Mean Girls. Louise Rozett

my own embarrassment.

      All I’d wanted to do was get under everyone’s skin, and just tell them what had happened. But I didn’t. I kept it to myself.

      A tall, lean boy with Ray-Ban glasses walked in. The girls in the class stopped talking immediately as they took in his good looks. He scooted the glasses up his head.

      “Hey, guys,” he said as he set down a laptop bag. “I’m Isaac. Frank—Professor Crawley—is my uncle, and he had a family thing he needed to do this week, so I’m covering for him. I, incidentally, am thrilled to be avoiding the family thing. So we’ll have fun this week. Just so you know, I’m not just some random nephew, either. I just graduated from Corcoran in D.C. with a bachelor of fine arts. I’ll be headed back in a year to get started on my master’s.”

      The class was silent. The girls were still gaping, and the guys were sizing him up. Max walked in and took his seat next to me while Isaac dug through his laptop bag for the attendance.

      “Who’s that?” Max asked me.

      I nearly seized up. “Uh. Professor Crawley’s son. No, I mean nephew. He just graduated college and he’s covering for Crawley.”

      I didn’t need to be so stupid when I talked to Max. It would be nice if just sometimes, I could say things without stumbling through them.

      Max nodded.

      Once we were given our assignment, which was to paint abstractly using at least two different kinds of brushstrokes, the classroom was buzzing with whispered conversation. Most of it about how hot our sub was. Max was listening to headphones and furrowing his brow at his painting. After half an hour passed, I came to terms with the fact that we wouldn’t be talking today.

      I was just laying Cadmium Red Light to the underside of a Cerulean blue stroke when Isaac approached me.

      “That’s awesome.”

      “Mine?”

      Isaac nodded and squinted as he leaned in to look at my colors. “That’s really awesome. I gotta say, I usually hate the look of colors straight out of the tube, but you’re doing something really interesting here. Is there any kind of inspiration for this? Like, what’s going through your mind as you do this?”

      Max. Just a whole lot of Max. “Nothing really. I’m just … painting I guess.”

      Isaac looked at me through narrowed eyes, chewing on the end of his Ray-Bans. “Are you in love?”

      I noticed now that the whole class was listening. Even Max had taken off his headphones.

      “Love? No, not at all. God no.” Slick.

      “I see … a lot of torture here. All these reds … the Alizarin with the Cadmium, especially over here,” he indicated a sharp, narrow line in the corner. “This is amazing. You really have a gift.”

      “Oh … no, I don’t even paint. This doesn’t even look abstract like it’s supposed to. It’s just … a mess.”

      He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “It doesn’t matter. It’s working.”

      I was flattered and was brimming with pride, but I couldn’t enjoy it. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, and could practically hear their loathing thoughts about me.

      “Looks like you’re a painter now.” He smiled and winked.

      I smiled back. “Thanks.”

      As Isaac walked around, the classroom’s eyes shifted from me to my painting, I imagined then. They probably all wanted to see what Isaac had been gushing about. They’d probably decide there was nothing special about it, and that they couldn’t see what the fuss was over.

      I wished I had my phone and could listen to music. Then I could ignore the whispers, and at least try to escape.

      “It is good.”

      I turned to see Max looking at my canvas. Isaac’s question about love burned in my ears. I almost didn’t want Max to look too hard. If he did, he might see the truth.

      “Thank you. I don’t even …” I waved a hand at it. “It’s not even a big deal.”

      I directed my gaze back to my canvas, for fear of saying something else dumb.

      Later, Max and I were at the washing station, cleaning our brushes when Susan came over to us and draped her arms over our shoulders. She had a group of girls watching whatever performance she was about to put on.

      “So, are you two tortured lovebirds now?” She looked at Max. “Doesn’t that seem a bit idiotic given the circumstances?”

      “Hey, Susan?” said Max. “Why don’t you fuck off?”

      I could tell the words bit at her, but she smiled and moved her long straight hair from her face. “I’m sorry, does it bother you when I stand here and touch you? That’s true, that’s inappropriate. Considering Becca, and all. I’ll back off.” She stepped backward, looking smug. “Take the hint, new girl. Stop trying to copy his girlfriend. It’s weird.”

      Max shook his head at her. “You’re just a fucking rip-off.”

      “Rip-off? Me? How you figure?”

      “Because we all saw you before Becca got here, and we all see you now. Your hair, your jewelry, your shoes … and didn’t you pick up smoking sometime last year? And what was it you smoked? That’s right. Camel Lights. Same as Becca.”

      The fire in his eyes intimidated me. He was fighting for Becca, and she wasn’t even here. I wanted everyone to be wrong when they said how much he loved her. But maybe he really did.

      “Yeah, I heard you beat the living shit out of Johnny over the summer. I saw the scar he’s got on his cheekbone now. Doesn’t scare me—what are you gonna do, hit me?”

      I looked around for Isaac. He was talking on his phone in the corner. Crawley wouldn’t have let this conversation carry on.

      “I’m not going to hit you. You just need to stop.”

      “Oh,” she said, laughing, “right, you wouldn’t hit a girl. Maybe you’d just kill me.”

      There was a collective response in the classroom. Gasps, whoas and whispers.

      “Don’t fucking talk to me.” Max’s eyes were hard, and the veins in his hand were pumping

      “If you didn’t kill her, and she is still out there, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s keepings tabs on what you’re doing with this one.” Susan pointed lazily at me.

      I laughed. This was just too much. “And that wouldn’t make Becca the psycho?”

      Max looked at me, and for a second I thought he might yell at me. But then he took my brushes and his and threw them into his locker.

      “Is all your other stuff packed up?” he asked me.

      “Yes.” I would have said it even if it hadn’t been.

      He took my hand and pulled me from the room. It was quieter in the halls, even though I knew classes were about to let out and fill them up again.

      Max pulled me into an empty classroom and shut the door. The gray light from outside put an eerie filter on the room.

      “I’m sorry.” Max sat down on one of the desks.

      “Sorry … why are you sorry?”

      “Because that’s not okay. How Susan was acting … it’s messed up. I hate when people talk to you like that. I don’t like when they talk to you about her at all.”

      “It’s okay.”

      “No. It’s not.” He stood and came toward me. “You’re not her. You’re you.”

      I