The Symptoms of My Insanity (22 page)

“Yes, please!” I say, and soon she gently takes hold and helps me flip it around to its unfinished side.

“Thanks,” I sigh, smiling. I’m grateful to see Ina smiling back and that the color has fully returned to her face since Friday’s disaster.

“What are you doing here now?” I call out to her as she disappears behind her project rack.

“I need to snap some quick pictures so I can work tonight from home.”

“Oh. Pictures of …”

“New version of the sculpture,” she calls back to me.

“Oh,” I say again, then pause and look over in her direction again. “Ina, I’m still … I just want you to know that I’m still really sorry about what happened last week.”

“Yeah.” I hear her sigh. “Thanks. I know it wasn’t fully your fault. Well, anyway, it was very unfortunate. Yes.”

“Yeah.” What else can I say? I join her at her table to get a good look at this new sculpture, my eyes widening. “Wow. You kept it! You kept it? How did you …? That is very cool.”

“Yes, I fished through and saved most of my pieces. I spent the weekend completely reinventing.”

“Wow.” I walk around it to get the full effect. The sculpture’s still really intricate, but it almost looks animated now, like you’re watching it break in slow motion. “You know, I actually … I think I like this version even better,” I say, and then back out of her way as she starts to snap pictures at different angles.

“I’m adding some media now of its different stages so people can experience the journey of it. Well, that is my hope, at least.”

“That’ll be awesome.” I look back at my map, feeling inspired. Ina looks over at it too.

“Your whole portfolio, is it a Darfur theme or just this piece?”

“Oh. Well, no, I think this is just going to be for the dance decoration. It’s not—” But I cut myself off. Could this be part of my Italy portfolio? The more work I do on it, the
more I like it. I’d have to step up my technique a little, but it might work. I look back at Ina. “Well … I’m not sure about this one yet, but … yeah, this is my only Darfur-themed piece.”

We work quietly side by side at our tables for a couple minutes, me mixing paint for the last area of what might be a portfolio-worthy sculpture, and Ina finishing up her photo shoot. A little while later, as she’s on her way out the door, she stops and says, in her closed-mouth way, “Oh and Izzy, your hair looks nice, very sleek now. I like.”

“Thanks,” I say as my phone starts beeping in my bag.

It’s a text from Mom.

Remember to call me before AND after rehearsal. Come right home after!

I deflate a little. Not even a “thanks for breakfast” or a “sweetie” or anything. Mom was still sleeping by the time I got up this morning. She’s usually showered, dressed, and made up by then, but I decided not to wake her and instead left a warm cinnamon roll and some eggs in the oven with a Post-it on the oven door:
Breakfast! :) Sorry again about this weekend. Love you, Izzy
.

Not that I thought some lousy eggs and a note would smooth things over, but … I don’t know.

Allissa was kind of right about Mom’s mood, though—it did improve once we got her inside a mall on Sunday. Sort of. She was like a mom Jekyll and Hyde. One moment smiling and laughing with Allissa and the next completely Grandma Iris–ing out on me.

I spent most of the time sitting in a swizzle chair getting attacked by a razor-blade-wielding man in a hot-pink turtleneck sweater who kept saying, “Texturizing layers, giving her the texturizing layers.”

I actually don’t hate my new haircut. It’s not mullet-like or poodle-like, which are two of my biggest haircutting fears. Mom certainly loved turtleneck man’s work too. In fact, that was the one time she smiled at me all day—when I answered “I like it” after she asked what I thought of my new hair.

I read Mom’s text again and sigh. She’s right to be angry. Sneaking out to go to a lame party, such an idiotic move. I check my new messages one last time—no new texts or calls from Blake since Saturday. Either he’s not in school today or he’s doing a really great job avoiding me. Jenna’s not doing so great a job since we practically collided with each other on my way to Spanish this morning. She bolted off fast as soon as I was tackled by Meredith, though, gushing apologies about getting me in trouble and then ogling my new haircut for five minutes.

I put my phone back in my bag and then hear someone coughing. I whip around to see Marcus standing at the door. It’s great to see him until I remember that no, maybe it’s not.

“Hey, can I … can I come in?”

“Yeah, come in. It’s not my own private studio or anything.”

