The Symptoms of My Insanity (30 page)

Miss S. sits down on the stool next to me. She reaches her hands up to the top of her head, and then into her pockets, and then claps them together kind of like a seal, which she does when she’s trying to remember something.

“You’re wearing your glasses, Miss S.”

“Ah,” she says, smiling, tapping at her frames, “yes I am. So, can I look at this for a moment with you?”

We take a second and both just stare at my canvas. Then she turns to me.

“I think this is really good, Izzy.” Her voice goes quiet.

I turn to her. “Really?”

“Yes. And it’s not far from being … remarkable.”

“Thanks, it’s … I mean, it’s not finished yet.”

Miss S. glances at my canvas and then back at me again. “You are so good at capturing the shot, you know what I mean? You’re technique iiiiiiis … your brush is like a camera, click, click, click.” She smiles and pushes the shutter down on the air camera she’s holding.

“A camera?” I concentrate on rolling a wad of dried paint between my thumb and forefinger.

Miss S. bends over the table, resting her elbows on it and turning her head to me. “What I’m trying to saaaaaaay … is that this is
really
good work.” She turns her head back to the painting and slowly nods at it, like it just talked to her or something. “She looks liiiike … a perfect snapshot. So … real.”

“Yeah, she does.” I smile, but it feels sad.

“But she’s not, right? Just paint and canvas. I thiiiiiink … that’s one of my favorite things about art. You’re free to move all your snapshots out of thiiiis … reality”—she sweeps her palms across the room—“into this one”—she puts one palm on the top of my chest, the other on my forehead, then presses her hands together with a small smile, and adds, “Thaaaat’s remarkable.”

I nod, staring back at the Mom on my canvas. Then we hear the doorknob make a soft clang as it touches the wall.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, I was—”

“No wooorries … Mr. Hangry, come in.” Miss S. gives my back a quick rub and then heads out through her office.

I tighten my grip on my brush and tell myself that, although tempting, turning around and stabbing Blake’s eyes out with the end of a paintbrush won’t solve anything.

“I thought I’d find you here. We’re on break from rehearsal. Wow, that looks … really good,” he says.

I whip around. “Don’t comment on my painting. You don’t—you don’t know if it’s good or not good.”

“Okay, I know you’re mad. I mean, of course you’re mad, but—”

“I’m not mad. I’m actually just … I thought you were—” He starts to say something but I cut him off. “I thought you were human, when in fact you’re not. You’re spineless. You’re a …
testosteclone,
” I spit out, stealing Jenna’s word, but thinking she’d approve.

“A what?”

“A … a lemming! You’re a lemming!”

“Listen, I want to explain how this all … I mean, it wasn’t supposed to … I didn’t mean for it all to go down like that, and—”

“You didn’t mean for it to ‘go down like that’? Wow, well, that makes everything better. That makes it all okay then.” I turn back to my canvas.

“I’m sorry, okay? I tried to get rid— Listen, I have this plan, this story. I’ll start this rumor that it was just some girl, some girl from Lakewood Prep or something, and—”

“What? No! Please don’t bother.” Ugh, why should I let Blake think he can fix this, that he can just start some rumor, foist it off on some other girl, and make it all okay?

“I’ll handle it, okay?” I say. “I’ll decide what to do. I’ll figure it out.” And I will. I’ve decided. I’m going to just march into Mrs. Preston’s office tomorrow—I’ve already made the appointment—and shout,
“Blake Hangry! Blake Hangry is your man! Punish him, but don’t cancel the dance.”
Then she’s going to look at me and say,
“And how do you know that, Izzy?”
And I’m going to say
“Because it’s me, Mrs. Preston. Boobgirl is me.”
It will be simple enough. Yes. I don’t need Blake to save me from being Boobgirl. Which, the more that I think about it, really seems like a pretty minor problem to have right now.

“No, really, Izzy. I don’t mind.” Blake’s still talking, his voice rising slightly. “I’ll start the rumor about this other girl and then everyone will think—”

“I said don’t bother. You got what you needed, now just … please just leave me alone.”

“Izzy, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want to get involved with you, but I had to. I didn’t want to involve you in any of this, but—”

“Oh, well, I’m so sorry you
had
to get involved with me. I’m sorry you
had
to hang out with me, and lie to me, and use me and—” I cut myself off, bolting across the studio under the guise of needing to fill my tub with more water.

