Someone To Love

I just want to be perfect. I want to be worth noticing.

Is that too much to ask?

I ate half a grapefruit for breakfast.

I drank two cups of green tea.

Took two pulls of the vodka hidden in my closet.

Just to take off the edge.

I feel every pound I weigh, and every ounce, like my life, is too much. Even though I already threw up at the end of class, I feel like I have to get it all out again. I excuse myself and run back to the bathroom and start heaving in the empty stall.

Something has to come out.

Something. Anything.

t w o

“Creativity takes courage.”

—Henri Matisse

“Can anyone figure out the origin of this painting?” Ms. Day asks, fluffing her afro with one hand. Her gold hoop earrings glint under the light of the projector.

My mind wanders from the class, thinking about how the photo I took the last period turned out. The photographer took the picture before I was ready, and I’m almost certain I had a deer-in-the-headlights kind of look, but they only take one shot before they shuffle you off and move on to the next person in line.

“Look at the subject,” Ms. Day adds, patiently waiting for the class to respond.

The painting on the screen behind her shows a young woman wearing a pale pink dress being pushed on a swing above an admiring young man. The two figures aren’t touching each other, but the artist painted their movements so dynamically that they seem like they’re about to leap across the painting to embrace each other. A lush garden surrounds the lovers. Every leaf and flower has been painted with an incredible amount of detail and attention to light and shadow.

A girl at the front—Emma—raises her hand.

“The fashion definitely looks English or French,” she says.

Ms. Day nods. She’s not giving any hints.

I have her for two classes. AP art history and studio art. She’s the only teacher I feel like I can actually talk to honestly about my future goals. Not because I like her subject the most—though that’s true—but because she never mentions my parents. Or my brothers. Not that they would have ever dreamed of taking an art class.

“I’d say French,” Emma’s friend sitting next to her adds. “Even though she’s wearing stockings, the way her legs are exposed is too scandalous to be English.”

“Forget her legs.” Nate, a boy who sits in the back, snickers. “He’s looking up her dress. Bet he’s totally going to get him some.”

“Our very own connoisseur of the romantic arts speaks,” Ms. Day says. “Tell us more, Casanova!” The other boys snicker, but Nate’s too embarrassed to say anything else. I love how salty she can be with her students. She’s my favorite teacher.

Ms. Day turns away from the painting and gives him some serious side-eye. She puts her hands on her hips and sighs. “It is French. French Rococo, to be exact. The painting’s official name is The Swing. It was painted right before the Revolution by an artist named Jean-Honore Fragonard. The painting was commissioned by the notorious French libertine Baron de St. Julien as a portrait of his mistress. That’s all I’ll say for now. What do you think this painting is about? What’s the context?”

The class is silent again. “History is important to understanding art,” Ms. Day continues, asking us for our analysis of the piece before she gives us her interpretation. “But becoming a truly great artist means keeping your soul trained on the future. What will someone hundreds of years from now think or feel when they view your painting? What speaks across time and culture? Think about what truly moves you as a viewer.”

Emma raises her hand again. “It’s kinda playful.”

“That’s right.” Ms. Day paces across the front of the room. “Many of the painting’s critics called it frivolous. Why do you think they might have used that word?”

“Well,” I say, leaning forward in my seat to see the painting better. “It’s not like the subject is an important religious or historical person or event or anything. And the painting’s focal point is clearly her pink dress.”

“You think there’s more to the painting than that...” Ms. Day walks up the aisle and pauses by my desk, gesturing toward the painting. “Don’t you, Olivia?”

“She always has something to say,” Nate groans.

I ignore him. This is pretty much the only class in which I feel in my element.

“That playfulness that Emma mentioned? I think she’s right. I also think the painting is about seduction. Except the moment doesn’t seem so planned out. It’s like their desire is spontaneous.” I wonder whether someone will ever feel that way about me. Why do so many things have to come together perfectly for people to fall in love?

“The French would call that joie de vivre,” Ms. Day adds. “That translates to a cheerful enjoyment of life. An exultation of the spirit. Of the soul. Everything one does becomes filled with joy. Conversation. Work. Play. Eating.”

