The Symptoms of My Insanity (16 page)

Great. Nate Yube just stole Mom’s color therapy glasses and completely ruined what could have been a potentially good Blake moment. Maybe Blake would have stopped to talk to me, asked me to the dance. Now I kind of hope he does punch Nate.

I put my Spanish books in my bag, hoping Nate’s at least passed the package to Jacob. That way I can steal it back when Señora Claudia is eclipsed by her huge sombrero in Spanish. Yes, I’ll steal my glasses back, I’ll talk to Meredith about using her photos, and then all I have to do
is get through bio before I can be in the studio again.

I can’t wait to show Miss S. what I did this morning—note to self: Buy Cara new nail polish—and the map too. If I work fast enough I can finish the sculpture, and maybe even get started on something new for my portfolio.

I re-secure my fragile neti pot between a couple binders and gently slam my locker shut, slumping against it. I need to get those glasses back. I spent way too much money on them, and I’m pretty sure WearapyTherapy.com doesn’t give full refunds.

•   •   •

In the studio, I’m suddenly seized with a sharp pain in my right butt cheek and I shoot up from my seat. The wooden center of my stool is embedded with glued-on macaroni shells. Cute in the projects the elementary school kids do here on weekends, but lethal at the wrong angle. I switch out my stool and study the bits of mirror in the patterns I’ve laid out on the table.

“That is looking really great.” Ina Lazebnik ambles in, her ventriloquist mouth smiling as she passes my table and heads over to the pottery rack.

“Thanks.” I smile back my first real smile since Spanish this morning and shift onto my macaroni-less stool.

I forgot today was cultural immersion day in Spanish. So instead of getting to talk to Meredith about the photos or stealing my package back from Jacob, I had to sit there and listen to music while Señora Claudia danced and translated lyrics
that had verb tenses way above our comprehension level. Then in bio we got our quizzes back and I got a C minus. Which is basically a D. Marcus gave me pained look when he handed it back to me and offered to help me study again at rehearsal today. Which I think is futile, but nice of him.

“So close, yet so far away,” Ina closed-mouth mutters to herself as she cautiously places her latest piece on the table.

“Wow, that looks amazing,” I tell her, because it really does. She’s been working for the past two weeks on this really awesome clay sculpture with this crazy intricate etched-in pattern.

I study my almost dried papier-mâché map that I fleshed out this morning and sigh.

“Izzy, Izzy, listen to this!” Meredith and Cara giggle their way into the studio and throw their stuff down on my table, almost disturbing my mirror chip patterns.

“Do it!” Meredith prompts Cara, who then sighs and starts full-out singing the chorus to one of the songs we were listening to in Spanish.

Okay, watching Cara dance and sing off key in a terrible Spanish accent doesn’t totally lift my mood, but it does make me laugh a little.

“Doesn’t she sound just like the recording?” Meredith laughs.

“That’s amazing,” I say, shaking my head, while Ina closed-mouth chuckles.

“What’s all this?” Meredith asks, getting her supplies out and eyeing my map and mirror fragments.

“It’s just for the dance—I’m helping my mom with decorations, and … well, actually… I know Marcus is helping you do something digital for your final project, but since you have so many photos … are you using them all, or—”

“Oh, no way. I’m picking a couple photos and will”—she riffles through her notebook and reads back—“‘will employ one to two techniques on each, or tie them together in a thematic way.’”

“Hm.” I nod. “Do you think I could … maybe use some of the rest? I’d give you photography credit, of course, and—”

“You’d make them part of your painting?”

“No, actually, it’s for this … sculpture for the dance and—”

“Oh, cool. Yeah, that would be awesome!”

“Oh. Okay, great. Can I copy them to my drive?”

“Totally.” Meredith whips out her laptop and I grab my thumb drive.

Meredith cheerfully chats to me as the pictures are being copied to my drive. She’s going on and on about which of them she likes best and is telling me how excited she is to be part of one of my art projects, “even thought it’s just dance decorations,” and then she tells me how much she’s always liked my stuff.

“What? Really?” I look up at her from the computer.

“Yeah. I remember in like third grade when we had to draw our self-portraits in crayon or something, and yours actually looked like you.”

“What?” I stare back at her, trying to remember.

