Ana of California (21 page)

“Okay,” Ana said, detecting a mood, understanding why Cole might need the escape. “Can I talk to you for a moment, while you're cooking?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“It's about my art class.”

Abbie sighed and put down the spoon. “I completely forgot to ask how your first day went. I'm all over the place
tonight. Tell me everything.” She put a lid on the stew pot and leaned against the counter.

“It was fine except—”

“Was Mrs. Molloy still in the front office?”

“She was.”

“Ah, the Iron Lady! She was there when Emmett and I were in school. What about English? Who's your teacher?”

“Ms. Gregg. Do you know her?”

“Don't think so.”

“She seemed kind of youngish.”

“Then I definitely don't know her.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

“Didn't take it like that. My English teacher is probably dead. If my prayers have been answered.”

Ana laughed, a release of tension built up from the day.

“She was the worst,” Abbie continued. “Everyone called her the Succubus. She used to drink from a Shakespeare goblet we all knew was filled with vodka. She sometimes fell asleep on the desk.”

“Drama.”

“I know. Put me on the spot once too, made me recite something from
Hamlet
like I didn't understand it.”

“What did you do?”

“I performed the ‘To be or not to be' speech in its entirety.”

“No way!”

“It's the only thing I've ever memorized. I'm a sucker for tortured souls with daddy issues.”

“Who isn't?” Ana said. “So, the rest of my classes were normal, except for art, which I wanted to talk to you about . . .”

“What about it?”

“Why did you and Emmett cancel it without telling me?”

“What are you talking about?” Abbie said, untying her apron and taking out some bowls.

“I got my schedule this morning,” Ana continued, “and it said I had independent study, not art. I asked Principal Tucker and he said he talked to you and Emmett and that someone had suggested I needed a study hour more than art class.”

Abbie set the bowls on the table with a clunk, her head dropping back as if she were about to scream through the ceiling.

“I'm going to school with you in the morning,” Abbie said, as she began ladling the stew into bowls.

“You are?”

“You will be in that art class. Tucker owes me one. And now so does Emmett.”

“I didn't mean—”

“‘To take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them'!” Abbie said, flinging stew at the pale pink rhododendron print on the wall. “Men. To hell with all of 'em.”

T
he meeting lasted minutes. Ana waited on one of the plastic chairs just outside the office, jiggling one leg over the other as she watched Mrs. Molloy perform her shuffling papers routine behind the front desk. The door opened and Abbie walked out, followed by Principal Tucker. They shook hands before Mr. Tucker made an awkward hand gesture that was somewhere between “I love you” and “rock and roll” as Abbie headed straight for the door. Mr. Tucker beamed as he scanned her from her tousled hair all the way down to the only skirt Ana had ever seen Abbie wear.

“Done deal,” Abbie said once they were out of the office.

“I'm in?”

“You're in.”

“How did you do it?”

“Let's just say Tucker and I go way back. I know what I'm doing,” she said to Ana with a wink. “He said you have to keep your grades up with your work schedule and that he
couldn't wait to see your artistic genius. I talked you up a bit, all of it true.”

“It's a miracle. Thank you,” Ana said, wanting to hug Abbie but deciding against it. “I should get to class. You heading back to the farm?”

“No,” Abbie said, unconsciously smoothing down her skirt. “The Bracken—Will's café. He's testing a couple of brunch recipes and invited me to a tasting. It's important to keep a good relationship with business clients.”

“Is that skirt appropriate for a business meeting, though?”

“Shush,” Abbie said. “I'll see you after school.”

They said good-bye and Ana headed down the hall, unzipping her leather jacket on her way to class. She'd never had someone stick up for her at school before, let alone talk up her strengths. “Don't screw it up,” said a particular voice inside her, one she'd hoped had gone away.

She was only ten minutes late, but when she opened the door, everyone's head turned toward her in silence. Mrs. Gregg pointed for her to sit, so she did, wondering why she was commanding so much attention. Ana set her backpack under her chair as the focus shifted back to textbooks. She glanced over at Rye, who was glancing back at her.

“Where were you?” Rye mouthed.

“Where were
you
? Yesterday?” Ana mouthed back.

Rye shrugged her shoulders and went back to reading. She didn't want to explain how she'd gone straight to the library after school to avoid Cole's group of friends, nor did she want to relive the recent round of harassment. Ana took out her textbook and peeked over at Cole. He was concentrating, but without turning around, he put his left hand up and did a very discreet slow-motion wave across his book. She smiled
to herself, catching Rye's eye in the process, and then hunted for the page she was supposed to be reading.

When the bell rang, there was a rush to the door. Ms. Gregg shouted out the homework while students made a wide berth around Ana's desk on the way out.