“No I know, I just didn’t want to interrupt or …”

“No, it’s fine, come in,” I repeat.

He walks over to my table and then sets down the paper shopping bag he’s carrying with a thud.

I lean forward to peer inside.

“Some of my dad’s medical journals,” he explains. “Thought you’d like them.”

“Oh.” I nod. “Thanks.”

“So listen,” he starts, looking down at the floor, and then across the room at the plaster-dust-covered window. “I’m sure you’re still upset about what I said the other day when I implied that you might be … focused on being sick because of your mom. You know … because of your mom … being—”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I say, feeling annoyed already, and then more annoyed because I don’t
want to
feel that way around Marcus.

“No, I know, it’s just that sometimes when people think they’re sick, or want to be sick if somebody they love is—”

“I don’t want to be sick.”

“No, no, of course not.”

“You think I want to be sick?” Now I’m looking at him.

“No, sorry … I just … I just want to apologize and here I am sticking my foot further into my mouth … again. No, I just wanted to say that …” He sighs and leans back against a stool. “I’m sorry about Friday, about making fun of those glasses.”

“Oh. Well, thank you. I … I probably overreacted anyway, so …”

“No, no you were right. It
is
stupid not to be open-minded
and I tend to not be … about some things, but”—he’s pacing around the table now—“anyway, it was insensitive of me to— And I just didn’t mean to make you feel bad …” He stops walking around the table and turns to finally look at me. “Oh wow, that looks… Izzy, that looks really good.” He comes closer so that I get a whiff of his fresh-soap-boy smell.

“Thanks. I’m not done yet but, yeah, I think it’s getting there, and—”

“No, I meant … your hair. You got it cut? It looks … it looks really good.”

“Oh.” I clutch at my new layers. “Thanks.”

“But yeah … no, the sculpture looks really awesome too. You’ve … um, changed it?” Now he’s smiling. And it’s not his usual nervous smile or the way he smiles when he laughs, but like this nice, face-perfectly-still, slow-growing smile that makes him look kind of older, like handsome.

“Yeah.” I nod, then Marcus points to a section of the map and just says, “So … green.”

“What?”

“Green … um, it’s … a good color.” He gestures to that part of the map again.

“Oh. I guess so, yeah.”

“No, I mean, it’s supposedly one of the most cleansing colors.”

I look at the sculpture, and then back at him, getting it. “Yeah, I know.”

“Yeah, green is supposed to be good for the pituitary glands and it’s supposed to aid in healing infections and
rebuilding cells. In fact, there was study in 1978 at this hospital in Georgia and—”

“Okay”—I laugh—“apology accepted.”

“Good,” he says, still smiling. “Now on to the good news. How would you like to retake your bio quiz?”

“Unghh, yeah right. And what would be the point?”

“I could help you study, for real this time. You need to get your grade up to, what? At least a B, right?”

“Yeah to be eligible for Italy, but Mr. Bayer’s not just going to let me—”

“No, see, I was actually talking to him this morning about some of the students who aren’t doing so well.”

“Oh. And … ?”

“I mean, obviously I can’t just give you special treatment, but I made a case for some others too who might just need some more … attention and—”

“Did you get Bayer to waive that grade? Can I really retake it?”

“Well, he usually only allows study makeups or extra credit for anything below a C minus”—Marcus’s smile is getting wider and wider as he talks—“but I got him to include you too so, yes, you can retake it.”

“That’s great, thank you!” I reach out, giving Marcus a hug, which I don’t even realize I’m doing until my arms are already around his neck.

“You’re welcome,” he breathes out, right into my ear, and I smell that fancy soap again.

“Wait!” he says as I start to pull back. “I think you’re stuck.”

“What? Oh, sorry!” Some of my newly texturized hair is caught in that sliver of a space where the stems of his glasses meet the frames. “Should I um …” I shift a little to the left and feel my hair pull on my scalp. “Ow!”

“Wait, wait, maybe if we, ah …” Marcus gingerly takes off his glasses and leans away, just a little bit, though, since we’re still connected.

“I don’t want to just pull it,” he says.

“Yes, no please, don’t ruin my perfect hair.” I grimace-laugh. Marcus cracks a small smile.