“Come on,” he says, slumping down onto one of the stools. “That’s not what I meant. I like hanging out with you. I wanted to hang out with you. That’s why those guys picked you, because they knew how much—”

“I was
picked
?” I turn back to him, holding my newly filled tub, the water rippling in my shaking hands.

“No! Crap. Yes. Okay, yes, you were, but—”

“What do you mean I was
picked
?” I ask, walking slowly toward him.

“You were, but only because I liked you, that’s why. They knew I liked you, so that’s why they picked you, and I had to get them that picture. But afterward I swear I—” But he doesn’t get to finish. I’m hearing
“had to get them that picture”
and seeing the Rap Room, and my boob, and my sweater, and that cell phone picture—they fill up my whole head. It’s like I’m some sick mental snapshot copy machine spitting out copies and copies of that picture until I can’t see, and the next thing I know Blake is drenched from head to toe in paint water.

“Woo! Way to go, Izzy!” someone shouts. I turn to see Meredith and Cara standing at the studio door, which I realize
now was open. Cara blows her bangs out of her face, takes a sip from the can of pop she’s holding, and remains standing there, gawking at us as if she wants us to push
PLAY
on the movie we’ve paused. Meredith steps in and says, “Why don’t you go clean yourself up, Blake. Not that it would help.”

Blake slowly lifts both arms and runs his hands up his face and then over the top of his head, squeezing the murky water from his hair. Then he stomps his feet on the floor, one after another. But not in an angry way, more like his legs are heavy, like it’s an effort to just pick them up and plunk them back down again.

I’m breathing hard and holding the empty water tub up in the air with one hand, like it’s a gun that accidentally went off. Blake looks like he’s about to say something, but then turns around and walks out of the studio, dripping a trail behind him.

“Listen, um …” My tongue fumbles around in my mouth as I try to say something to the girls, to explain. “I’m turning myself in tomorrow, okay? So … don’t worry about the dance. I—”

“No, no, don’t do that! Why?” Meredith says.

“Totally, don’t do it.” Cara shakes her head back and forth as she starts to mop up the floor with paper towels.

And then the table starts buzzing. I pick up my vibrating phone.

“Pam! Hi, what’s going— What? Right now. Is she—? Uh-huh. Okay, well what should I— Okay, are you sure?
Are you sure I should—? But— Okay. Okay, I will. Thanks. Bye.”

“What’s up?” Meredith asks.

“They’re going to be prepping Mom for surgery, tomorrow night, and then she’s scheduled for the next morning.”

“Oh my God,” Meredith says, taking Cara’s can of pop from her and handing it to me as if it’s a bouquet of flowers. “Are you going down there? You need us to find you a ride?” she asks.

“No, no. Pam said that she’d just be unconscious anyway and it would make more sense to wait to come when she’s … awake,” I explain, taking a sip.

“Well, we can keep you busy at dress rehearsal tonight, get your mind off things,” Meredith says.

“Totally.” Cara bobs her head.

“Oh, I … I really should just stay here and work. I still have a whole new piece I have to start and—” I look down at the puddle of paint water on the floor, feeling my nose tighten, my eyes sting.

“Ugh, Blake is like so the last thing you needed right now,” Meredith says, throwing up her arms. Then she reaches both her hands out to me, and this time, instead of a double shoulder squeeze, she gives me a great big bear hug.

In the movies, when a girl does something like pour a tub of water over a guy’s head, or slap him across the face or something, it’s a happy moment; a moment for the soundtrack to kick in. The music would swell, the girl would nod her head and smile at her posse of friends, and then the film would
freeze on a shot of them all high-fiving as the credits role. Or maybe the girl would be alone, and she’d just look down and smile at the dejected guy, and then saunter away to the theme music, her hips swinging in slow motion.

I’m pretty sure if the movie ended with the girl hugging and crying ugly-face into her ex-best friend’s hair, people would want their money back.

I’m still in the art room, and I’m having a staring contest with a blank canvas.

I decided to start on my last piece, since tonight and tomorrow are maybe all the time I have left. But it’s been over an hour and I’ve done nothing. Absolutely nothing. What a waste.

