Pretty much everyone in the class snickered. Mrs. Doyle looked a little confused but told Sophie that would be fine. I could feel my face go red.
From the back of the classroom, Mike Jacobs asked, “What if I wrote about the benefits of living in a tent and not showering and stuff? Would that be cool?”
“I suppose so.”
Everyone stared at me, waiting for me to respond so they could make even more jokes at my expense. It was like all the things I most dreaded about high school were actually happening. There was an entire roomful of people mocking me. I glanced around to see if I had a single ally but only saw smirks. I wanted to disappear.
“What if someone tried to persuade the reader they’re normal and not a total pathetic loser, even if everyone knows otherwise?” Sophie asked.
I got up and walked out of the classroom. I still had two classes left, but I couldn’t deal. I knew ditching class and running away was the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do if someone is being a bully. But you’re also not supposed to let the bully know she’s getting to you, and I was about two seconds from screaming at Sophie that I hated her and hoped her homecoming gown made her look fat.
I hurried through the parking lot and climbed into my car, praying that it would start. The jet plane sound came from the engine, as if the car might take flight at any moment only to crash and burn. But at least the car was running. I needed to take it to the shop. Really take it, not just swear to myself over and over I was going to. That’s why I’d gotten a job in the first place. Sort of.
I was relieved when I pulled out of the parking lot without the security guard stopping me. I didn’t usually ditch school and didn’t have an excuse to give them. Probably, I would have been honest and hoped for sympathy. Hoped that I was persuasive enough.
I didn’t really think about where I was going. But, of course, that was a lie.
? ? ?
Enzo took so long to answer the door that I had time to panic. What if he had a roommate? What if I’d gotten the apartment number wrong? What if Lizzie had come back and they were inside together, reconciling?
Maybe I should run away. But then Enzo might look out the window and catch a glimpse of my car tearing out of the parking lot, and it would be so awkward that I’d have to spend the rest of my life avoiding him.
My worries were unfounded. Enzo lived alone, and no one was inside with him. He didn’t exactly jump for joy at the sight of me, but he let me inside.
I immediately looked around for signs of Lizzie, but the studio apartment didn’t have any traces of a feminine touch. The cramped room was lit primarily by a lava lamp and a fish tank that didn’t have any fish. Amateurish artwork covered the walls, and there were stacks of notebooks and papers on every surface. The apartment was cluttered but not really messy. Enzo apologized anyway.
“Don’t be sorry. I like your place.”
I tried to take in everything at once. Like I thought he was going to kick me out or something.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Enzo asked.
I looked at him. He was wearing torn jeans and a ratty sweater. He looked like a dark-haired Kurt Cobain. I could imagine Enzo sweating under hot stage lights, scrawny but strong, made into a god by the crowd below him. He’d told me he was a drummer in a band once. He said they hadn’t been very good.
“I left.”
“Why?”
I tried to sound flippant. “Because I hate everyone there.”
“Something happen?”
“Just the usual,” I said. “They’re all awful. I try to ignore them, but it’s pretty much impossible. I end up spending most of the day wishing horrible things would happen to them. Like every time they try to stream a video, it’s laggy, or that all their important emails get sent to the junk mail folder.”
“Whoa there, kid. You don’t want to inflict too much damage.”
I laughed. “When I was little, I got mad at my mom and told her I wished she was dead. She gave me this whole lecture about being careful not to wish for something you don’t really want to come true. So, you know, I try to moderate.”
Enzo’s brow furrowed, like I’d grown a second head, so I changed the subject. “Did you paint all these?”
“Not all of them. But most.”
I didn’t know enough about art to name the different styles, but there were a lot. I wondered if I could pick out the ones Enzo had done. I felt like they would be the darkest of the bunch, the paintings that were anxious and angsty.
I was wrong.
The strongest painting was of a beautiful young girl sitting in a field, knees pulled up to her chest. Her head was tilted up to catch the sun, eyes closed, a half smile on her face. It was a smile I knew. Even in Enzo’s painting, Lizzie Lovett was hard to look away from.
“This is really good.”