"Thanks," I said. I was really proud of the curtains; I'd drawn just the edges and a few lines to indicate folds; I wanted the fabric to seem material but weightless.

She handed back the sketch and put her hands together in front of her chin, tapping her index

fingers against her lips. "Lucy, do you know Francesco Clemente?"

Ms. Daniels and I have talked a lot about different artists we like, but I'd never heard of

Clemente. I was tempted to pretend I knew who he was so I wouldn't

13

disappoint her, but at the last second I changed my mind. I mean, what if he wasn't even an

artist? What if he was the Prime Minister of Spain or something?

I shook my head. "Who is he?"

She wrapped her long hair into a loose bun at the base of her neck. "He's an artist here in New

York," she said. "His stuff is just extraordinary. It actually reminds me of Picasso's later work.

All that talent and joy." She slipped a pencil through the bun to hold it in place. "He has a

retrospective at the Guggenheim. You should check it out."

I wondered if she'd told anyone else about his show or just me. Since January I'd wanted Ms.

Daniels to think my work was somehow special. Was this the sign I'd been waiting for? Without

my even being conscious of it, I felt the corners of my lips edging upward, something that hadn't

happened in a long, long time. It was sort of a miracle my smile muscles hadn't atrophied.

Thinking out loud, I said, "Maybe I'll go." I could ask my dad if he wanted to go, too. Of course that meant I couldn't go this Saturday. This Saturday had been reserved by Mara to be spent in

pursuit of her own personal holy grail: the late American-Victorian breakfront without which the

front hallway looks, and I quote, "as if nobody loves it!"

"Clemente's painting is just thrilling," Ms. Daniels said. "And I think you'll find it particularly interesting in terms of the direction your art is taking."

My art was taking a direction?

14

"Sounds amazing," I said, making the decision to go right then and there. "I won't miss it.

Thanks."

I thought Ms. Daniels's compliment would at least carry me through the week, but no sooner had

I pushed open the door to the cafeteria than the chill of social exile penetrated the warm fuzzy

feeling I'd gotten talking to her. I bought a turkey sandwich and grabbed a chair at an empty table

where someone had left today's sports section. Reading about basketball might have cheered me

up if there hadn't been a front-page article about how the Lakers were guaranteed to lose to

Chicago tonight. My dad grew up in L.A., and I was born there. So even though I've lived most

of my life in San Francisco, I'm a huge Lakers fan. As if the gloomy article wasn't bad enough,

who should decide to sit in the empty seats just down the table from me but Jessica and Madison.

"Okay, can I just show you the bear?" asked Madison. "Because you're going to die! " I glanced over at them. Madison's subtly highlighted hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and her lips

were a plummy color I knew even my stepsisters would approve.

Jessica finished ripping the foil off her yogurt and looked up at Madison. "Give," she said,

reaching out her hand and wiggling her fingers.

Madison looked like she was about to explode with happiness as she handed Jessica the bear.

"You have to squeeze it," Madison explained.

15

Jessica squeezed the bear, which announced, "I love you."

Madison gave a little cry of excitement, like she'd been waiting an eternity for just such a

confession from this particular bear. "I know it's completely dumb," she said. "But it's so cute."

"You guys are nauseating," said Jessica, but she said it in a nice way, like she didn't really mind having a friend who was one half of a nauseating couple.

"Thanks," said Madison. "I was telling him that since it's our three-month anniversary, he

should--" Suddenly she pointed across the cafeteria. "Hey," she shouted. Then she started waving her arms. I glanced in the direction she was waving and saw Matt and Dave, Madison and

Jessica's boyfriends, walking toward the table we were all sitting at.

With them was Connor Pearson.

I stared at him as he crossed the room. It was like my eyes were acting of their own accord; they

couldn't not admire Connor's long legs and broad shoulders, his graceful, athlete's walk. And

who could blame them? If Michelangelo's David strolled out of L'Academia wearing a Glen

Lake High School Basketball jacket, you'd stare, too.

When the guys got to the table, Madison jumped up and gave Matt a PG-defying kiss. As if

inspired by their peers' passion, Jessica and Dave started making out with equal, if imitative, lust.

16

Finally Madison pulled away and slapped Matt on the upper arm. "I hate Matt," she said in a

little girl voice.

"Whoa," he said, mock rubbing his arm. "What's that for?"

"For watching the game with these guys tonight instead of seeing a movie with me," she said.

"Matt. Is. A. Jerk." She pounded him on the chest with each word.

"You don't understand," Dave explained to Madison as Matt warded off her blows. "This is

going to be the game. L.A.'s going down." He and Matt high-fived.

And then, out of nowhere, as if support for the home team is some kind of autonomic response, I

muttered, "Yeah, right."

As soon as I realized what I'd done, I tried to focus my eyes on my paper, like the words I'd

spoken had been elicited not by my eavesdropping but by something I'd read. Only it was too

late. Dave, Matt, Connor, Jessica, and Madison were all staring at me as if I were a piece of

furniture that had suddenly been given the power of speech.

"Are you crazy?" said Dave. "Did you see the way Chicago played last night?"

I gave up trying to avert my eyes and looked at him. "How'd they play?" I asked. "The Lakers'

two best players were out and the ref called five totally insane fouls. Chicago was handed the

game."

17

"Handed the game?" Dave was practically choking with indignation. He dropped his arm from Jessica's shoulders. "Did you see that three-pointer at the buzzer? Did you?"

"I saw it," I said.

"Then what are you talking about?" He reached out like he wanted to shake me.

"Hey, easy there, man," Connor said, grabbing Dave's arm and holding on until he dropped it

back to his side.

Dave and I kept glaring at each other, but if the only thing rattling Dave was my saying Chicago

was going down, I was freaking about way more than that. Speaking without being spoken to

constituted a major social taboo.

I was royally screwed.

Just as Jessica opened her mouth to say something to me (no doubt along the lines of, Shut up,

Freak!), Connor let go of Dave's arm and turned in my direction. "Sorry about that," he said.

"The D-Man gets a little passionate about Chicago."

And then he winked at me.

Connor Pearson winked at me.

Everyone saw it, too, and I felt myself getting warm. "Yeah, sure," I stuttered. "Don't worry about it."

Jessica shut her mouth and turned away. Because when Connor Pearson winks at someone, that