“Yeah! Remember? And Miss Middlesrat was like, ‘Everybody come look at what Izzy did!’ and I was thinking, ‘That’s my best friend, she’s going to be in museums, so get her autograph right now.’”

“You did not think that,” I say, my morning smile returning again.

“Oh before I forget, let’s go over a game plan for tomorrow. Ryan’s got his dad’s van, so he’s driving. He’s picking me up around the corner from your house around nine, so I figured if you’ll be on the lookout—”

“Well, I was thinking of actually going now … to the party, if that’s okay,” I add.

“Oh, cool! Yeah, that’s so great.” Meredith claps her hands under her chin. “Okay, well, then we’re going to have to re-strategize.”

“Wait, what do you mean?”

“Well, the party is actually not at Phil’s house anymore. It’s at his cousin Steve’s fraternity, so it won’t really get started until later, but that’s okay, because—” And Meredith starts to go over our new plan of action, and I’m fully nodding along but only half listening, thinking,
Oh God, a frat house
. Not that it’s a big deal or anything. It’s just that, so far, I’ve yet to actually attend an official frat party. It’s one thing just sneaking out to go to Cara’s brother’s Phil’s regular house. But now I’m sneaking out to go to a total stranger’s frat house. People go to frat houses to drink and have sex. I don’t drink, and Blake and I have only driveway-kissed. Plus, I have no desire to be in a
Babes Gone Bananas
video.
Not that there would be skeezy
Babes Gone Bananas
people in Ann Arbor at this particular frat party, on this particular weekend. But what if I somehow end up flashing a video camera? My mom would officially disown me for the rest of my life. Well, first she would disown me for sneaking out.

Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

“Helloooooooo … ladies.” Miss S. circles our table. “Everything going okaaaay … ?”

“Uh-huh, yeah, totally,” Cara says, while Meredith confirms it with a nod and goes back to her photography notes.

“Ooooh, and what’s this little mirror medleyyyyy … ?” Miss S. circles my table, her pupils dilating as if they’re literally absorbing what they’re seeing. “And a new sculpture? Aaaaand … some multi-mediaaaaaa …” she adds, noting the open laptop.

“Oh, well, actually this is for the Dance for Darfur. For the decorations.”

“Mmmm,” Miss S. muses, her eyebrows shifting down and then up again.

“Yeah, my mom—she’s on the planning committee—she wanted some kind of sculpture. It’s going to be for the entryway. Actually, I had this idea yesterday to—”

“I seeeee …” Miss S. cuts me off as she curls her lips inward the way she does when she’s problem-solving or when it takes extra effort to be constructive.

Wow, her lips are tucked in so far right now that it looks like there’s an incision where her mouth should be. That’s not good.

“Weeeeeell …” she finally sighs, “I think it’s great that you’re helping out your mooooooom … This dance is important, I knoooow, but Izzy”—she says my name in this “I don’t know” tone—“I’m a little concerrrrned … about your priorities.”

“Oh.”

“It’s just that we’re heading towaaaaaard … this deadline and you still have hooooow … many full pieces to do?”

“Three,” I mumble.

“Yes, well, I think it best to not work on dance de-coooooor … during studio time, yes?”

“Yes, of course. I can … I can do this on my own time. Yes. Sorry.”

“Good.” She places a hand flat on my arm, drumming her long fingers across my shoulders. “No worries now, loosen the chest, loosen it all, and deeeeep breath, remember? Stay loooose …” she reminds me.

I nod and start to take a breath as Miss S. sway-walks over to the other side of the studio. But it’s not a good, loose, deep breath. I don’t let the air flow to all my muscles the way Miss S. always tells me I should. I gulp the air down instead, thinking about how I just lied.

I just lied to Miss S. because I can’t do this dance map sculpture thing on my own time, because I don’t have any of my own time. I have Jenna-time for play rehearsal, Mom-time for getting the attic together, Mom-time for designing and selling dance tickets, Mom-time for doing medical research and reading everything I can—most of it going over
my head—about the stomach muscle and all the things that can wrong with it, and—

I rapidly start picking up my bits of mirror, putting them piece by piece back into my plastic supply bin. And if I don’t have any of my own time now, I definitely won’t have any of it going forward either. I clear the last pattern of mirror shards off the table. Especially if everything I’m reading turns out to be true, if Mom really hasn’t gotten that much better from last summer. If maybe she’s even gotten worse.

