Art Geeks and Prom Queens

Advance Praise for

Art Geeks and Prom Queens

“I love Alyson’s use of dialogue. It’s acerbic and vicious and bitchy. Totally realistic, in other words, without a false note.”

—Catherine Forde, author of
Fat Boy Swim

“A book about life in the fast lane . . . The reader cheers for New York transplant Rio as she wanders through a minefield of peer pressure in a quest for popularity and a place to belong. Slick and hip!”

—Lurlene McDaniel, author of
My Secret Boyfriend
and the
Angels in Pink
series

Praise for

Faking 19

“Gloriously outrageously funny . . .
Faking 19
is
Feeling Sorry for Celia
with an L.A. edge.”

—Jackie Fischer, author of
An Egg on Three Sticks

“Deliciously funny and irreverent. I couldn’t put this down!”

—Niki Burnham, author of
Royally Jacked

“I loved
Faking 19.
. . . A totally convincing look at one teenager’s broken world, and how she reaches inside herself to fix it.”

—Joe Weisberg, author of
10th Grade

art geeks
and
Prom Queens

Also by Alyson Noël

Faking 19

Alyson Noël

  St. Martin’s Griffin  
  New York

ART GEEKS AND PROM QUEENS
. Copyright © 2005 by Alyson Noël. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Book design by Irene Vallye

Illustrations by Sarah Hughes

ISBN 0-312-33636-5
EAN 978-0-312-33636-3

10    9    8    7    6    5

In memory of Beryl Rothstein, 1928–2004

Thank you to my family and friends for their endless supply of enthusiasm and support; to my editor, Elizabeth Bewley, for her sharp eye and impeccable taste; to the long-ago classmates who stood by me when I was the bullied “new girl,” and as always, thanks to my husband, Sandy Sherman, who fills each day with magic and makes everything possible.

art geeks
and
Prom Queens

“Oh, no. You are not wearing that,” my mom says, barging into my room and invading my privacy as usual.

I’m sitting on the floor, rolling my eyes and tying my shoes. I mean, the fact that she despises my faded, old Levi’s and “Cape Cod Crew” sweatshirt (that is now so faded and peeled it reads “    ape        Crew”) is reason enough for me to love it. “Mom, it’s fine. Trust me,” I say, making a mental note to get a lock on my door ASAP.

“No, Rio, it’s not fine. You’ve got to make a good impression on your first day!”

“I know what I’m doing,” I say, glaring at her as she plows through one of the open boxes like it’s a sale bin at Barneys.

“Here, why don’t you wear this?” She holds up the denim miniskirt and sparkly tank top she gave me right after she broke the news about moving, as if it were no more than a simple costume change, and that they weren’t really wrecking my life.

“Forget it.” I shake my head and push it away. “There’s no way I’m showing up on my first day at a new school looking like a Hilton sister.”

“This outfit is adorable, and you’ve got the figure for it,” she says, holding it against herself and looking in the mirror.

“That outfit will get me
killed!
All the girls will
hate
me if I show up in that.”

“This outfit will get you
noticed!
” She raises her eyebrows at me.

“Then why don’t you wear it?” I roll my eyes at her white terry-cloth short shorts, matching hoodie, and sky-blue Ugg boots, which have apparently become her new “O.C.” uniform. “Besides, it’s only January,” I remind her.

“Yes, and it’s already seventy degrees out. People here dress for the weather,
not
the seasons.”

“ ’Cause there are no seasons in this freaky place,” I say, suddenly hating her all over again for dragging me across the country, far away from everything I know and love. I mean, we’ve only been here a week, but it may as well be a year. I’m completely miserable and it’s totally my parents’ fault.

If my dad hadn’t decided to move to the Newport Beach office, and my mom hadn’t insisted on throwing out all of our “heavy, New York furniture” before replacing it with “California-lite,” I wouldn’t be sleeping on the floor and getting dressed out of a box. And from what I’ve already witnessed of her own extreme beach-bunny makeover, I’ve got a sick feeling she’s going to decorate the entire house with nothing but yoga mats and water bottles. I swear I miss my old bed almost as much as I miss my old friends.

“Well, if you insist on wearing sweats, at least let them be designer.” She reaches for the new hot-pink Juicy Couture sweat suit she bought me two days ago.

“Mom, no! I’m totally gonna be late!”

“Good, you’ll make an entrance!”

“Yeah, only in high school they call it ‘being tardy’ and it’s frowned upon,” I say, surrendering to her sales pitch against my better judgment.

When I’m dressed for the second time, in the outfit of
her
choice, I notice she’s staring at my shoes, eyes filled with disapproval.

“Forget it,” I tell her. “I’ve compromised all I can. Now would you please just drive me to school?”

“Not until I put on my lips.”

I roll my eyes, grab my backpack, and run down the stairs and out the front door to the new white convertible Jaguar that’s sitting in the driveway. I throw my bag on the floor, fasten my seat belt, and just sit there and wait while she locates the perfect shade of lip gloss that will
offset the blue in her eyes (made even bluer courtesy of Bausch & Lomb), the blond in her hair, and transform her back into the fabulous Jahne Jones, former almost-supermodel, that she was twenty years ago.

In my mom’s world, lip gloss is definitely more important than getting me to school on time. I swear, her priorities are a total mess.

Okay, so this is the movie-trailer version of my life. I’m sixteen but almost seventeen, named after a Duran Duran song (which was some big-deal group in the eighties that you might have heard of, depending on whether you watch VH1 or MTV). My mom dated one of the members for three weeks back when she was a model, but she’s very vague about which one. Still, sometimes I fantasize that it was the really cute one and that he’s actually my real dad, and that any day now he’ll come claim me and take me away from this crazy house. But the reality is it probably wouldn’t be any better, since rock stars aren’t exactly known for their stability.

My real dad is “very busy making money for my mom and me and the people that work for him and their families,” as well as “upholding the law by defending the innocent,” which is the line he’s been giving me for every missed school function, birthday, and holiday since I can remember. I mean, he’s a defense attorney, but he probably travels more than a rock star, and sometimes I think Larry King and the camera crew at CNN get to talk to him more than I do.

I feel guilty for saying that (even though it’s true), because the fact is we’re pretty close, and he’s my only ally against my mom. But the problem is he’s gone so much that I’m usually left to fight my own battles, and believe me, it’s exhausting.

I’m an only child and we have no pets because “animals may look cute from a distance, but they’re destructive, shed, shit, and throw up” (that was a direct quote from my mom), and except for the shedding part, it’s probably the same reason why I have no siblings.

And today is the first day in my new school, but it’s not the first day
of school.
It’s actually the first day back from winter break. And it totally sucks because I was pretty much hoping just to blend in and go
unnoticed, but now I’m gonna be the late new girl in the hot-pink Juicy sweat suit, and you just can’t blend when you’re late and pink.

My mom slams the brakes in front of the administrative office, and I look at my watch and shake my head. Twenty minutes late.

I grab my backpack and then nervously run my hands through my long, honey-blond tangled hair, redo my ponytail, and open the door.

“Rio?”

“Yeah?” I look at her without even trying to hide my annoyance.

“Do you want me to help you find your class?”

“Mom, please. I’m not in kindergarten. Jeez.” I shake my head and glance nervously at the empty campus.

“Okay,” she says, in a hurt voice designed to make me feel bad. And it does. “What time do you want me to pick you up?”

I look at her sitting there in the Jag, and I know she means well, but I go, “Don’t pick me up, Mom. Please don’t pick me up. I’ll find my own way home.”