I wish I could feel joy when I eat. The only thing I feel is dread.

“Why do you think the painting is about seduction?” Ms. Day asks.

“Besides the fact that the man on the ground is pretty much looking up her dress?” I pause for a moment. The boys in the back laugh. “They know they’re being provocative. She’s letting her shoe fly off her foot like she’s Cinderella. He’s her Prince Charming. They’re gazing directly into each other’s eyes. Maybe they’re in love.”

“Or lust,” Ms. Day says. The class murmurs like they’re scandalized.

I trail off, thinking about Zach’s eyes and what I might feel if he ever looked back at mine that way. I’d probably melt into a puddle on the floor.

While I’ve been thinking about Zach, Ms. Day has moved on to analyzing other parts of the painting. “What details do you notice? Look at the background.”

The class goes silent. We’re stumped.

“See this statue of a cherub on the left?” Ms. Day walks up to the screen and touches the left side of the painting. “Can you see what he’s doing?”

“Oh my god,” Emma squeals. “I totally see it.”

Everybody squints and leans forward. We’re still all confused.

“The little cherub? He’s holding his index finger in front of his lips. He’s trying to keep everything a secret.”

Ms. Day smiles and draws circles around the other statutes in the garden with her finger. “What about the other sets of cherubs? The ones below the humans looking up?”

A few students respond to her question.

“They look concerned.”

“More like afraid for her.”

“I think they’re scowling.”

“Yes. This is obviously an illicit love affair,” Ms. Day says. “Yet the painter casts off the moral concerns of the day to illustrate a moment of lighthearted pleasure. It is frivolous. Free. In fact, the painting’s alternate title is The Happy Accidents of the Swing.”

“They’re definitely, like, living life to its fullest or whatever,” Emma says.

“YOLO,” Nate adds.

“Exactly.” Ms. Day laughs. “Homework for tonight is to research...”

I lose myself in my thoughts while she gives us tonight’s assignment.

I can barely remember the last time I felt truly happy like the woman on the swing. When I was younger, tapping into that feeling of freedom seemed so much easier. I could ride my scooter fast down the street. I could get on a swing and pump my legs until I was soaring high over the playground. What happened to that girl? Did I lose her?

Am I living my best life? Am I even trying to?

The bell rings for lunch and all the students start piling out the door. I slowly put my notes and my textbook in my backpack while Ms. Day turns off the projector.

“Olivia,” she says. “I wanted to tell you something in studio art this morning, but you were out the door too fast. Do you have time to stick around for a few minutes?”

Of course I have time. It’s not like I actually eat lunch anyway.

I have only one rule about eating at school. I don’t do it.

“Yeah,” I say. “What’s up?”

“There’s an opportunity that would be great for you.” She walks to her desk and grabs a neon-yellow flyer. “One of my old friends from grad school is part of the staff at an art gallery that wants to feature young artists from the area.”

My pulse quickens. This could be huge. “Which gallery?” I ask.

“It’s called the Wynn. It’s fairly small, but they have a great schedule of contemporary artists lined up for this year. It would be a huge deal when you’re applying to art schools to say you’ve shown your work there already.”

“Sounds...great,” I say, unsure.

I’ve heard of the Wynn before. It’s an up-and-coming gallery that mostly features artists early in their careers, but I’m not sure I’m good enough. I sketch and paint constantly, but I don’t like showing my work to people. I come up with these concepts in my mind, but I can never seem to execute them exactly the right way. Sometimes I feel as if my skill will never match up with my vision.

“It’s a ways off—the show won’t be until near the end of the school year—but you have to submit a portfolio to be considered. They’re going to take only two or three artists total.”

How can I pull off a full show in eight months?

I’m a perfectionist. I take forever to put together a painting.

“That sounds pretty intense,” I say. “I don’t know what I would paint.”

Ms. Day puts down the flyer and looks at me. “Olivia. You need to start believing in your work. Really. It’s time for you to push yourself. Find your voice. You’ve been experimenting with figure drawing lately. Why don’t you try painting live models?”

I want to ask Ms. Day what she means by finding my voice, and exactly how I should go about doing that, when the fire alarm goes off.