“What happened to you yesterday after school?” Ana asked.

“I had a yearbook meeting. Kind of forgot I signed up last year,” Rye said, lying and noticing Cole standing behind Ana.

“Hey,” he said to Rye, who didn't answer.

“I'll see you at lunch,” Rye said and darted out the door.

“What's this giant storm cloud between you two?” Ana asked.

“You should probably ask Rye. Where are you heading?”

“Biology. You?”

“Opposite direction—gym.”

They walked out of class together, where Ana was immediately bombarded by staring eyeballs, people making a point of getting out of her way as she walked down the hall.

“What, is it the jacket or something?” she said.

“You're the new kid, most exciting attraction in town.”

“Why does it feel like every day is going to be the first day all over again?”

 • • • 

A
na watched the clock throughout algebra, waiting for the bell. She knew she was behind in biology and in math too, but she let her mind wander back to the moment in the woods. Why hadn't Abbie and Emmett told her they shared land with the Brannans? There was obviously something going on, not to mention Rye's hatred of Cole. If this town
was as small as everyone kept saying, there had to be an easier way to find answers.

When lunch rolled around, Ana made her way outside. More and more heads were turning her way, more fearful than curious. As she walked toward the same table she'd sat at the day before, other tables fell silent.

“What up?” Brady said, putting up his hand for a high five as she sat down.

“That's the question, B. People are crazy staring at me today, like I ate too much garlic or have the plague.”

“Yeah, that's probably my fault,” Rye admitted, dipping a carrot stick into a container of hummus. “I might have told a harmless white lie in history yesterday.”

“What do you mean?” Ana said.

“Two of those idiots from lunch were in my class saying stuff again, making it . . . difficult. They were bringing up your name too and talking about how after school you called them, quote-unquote, ‘the worst,' so I might have said you had it out for them.”

“Like how?”

“Specifically? I told them you were in a gang back in Los Angeles.”

“You
what
?”

“It's not like they've ever been there and you are from East L.A., which is all
mi vida loca
and whatnot—I did some research last night. It made them back off, though, and it's clearly had some resonance throughout the school. The leather jacket helps. Nice touch.”

“So, what, do you think gangs are all
Grease
or
West Side Story
or something? Because they're not. It's not something to joke around about.” Ana immediately stood up from the table, nausea sweeping across her in waves.

“Why are you getting so upset? It worked, didn't it?”

Ana grabbed her backpack and walked away, leaving her lunch on the table.

 • • • 

I
t wasn't as if she hadn't spent a lunch period in the girls' bathroom before. She thought it was funny how it seemed the longest or the shortest period of the day, depending on whether you had other people to spend it with. Though there were still several minutes left before the bell, she headed to art class early, just in case there were issues with the recent schedule switch. She was still shaky after what Rye said, but walking down the empty hallways helped. She hoped she hadn't walked away from their friendship entirely.

Mrs. Darnell was sitting at her desk in the art room sipping a cup of black coffee, her long gray hair hanging limply down the back of a smock splattered with paint. She was inspecting someone's watercolor painting, her face puckered like a dried lemon. Ana knocked on the open door.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Darnell?”

“What is it,” the woman said, flat and measured, not looking up from the painting.

“I'm Ana Cortez, the new student,” she said hesitantly. Mrs. Darnell turned toward her, resuming her concentrated inspection, her eyes creased as if staring into the sun. “Principal Tucker said to tell you I was joining your class today. I have the curriculum from yesterday, and I brought my own sketchbook and colored pencils.”

“How proactive of you,” she said.

“May I come in?”

Mrs. Darnell waved her hand, but Ana couldn't tell if
that meant yes or no, so she entered anyway. “Are we doing watercolor?” Ana asked.

“There are many ways in which to devise artwork in this class, Ms. Cortez.” She stood up and placed the watercolor back on her desk. “My only rules are to free yourself into the work and choose whatever medium you feel would bring your vision to life. I don't believe in being held back by convention, but as I was telling the class yesterday, fundamental basics—as in the proper tools or technique—are paramount in carrying you through the craft of creation. That is what I'll be emphasizing in here.”

“That sounds like something I can do. I already do a bit of drawing—”

“It's not a suggestion, it's a requirement for any work in my class,” she said, floating around the room straightening the worktables and chairs. “I think you'll find it a challenge despite your enthusiasm. There will be no light assessments, no lackadaisical renderings allowed in here. Many students think this class is a break, but I assure you it is not.”

“I'm really looking forward—”

“I do not accept anything less than the unleashing of the inner self.”

