The Fruit of My Lipstick (11 page)

By the time we’d declared a truce, everyone had forgotten about the conversation except me. Because, you know, I’d noticed they didn’t try very hard to disagree with me. They were just being nice. Which made me all the more determined to keep a lock on my lips and give other people a chance to speak up.

My lips had more important things to do, anyway, if you get my drift.

VTalbot
      Still doing business?

Source10
      Yes.

VTalbot
      How do I know you won’t turn me in?

Source10
      I have more to lose.

VTalbot
      Why don’t you use a school ID?

Source10
      See above. What do you want?

VTalbot
      Math final.

Source10
      $1.5K.

VTalbot
      Rory said 1K!

Source10
       Don’t you listen to Curzon? Risk is greater. So is the price.

VTalbot
      :( OK. PayPal?

Source10
      Of course. 24 hours in advance.

ON TUESDAY the gorgeous weather still held, so after classes were over, Lucas and I found a table in the sun in the central quad to study. Since the building shielded us from the wind off the Bay, it felt warm, and the lawn had dried out enough for Maintenance to mow it.

I opened my copy of
The Collected Poems of John Donne
and prepared to do battle with my English paper. We had to choose one of three topics. I’d picked the one that seemed the easiest, but all the same, I was looking at two weeks of screaming mental agony trying to write it. And then there were finals to look forward to. What horrors would the instructor come up with for those?

I’d already asked Lissa to trade me some coaching on the mysteries of seventeenth-century metaphor in exchange for help with memorization of biological processes. I also had to compose a one-minute piece for piano in my Comp class, write a research paper on monotheistic religion in ancient Egypt, and produce another paper on the economics of corn in Brazil for Global Studies.

My whole head hurt just thinking about getting it all done before next Friday.

Somehow, sitting here in the sun with Lucas put it into perspective. I watched him methodically work his way through the word problems the Math instructor had assigned us (which I’d already finished during free period that morning). He had terrific powers of concentration. I decided to follow his example and at least come up with an outline for the Donne paper.

Thirty minutes later, the shadow of the building had crept across the grass and was almost touching us. I had a topic sentence and three possible arguments written in my notebook, which is a miracle no matter how you slice it.

“Thank You, Lord,” I murmured, raising my face to the sun, which would slip below the roof of the building any second now.

“Hm?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to break your concentration.”

“You didn’t.” He stretched. “I need to take a break anyway, before I look at some physics problems my dad sent me.”

Everyone in his life was rallying around him to help get him ready for the Olympiad. An idea popped into my head. I slipped my knotted bracelet with its jade bead off my wrist and handed it to him.

“What’s this?”

“It’s jade,” I said. “It’s supposed to bring luck. You and I both know God’s in charge of that, but my grandpa gave it to me, so it’s kind of special. Keep it until you ace the finals, and every time you look at it, you’ll know I’m rooting for you.”

“Girl stuff,” he mumbled, but he slipped the silk cords over his watch anyway. “Thanks.”

Maybe it wasn’t a promise ring, but if he wanted to wear something that reminded him of me, I was happy.

As he looked up, Vanessa Talbot strolled across the quad in the direction of the dorm wing, looking stunning in an ultrafeminine Nanette Lepore cropped blazer and black jeans. A froth of lace on her camisole just emphasized the fact that she had something to put in it and I didn’t.

Lucas tilted his head, his hand still on my bracelet. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that girl look bad.”

I blinked at him. Again with the Vanessa Watch. “So you said the other day.”

“Did I? Stuff like that looks good on someone as slim as her. You’re all into clothes.” He shook his sleeve down. “What do you think?”

I so did not want to talk about her right after I’d given him something that mattered to me. “I think she got that jacket at Macy’s,” I mused. “I’d pegged her as a Saks girl.”

He gave me a droll look over his glasses. “I have no idea what that means.” His gaze fell to my books. “You wrapping up?”

I shoved Donne and my papers into my backpack. I needed to get out of there before I did something embarrassing, like cry. Which I never do. “I told Lissa I’d give her a hand with Bio at four.”

