Ugly, page 23
“I guess that’s what I get for being stupid enough to leave it out.” But my heart twisted again as I wished desperately I’d just brought it upstairs after finishing it.
“This is your house!” Her hand went to her forehead. “Of course it should have been safe to leave out!”
I showed her the picture I’d taken before I poured the coffee on. My hands were still shaking.
“He did this?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, my God!” She pulled her phone out of her pocket. “I’m calling Bridget.”
“No, Mom, don’t.” I put up my hands. “What’s the point? Besides, I think it will end up okay. It’s just going to look like antique paper. I’ll pretend it’s what I always intended to do.”
She sat on the bed, face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, Nic. I don’t know why there are always such horrible people everywhere. And we have to work around them.”
“I think sometimes you have to fight back.”
Mom nodded. “Like you did in Dallas.”
“Yeah.”
“I still can’t believe you did that. I was so proud of you.” Her voice wobbled a little, and she put her arm around me.
“Did you hear Gina and Susan whispering about the foul mouth on me after I repeated what he’d said?”
“They did?” She rested her head against mine.
I shrugged. “I can’t stand your friends.”
“I know. I don’t blame you.” She shook her head and crossed her feet. “I don’t always like them, either.”
“Why are you friends with them, then?”
“I’m not like you, Nic. I need friends, and I’ve known these guys a long time.”
“Who says I don’t need friends?” I scoffed. “I just have high standards.”
“Is that what it is?”
“Yeah.”
Then Mom looked at me a while, and I looked away because I could tell she was about to cry again, all because of what had happened seven years ago. Mom and Dad’s new weird and guilty behavior was driving me crazy.
“Is the iron in your room?” I asked her.
“Yeah,” she said in a thick voice.
I got it and dialed it up to medium low and then turned back around to attend to the drawing. I made sure there was no liquid left on it and set it on the floor next to the paper towels. I put down a layer of paper towels on the desk and then lay the drawing face up on top of them and put the towel, folded in half, on top of it.
Mom sniffed behind me. Personally, I had no time for this. I was all cried out.
I started ironing slowly, making sure not to stop. “Mom, I need to work on this.”
“Okay, honey.” She sniffed again and stood and I heard her leave.
Once I’d gone over the whole drawing several times, I pulled the towel off and replaced the paper towels under the drawing. Then I spread a layer of paper towels covering the top, and I started piling on books. I would have to change the paper towels every two hours until it felt dry, and then I’d have to leave it with the books on top of it for as long as seventy-two hours.
This meant I’d be getting up in the middle of the night tonight and wouldn’t be able to use my desk for three days. All because of that prick.
But I would do what I had to do. I needed to win that contest. It would eventually help me get out of here.
Chapter 75
Friday was the day of the art contest, two weeks after I’d fixed my drawing—it had turned out good, better than I expected. We’d turned them in Monday, and teachers had hung everything up in the auditorium and judged the pieces over that week.
In art class, Ms. Tolliver called me into her office. I went in there with hands covered in wet clay, as I’d been working on a pot.
“I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but when I showed your yearbook design to the administration, they decided to have a vote between all the designs in the contest.”
“Really? Including Logan’s?”
She nodded. “Don’t say anything to anyone because it’s supposed to be a blind vote.”
“He’ll win, anyway,” I said, feeling my lip curl. “Even though he’s evil, he’s pretty good.”
“He is, but I hope yours wins, anyway.” Then she lowered her voice and whispered, “I like you better.”
This made me laugh. It was so nice to have one teacher on my side.
I went back to my table and continued working on the pot. I was trying coil again but my style was still lacking. I had it on a mold, but the lines were wobbly and I was inconstant with the thickness. I looked over at Mia’s finely constructed tall and narrow coil pot.
“Is that going to be a vase?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yeah, so I’m trying to cover the inside enough so that it can hold water.”
“Awesome. Are you excited about tonight?”
She smiled. “I am.”
I definitely was. I wanted to see the results because I was still sure I’d win first place with my dragon drawing. I had to. I hoped I would win in some of the other categories, too. I’d also entered the colored pencil desert landscape I’d done last semester, as well as my giant pot, which was really cool. I entered a charcoal sketch I’d done. It was a boring image of a bowl of fruit, but I’d thought it looked good. I’d gotten the light just right. The last thing was the new self-portrait. I didn’t expect it to win anything, but you never knew. Plus of course the yearbook design.
We continued working on our pots until class was over.
The rest of the day dragged on. The auditorium wouldn’t open until six for us to see the contest results, then there would be some kind of presentation at seven, so I went to the coffee shop after school and waited for Dad to pick me up. Mom had to work.
He called to say he was running late, so I told him I’d go over there myself. When I went into the auditorium, there were numerous black dividers placed all over the stage and around the back and sides of the seating area, all with art hanging on them. I first found the pencil category and looked for mine. Before I got to it, my heart nearly stopped when I saw a blue ribbon on a drawing of a flower.