“Really?” Ms. Day shakes her head. “We’ve had three of these damn things this week already. Wish I could catch whatever little delinquent is responsible for this.”

Lights flash on and off as the alarm buzzes. The school installed these alarms with strobe lights that practically blind you. It’s most likely a false alarm, but they’re so annoying they make you want to leave the room.

She heads for the door. “You don’t have to decide now,” she says, holding the flyer out to me. “You’re the only student I am recommending for this, so please promise to think about it.”

“Yeah,” I say, taking the flyer, my stomach tightening with nerves. “I promise.”

t h r e e

“You live but once; you might as well be amusing.”

—Coco Chanel

I’m sitting with Mom and Dad at a table at Musso & Frank Grill on Hollywood Boulevard, dining under the chandeliers in the ambience of mahogany decor and literary ghosts. Faulkner. Hemingway. Fitzgerald. Steinbeck. Parker. You name the writer—they ate here. The restaurant is old Hollywood classy. Waiters wear red jackets and black ties. Mom and Dad love this kind of stuff. A sense of history appeals to them.

I had to go home after school to change just so I could go out to dinner with my parents, even though I have absolutely no interest in eating.

It’s Thursday. Today was supposed to be a fast day.

I’m trying to break a plateau. My goal is to get down to 100 pounds, and I’m not going to get there by eating ham steak or a rack of lamb or whatever.

When the waiter delivers my salad, Dad starts doing this thing he always does at these dinners, as if his life suddenly revolves around my eating habits.

“A house salad?” Dad asks. “That’s it?”

I get irritated with them at dinners because they’re always commenting on what and how much I put on my plate, making me feel guilty for whatever I do or don’t eat.

Believe me. I already judge myself enough for my own eating habits. Like those two Rice Krispies treats Mom made that I binged on yesterday? They made me feel terrible.

Words slip out before I have a chance to process. “Why do you care?”

Sometimes I want to stand on the table and inform the congressman: Sir, my life isn’t about shoving millions of calories of dead cow into my body.

They were the ones who encouraged me to lose weight in the first place. When I came home crying about how fat I was after Ollie dumped me freshman year, Mom was the first to help me go on a diet. She bought me weight loss guidebooks, exercise tapes and a food scale. I would give her a special list of what to pick up at the grocery store.

I counted every calorie. Weighed every ounce. Recorded every mile. It was healthy at first. I started to lose weight. Fast. I really did need to ditch some of the weight, but I couldn’t stop even after I lost all the weight I had gained.

And everyone, I mean everyone, was nicer to me. Even my parents. But I don’t want their attention anymore. They’re more controlling with me than they were with either Mason or Royce. Dad claims I’m more prone to extremes. Mom says I’m too hard on myself. I fail to see either. I’m pretty average.

Devastatingly average.

“Give me the benefit of the doubt,” he says. “I’m just saying that you don’t have to order the salad. Eat whatever you want. You used to like the Manhattan steak.”

I refuse to react. I take a small bite of lettuce, the smallest leaf I can find.

I chew thirty times, counting each one like a bead on a rosary.

30...29...28...27...

It’s way harder to come up with excuses for not eating at a restaurant, and I can’t go to the bathroom after dinner either. Too obvious. So I order light and chew my food for so long that when they’re ready to go, I end up leaving half my food on the plate.

I may be a fairly average teenage girl, but I’m strong-willed. Probably more so than any of those girls who hang around with Zach. I can put up a good fight.

I smile at Mom as if to say, Please keep the congressman behind the imaginary fence. She looks at me and shrugs. I guess I’ll have to fight this battle on my own.

So I feign deafness, take a sip of water and stare at the wood paneled walls, thinking about my conversation with Ms. Day right before lunch. Having my work shown at a real gallery would be an amazing experience. It would mean that I actually have the talent to be a professional artist someday. Just being good at art in your high school classes isn’t enough. I have to test myself outside of school too.

I want to put together a portfolio, but I don’t know where to begin. My mind goes blank every time I try to think of a concept or theme for the show. I need to find my inspiration. If only I could talk to LeFeber...

“You might consider returning to Earth once in a while, Ms. Space Cadet,” Dad says. His mouth is moving, but his words are white noise. “Ground control to Olivia.”