“Oh, okay. See you at supper.”

He slipped a hand around the back of my neck, under my hair, and pulled me toward him. “Thanks for the good-luck charm.”

“Lucas!” I squeaked, yanking back. “Tobin is standing right over there.”

Had he really intended to kiss me after hurting my feelings like that? In public? Flushed and confused, I swung my backpack to one shoulder and hurried away over the grass.

Obviously he had no idea he’d hurt me. A kiss to say thank you or good-bye was normal. I was the one who was oversensitive and insecure. Everyone knew that guys were visual creatures, and Lucas was a scientist on top of that. He’d just been making an observation, the way he’d done in the dining room on Saturday.

He liked dark-haired girls, that was all. At least I had that going for me. I climbed the stairs, heading for my room, my thoughts building. I dressed as well as Vanessa—when I put my mind to it. So I didn’t have the lips and cheekbones he’d talked about—I couldn’t do anything about that.

But he liked to look at her because she was slim. Self-consciously, I ran a hand over my belly as I let myself into the room. Here was something I could do something about.

Lissa looked up from the books opened on her desk. “Hey. I thought you forgot me.”

I shook my head. “Lucas and I were studying out in the quad. Lissa, do you think I’m fat?”

Her eyes widened. “You? Good grief. Of course not. Why, did someone say you were?”

“The way I eat, I should be.” I patted my stomach. Flat, but not toned. “I’ve got no ab definition. And my butt could probably use some toning, too.”

“Uh, Gillian, in case you didn’t notice, you
have
no butt. For which Carly hates you.”

“But if it was toned, it might make my clothes look better. If I got serious about this, do you think I could lose a size? Maybe two?”

“And do what? Disappear? There’s nothing wrong with how you look. What brought all this on, anyway?”

“Lucas likes thin girls,” I confessed, a little hesitantly.

“He should be happy, then. You’re a thin girl.”

“Not as thin as Vanessa.”

“And we all know he thinks she’s beautiful, despite the fact she’s a piranha.” She waved a hand. “Guys. Even Physics Olympiadans have no brains when it comes to looks.”

“Olympians.”

“Whatever. Don’t worry about what he thinks of her. He’s with you. And he loves your brain. Which puts you, like, eons ahead of unevolved things like piranhas.”

I laughed and got down to business with the drills and the Bio textbook. But in the back of my mind, I wasn’t convinced.

Which is why the next day found me over at the field house, where the class schedules were posted. So what if it was the middle of term? Maybe I could still get into one of them. I scanned the pages pinned to the corkboard.

Soccer. Volleyball. Rowing. Yeah, yeah, I knew about all those.

Water polo. Water aerobics. Hmm. That was a possibility.

Track. Cross-country running. Ugh.

Jazz dance. Ballet. Hip-hop. Possible, but I couldn’t see getting the results I wanted fast enough.

Personal Training: All Levels. Aha. Now we were talking.

I found the trainer, whose ID tag said Maggie Modano and who was built like a fire hydrant, in her office. She waved me in. “And who might you be?”

“Gillian Chang,” I said. “Music scholarship, secondary emphasis in Chemistry and Math.”

“Uh-huh. What can I do for you, Miss Chang?”

“I wondered if it was too late to add a Personal Training session with you.”

She folded her hands across what was no doubt a six-pack abdomen. Not that I wanted to see. “Since the second set of midterms is next week, it’s a little late.”

“I really need to get in shape,” I said a little desperately.

“Music not doing that for you?”

“No.” Then I had a flash of genius. “You’re not regular faculty, right? I could pay you double your going rate.”

She looked me over from head to foot, no doubt noticing the flab under my plaid skirt and white blouse. I sucked in my stomach and straightened up.

“All my other clients have been working out since New Year’s and my Friday schedule’s full. Besides, I don’t think you’re an ideal candidate for what I do, even at twice the price.”

“What does it entail, exactly?”

“It’s like boot camp for your body. Running, aerobics, core work, strength training.”

“I can do that.”

