“It looks better with my outfit,” Lenore says, posing.
Theodore looks her over appraisingly before finally nodding his head in agreement, “Yes, I suppose it does.”
“No offense, but you low-key had some Christopher Robin vibes going on there. Or like one of those old-timey, creepy ghost boys in movies about haunted houses? They look all sweet and normal until, like, their faces rip apart and maggots come out or something. . . . I’m really doing you a favor.”
“I was worried it was too much.” His voice is softer now, and he glances down at his outfit. It makes me like him more. “Is it too much?”
“You look great,” I say, and he gives me a slow smile.
“Thank you, Tessa. You can have Lenore’s rocking chair.”
I hesitate, but Lenore does a dramatic bow thing as she gestures to the chair, before leaning against the railing surrounding the porch. “It’s all yours.”
“So what conservatory are you both in?” I feel a little silly after the question comes out, because it’s not like Theodore is sitting here sketching but is also a prodigy violin player.
“Visual arts,” Theodore says, his hand moving quickly again, adding a crown of leaves to the beautiful girl on his page. “I dabble in painting when I’m feeling a little masochistic, but my focus is primarily illustration.”
“On paper, I’m in the visual arts conservatory too. Drawing, photography, watercolor, printmaking—I do it all,” Lenore says. “But I’ve taken classes in the film department before, and also digital media. This year I’m invading the production and design department too, because my pockets are getting real empty from too many trips to Jo-Ann’s this summer, and those guys get as much fabric as they want.”
“You make clothes?” I ask, amazed again at how cool this girl is.
“Yep! Made these pants from a tablecloth Grandma Lenore was gonna throw out.” She laughs and poses with her hands on her hips and her shoulders rolled forward, like she’s modeling for an invisible camera. “Aren’t they perfect?” she says, and I nod in agreement.
“I didn’t know you could take classes in multiple conservatories.”
“You can when you’re as talented as me!” she calls, snapping her fingers above her head.
“Oh yeah, of course. I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to, uh, question whether or not you were talented enough or anything.”
I can feel my neck burning red. But she laughs again, and nudges my toes with one of her perfect lemon-yellow slides.
“Girl, chill. Do you want to try other conservatories too? They usually let anyone try it if you can state your case. What conservatory are you in, anyway?”
“Oh . . . I just write.” I look down at my hands, so I won’t see the look of boredom, or worse, fake interest on her face.
“Nah, don’t say you just write,” she says, imitating my mumbly tone. “You won’t ever catch Theo here saying he just draws.” He wags a finger with his left hand while his right hand continues to work. “You write. Period. And you must be pretty fucking good at it to get in here, especially as a transfer. So own it, sis!”
I shrug and let myself smile a little bit. She’s being nice, and I appreciate it. But she might say different if she knew I wrote romances.
Lenore, luckily, picks up on my vibe and switches gears. “Okay, so the writers usually sit over there,” she says, pointing to a spot on the other side of the porch, covered by a large tree. I see some of the hard-core Harry Potter fans from earlier, but there’s also a cluster of girls in novelty prints and Peter Pan collars, lots of people wearing various shades of faded black, and at least two fedoras that I can count. “Shady, less glare on their laptops. And I think they like sitting there because it has the best view of the place. Lots of material for their next novels.”
“Is there, like, assigned seating or something?”
“No, of course not. But people like to be with their people, you feel me? And most of all, people like to feel like their people are better than all the other people. It’s, like, the human condition or whatever.” Lenore speaks with her hands, like she’s giving a TED talk. “We don’t have cheerleaders or football players here, yeah, but there’s a hierarchy like anywhere else.”
“Yeah, the dancers? Totally cheerleaders,” Theodore cuts in. His pencil is down now. This topic interests him.
“Mmm-hmm, the way they prance around in their spandex and leotards—they don’t need to be wearing that shit all day! They just want to show off their nonexistent booties and, like, ribs or whatever.” Lenore points to a crowd of girls and a few guys sitting on the steps of the bank building. “That’s them over there.”
“And the jocks here? The musical theater kids,” Theodore continues. “Everything always has to revolve around them, and they expect us to care about their next big show like little towns in Texas care about football. I don’t even need to show you where they are.”
He doesn’t. There’s a huge group singing “Seasons of Love” a cappella on the far side of the lawn.
Theodore continues to give me the lay of the land with Lenore’s quick commentary, pointing to each group as he goes along. The production and design kids mostly hang out inside. (“They can’t be exposed to sunlight, or they will, like, burst into flames.”) The new culinary arts students are wild cards. (“But I wouldn’t mind me a hot chef boyfriend.”) The visual arts kids flock wherever light is good and the inspiration takes them, and they’re the cool, artsy ones. (“Of course.”) And the instrumental music and creative writing kids are the nerds, apparently. (“No offense, but, like, the writers all started bringing typewriters last year. Like, it was a trend. You can’t tell me there’s a reason to lug around that obsolete technology! With that and the tubas, they probably all got scoliosis.”)
I follow Theodore’s finger around the campus, fighting the urge to take notes, but I miss what he’s saying about the film department because I’m distracted by another group that he hasn’t labeled yet. The musical theater kids may be acting all extra to get everyone’s attention, but this group does it effortlessly. There are four of them sitting in the very middle of the lawn, center stage. One guy is impossibly tall and freckled, with flaming red hair. His whole body shakes with laughter, and even though I’m too far to hear it, it’s contagious. I want to be right there, laughing along. Lounging next to him on a spread-out flannel shirt is another white guy with a backward snapback covering shaggy golden hair, and there’s a girl with them too. She has dyed gray hair, milky skin, and dark lipstick. She’s wearing an oversized denim jacket over a black dress so short I can almost see the curve of her butt cheeks.
They look perfect. They look like the cast of a CW show posing on the cover of Entertainment Weekly.
And the centerpiece of it all is the gorgeous specimen standing in the middle of them, talking and gesturing animatedly, like he’s delivering one of Shakespeare’s sonnets or Ali Wong’s comedy sets. His friends orbit around him, marveling at him just like I find myself doing now.
The boy has dark eyes that I can see sparkle even from here, olive skin, and tousled chocolate hair, short on the sides and long, loose curls on the top. As he speaks, it falls in his face, and he brushes it back in a way that makes my stomach do backflips. He has broad shoulders that hold his crisp white T-shirt with a round, stretched-out neck like a hanger over his skinny frame. His legs are long and lean—like, remarkably so—and this is only highlighted by his tight, faded black jeans and brown leather shoes with no socks.