I seal up my storage bin and shove it underneath the table, using my knees to push it farther back and out of sight. My mental snapshots from last summer are back now, mechanically moving through my head like a kid’s View-Master. All that sick-Mom-time, click. All that me-not-working-on-my-portfolio-time, click, click, click.

I can’t believe I was willing to spend the one official portfolio hour I have today to work on dance decorations for my mother. My mother, who blatantly lies to my face, and who will probably hate this whole sculpture anyway. Or ask me to make what she thinks is a one-minute change, but that will probably take me eight hours.

I rise up from under the table and stare down at my map sculpture. I stare and gulp down three more breaths, feeling anything but loose. In fact, the more I stare at that stupid map, the tighter every single muscle in my body feels. Which is probably why my hands immediately clench and clamp down onto the edge of the table when I hear Jacob Ullman’s repulsive seagull laugh. I grind my fingers into the
table, trying to ignore that honking, throaty sound. But then I can’t help it and turn my head because it’s not just Jacob laughing, it’s a whole table of boys and they’re all—

Oh my God. The whole table of 101 boys are all wearing my mom’s color therapy glasses.

I snap my head back around fast, my forearms aching from gripping the table so hard. Then I slowly pivot my body back around so I can sneak a look at the boys.

Yup, there they all are, all seven colored lenses. If they weren’t
my
stolen glasses, if they weren’t meant for very important medical purposes, then I guess a ROYGBIV spectrum of boys engaging in an unintentional color therapy session in the art room would be kind of funny. Which I guess is why Robert Stern laughs as he walks by and asks what’s going on.

“Izzy got these for us,” Nate replies, taking off his indigo pair, and reading the little card attached to the frame. “These are supposed to aid in ‘sinus and pituitary gland function.’” He strokes his chin with his fingers, feigning an “I’m impressed” face.

“What?” Robert snorts. “Lemme see.”

“Okay, ha-ha, very funny, Nate.” I hope I sound casual. “Just give them back to me.”

“Oh my God, what are they wearing?” Meredith giggles in my direction but then stops when she sees my face.

“They’re mine. Nate stole them from me this morning,” I say, trying to hold it together. “They’re for my mom. They’re really expensive and—”

“Give them back, asshats!” Meredith turns to the table.

“Relax, Meredith.” Jacob seagull-laughs at her, and then makes a fist with his hand, moving it back and forth toward and away from his face. “I miss you,” he adds, making the rest of the table laugh even harder.

“You wish,” Meredith snaps at him, the color draining from her cheeks a little, but her voice getting louder.

“Just give them back,” I say, louder now, riding on Meredith’s energy.

“Okay, okay.” Nate laughs and then throws the pair of indigo glasses at us. I follow their trajectory as they fly past Meredith and me, landing on the floor next to the table behind us, skidding a little, then coming to rest still in one piece. I sigh. And then a second later, Roopa Sheti walks through the tables holding a canvas over her head and steps right on them, shattering both lenses and the frames as well.

“Jesus, what the—” She looks around, annoyed.

I stare at the crushed pile of indigo. Then every muscle in my body tightens together like I’m some kind of human spring being pushed all the way down, and then suddenly—“Give me my glasses! Give them back!”—I release, springing at the table of boys, barreling toward Jacob Ullman and trying to snatch my red lenses right off his face. But Jacob manages to get up and books it away from the table, his seagull laugh ringing.

I chase him around the table, reaching out my arms. All I can see is Jacob Ullman and my red glasses. And then—

CRASH.

It’s the first time I’ve seen Ina Lazebnik’s mouth open so wide to speak. Except she’s not really speaking, she’s just swearing, and now … crying.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,” Jacob repeats to her, his voice going soft.

I rush up to them both, stopping at Ina’s broken sculpture on the floor.

“I’m so sorry. I’m … I’m so, so, sorry.” I don’t know what else to say, so I bend down to help her pick up the pieces.

“No, don’t! I got it.” She shakes her head at me, sniffling, and shooing me away.

“Oooooh, oooooh.” Miss S. rushes over to us. She picks up one of the clay pieces and cradles it in her hands like a small, wounded animal. She puts one arm around Ina, and then turns to Jacob and me, her hazel eyes hard.

“It was an accident,” Jacob mumbles, relinquishing the red lenses to the tabletop.