“There!” I say, grabbing the strands near the end and yanking them free. Then I step back a little, realizing that although we were no longer attached, I was still standing close.

“So …” Marcus picks out the severed strands and puts his glasses back on. “Anyway, we can find a time to study soon if you …” And then he’s looking over my head at the door. “Hangry,” Marcus says, and the tone of his voice changes to its
hello, good-bye, nice to see you
mode.

“Oh,” Blake says, looking at Marcus now. “Sorry, did I interrupt something?”

“No!” we both kind of say at the same time.

“I was just leaving.” Marcus nods at me, looks at Blake, and then slowly makes his way to the door.

“So hey.” Blake walks over to my table and stands, shifting his weight from one sneaker to the other, not saying anything else.

“Hey. So you’re talking to me now? I exist?” I ask, surprised at my sudden nerve.

“No. I mean yeah. Crap.” He drops his backpack on the table. “Um … listen … Izzy … Izzy …” He repeats my name like it’s his word at the spelling bee.

“Yes?”

“I know … I should have called or something after the museum, and then I was totally thrown when I saw you at the party. I mean I knew I would see you. I just … I don’t know what I was thinking—it was like I was brain dead or something. And I … well … anyway I [mumble, mumble, mumble],” he says, his voice lowering so far, I can’t make out anything.

“What?”

“I got you something,” he says a little louder, quickly reaching into his backpack to pull out a book, which he sets on the table like he’s serving me dinner.

I look down and see
Roriago Revealed
.

“They sell them in the gift shop. I tried to get it signed, but she wouldn’t … stop playing Mad Catter, so … There’s pictures in it too,” he adds.

I glance up at his face. “Wow, thanks,” I say, taking the book and flipping through it. And then Blake asks if we can go somewhere to talk that’s not right in the middle of the studio.

“Where?” I ask as I start to put away my supplies.

“Follow me,” he says.

I carefully, and somewhat reluctantly, cover up my map and follow him out of the studio.

I should be back at the library right now. But I’m not. I’m not anywhere near the library. I’m all the way across the school in the Rap Room. The Rap Room, the place where kids are supposed to go to “rap out their problems” with our guidance counselor, Mr. Seel. But Mr. Seel is out for the afternoon. Instead I’m here. With Blake. Alone.

We’re sitting on the Rap Room futon surrounded by plush pillows. There are posters on the badly painted orange walls with pictures of kids hanging out and doing what all teenagers do: picking up litter at state parks, ladling soup into bowls at homeless shelters, volunteering at nursing homes. There’s also one of those charts, where you’re supposed to indicate how you feel based on how sad or happy the cartoon faces look. They’re numbered from ten down. Number ten is a smiley face with stars for eyes and number one is a frowny face with moons for eyes and lots of tears.

“This place is supposed to be locked when Mr. Seel is out, but it’s always open,” Blake is telling me, picking up one
of the pillows and tossing it quickly back and forth in his hands.

“Cool …” I’m trying not to lean too far back on the couch so my head won’t touch the pillows, which probably haven’t been washed since 1982. I read this article once about a really deadly fungus—the kind that lives in dirty pillows—called Asparagus Fume or something, I forget the exact name, but it killed all these people. Okay, the people the fungus killed were already suffering from leukemia, but I don’t want to take any chances.

“So listen, I’m … I want to just say …” Blake stands up and starts to circle the floor, erratically picking up Rap Room objects, carrying them with him as he circles, and then randomly putting them down again. “… I’m sorry about the way the day ended on Saturday. I totally … I feel like, I made you uncomfortable. And … you know, I guess I was pissed at myself, just for being … because I like you. I like you a lot. That’s the thing. I do. So … that’s why this whole thing just totally sucks, you know?”

“Wait—what whole thing? You mean—”

“No I meant … me just messing it all up.” He falls back onto the couch, not looking at me.

“You didn’t mess it all up.”

“I didn’t?” he asks.

“No.” I turn toward him, putting my hand on his arm, stopping him from compulsively zipping the futon cover open and closed. “I mean, I was a little uncomfortable, yeah, but not because of … well, not because of you. Just because
it was so, you know, public. You didn’t mess it all up.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“And I’m sorry about the party. I didn’t mean to ignore you. And I feel so crappy about that. I really should have just … spoke!”