Oh, no. It couldn’t be on my dragons if it was here. God. I almost tripped over my feet. I was destroyed. All that work for nothing.
But then hope blossomed. What about second place? My drawing was on the other side of the wall.
Not a single ribbon on it. All the air left me like I’d been punched.
How? I looked closely at the other drawings—the second and third place winners were on this side of the wall. One was a picture of a baseball game. It was precise and technically good, but boring. The other was a still life, the same one I’d done in charcoal. My charcoal one was better. It had actual life to it.
I didn’t know any of the artists. They were probably juniors or seniors.
I needed to sit down because I was so shocked. But somehow I stumbled to the charcoal category. I saw one with a blue ribbon, but it wasn’t mine. Next to it was a white ribbon. I walked along the wall until I spotted mine—it had a red ribbon next to it.
This should have made me feel better, but it didn’t. The rest of the charcoal drawings weren’t very good. Not very many people tried to work in the medium. If my dragons hadn’t won me anything, how could I expect anything good?
My landscape won second place, too. Big whoop. I recognized the third place winner’s, too—it was Mia’s. For a second I felt superior because I beat her at something. Then I felt bad for feeling that way.
I found the self-portrait category and stared in shock at the blue ribbon hanging next to mine. This time, my heart did pinch from something like pride. Because this was a good drawing.
Holy crap. I was flooded with more pride and general happiness than I’d felt in ages. It was so surprising that it was almost overwhelming. I had to brace myself by putting my hand against the wall.
In a daze, I moved on to the ceramics area, tucked away behind the dividers on the stage.
I first saw the red ribbon on Mia’s most delicate and impressive pot. It was a big, perfectly round bowl with roses placed all around the rim. She seriously made these thin flower petals and pieced together several roses. It was amazing to watch.
Then I found my pot, ribbonless.
Finally, I found the graphic design category. I recognized Logan’s design—blue ribbon, with a white ribbon on mine. Great. Again, he gets to beat me.
Would the dragon drawing have won if he hadn’t done what he did?
I felt sick. How could he have done that? I still didn’t get it. He was an artist himself.
There were signs over the yearbook designs saying that we were voting on one for this year’s yearbook. A table a bit further down had pictures of each and printed ballots with a tiny picture of each of them for people to circle. There was a big box with a slit in the top. I voted.
“Hey, Nic,” Dad said.
I looked over. “Hi.”
“How’d you do?”
“A first place, two second places and one third.” I grinned stupidly.
“That’s great.”
“I’m bummed that my dragon drawing didn’t even place, though.” That one still hurt.
He patted me on the shoulder. “You’re really too hard on yourself.”
I heard something over by the entrance to the auditorium and saw Mia and a white guy with tattoos, gripping her arm. The guy I’d seen in the car picking her up that time. I think what I’d heard was him yelling at her. Then he dropped her arm and stormed off. I realized a bunch of other people were looking too, so I turned back to Dad.
“Show me your stuff,” he said.
“Okay.” He hadn’t seen some of it, because I didn’t bring all of it home. I showed him around and he admired it all. He didn’t know anything about art, but Mom said I was good, so he figured it was true.
When we got to the ceramics tables, I saw Mia. She was running her finger along the roses of her winning bowl.
“Hey,” I said.
She looked up, and I saw her tense face. Then she smiled, and it went away. “Hi.”
“Congratulations.” I wondered if she was okay, but didn’t think I should say anything.
“Thanks. Congratulations on your wins. I only ended up with two ribbons.”
Okay, so I had more than her. But at the moment I only felt bad for the little scene she’d had at the door. I changed my mind about asking.
Dad was looking at some of the other pots so I asked Mia, “Who was that guy?”
“My boyfriend,” she said with a little blush. “I just said something I shouldn’t have.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say. What would that be like? To be with someone you had to be so careful around? I didn’t think it would be worth it to me, as desperate as I was for a boy to like me. Or would it? It was hard to know what I’d put up with.
“It’s no big deal. He’ll be back later.”
“Cool. Do you know what they’re doing at seven?”
“No.”
It was only another fifteen minutes before they started their little presentation. We all sat down, and they did everything on the edge of the stage. They had a few extra awards to give out. Most innovative. Most true to life. Then they got to what they were calling the Risk/Reward Award.
Ms. Tolliver explained, “This award is for the piece of art that takes the biggest risk but comes out with the biggest reward.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but then she said. “It goes to Nic Summers for her Dragons over Fire Mountain piece.”
What was that about? It was stupid. It was like winning a prize for graduating kindergarten. I’d only done what I had to do.
“Way to go, Nic,” Dad whispered as I went up to accept the purple ribbon.
A senior won the grand prize for a really cool abstract ceramics piece. It was made up of a bunch of cubes and was designed to look like it couldn’t possibly stay upright, but it did.
On the drive home, I felt weird. It seemed like the strange award was a consolation prize. I wondered if Ms. Tolliver created it just because she knew how much work I’d put into the dragon drawing.
