The Symptoms of My Insanity (12 page)

“Perfect,” I say, and am about to suggest
Mall Noise: For Online Shoppers
when we hear Allissa scream out, “Shut up! What? Why did you call him back?” from her bedroom upstairs.

“Hey, did I ever tell you I saw Allissa a couple times around the U of M campus last summer? I think she was dating a guy in the class I was taking.”

And I immediately know he’s talking about Spray-Tan
Bill. That’s what my mom and I called this guy Allissa went out with last summer when she showed us his rather orange-faced picture.

“Yeah,” I say, “I think that relationship lasted about five minutes.” I smile thinking about how many pictures of Allissa’s college “boyfriends” I’ve already seen since she graduated from Broomington last year. “Allissa’s relationships tend to be very … um …”

“Transient?”

“Yeah, she dates a lot.”

“Well, she’s pretty and all,” Marcus says, but kind of more to himself than to me, and then he looks right at me and says, “It’s amazing how little you guys look alike.”

I freeze in his gaze for a second, and then look down at my apple, focusing on the brown outline forming around my last bite. After what seems like a nine-hundred-year pause, Marcus blurts out, “Oh! Oh, no. No, that’s not what I meant. Ah, I didn’t mean that you’re—”

“No, whatever, it’s fine.” I wave my hand to signal the end of the whole exchange, but Marcus keeps talking.

“No, no. See … ah … you’re pretty too.”

I look down desperately at our cream-colored kitchen floor, wishing it was quicksand, while Marcus continues fumbling for words.

“You’re both pretty. I didn’t mean to imply that you’re not pretty, Izzy. You are. You’re not ugly. Neither is your sister. But see, ah, I would categorize her as really pretty and you as more of a …”

Large-breasted, potentially diseased, frizzy-haired freak.

“… a classic … a classic … beauty, you’re more of a classic beauty type.”

I continue to squint at the floor, and then look up, humoring him with a small smile. “Good save, Marcus.” But Marcus doesn’t crack a smile. He looks like he’s about to say something else, when, thankfully, Pam wanders into the kitchen.

“Oh my Lord, it looks colder than a witch’s broomstick outside.” Pam peers out the window. “Don’t make me go out there!”

“Stay. It’s snowing. The roads are probably terrible,” Mom says, following in after her.

“No, no, gotta get home.” Pam is already grabbing her coat off one of the chairs.

“Marcus, you sure you’re not hungry?” Mom asks.

“No thank you, Mrs. Skymen. I should … um … I should get going too,” he says.

“Oh good.” Pam shimmies into her coat. “Walk me to my car, sweetie. If I fall on this ice, I’ll never get up.”

So Mom and I walk Pam and Marcus to the door, and then just before they head out, Mom turns to Marcus and says, “Oh, and great idea by the way.”

“What?” Marcus asks.

“For the sculpture. Your mom said you came up with it. We really want something prominent to display in that front lobby window and, Izzy, you can handle a map, right?”

“What map?” I ask.

“Oh, well, my mom was pressing me for decoration ideas,” Marcus says, “and I thought maybe some kind of map.”

“Of Darfur, a sculpture!” Mom adds.

“I’d forgotten I’d mentioned it, and that’s of course if Izzy even wants to—”

“It’s such a great idea,” Mom says, nodding rapidly. “A festive map.”

“Uh, sure,” Marcus says, avoiding my gaze. “I guess Izzy could make it … festive.”

“Yes, of course,” Mom declares, nodding at me.

I shake my head at her.

Finally we say good-bye and watch as Marcus leads Pam down our driveway. Mom’s still nodding enthusiastically, repeating, “A festive map.” Then she lets out a huge yawn, stretching her arms above her head, the large sleeves on her top hanging low.

“What’s up with that top, Mom?”

“What do you mean?” She looks down at it as if she doesn’t remember what she’s wearing today.

“Nothing, it’s just so … flowing. I didn’t know you were into … What are those things called?”

“Tunics. It’s a tunic. They’re very comfortable. And they’re in fashion.”

“Of course they are.” I humor her. But since when does Mom wear something because it’s “fashionable” anyway? She’s all about being tailored and fitted. She hates looking “unnecessarily sloppy.”

“It’s just … so big.”

“It’s supposed to be, Izzy. That’s the style.”

“Oh. Okay.” I nod. “You hungry? Should I heat up dinner?”

