The Unusual Suspects

Skye

Coffee in hand, I approached the Fine Arts building for my 10 am Foundations of Art class. It was an Easy A for my senior year, plus a better way to start my day than Algebra II, which I had on Wednesdays at 12.
I walked in and breathed in the aroma of fresh oil paint and new sketchbooks. It was one of those small, cramped rooms that’d been built in the original eighteenth-century campus, with tall windows that brought in a lot of pale morning light and slanted tables stained from paint from years’ past. Shelves were stocked with bins of charcoal pencils, bottles of various mediums, brand-new paintbrushes, and stained glass shards. Portraits of The Mona Lisa and Starry Night plastered the dusty walls with several eclectic canvas paintings done by students with their graduation years. Mobile origami hung from the low slanted ceiling. It was hot and stuffy (there was no air conditioning in these older-than-old buildings) and everyone who’d managed to make it on time with pants on looked blacked-out (Newbauma Hall kids know how to party hard, don’t we?).
I immediately saw Ash sitting at one of the tables in the back row with Donte, Maryah, and Jessica nearby. Like me, they’d wanted to take an easy A this year. Jane and Baby Doll were in all the advanced arts classes, because those were their areas of study. Jessica looked peeved that she was required to take Foundations of Art when she was already so “advanced-level” in her Fashion program. Ash noticed me walk in and waved me over, flashing that adorable grin I loved. His hair was sculpted to perfection (as always) and he looked like a Glamour Kills model with his gray short-sleeved hoodie, tight-but-not-gay-looking jeans, and red Vans. This was the first class we’ve ever had together in the four years we’ve known each other (Film was his area of study, and when we took Film Writing for a program credit sophomore year we’d had it different periods).
“Yoo, Skye’s here! Now the PAR-TAY can start!” Donte exclaimed. He didn’t seem as exhausted as his Inkling suggested.
“Noo.” Maryah groaned, “After last night, I don’t want to hear the word ‘party’ again.” She looked as if she wasn’t even at the hangover stage yet. She still looked wasted.
“That shit was insane!” Ash slammed his hand on the painted wooden tabletop as he pulled me playfully into his lap with the other, then he tilted his eyes at me “hey, why’d you peace out last night? I had your Pop ready” he grinned jokingly
“’Cause if I heard Cassidy say one more nasty thing to Fernando I would’ve cussed her out” I rolled my eyes
“He’s too good for her” Jessica muttered bitterly, then stopped and noticed us staring at her “Not that I care, I mean”
“Yo Skye, your home-girl was in my dorm last night!” Donte informed me
“Donte!!” we all exclaimed in unison
“You didn’t!” I gasped in horror “It’s Jersey we’re talking about!”
“No, no, I didn’t do it!” Donte waved his hands around in defense “but my scumbag roommate seemed to be getting pretty friendly with her”
“What??” I freaked
“Dude, Tommy?” Ash asked. From his tone, he knew something we didn’t. Like maybe this guy was as up there on the Planned Parenthood sign-up sheet as Cassidy. “He’s dirty” I’m guessing Tommy was Pervy Barista’s name. I flashed back to last night, when he’d approached us and stole Jersey away from me.
My motherly instincts were kicking in, full-throttle. “What?” I groaned, exasperated “C’mon, what was she doing with him?”
I was getting annoyed at Jersey’s antics. I was tired of feeling like her mother all the time. I mean, why couldn’t she make bad decisions when she was sober at least? I couldn’t be her leash all the time. I had a life too.
“I don’t know. I got home at 2:30—“
“Wow, really Donte?” Jessica asked, narrowing her eyes. So mature (without being a Shi Huangdi, of course)
“—ANWAYS,” Donte continued “I got home and saw Jersey sprawled on the floor with Tommy, totally blacked out. I saw… unspeakable thing,” then he lowered his voice “boobies” he grinned jokingly
So THAT’S where Jersey’s bra must’ve went
I shook my head. Jersey needed to stop fooling around with weird, pervy baristas and find a real man.