But it was only two days until I went to Scotland. I would simply have to focus on the first place and on Scotland and not think about being condescended to.
Chapter 76
I had to take three separate flights to get to Glasgow. First to Chicago, then to London, and finally to Glasgow. So even though I wouldn’t get there until noon Sunday, I had to be at the airport at one on Saturday afternoon. I couldn’t believe the day had finally arrived.
Dad drove me to the airport, but Mom came, too. They were quiet, and I was busy trying to imagine what flying would feel like, when Mom turned around and said, “Honey, your dad and I have something to tell you. We were debating telling you earlier, but we just found out for sure yesterday.”
Oh, God. What could it be now?
“We have not been able to get out of this financial situation.” She paused and looked over my shoulder. “We are going to have to give up all your college funds.”
“What?!” Oh, my God! How was I supposed to go to college without any money? How would I ever go anywhere good? My stomach clenched. “What am I supposed to do?”
“I’m sorry.” She did sound sorry, but I didn’t care right then.
“Where am I supposed to go?” It felt like my throat was constricting.
“You can go in state. I’m sure you can get scholarships.”
This was beyond-the-pale horrible. College was supposed to be my way out. I needed to leave. I had to. My stomach twisted more, and I found myself holding my shaking hands together.
Dad hadn’t said anything the whole time. He was even worse with conflict than Mom was. He simply rubbed his beard, as per usual.
The rest of the drive was silent. We got there early enough that we parked and all walked into the airport.
I waited in line to check in and showed my new passport. I caught a glimpse of the photo and flinched. It was an especially bad picture. I was looking straight ahead so I almost had a double chin. It was hard to deny that I was ugly. My roving zit was on my forehead in the picture. Today it was on my chin.
The clerk glanced at the photo then me and back. What if she didn’t let me on? But then she checked my bag and off it went down the conveyor belt, into the bowels of the airport. She gave me my boarding pass, and I went back to my parents, who were standing there looking weird. Like, excited that I was growing up and nervous I was going so far away.
But I was still mad at them.
“This way,” I said, and they followed me. When we got to the security line, there weren’t that many people ahead of me.
“Okay, honey,” Mom said. “I guess it’s time for you to go.”
She hugged me and Dad followed suit. I wished they’d waited for me to get back to tell me about the college fund. Now I would spend the whole trip thinking about it. I started snaking my way along the roped off rows and my parents waited until I reached the end of the actual line of people.
I didn’t look at them because I was getting nervous about going through security. It was supposed to be quite involved. I guessed I’d have to take my shoes off and whatever. All the people going through seemed to know what they were doing—I hoped I didn’t make a fool of myself.
Then I showed the guy my passport and boarding pass and he pointed me to one of the lanes. Another guy was repeatedly saying what we were supposed to do. I took off my shoes and jacket and put them in a bin, put my phone in a little bin, and took my laptop out of my backpack, before putting my backpack itself through. Then I had to go through the body scanner thing. It was quite the ordeal, and my pulse was pounding by the time it was over.
As I gathered my stuff, slowly calming, I looked over to check and my parents were still there, waving at me. I waved back, embarrassed. Then I got everything together, sat down to tie my Chucks, and started looking for my gate.
Then it was a long wait—I was glad I’d brought a good book—until we started boarding. I managed to get on in the crush, find my seat, get my book and headphones out, stow my backpack, and get buckled in. I’d requested a window seat so I could look out. I was over the wing, which was annoying because it partially blocked my view.
The guy next to me was this old guy in a suit, which seemed weird on a Saturday. Next to him was a man in a cowboy hat.
I watched the flight attendant go through the emergency spiel and then sat back as the plane drove along the little roads to get to the actual runway. I was a little surprised by the takeoff, which threw me back in my seat and made a lot of noise.
But once we were in the air, I relaxed a bit.
It was about two hours to Chicago. Soon I was passing over a state I’d never been to. I’d be going over quite a few of those on the way. I pulled out my new passport, thinking about how, soon, it would have a stamp in it. Maybe one day it would have lots of them. It would be so cool to be anywhere other than Oklahoma.
Then my gaze fell on my picture, and I closed it, disgusted with myself again.
I tried to think of something that wasn’t negative, per Dr. Goldberg’s instructions.
The yearbook design thing. That had turned out well, surprisingly. Even though Logan’s had won first place and mine only third, the people had spoken—they’d voted for mine, if that could be believed. So my design would be on the yearbook this year. There were three things about that that were excellent. One, it was my design going on the cover; two, it wasn’t Logan’s design going on the cover; and three, Logan had to work with my design since he was on the yearbook committee. Number three was my favorite.
Thinking about something positive made my mind uncomfortable, so it looked for something bad, zooming in on the college fund.
Oh, God. Everything was ruined.
My eyes burned but I successfully fought the tears back. Who wanted to cry in front of strangers? Or anyone, for that matter?
I couldn’t let myself think about the college fund. I had to just focus on getting to Glasgow and Sam.
