerleader! And I don’t want to be a model! I just want to be
me,
whoever that is, and I want it to be good enough for
you!
”

“But you
are
good enough.”

“Then why are you always trying to make me into someone I’m not? Why can’t you just let me be a big geek who likes photography? What’s so wrong with that?”

“But you can be so much more! You have so much potential,” she says.

“Those are
your
dreams,
not mine.
”

“Well, you should have just said something, you didn’t have to cut off all your hair!” She shakes her head.

“I
have
told you, like a million times, but you refuse to listen. You just go on and on about my friends, and boyfriends, and school, and how it’s all so great. But you have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no idea what anyone is
really like.
And I’m so tired of having to pretend that I’m happy and that my life is perfect. It’s like you put the same pressures on me at home that I have at school. And being at school is a total nightmare.”

“Why is school a nightmare? Rio, what’s going on?”

“I told you, everyone hates me.”

“But why?”

And then I tell her everything. About the party, about the drugs, about the hooking up, about the dog shit, about the principal’s office, about all the girls calling me a stuck-up bitch. I leave nothing out.

And by the time I’m done she’s sitting next to me, and she’s hugging me, and she’s crying, too. And it feels so good to finally tell the truth again.

After a while she goes, “I know I’ve told you all about growing up poor. But I never told you about all the teasing I suffered because of it. How all the kids made fun of my secondhand clothes, and the way I looked in them all gangly and skinny. Skinny Bones Jones they called me.” She stops and looks at me. “And much worse. Well, when I was
going off to model in Paris, nobody believed me. People said I was pregnant and going to a home for unwed mothers. And when I returned a year later, I couldn’t wait to show everybody what I had become. I thought wearing designer clothes and having my face in magazines would make them sorry for treating me so badly. Well, it didn’t. And believe me the rumors just got nastier. Then my career took off, I moved to New York, and I never looked back. But I never forgot what that felt like.” She looks at me and runs her thumb lightly across my cheek. “All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. And I honestly thought if you got in with the popular crowd you would be safe from that kind of bullying.” She shakes her head and sighs. “Rio, I think you’re so beautiful, and talented, and smart, that it kills me to think I made you feel otherwise.”

I wipe my nose on my sleeve, but it’s worse than I thought. So I reach for my napkin and blow.

“But what’s happening to you at school is unacceptable and I won’t allow it. I think we should call your father and file a lawsuit against them for failing to provide a safe environment.”