I’m a disappointment to him. Not only am I not interested in his job, I don’t get as high grades as Royce and I’ll never be as popular as Mason was in high school.

He taps his fork on my plate, clanging the tines against the glass to get my attention. I stare at him, hoping my smoldering irises are enough to laser some more gray streaks into his hair. “I hope the rabbits across America aren’t starving...”

I scrunch up my forehead. What the hell is he talking about?

“You eat so much lettuce you must have tanked their food economy,” he says.

“Congressman Blakely,” I say, stabbing my fork into a leaf covered in sesame seeds, “I like salads, the rabbits will be just fine and, besides, I’m just not super hungry, okay?”

I started calling him Congressman Blakely about a year ago. I don’t know why, other than I thought it was funny. Maybe I was being a little mean. It’s a way for me to passively fight back in my own house. My own private revolution, for no reason other than that I’m a teenager. It’s practically my duty to get under my parents’ skin.

“Can you not be like this? I’d love to have a peaceful dinner.” Mom wipes a touch of water from her lips, then folds up her napkin into a perfect rectangle. She’s perfect. Intelligent. Tactful. Nothing—not one stray hair or wrinkled shirt—ever out of place.

I reach for my own napkin and realize it has fallen on the floor. Compared to my mother, I’m a hot mess. I’m not diplomatic in social situations, and I can barely manage to find a clean pair of jeans in the mornings. I don’t know how I ended up so different from my parents. I would be the worst politician ever.

Dad has just opened his mouth to argue again when Martin Barrios—Ollie’s father—approaches the table. Just seeing him makes me want to slink down in my chair and hide under the table. He’s wearing a black toupee slicked tight against his head and a blue suit that’s slightly wrinkled and damp from sweat. He’s fresh from the bar, face red, and too happy—way too happy for me anyway. He winks at Dad as if he knows some big secret. Not only is Mr. Barrios Ollie’s father, which is mortifying enough, he’s also worked with Dad on a big downtown renovation project, so there’s no getting away.

“Colin Blakely?” He squints at Dad and spills a few drops of his martini on the carpet. “Whoa! Don’t want to lose that,” he adds. “This is a Musso martini!”

Dad laughs. “I hope you brought that for me.”

“Why? Is this a celebration? I mean, I hope it is.” He looks at Mom. “You look lovely as always, Debra.”

“How’s Oliver doing at...” Dad pauses. “Where does he go to school again? Princeton? Or Dartmouth?”

“He’s a Princeton man. Double major in economics and Near Eastern studies.”

“That’s good to hear,” Mom says politely.

How can she keep smiling at him? I never told her exactly what Ollie’s comment was when he broke up with me, but she knows he said something horrible to me.

Then Mr. Barrios turns toward me, training his bloodshot eyes on my face.

“Olivia?” he says in faux surprise.

It’s so fake I want to laugh.

“I’m her doppelgänger,” I deadpan. “The real Olivia has been claimed by the robotics industry and is now being mass manufactured.”

I imagine a hundred little replicas of myself and shudder. I can barely stand seeing myself doubled in a mirror, let alone a never-ending assembly line of Olivia Blakely dolls.

Mom shoots me a death stare. She doesn’t like when I’m sarcastic around adults. It’s a liability. I say they could stand to loosen up. Why take everything so seriously?

“Is she?” He laughs like a factory-produced automaton. “You’re all grown up,” he says. “You’ll be a marvelous woman. You have two great brothers. And mother...”

Gag. That’s when I stop listening. I shut him off completely. I’ve heard this speech before from a hundred different politicians. He’s lost interest within seconds anyway, because I’m not important to these kinds of people other than that I’m merely something to turn into a compliment for my parents.

I check my phone. There’s a text from Sam. I answer as surreptitiously as I can. Mom and Dad don’t like when I text at the dinner table, but I can’t help myself.

SAM: Feeling better?

LIV: Yep :-)

SAM: Thinking about doing a bonfire at the beach. You down?

LIV: I wish. Dinner with my parents ;-)

SAM: Bummer. Hang out tomorrow?

