Part 8 (1/2)

She looks at me from under her heavy black eyelashes. ”That city I made.”

The city is cardboard boxes painted in metallics. She made them somehow look heavy and solid. Jewel mentioned wanting to photograph the city. It's good. Unique. ”Cool.”

”You?”

”Nothing special.”

We're standing here in the art room, talking. Why do I feel so uneasy?

I pick up my bag and get out of the room. Vanessa's schoolbag is made out of silver duct tape. She follows me.

”Did you make that bag?” I ask her.

”Yeah,” she says. ”It's easy.”

It reminds me of doing magazine collages with her on my bedroom floor; we ran out of glue and resorted to masking tape. The results weren't pretty. I smirk at the memory.

”What?”

”I was just ... do you remember those collages we did?”

She stops walking and looks at me.

”Collages? For Smith's cla.s.s?”

I guess she doesn't remember. I guess it doesn't matter. ”Never mind.”

We keep walking and, at the door, go our separate ways.

I can't stay away from the art show completely. I do care about it. Any event that brings out the curlicue toothpicks is something I don't want to miss, pathetic as that sounds. I don't get into the coffee shop art shows like Jewel does; I've gotta take what I can get.

Thursday night, I'm staked out on the brick side of the school, kneeling in the garden by the big window. I've worn a black sweats.h.i.+rt, hoping I won't be spotted.

Inside, Mr. Smith is gesturing at Vanessa as everyone mills around, eating the cheese and drinking the punch. Clara and Jeremy hold hands.

No one is standing in front of my painting. I kind of want to bite the bullet and go in.

I watch Jewel in front of his exhibit, up-close photos of the troll. Like the one with my note. They show the troll's fingers, his one eye, the VW. The grooved details of his wavy hair. The pink graffiti.

Vanessa walks up to Jewel, smiling.

They talk.

He touches her upper arm, bare because she's wearing a black sequined tank top. Just once. But it's enough to make my stomach jump.

I'm pretty enough; Vanessa's maybe prettier. I'm an okay artist; she's great. I'm out here in the shadows.

We have a lot of cla.s.ses together, which is just the way it works. The person you want to forget about, the G.o.ds of scheduling make sure you spend your high school years constantly seated behind.

Our friends.h.i.+p was just a kid thing. I guess what we are now is more ... compet.i.tive, if anything. She probably doesn't think about me. Except maybe in one way.

I've always had one thing that she wants like crazy. Jewel. The most creative guy at school. The artist. And I had the ability to inspire him. His only friend.

Until now.

Friday, in art workshop, I stand at an easel by the window, looking out toward the empty courtyard. I busy myself with the painting I've already started as a Christmas gift for my parents. It's a portrait of them, but I'm trying to do it all in little dots, spots of watercolor that add up to being people. I spend most of the cla.s.s trying to swirl a good blue for my dad's eyes.

Vanessa is quiet today.

When Mr. Smith announces that it's time to clean up, I see what she's been working on. She's cut up a bunch of soda cans. The tops, with their tabs, litter her table. She's fas.h.i.+oned a crown and a scepter.

It's a scary thought, a world where I turn my back and Vanessa becomes royalty.

Chapter Nine.

I wake up and think, Dove Girl, tonight's the night Dove Girl, tonight's the night. Bloodbath night. Halloween.

Part of me feels like my witch dress is appropriate because I'm being a witch to Jewel.

The other part of me is totally excited. Showing up with Simon will be a major thing. People are about to see me differently. The new Alice. Interesting. Tonight I will turn heads. Vanessa won't outs.h.i.+ne me. No girl will.

I'm grateful that my gla.s.sblowing cla.s.s is today; otherwise, I don't know how I'd pa.s.s a whole Sat.u.r.day before the dance without exploding.

The front of the studio is a store, selling beautiful, swirly-colored lamps and bowls. I check out a green bowl and can't help imagining Jewel's hazel eyes.

No. Today is not about Jewel, or missing him, or how I might've screwed up our friends.h.i.+p.

I finish browsing and head to the back of the shop.

The only person there is a guy in a tie-dyed T-s.h.i.+rt, with a long ponytail. His back is to me. Must be Jim.

I'm nervous. Where are the other students? What am I doing here?

He turns around and smiles at me.

”Welcome,” he says. ”You are?”

”Alice Davis.”

”Welcome, Alice Davis. Happy Halloween. I'm Jim.” He's very much a hippie; he seems blissed out.

I hear footsteps and turn to see a middle-aged woman walking in, wearing hiking pants and a white tank top.

Right behind her is Mandy Walker. From the elite who sit at Simon's lunch table. Just what I didn't want.

”Hey,” she says. ”Alice, right? I'm so glad I recognize someone here!”