“I can’t imagine her in college” Maryah commented, doodling a circus elephant on her neon-orange jeans with her Bic pen.
“Dude, she’s so screwed” Jessica shook her head, playing with the fringes on her made-this-in-Merchandising-2-class hobo bag
“Literally!” Donte laughed. I gave him a dirty look. Not now, Donte.
I didn’t realize our teacher, Mr. Merrick had walked into the classroom. His normally clean-shaven chin was covered with an unattractive layer of 5 o’clock shadow. Usually, Mr. Merrick was considered the studly teacher here at WashArts that the more promiscuous (dance studio) girls lusted after. He looked as if he was at the Newbauma hall party last night as well.
“Morning, people.” He groaned, “Today you’re going to make collages. There’s magazines and glue…well you know where everything is.” Yup, definitely hungover.
The class collectively groaned. Collages? Seriously? Was this Lower School art class all over again?
“Ew, I don’t wanna do collages” Ash rolled his eyes. Maryah had started drumming on the table with her fingers while Donte was rapping free-style. Jessica had slammed her forehead on her Fashion Illustration textbook in aggravation—wow, she sure hated this class. None of us wanted to do some third-grade cut-and-paste art project.
“Me neither. Wanna ditch?” I asked, smiling hopefully. My coffee cup was empty, but luckily I had my own hipster barista who could whip up some wicked latte in a jiff with a killer discount.
The corners of his lips turned up in an ecstatic grin. “Really think he won’t notice?”
“He’s as wasted as Newbauma Hall” I reasoned, sliding off his lap and grabbing my messenger bag
“Race ya!” he challenged, and sped off in a lightening flash.
“Hey, no fair!” I ran after him, leaving my bored Unusuals behind. It was Ash, c’mon.
See you when you become more fun than Ash, Foundations of Art.

Catherine

I stared in front of Linzay’s three-fold mirror at seven-forty-five, paralyzed with fear as I stared back at my reflection.
I woke up in my strange new bed in my strange new dorm room—in my strange new school. I was still shaken from last night’s crazy party, and I came back so tired and so late, I hadn’t changed out of the sexy dress that Linzay had lent me. Speaking of Linzay, where was she? She mentioned that she didn’t have her Band Orchestra class until 1, but when I’d woken up she was nowhere to be found.
So I was left to fend for myself. Even though Cassidy had promised to loan me some of her clothes, I wasn’t sure if I should walk over to her dorm and raid through her closet for some “Wash Arts-worthy” clothes to wear—especially after seeing her freak out yesterday (I was still so confused…maybe she was just bipolar and it was something she couldn’t really control). Though Linzay’s dress had made me feel so amazing—the goddess aura it’d given me last night clung to me like Cassidy’s cotton candy-scented perfume—I still felt more comfortable in my less form-fitting, Sunday mass-appropriate clothes. I wore a crisp white short-sleeved blouse underneath a vintage pink oversized cable-knit sweater, with a flowy white Laura Ashley gypsy skirt (that was artsy enough, right?) and pink satin-y kitten-heel slippers. I had my tangled dark hair tied up in a half-messy, half-done ballerina bun with a wide pink headband holding it off my face (just like Mom wanted it to look). I stood in front of the mirror, a million thoughts running through my head, contemplating whether or not I should just call in sick or change my outfit—was I even ready to step out those doors and begin my new life here at Wash Arts? Was I that brave? Could I be that brave??. I nervously clutched my Advanced Comp Lit journal, AP Bio textbook, and Renaissance Art I sketchbook—tied in a bundle with my purple hair ribbon—over my chest (since I was a transfer student and the curriculums couldn’t be more different, there were still some core credits I needed to take to graduate. Luckily, I was waivered from most of the lower-level completer classes for the Creative Writing program because of my scholarship, so I could be in junior-level classes and still get everything done in time for graduation).
