2
“Oooomph”
“OOOOMPH.” THIS IS what I say when I run into that yummy new kid on the way out of Home Ec. “Oooomph.” Not “Excuse me.” Not “Here’s my number.” Not even “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Not something charming, clever, or sexy. Just …“Oooomph.”
But that’s okay because as we both watch our books, papers, folders, and notebooks tumble to the ground in a whirling spiral of college-ruled paper and No. 2 pencils, he stands there helplessly and murmurs something like “Murrumph.”
I look for Hazel for some help, but she’s already on the way to Cheer Club practice by now. We’re jostled by other kids a good dozen times as I watch the new guy’s big, pale hands carefully separate his papers from mine. Not that he has many; I mean, the kid did just transfer here from Wyoming or Washington or some godforsaken place.
“I’m usually not so clumsy,” I lie as he hands me my Home Ec handbook.
“My fault entirely,” he says while I hold out his Barracuda Bay High schedule sheet. “I’ve been doing this all day.”
“Really?” I quip before I can clamp my mouth shut. “And here I thought I was special.”
He snorts, then looks self-consciously down at his ratty size-jumbo sneakers. Even though we’re kneeling, snatching up and separating the last of our loose-leaf papers, he’s tall; not Bones tall, but then who is?
He’s slender but tight, like he’s coiled to pounce on something—or someone—nearby. (She wishes.) His skin is pale and smooth but hard like marble, with a faint dusting of hair across the backs of his hands. He smells like cologne; something good but not too good.
He’s dressed down for his first day: faded jeans and a rugby shirt with brown and blue stripes. It’s tight across the chest but loose around the waist, and I only realize I’m staring when it’s been silent for awhile and the halls are practically empty.
“Shit!” I stand at attention.
He follows me as I stand to my full height, but then he keeps going, a head or so higher once he’s finally stopped unfolding.
“I’m going to be late.” He looks stranded, helpless, the walls of Barracuda Bay High suddenly a maze, his books all stacked wrong and his schedule knotted.
I take pity and say, somewhat irritated (though trying to hide it), “Where’s your next class?”
He frowns, unraveling his ruined schedule from between two teetering textbooks. “Art,” he says without enthusiasm.
“Really?” I ask, tugging on his sleeve and steering him toward C-wing before falling into stride with his long, thin legs. “Me too.”
“Not by choice,” he adds defensively.
“Don’t worry.” I sigh. “Your heterosexuality is still very much intact.”
“No, I just mean …you know what I mean.”
“Art’s not too big in Wyoming?” I say, rounding the corner.
“Nothing’s too big in Wisconsin,” he says, correcting me without formally correcting me, “except hunting, fishing, and …more fishing.”
I smile and rush into class, dragging him across the threshold right before the final bell rings. Mrs. Witherspoon raises one gray eyebrow above her ridiculously round, incredibly red tortoiseshell glasses, until she sees the big kid lumbering behind me.
Then she winks, clears her throat, and announces theatrically (her default setting), “Cutting it a little close, aren’t we, Maddy dear? Well, since you and your new friend are so late, I’m afraid you’ll have to take the two last seats in the house. I hope you won’t …mind.”
As I walk past, I try to avoid the jealous stares of all the other Art Chicks shooting me daggers, but there’s something about walking into a class full of frustrated feminists with a big, tall, strapping jock by your side that makes me want to jump up on one of the black lab tables and shout, “In your face! In your face!” I restrain myself and slide into my chair.
The new kid sits stiffly to my left as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. His chiseled face is Midwest pale above his weathered collar, and I notice as he blinks rapidly that his eyes are an almost chocolate brown. Between that and the thick black hair, he might as well be a giant chocolate chip cookie. He fiddles with his books as Mrs. Witherspoon calls roll, and when she gets to the Cs and calls out “Crosby, Stamp,” I can literally see the blush creep from his throat to his taut Wisconsin cheeks.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says politely, eliciting twitters from the tough artsy crowd.
She smiles and corrects him. “My mother is called ‘ma’am,’ Mr. Crosby. So you shall call me Mrs. Witherspoon. Stamp, I’m sure you know the drill by now. Please stand and introduce yourself.”