“Well … Allissa’s not eating because she’s doing this new diet thing and apparently lasagna has too many stars or not enough hearts? She had an apple earlier. And I’m still full from all those appetizers, a little nauseated, actually. I think the stuffed mushrooms didn’t quite agree with me.”

“Oh. Okay …” I look at her.

“And I’m just wiped, so I think I’ll head to bed. You okay with heating up the food?”

I nod. Mom starts up the stairs and soon Leroy, who has supersonic stair-creak ears, bolts awake from his pre-bedtime nap to her side. “Hey, Mom,” I call to her. She stops and half turns, Leroy stops and half turns as well. “Everything okay?” Then this weird, worried look comes over her face for a second and I find myself rushing to add, “I mean for Saturday and the DIA, now that you’ve met Blake and—”

“Oh. Yes.” She closes her eyes for a second. “And I realized today I’ve met his mother.” She opens her eyes and smiles. “We worked on a toy drive last year.”

“Oh … okay, good.”

“So, you think you two might go together, to the dance?” Mom asks, using her forced-casual-because-I’m-really-very-excited voice.

“Um … well.” And I try and use my forced-casual-because-I’m-really-very-excited-too voice when I say, “Maybe. I don’t know,” but I’m not as skilled as my mom and think
I unintentionally flash my “I kissed Blake Hangry in our driveway” smile. Why else would Mom just start grinning wildly, nodding her head up and down, and start rambling about corsages, and dresses, and haircuts as she and Leroy make their way upstairs.

I walk back to the kitchen and heat up a lone piece of lasagna, still wearing that smile. But then I realize: How in the world am I going to have time to make a whole map sculpture of Darfur
and
the rest of the decorations
and
three more new pieces for my portfolio? Unghhh.

I stress-eat everything in sight and go back for seconds, positive I’m already off the charts of whatever system Allissa is using to track her calories. As I open the fridge, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the shiny silver doors.
A classic beauty?
What does that even mean? Allissa made me take this magazine quiz once called “Do you have what it takes to be a hottie?” and I didn’t. My results fell into the “Well, You’re Not Ugly” category. “Beauty” is not even near the same category as “Well, You’re Not Ugly.” I stare back at my fridge reflection. I arch my back, flinging my arm over my head all Dionysus-like. Yeah, Marcus definitely does
not
understand what “classic beauty” means.

As I head upstairs for bed, I start my art studio countdown, telling myself that I’m going to focus and finish that new painting tomorrow, even if means ditching a little of play rehearsal again. I get into my pajamas, wondering how I’ll tell Jenna about Blake and suddenly feeling jittery with excitement. But only for a second, until a mental snapshot of
her disapproving face pops into my head with a thump of anxiety. I shake it off. I’ll convince her to come out to the party. I bet Nate will be there too, and Blake can help set them up so he’ll ask her to the dance, and we can all go together. I know she doesn’t want to go alone. Not that Blake’s officially asked
me
yet, but maybe he will at the DIA … I do my body check for any new lumps, bumps, rashes, or red flags, and then collapse into bed, still wearing my secret “I kissed Blake Hangry in our driveway” smile.

Girlfriend.

I’m frantically running around the studio, clutching my bleeding thumb in my paint smock and looking for the first aid kit. Oh my God, this smock is so dirty it’s like instant infection. I wonder how much blood I’ve lost already. I read somewhere that fingers and thumbs bleed a lot more because the blood is thinner near your appendages. Or was it the mouth that bleeds more?
Wait, then what did I read about appendages?!

I finally find the first aid kit underneath a stack of dusty magazines, and vigorously sterilize and bandage my small wound. Okay, good. That’s good.

I put some work gloves on and move the damaged mirror to another table. I should just give up on my Italy portfolio and go back to my papier-mâché map sculpture for the dance, but that’s not going so well either. I’ve already sketched about a dozen maps from the images I downloaded, but the Wi-Fi signal in the art room is so bad, I might as well have chartered a plane to fly over Africa and taken the pictures myself.

“Heeey … Izzy. You’re baaack … Whatcha working on now?” Miss S.’s whirring voice fills the small studio as she emerges from her junk hall-of-fame office. “And where are you suppoooosed to beee … ?”