“I’m a demanding trainer. I only work with people who are committed, not people who come in a month into term. Sorry, Miss Chang. No can do.”

“Please,” I begged. “I have to get in shape fast and this is the best way to do it. It’s just for a few weeks. And if I die, it’s my responsibility. No harm, no foul.”

Her gaze didn’t waver as she considered me. “It’s going to hurt.”

“I know.”

“No whining; no complaining.”

“Not a sound.”

“Fine. Mondays and Wednesdays, fifth period. Be ready to work.”

Mondays and Wednesdays. Oh no. That was—

“Dismissed.”

Too late now. I fished my schedule out of my backpack to confirm what my sinking stomach was already telling me. Why hadn’t I looked at it more carefully before I went to find the trainer?

M/W 1:00–1:50 GRAPHIC ARTS

Was I really going to have to give up the one class that made me happiest in order to get thin for Lucas? No, no. There had to be something I could do. Some way around this.

I found Mr. Caldwell, who is young and looks like the Peter Petrelli character in
Heroes
, in the supply room putting the contents of two open UPS boxes on the shelves. Pastels, inks, thick charcoal sticks . . . all the cool stuff I’d never touched before this term because my parents felt anything beyond the barest appreciation of famous dead painters was a waste of learning hours. He looked up as I hesitated in the doorway.

“Gillian. What’s up?”

“Can I talk to you?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind me finishing up.”

“Go ahead.” I stalled. How could I put this? “Um, I’ve got a scheduling conflict for the rest of term, and I’m hoping we can work something out.”

“I’m sure we can. What is it?”

I told him. “So I’m wondering if there’s another section of the class I could take.”

“No, that’s the only one.”

“Well, if I complete all the assignments and get the notes from one of the other kids, could we do it that way?”

He put the last of the supplies away and tossed one of the empty boxes inside the other one. “I’m at a bit of a loss here, Gillian. Why the big rush to get a personal trainer at this point in the term?”

The temptation to lie and say it was on doctor’s orders or something flooded my thinking, but I fought it back. “I’m in terrible shape, and I think fitness training will help.”

“That’s pretty lame.” His glance pinned me like a butterfly on a board. “Fine, if you don’t want to tell me, that’s up to you. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to say no on the plan you’re suggesting. Art isn’t a matter of cribbing notes. It’s a matter of experiencing what you’re taught.”

“But I can experience it. What difference does it make if I’m drawing in the classroom or the dorm room? I’m still doing the work.”

“You can’t telecommute to art class. You have to learn the techniques in a supervised environment. And if you’re going to produce a piece for your final at the end of March, you’ll need the techniques we’ll be going into during these next weeks.”

I stared at him, unwilling to admit defeat. “Is there no way we can work this out? You know I love your class.”

He nodded. “But for some reason, you love something else more. Which is entirely your business.” He paused a moment. “There’s one thing I can do. I can give you an Incomplete instead of an F. That way, you can take the class again during spring term and it won’t count against your GPA.”

An Incomplete! Dad would have a pink furry
fit.

And yet . . . a vision of Lucas looking at me the way he looked at Vanessa Talbot blotted out the thought of my father’s incredulous face.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

VTalbot
      I want to know who you are.

Source10
      No can do.

VTalbot
      A man of mystery.

Source10
      Or woman.

VTalbot
      Student or staff?

Source10
      What do you think?

VTalbot
      Student. Junior or senior, no lower.

Source10
      Correct.

VTalbot
      Ha! I knew it. Blond or dark?

Source10
      Both.

VTalbot
      Ooh. I like that.

Source10
      They told me you were a flirt.

VTalbot
      You think I’m flirting?

To: All Students

From: NCurzon©spenceracad.edu

Date: March 2, 2009

Re: Junior class finals

A few weeks ago I notified you that exam answer sheets were being distributed for payment among students. We have investigated several leads, but as yet have been unsuccessful in identifying the student who is behind this fraudulent activity. During this last round of midterms, however, we found several students in possession of purchased answer sheets. They have accepted failing grades for those exams.