Will Work for Prom Dress (5 page)

Mrs. Albertt’s voice droned on and on about processing
times and F-stops. The tangy smell of developing chemicals wafted from the darkroom. I jerked out of my near doze and wondered if they were related to chloroform. I heard you had to contact the government for proper disposal of toxic substances, which did not make the thought of hours spent elbow deep in the stuff very enticing.

I shifted in my seat trying to keep myself awake with the little clicks that sounded each time the stool leg hit the ugly green linoleum. David’s voice snapped me out of my daze.

“This is fascinating, Mrs. Albertt. So we can purposefully overexpose our pieces for effect?” he asked.

“Suck up,” I said under my breath.

Everyone knew this particular class was a complete waste. Only at an arts-dedicated charter school would a course devoted to only film and prints even exist. The future of
photography was digital. Nobody did print work anymore. But Mrs. Albertt was a technophobe purist when it came to photography. David would surely find some way to wow her. It was all politics.

“Exactly, David!” Mrs. Albertt beamed. “The citywide show our very own David won last year will feature a new category—art photography. Maybe as the semester progresses, some of you might try your hand at the type of effect David was just asking about.”

The bell interrupted Mrs. Albertt’s David-adoration. I hopped off my stool and headed for the theater to track down Anne. She’d become a regular drama convert in the past few weeks since T-Shirt had caught her eye. I’d have worried she was actually getting serious about one guy, if not for the weekly reassurance to the contrary, courtesy of The Spikester.

As the other designers continued to choose Anne’s waiflike look over my, ahem, sturdier build, Zander stuck by me. And, occasionally, into me. But the prick of fitting pins was part of life as a model. We had settled into a comfortable Wednesday night friendship. He’d play with fabric and the physical lines of his garment; I’d redraw the blobs in his sketchbook to resemble whatever he was actually
working on. During the week he’d use my sketches to practice his own drawing skills. So it wasn’t
really
like cheating or anything.

I almost felt bad taking the thirty bucks a night for having such a good time, but Ms. Parisi didn’t seem to mind. Though she might have been preoccupied trying to keep a handle on the abundance of fittings The Spikester seemed to require of his all-too-willing model.

She handled it quite well when Anne, while being pinned by The Spikester, nearly experienced a wardrobe malfunction with the neck string on her bikini. Ms. Parisi had pounced before anything was revealed and pulled the strings back into a double knot as tight as her smile. The poor woman had nerves of steel.

“What’s so funny?”

I jumped as David’s arrogant drawl cut through my thoughts.

“Why are you following me?” I snapped at him, embarrassed.

“I didn’t realize I was. You own the halls now?”

I sped up and turned down the empty hall to the auditorium. I’d blown my physics test that morning and had a
meeting with my guidance counselor after school. My day needed no further challenges, particularly in the form of dealing with David. I heard the echo of his feet still following me. The only thing down this hall was the theater.

I spun around to face him.
“What
do you want?”

“What do I want?” David took a step closer and lowered his voice. “I want you, Quigley. You’re a pretty girl. You’d make a nice Art
Queen
. What do you say?”

My heart pounded as a mini-gasp slipped out. Maybe the residue of developer fumes on his way-too-close body had clouded my brain. I struggled in vain for a response for several eternally long seconds.

He pulled back and laughed at me as I stammered in shock. “Or maybe, just maybe, I want to get back to the sets I’m painting for the play.” He sauntered past me chuckling. “It’s not always about you, Quigley. You should work on that whole self-involvement thing you’ve got going on.”

I stood frozen in a mix of rage and humiliation, wishing I had studied enough physics to know if it was possible for a human being to melt into linoleum. And if so, how I might achieve that. I heard welcoming yells of “Hey, Art King!” and “Art King’s here!” echoing from the theater doors.

I turned and headed back down the hall to the cafeteria
instead.
Sorry, Anne. This is so not worth it
. With every classroom I passed, I thought of another good comeback.

