Page 13 of Cry Madness
While I was at Krobes, Ivory and I stayed close, and although Scarlett and I were also friends, that came to a sudden end during senior year at Hilltop. One day, for literally no rhyme or reason at all, Scarlett decided she hated me. Her hostility makes art classesinterestingsince we’re forced to share those spaces. Her relentless and ruthless attitude turned something that should be enjoyable into a damn war zone. More than once, I was tempted to change classes, but to hell with that. If I let her win the battle, she wins this ridiculous war.
Throughout the two hours we’re here, Professor Katzinski wanders the room, providing constructive praise and criticism as he studies each student’s project. When he gets to mine, he nods. “Expert use of the entire canvas.” He hovers his finger, tracing the simple charcoal outline of the caterpillar perched on a mushroom. “See this?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Nice clean lines and smooth curves.” He purses his lips and nods again. “Good. Very good.” The tall, gray-haired man faces me, with his probing brown eyes searching my face for…something. He laces his hands behind his back and asks, “But what are you saying here?”
I don’t know.
At least, that’s the first thought that jumps into my mind because it’s just a weird caterpillar on a giant piece of fungus. But when I look back at the fledgling drawing, I see it—the meaning of it what’s buried deep in my subconscious. “Escapism?”
I guess?
“Is it? You tell me, Alice. Is that what this drawing represents to you?”
I study the drawing harder, and the deeper I look, the more I see. “The hookah, I suppose, supplies a momentary reprieve.”
“From what?”
“Pain,” I whisper without hesitation.
“Humph,” he mutters. “Why this insect, I wonder?”
I squint at the design, really seeing lines, the shape, and my heart thumps a rapid beat as the meaning leaps out at me. The phallic shape of the caterpillar—Maddox. The hookah that embodies the blessed relief from the torment of watching my dad die. It’s all so agonizingly clear. But I say none of what’s laid out so blatantly, and instead say, “It’s just a bug.”
A hint of a smile tugs at his mouth. “Indeed.” With a lift of a single brow, he adds, “I look forward to seeing this when it’s finished.” He strolls on to the next easel, muttering, “Just a bug…”
…as if he saw directly into my mind and read my thoughts.
Every October,at the end of the month, Katherine hosts her annual gala—because, God forbid, anyone should call it a party. Her brain might explode—or her ego. Actually, probably both. My mother is obscenely over-the-top. It’s embarrassing. Hergalais always this grand affair—a spectacle—and this year, I have to attend. The figurative shit will definitely hit the fan if I don’t, and of all the hills I’ve chosen to die on over the years, this one isn’t worth the aggravation.
While in Riverton, I had the perfect excuse for not attending. The drive was simply too far, I’d tell her. But I’m home now, and worse, I’m living in her house. There’s literally no feasible excuse I can think of that will prevent me from having to make, at the very least, an appearance. This year’s theme is a carnival masquerade, and I can only imagine how extra it’sgoing to be, so if nothing else, at least Ivory and I will have a blast poking fun at Wonderland’s theatrical aristocracy.
With classes over for the day, I stroll across Brakel Green, squinting against the glare of the early afternoon sun. I scroll through the photos of gowns Ivory sent me, glancing up and ahead of me as I walk the concrete path toward the parking lot. Each dress is more stunning than the last, and all various shades of white—of course. But one stands out among the rest.
Me: Fourth one. Def
The gown is slinky, with a hint of silvery shimmer woven into the pale silk.
Ivory: Knew that’s the one youd like most
Ivory: Ur turn
My mother’s party is a month away, and that leaves me plenty of time to buy a dress for the damn thing. And sorry, but I’m not calling it a gala simply because Katherine likes to pretend she’s special. My mother is just an average gold-digger who bagged the golden goose—twice.
Me: Saturday good?
Ivory: Today’s better
Or we can go now.
It’s not as if I’m in a rush to get home. The only thing waiting for me is my artwork, and they won’t complain if I take some time for myself.
Me: Sure. Where?
Ivory: Dapper Dame
Me: Perfect. See ya in a few