Girl in Reverse (9781442497368) Read Free Page A

for you that you weren’t sick or having . . .” She holds her stomach, cringes, and mouths cramps.
    Is feeling prejudice more pleasant than cramps?
    These are the only conversations I have the whole day except the ones in my head.
    Oh, Patty and Anita, maybe the nurse could medicate you two for your phony sincerity syndromes. You know, the ones you use to hide the fact that you dropped me, the smiles that scream sorority girls and rice girls don’t mix.
    If I had done a handstand on my desk everyone would still have avoided looking at me in social studies. Miss Arth yawn-talks her way through a lecture on the future of the oil industry in America, followed by a Cold War film so dull it shreds itself in the projector.
    Mr. Thorp reads the afternoon announcements— the Student Council Ideals and Ethics Committee meets today. . . . Glee Club will practice its repertoire of religious, popular, and novelty songs for the Brotherhood Week assembly. . . .
    The final bell. The dreaded Monday here and gone.
    *  *  *
    On Wednesday afternoon the art room smells of turpentine and wet clay. It’s big and messy. A freezing draft from outside comes through a ground-level door that isn’t latched tight. Prisms hang in the long windows overlooking the icy track and football field. They cast patches of rainbow across the floor. I shiver, fold my arms. I remember sitting in here last year full of my parents’ assurance that Patty and Anita and I would be fine starting at Wilson High School together. We’d stay loyal and watch out for each other after transferring from Our Lady of Sorrows. We would not become ladies of sorrow ourselves.
    No one would have predicted that the polite, straight-A former Girl Scout Lillian Firestone would become a juvenile delinquent.
    I sign the detention form on the art teacher’s desk and read a list of “Cleanup Procedures” posted on the wall: 1. wipe tables, 2. soak rags and brushes in turpentine, 3. rinse eyedroppers, 4. sort pastels, 5. wash mirrors, 6. alphabetize glazes.
    How would anybody ever know if I just signed in and left?
    On the wall is a diagram showing how to shade a flat two-dimensional circle to create a sphere. Another poster, titled “Principles of Portraiture,” outlines the proportions of the human face. Student self-portraits are tacked to cork strips around the room. They’re terrible! Every one looks like an electrocuted zombie.
    The side door thunks open, followed by a swoosh of freezing air. I wheel around. In sweeps a tall guy with messy brown hair, glasses, and a long coat. Elliot James!
    â€œSelf-portraits are a pain,” he says, tossing me a glance. He flops his portfolio on the table. “Don’t laugh until you’ve tried one.”
    What? “I wasn’t laughing.”
    â€œBut you wanted to,” he says.
    No I didn’t.
    He sits on a stool at a drawing table with photos taped to it. His boots are paint splattered. His knit scarf falls on the floor. “Girls don’t get detentions. What’d you do?”
    I ignore the question, grab a rag, and wipe an arrangement of bottles and shells sitting on a pedestal in front of the window.
    â€œDon’t touch that! It’s a still-life model. You’ll change the shadows. And don’t clean the tables, either. Nobody’ll notice. It’s just stupid crap to make you sorry for what you did.”
    â€œDo you have one too?” I ask.
    â€œOne what?”
    â€œDetention,” I say.
    â€œNo!” Stupid. Stupid. Elliot James is the king of the art room. Of course he doesn’t have an eighth hour.
    â€œYearbook stuff.” He points to his drawing paper. “Caricatures.”
    I must look blank because he says, “You know, caricatures ,drawings where you exaggerate people’s features and personalities.” He waves his pen. “It’s sort of like Chinese calligraphy.