Ana jumped as the bell rang, though her nerves were already jostled. She stood in front of Mrs. Darnell's makeshift desk, a heavy piece of wood hammered into two sawhorses, the chipped surface covered in paint splashes, art books, and glasses holding brushes and pencils. Students scurried in and found their seats, the silence in the room in marked contrast to the noise of the busy hallway outside. Mrs. Darnell made her way to the back corner of the room and adjusted something heavy on a pedestal next to the only table with two available seats. Ana crossed the room, took
a seat, and fished through her backpack. When she turned around, Rye was standing next to her.

“What the
eff
happened at lunch?” Rye said. “Brady practically had an asthma attack.”

“Yeah? Well, I had a life attack, or should I say life
attacked
.”

The sounds of classical music wafted across the room from speakers sitting on a corner shelf. One by one, each of the heads at the front of the class began turning around, focusing on the area just behind Ana's head. Rye sat down next to her.

“Class, if I can ask you all to turn around, please.”

Ana twisted in her seat and was met with a wide ceramic bowl of fruit sitting atop a wooden pedestal at eye height. An apple, banana, pineapple, and pear stared back at her, begging to be rescued from their rigid tableau.

“We did a free draw and paint session to warm us up yesterday, but this week is all about my getting an idea of each of your strengths and abilities as performed through a series of exercises,” Mrs. Darnell said, pacing behind the bowl of fruit, her hands clasped behind her back. “Today, we're going to focus on still life, but not in the usual way. I want you to take a long look at this fruit bowl, commit it to memory, then turn back around and re-create it from whatever was impressed upon your psyche. Take a moment to look, reflect, then choose your instrument and begin. I want to remind you that you have forty minutes to complete this task. You may communicate with one another only to divvy up the room's supplies, but once you return to your desk, you must work in silence.”

Little by little, the room grew louder as students got up and moved around to find their weapons of choice. There
were shelves of pastels and charcoal, countertops stacked with various types of drawing and painting paper, and drawers labeled with everything from paint and brushes to modeling clay and materials for collage. Ana reached down into her backpack and pulled out her sketchbook and pencils, placing them on the table to a deep exhalation from Rye.

“Let's make a trip around the room,” Rye whispered. “Please?”

Not wanting to attract too much attention and noticing she was the only one who had materials on her desk, Ana pushed her chair out and followed.

“What's your deal?” Rye asked, leaning over a set of drawers.

“What do you mean?”

“I'm sorry if I lied about you. No one cares.”

“Yes, they do, and you know that. You're the one having to lie your way around bullies rather than ignoring them. I've been there too, I know it hurts, but instead of lying to make yourself sound better, why don't you pull a Rosa Hex and use one of her best song lyrics: ‘Did I stutter? No, I told you to shut it,' and then walk away. It's worked for me before.”

“Maybe you have more of a backbone than I do. Maybe you're stronger and better at handling this than I am. You have no idea what kind of hell they put me through last year.”

“And you have no idea what kind of hell I've been through the last
ten
years.”

“Is it a competition?” Rye asked, throwing a drawer open.

“Girls, find your materials!” Mrs. Darnell bellowed from the other side of the room.

“There's never any fabric or needles in these drawers,” Rye said.

“Find something else then. Expand yourself,” Mrs. Darnell said, helping a student tear up a newspaper for what seemed like no reason.

“Look,” Ana whispered, “I'm not comparing either one of our situations, but you shouldn't have said what you said. Why do they keep bothering you so much anyway?”

“Why don't you ask Cole for an explanation?”

“I don't know what happened between you two—”

“No talking, please,” Mrs. Darnell said from her desk.

Rye grabbed some paper and a pack of markers before crossing back to the table. Ana followed, both of them sitting down and ignoring each other. Ana took a breath and tried to block out the afternoon and envision the bowl of fruit instead. She saw it clearly in her mind's eye, every divot in the pineapple, the sensuous slope of the pear, the unevenness of the bowl as it reached up on either side and held the fruits all together in a warm embrace. She pulled out a regular pencil and began sketching. It was always easy for her to access the images, harder to enter that trancelike state where everything falls away and there's nothing but the mind and heart pushing thought into being on the blank page. Perhaps it was the classical music or desire to please, or maybe it was because her table partner had unnerved her so much, but Ana found it easy to sketch the faint trace of a once-known face onto the paper.

“Utensils down,” Mrs. Darnell said, as if only minutes had passed. “Please stop what you're doing while I walk around and observe. You may chat quietly among yourselves.”

“Holy Shesus,” Rye said, momentarily forgetting they weren't speaking and leaning over Ana's detailed portrait of a woman carrying a bowl of fruit on her head. Though the woman's face was intentionally blurred, her expression was
sad and downcast, the fruit and bowl rendered in meticulous detail, almost exactly as they were arranged in the real still life. “Those are some skills,” Rye said.