That always happened to me. A whole pile of stunners materialized, too late to use them. Self-involved. David thinks I’m self-involved? Unreal. It was during times like these that I felt like counting the days left of high school. That thought just reminded me of my meeting with my guidance counselor.

According to the note, we were supposed to work on a Plan B college entrance strategy. Which sounded suspiciously like teacher code for crappy-student-who-needs-help-to-get-pawned-off-on-some-school-any-school-so-she-doesn’t-screw-up-our-placement-ratio. Anne had received telltale fat manila envelopes from three different Ivy League schools. My letters from universities came back in your standard business envelope. It didn’t take much room when the letters started, “Thank you for your interest. Unfortunately …”

Anne tried to pump me up about the one that included a “waiting list concession” at the very bottom. It was like they didn’t even mean it, like an afterthought. Really, it was just that—an afterthought.
After
all the good students
thought
about where they’d attend, they would let me know if they needed a warm body to fill a dorm bed.

It was enough to make a girl want to hit the nacho-cheese broccoli.

I stood in line to pay for my BP-approved lunch instead. I snapped a baby carrot in two, wishing it was one of David’s stupid, artistic fingers, and poked the pieces into the blob of hummus on my plate. I smiled at the resemblance to The Spikester’s hair.

I selected a few more of the skinnier veggies and soon had a freeform sculpture in progress. I nibbled a piece of carrot into a little orange scowl and nudged it into place. Not bad. Maybe Anne was on to something with that pepperoni idea. I could do a whole series of food portraits. It would be better if the medium fit the personality better, though. The Spikester was so not a carrot-sticks-and-hummus kind of guy.

“I was waiting for ten minutes. What happened to you?” Anne asked.

I pulled my backpack off the saved chair next to me. “Why didn’t you tell me that David was working on the play?”

“Well, hello to you, too. Quigley, it’s not like you exactly welcome mention of his name. He’s a friend of T-Shirt’s, remember? When the original set designer bailed, he asked David to fill in. I thought I’d do you a favor and keep that info to myself.”

“Well, thanks a lot. I made a total jerk of myself in the hall.”

Anne’s normal smile turned into the grin that usually landed her in detention. “Not according to David,” she singsonged. “He came in and asked T-Shirt if you were seeing anybody.”

I sucked my breath in so quickly that tiny pieces of baby carrot flew the wrong way down my throat.

Anne banged on my hacking, gasping back and giggled.
“Really
, Quigley. You’re making a scene now. Unless you’re trying to catch David’s attention—bet he does a mean Heimlich.”

I barked like an unattractive seal with laryngitis and wiped at my watering eyes. “Not funny.” I gasped for breath.

Anne ignored my near-death experience and pulled my plate closer. She turned it around and lovingly stroked an orange spike. “I can’t wait for Wednesday.”

“What is up with you and that guy, anyway?” I asked.

“Which guy?”

With Anne, that was a fair question. “The designer guy. The Spikester. How old is he, anyway?”

“Who knows? Age is in the eye of the beholder—”

“I think that’s ‘beauty,’ “I said.

“Well, he’s beautiful, too. He’s got the most piercing blue eyes.”

“Yeah, he’s big into ‘piercing.’ Besides, it’s only the eyeliner that makes his eyes so intense.”

“Well, say what you like—it’s called style. And even you have to admit his eyebrow ring is way hot. So, I guess he’s twenty-two or something. He said he was seventeen when his son was born and he’s going into kindergarten soon—”

“Oh my God! He’s got a kid? A kid who’s
five?”

“Almost five. Dude, why are you freaking out? A lot of people have kids who are five.”

“Not a lot of people who you’re crazy in love with.” Anne’s was the snort heard around the world, or at least around the cafeteria. “Well, you know what I mean. You are totally into the guy.”

“Sure, he’s cool. And probably going to be the next Marc Ecko, or something. But for now, we’re keeping it cas’.”