LIV: Totally. I’m down.

SAM: I have a surprise for you.

LIV: OoOoO. What is it?

SAM: It’s a surprise...

“Liv? Could you put your phone down, please?” Mom asks. She places her napkin on the table like she’s about to make a serious announcement.

“Yeah. One sec,” I say, rapidly texting Sam back.

LIV: Gotta go. Txt later :-)

I was supposed to hang out with him after taking yearbook photos yesterday, but I just felt like locking myself in my bedroom after the disaster with Jackson, so I gave him an excuse about not feeling well. I’m a terrible friend. I need to make it up to him.

Mr. Barrios has waded his way back to the bar. I really wish I could join him. Maybe he could buy me one of those famous Musso martinis. I could use one.

Or three.

The buzz would help deaden the anxiety whirling in my stomach. I think about my conversation with Jackson—rehashing every tiny word and action over and over in my mind—until I convince myself that Jackson and all his friends, especially Zach, think I’m a freak who just wants to party with the popular people.

I’m feeling more nauseous by the second.

I’m just getting up to go to the bathroom when I realize Dad’s been trying to get my attention.

“Honeybee,” he says. He’s been calling me that since I stepped on a bee at my friend’s birthday at Griffith Park nearly ten years ago. “Don’t go just yet. I have something to tell the both of you.”

“Ugh,” I say and sit back down. “I have to pee. What is it?”

Mom puts a hand on his arm. The news is something she’s been anticipating. I’ve always been able to read her. And Dad? He’s an open book. He’ll tell anyone whatever he’s thinking at any given moment. No secrets there. I guess that’s something people admire about him, but I don’t understand. Everyone needs a secret to call their own.

“There’s a reason we went out on a school night,” he says.

“What is it?” I ask absentmindedly, thinking about how much homework I have to get done tonight. I have at least two hours’ worth. It’s going to be a late night.

Dad jolts me back into reality.

“I’m running for governor of California,” he says.

My stomach drops.

“We’ve been waiting to tell you,” Mom says, her face full of joy. I’m pretty sure the expression on my face is communicating the otherworldliness of this announcement.

“Really?” I ask. “Are you serious?”

“Couldn’t be more serious,” he says.

I should be happy for him, happy for his achievements, but this is terrible news. This means even more attention on the family and more stress during my junior year, which everyone knows is the hardest school year ever, especially since I have to start studying for the SAT, working on my portfolio and thinking about art school—or at least how I’m going to convince my parents to let me go there instead of a regular university.

All eyes are going to be on us. That means I have to be more perfect than ever. Stronger. Nothing should be able to take me down. Not food. Not school. Not this election.

I push the lettuce around on my plate and crush the croutons with my fork while Mom and Dad talk like old high school lovers, excited about this new opportunity.

“This is exactly what we need. Imagine not having to fly to Washington all the time.” I can tell that, in her mind, Mom is already decorating and ordering furniture for a new house. “We’ll live in the governor’s mansion. Sacramento is so lovely, and I miss having seasons.”

The timing couldn’t be worse.

My entire junior year is going to be taken up by this campaign. Probably part of my senior year too. Everything will be about him. Like always. Not to mention I may have to live in Sacramento for half of my senior year.

Sacramento? I mean, seriously, what’s in Sacramento? A river?

Let me say it again: There’s. No. Way.

Might as well join the Mars Colony. They’re taking hip young up-and-coming artists ostracized from their power-hungry families, aren’t they? Sign me up.

A campaign for governor changes everything. Forget making any friends, let alone hooking up with Zach Park. Dad winning the governorship would ruin all that. And Dad’s scarily good at winning elections.

Fine. I’m just going to say it. Not out loud, but I’m going to say it in my head because it’s all I can think. I hope he loses. I hope his campaign completely tanks. There. Said it. I just need to get on the ball and focus on getting invited to Zach’s boat party.

That’s my only chance to get on his radar and to ask for LeFeber’s advice. I have to start living my best life. Stop constantly overthinking things and doubting myself.

No more being a wallflower.

No more being known only as the congressman’s daughter.

Or Mason and Royce’s little sister.

I have to make a name for myself. For my art.