I pull off my smock and head down the hall toward the back entrance to get some air. The front entrance is closer, but that’s right near the theater and I don’t want to mingle with the dress rehearsal still going on.

Even though I’m in just a thin T-shirt and jeans, it feels good to be outside. Well, for a quick moment at least, until a gust of wind blows by that’s so strong, it zips up and under the bottom of my shirt, making my shoulders shudder.

“You know, it’s winter out here!”

I look up and see Marcus slowly driving up to me from the student parking lot, shouting out his window. He stops in front of me, and leans his head out farther.

“I’m heading to pick up pizza for rehearsal. Wanna ride with me?”

I look toward the back entrance doors and then at Marcus, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, wearing a nervous smile. I walk over to the passenger’s side and get in.

After two minutes of silence mixed with some “Is the heat on too high?” and a little “Feel free to change the radio station,” I start to regret it.

“So …” I finally say. “It’s … freezing out.”

“Yeah,” he says.

And silence.

“My mom’s having surgery, day after tomorrow,” I finally say.

“Oh”—Marcus nearly jerks the car to a stop at a yield sign—“well, that’s great! I mean … that she’s strong enough.”

“Yeah.”

He nods. I nod. Then silence again. We arrive at a red light.

“So listen, Izzy.” He leans forward and turns down the already low radio. Then he kind of laughs and sits back. “I feel like I’m always saying this to you,” he says, looking up at the ceiling of the car and then over at me. “But I’m really sorry. I mean, I’m really sorry I … went off on a tangent about … all that stuff,” he finally gets out, looking back at the road. “It’s just, well … when I’m scared, or when I’m upset about something, I … I find it comforts me to tackle it with … well, the facts, kind of.”

“Okay …”

“Yeah ’cause … you know, with computers, the stuff I do, and science, well for the most part, there’s really not a whole lot of room for … subjectivity. It’s like ‘this’ is the way something is, and ‘this’ is the outcome that will result, because of ‘these’ specific things. Knowing that, having that logistical, uh … structure, makes me feel better. But I didn’t even think about how that might not be, um … the kind of stuff that makes
you
… feel better.”

I nod and tell him that that makes sense, also wondering, what
is
the kind of stuff that makes me feel better?

“And that stuff about your mom and chemicals and …” He accelerates through the green light now. “I just get excited about new things I read and I just ramble. I have this habit of letting whatever’s in my head just pop out before I get a chance to … filter it. And so, sometimes what comes out ends up being … well, being …”

“Hurtful? Rude? Insensitive?” I offer, but with a smile.

“Well”—he smiles back at me—“those weren’t the exact words I was going to use, but, yeah, sometimes. I just … didn’t mean to upset you like that, especially this week.”

“Thanks,” I say as we pull into the Ramano’s parking lot, which is pretty filled up. I offer to run in, so Marcus shrugs off his coat for me to wear and tells me the cash is in the front pocket.

As Vinnie Ramano Junior impressively packages up the three large pizzas, two orders of breadsticks, and liters of pop for me to carry, I think about what Marcus just said, about saying whatever it is that pops into your head without
filtering it first, and what a foreign concept that is for me.

Marcus pulls up the car to meet me and pushes the passenger-side door open. I set the pizzas down on my seat and put the rest of the bags in the back, moving the shopping bags there out of my way and onto the floor.

“You do some recent shopping at Babies in Toyland?” I ask him, putting the warm pizza boxes on my lap and closing the door.

“What?” he pulls out of the lot, his car already fully smelling like garlic and oregano.

“The shopping bag in the back, from Babies in Toyland?”

“Oh, yeah. Yes. I mean, not for me—something I had to pick up for my mom.”

I raise my eyebrows at him.

“No, no, it’s a gift,” Marcus explains, “for our cousin Amy. It’s her birthday next weekend, and so—”

“It’s for Amy’s birthday? Is your cousin … is she having a baby?”

“A baby? Is she
having
a baby? What?” And then Marcus starts laughing so hard, he has to take off his glasses because his eyes are watering.

“Marcus … what’s so funny?”

“Well, my three-year-old cousin having a baby is kind of hilarious. No, actually,” he says, not laughing anymore, “it’s kind of disturbing.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry I thought, I thought we were talking about your other cousin Amy, the older one. I guess on your dad’s side?”