He groans so only I can hear him, and I kind of want to pinch his cheek while standing up and demanding Mrs. Witherspoon give him a pass just this once. I do neither and merely watch with the rest of my smitten Art Class sisters (plus the resident moody male, Dmitri Collins, who could be smitten, or bored, or asleep—it’s hard to tell what with all the eye shadow).
Stamp stands to his full six feet (and then some). “My name is Stamp Crosby. I just transferred here from Waukesha, Wisconsin. I’m the new kicker for the Barracuda Bay Marauders.” When we don’t all stand up and cheer and flash our jugs, he sighs and says, “You know? Your school football team?”
That gets a few laughs, and I notice a few of the Art Chicks start to swoon. (Witches.)
Thankfully, before he’s allowed to go on in his entirely charming way, Mrs. Witherspoon clears her throat. “Thank you, Stamp. Very …interesting. Now, if you’ll kindly take your seat, I’ll explain today’s assignment …”
Mrs. Witherspoon gives him a square clump of brown modeling clay and a picture she’s cut out of some pet magazine that shows a fluffy little cat curled up in a soft, cozy bed. “Interpret this,” she says cryptically before moving on without a backward glance.
Stamp shrugs in my direction and begins creating an exact replica of the picture. I watch his large fingers dabble with the clay, lots of it getting under his bitten-to-the-nub fingernails and the frayed edges of his rugby shirtsleeves. He’s one of those guys who sticks his tongue out when he’s concentrating, which I can’t say I mind all that much.
Halfway through class, he’s done with his cozy kitten and about to raise his hand to call Mrs. Witherspoon over, when I stop it in midair. “She said ‘interpret’ it, Stamp, not copy it exactly.”
“What’s the difference?”
I point to my own glob of clay in response. The magazine picture taped to my workstation is of a simple tennis shoe, but my piece of clay has been twisted and molded and bent to look like a single shoelace coiled into the pose of a striking anaconda.
“What the heck is that supposed to be?”
I frown, looking at it with a new pair of eyes. “Well, it’s supposed to represent the commercial oppression of the American shoemakers who hire cheap immigrant labor to manufacture their capitalist ideals of consumer confidence …” My voice trails off as his mouth opens wide and his eyes glaze over. I reel it back in and say, “Anyway, when Mrs. Witherspoon tells you to interpret something, you’re not supposed to just totally re-create what you see. You’re supposed to illustrate how the kitten makes you feel.”
He nods, shrugs, nods again, says, “huh,” really loudly like maybe he’s in a room by himself, and then leans in, body heat shimmering off of him in warm, golden waves. Finally he murmurs to himself, “How do I turn a piece of clay into …happy?” He frowns at the prospect but then turns his clay cat into a (wait for it) smiley face. You know, the kind that Walmart used to use before it got too cheesy even for them?
When Mrs. Witherspoon finally rolls around to check out our table, she is not amused. I see the righteous indignation roiling inside of her, back there behind her big red glasses and above her flouncy red scarf. As she raises a trembling finger and gets ready to chew Stamp a new one, I momentarily catch her eye and, with pleadingly blinking eyelashes successfully derail her—at least for today. (You’re on your own tomorrow, Stamp.)
She sighs, bites her lip, and says, “Very nice, Stamp. Very …adequate.”
When she’s gone, he looks at me, unconvinced, leans in, and whispers glumly, his breath Tic Tac fresh, “She hated it.”
I snort a little and inch even closer. “There’s always tomorrow.”
He’s laughing as we clean up our clay, but since he’s a guy, and new, and a guy, his so-called cleanup takes many minutes fewer than mine, and when the bell rings, I’m still elbow deep in muddy, clay-filled water at the sink.
I try not to look too desperate as I glance toward our table, sending violently strong ESP waves across the room for him to Wait up, Stamp! Wait up! but already that Art class hussy tramp Sylvia Chalmers has his schedule in hand and is leading the way out of the room. I hang my head, dry my hands, and grab my books from our table—our table!
As I exit the class, Mrs. Witherspoon doesn’t bother to look up from her latest copy of American Photographer when she whispers, “Careful, Madison. That one’s got heartache written all over him.”
I snort, linger by the door, and remind her, “Weren’t you the one who told us every artist needs a broken heart to be any good?”