“Ah, so your mom caught on?”

Anne pouted and scraped the last bit from her yogurt cup. “Totally. I’m guessing she made it clear that if he wanted to pass the class, he’d better
not
make a pass at me. What a killjoy. You’re so lucky your mom’s not around to see you and Alexander.”

“Me and Zander? We’re not together.”

“Yeah, right. You guys spend three hours together every week in your own little world, laughing your rapidly dwindling gluteus maximus off. For the past six weeks he’s never once picked me to model his stuff.”

I smiled at her compliment and made a mental note to check out the full-length mirror later. I’d been so wrapped up in tight-roping that thin line between Cs and Ds in my classes, I’d completely spaced that there was some practical reason for Anne’s Betterment Plan.

“From
that
you get that we’re together-together? In case you don’t remember, spending three hours together every week is my job. It’s not my fault no one else ever wants me to wear their clothes.”

“Well, you sure seem to be enjoying your job. It’s like your own private comedy club back there. And he makes you the most gorgeous dresses. Don’t get me wrong—The Spikester’s look is hot. That bodice made entirely of metal zippers might have looked cool, but his fashion can be a little painful.”

I accepted half of Anne’s offered banana. The carrots and hummus had lost their appeal after being transformed into the face of The Spikester. “Well, you must suffer for your beauty, after all. Zander’s great—really funny and so sweet.
But it’s not like that with us—we’re friends. I do love his work. But it’s not like he’s designing the gowns for
me
or anything.”

“Are you sure about that? Every one is your style, only more fab. Colors that rock with your exact skin tone. He spends half the class drooling over your drawings like they’re Rembrandts or something.”

“He’s trying to learn from them.”

“Imitation is the highest form of flattery, Quigley. Not that I disapprove. Zander’s definitely worthy. And you need someone to keep David on his toes, anyway.”

“What!”

“Well, you can’t give too much power to a guy—keep a few on the line and they all appreciate you a lot more. It’s really the only way to run a successful relationship.”

I leaned back and tried to remember if any of Anne’s successful relationships had made it past the one-month mark.

“So, really, this is perfect,” Anne went on. “You just need to decide between your guys before prom. I wouldn’t even bother to think too hard about it until a few weeks before the dance.”

“Between my guys?”

“Sure. David and Zander. You can’t be greedy, Quigley. Come prom time you’ll have to decide which one to keep and which to let go. Nobody’s that much of a jerk—you
know David’s only being mean because he’s into you. Boys are dumb like that.”

I stared at her pupils to see if she’d stood too close to a Bunsen burner in chem. “Anne. I don’t have to decide which guy to keep. I don’t even have
one
guy, much less two.”

“Well, prom’s less than six weeks away. Who are you going to go with then, Quigley?”

I felt a hollow burning in my stomach that I couldn’t blame on the hummus. It was a good question. The money saving was right on track. The guy situation—not so much. “Look, Zander is just a friend, and he’s totally not interested in me like that.”

“Well, maybe the David thing will work out. I know you have a weird history, but I was serious about him asking T-Shirt if you were with anyone.”

I tried a light laugh, but it came out a little too harsh. “Come on. David? No. Never. I can’t stand him. He’s a pompous jerk, besides being a no-talent art hack. Real attractive qualities, Anne.”

Anne’s mouth dropped, and I instantly knew what I would see if I followed her eyes behind me. I steeled myself before turning to the Art King himself. Except he didn’t look much like the Art King.

David’s usual cocky smile was a little crooked. “Wow. I guess that probably means you don’t want to catch the new exhibit Saturday.” He laid the brochure from the Contemporary Art Museum down next to The Spikester sculpture. “At least not with me. But, umm, you should check it out. It’s a new collection of digital photography. I just, you know, thought you’d like it or something.” He shrugged and tried another smile that didn’t make it to his eyes before walking quickly away.