“Um … study hall. But I was able to get out early,” I mumble, glancing over at her. Not adding that I told Marcus today was not a good day for studying bio and instead snuck out of the library when Miss Larper was involved in another Steve Drankin and Roopa Sheti trying-to-make-out-quietly-in-the-back crisis.

Behind her glasses, Miss S.’s magnified hazel eyes see right through me. “Okaaay … well …” She starts to head back to her office and then turns and says what she usually says when she sees a student in here who’s supposed to be somewhere else. “I was here, you were here, but
weee
were never here.”

I smile and bend over my latest map sketch, which after about ten minutes of work actually looks pretty good.

“That looks pretty good.”

Marcus is peering at my table from the doorway.

“Hey.” I shift in my stool to face him, smiling. “What are you doing in here?”

“Well, I figured you might be in here and … I just think … um, it’s important you do well in bio because, well … I grade your quizzes, and right now … you’re not. Doing so well, I mean. And I don’t want what I said yesterday to affect your grades or your studying or anything because—”

“Wait, what?”

“It’s just, if you’re mad about what I said last night, I understand. Still, you should really be prepared because—”

“Oh, no I … I didn’t skip out on our study session because of what you … no I just … I’m really behind on my Italy portfolio and with the dance décor now, I just need more time in here.”

“Oh. Right. Well … okay. Still, though, I just … I wanted to tell you that … well, I felt bad and didn’t want you to think … and I just want to apologize for what I said because see … I wasn’t intending for the thing I said about your sister being pretty to juxtapose with what I said about you guys not looking … alike and well, I just wanted to tell you in case, you know, you thought … um … that I thought that you weren’t—which I don’t, but in case you think that I thought—”

Before I can stop myself, I just start laughing. And then I feel bad, laughing while Marcus is being so nice and trying to apologize. But then he starts laughing too.

“Sorry, was that even English?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” I say, wheezing.

“Okay, well … what if we went over some stuff while you work in here at least?”

“Yeah,” I say, grateful, “that works for me. Thanks.”

I move a stack of old newspapers I stole from Ina’s sacred papier-mâché pile down to the other side of the table to make room for him.

“Okay, explain the second law of thermodynamics.” He’s leaning over me now and peering at his notes, balancing
himself with his hand on the dirty table. He smells sweet. Not like a girl smell or anything, but like fresh sweet, like a bar of fancy soap.

“Okay,” I sigh. “The second law … it’s something to do with disorder always … increasing or something?”

“Well, pretty much. Do you remember the whole ice-cube-in-the-glass example?”

I stare at him blankly.

“Okay, well, basically disorder—entropy—will always increase over time. So say for example you’re really cold and I come over to you and put my hands on your arms like this to warm you up.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and rubs them up and down. “Oh sorry, forgot you’re drawing,” he says, and stops.

“No, that’s okay.” I put my pencil down.

He doesn’t start rubbing again, but he keeps his hands on my shoulders while he continues explaining. It feels nice, and not in a “Yay, I’m learning about thermodynamics” kind of way.

“… well, so the heat from this work is why there’s an increase rather than a decrease of entropy. Make sense?” he asks.

“Yes,” I lie. And it feels like a whole year goes by after he’s done explaining, with him standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders.

“Ew, stop molesting Izzy on school property, Marcus,” Jenna shouts, peeking her head into the room.

Marcus bolts back to his stool. “I’m not— We’re studying. I was explaining—” But Jenna doesn’t let him finish.

“Where have you been all day?” She drops the giant cardboard box she’s holding on top of my stack of notes and newspapers, then dusts her hands on her pants. “Figures I’d find you in here.”

“Yeah, needed to multi-task,” I explain a little guiltily. “Sorry I didn’t come meet you this morning—I wanted to work on a painting.”

“Well, when you have time, can you finish calligraphy-ing these ticket envelopes? There’s like fifty blank ones in there still. Oooh, I love papier-mâché.” Jenna’s eyes widen as she points to my map. “Can I help?

“Yeah, you can ball up paper.” I move the box of dance invites off the newspapers and onto the floor.

“Yay!” Jenna plops down across from us and starts ripping and crumpling bits of paper.

I had planned to wait until rehearsal to talk to Jenna, but now I’m dying to tell her about Blake and ask her about the dance and get it over with. And it’s not like Marcus doesn’t already know. But still, there are details I want to share with Jenna that would just be weird sharing with Marcus too. I decide to wait.