I didn’t know how I did it. I must’ve been staring at my reflection in pure terror for twenty minutes, but it felt like an eternity before I finally took a final deep, shaky fire-yoga breath and determinedly stepped outside my dorm, locking the door behind me and making my way to first period AP Biology—which was in the Core Science building that everyone seemed to avoid like the Plague. Though it was the one science I liked, because it had little to no math, I’d rather be starting off my day with my second period, Renaissance Lit.
I walked through the halls and past the common rooms in Newbauma and took in the aftermath of last night’s wicked party. It was almost eight, but no one had bothered to clean up the disaster that had been last night. I’m guessing seven-forty-five was still under the period of time that everyone was still rolling around in bed, contemplating skipping first-period due to massive hangovers and black-outs. The floor was covered in a disgusting layer of crushed Monster cans, burnt-out cigarettes, skimpy thongs (whoa), and… were those tampons? Back at Holy Cross the girls said that using tampons was like losing your virginity and was frowned upon in our religion. Although the girls who said that weren’t exactly the most angelic little Christians themselves.
I pushed open the main entrance and walked down the stone steps with a nervous but confident stride. The crisp early morning air brushed against my face and played with my hair, as if cheering me on for this new chapter of my life. I scanned the sprawling quads and crumbling, ivy-covered brick buildings but saw no one—like I said, it was still hangover hour.
“Hey! Didn’t know you got up this early too!”
“Whoa!” I gasped, and spun around. I looked down and saw Vladimir Bolshevik standing in front me, smiling and looking pretty awake, considering all the Russian beer he’d been consuming with Demetri (the memory of him gave me butterflies, and I kept hoping I would run into him again). He was carrying two laptop cases and some old, vintage headphones. His floppy blonde hair was a tangled, bedhead mess but other than that he looked pretty put together.
“Oh, hey!” I smiled, happy to see a nice, familiar face “How are you?” I was in a rush, but didn’t want to be rude. That was against my morals.
“Still need a tour around campus?” he asked
“Umm, actually, I’m late for AP Bio. Do you mind showing me where the Science Hall is?” might as well make my new tag-along useful.
His face lit up like a Fourth of July firework, and he was practically bouncing on his obnoxiously orange-and-purple high-tops that must’ve cost a fortune.
“I have AP Chem first period there! We can walk together, get two birds stoned?”
“Uh…. Right” I went along. Maybe that’s how they said the phrase in Russia.
I let him lead me through a labyrinth of cobblestone, tree-lined paths through several brick buildings and tried to seem interested in whatever he was enthusiastically rambling on about—I heard the words “flash drive” and “Photo Shop” and immediately zoned out—but I kept dreamily glancing off at the towering spires and sprawling city skyline that pierced the pinkish morning sky in the near distance. I breathed in the fresh fall air and filled myself with a warm, empowering confidence that crushed whatever nerves had paralyzed me earlier. This was it. I was here. I was worthy enough to be a student here. Take that Holy Cross varsity softball team. Take that Mom…
If I hadn’t run into Vladimir I’d probably be more than just ten minutes late, but Vladimir had led me to my AP Bio room in only three minutes. I was still really late, but it was better than being an hour late on my very first day. The science building was nowhere near as artistically eye-catching as the other buildings—just a bunch of boring Einstein posters tacked on slate-gray walls and plants growing on the windowsills by the Environmental Science botany—and it was like a ghost town. I put my hand on the doorknob to Biology Lab 104, signaling that it was time for Vladimir to leave, but he remained at my hip, seeming pretty proud of himself.
“Thank you” I smiled shyly
“Oh, no problem! Any time! If you need me to show you where your other classes are, just Inkling me and I can skip my Digital Art class” he laughed
His smile seemed so sincere, so I didn’t want to let him off with nothing to make him feel good, at least “hey, where do you normally eat lunch?” I was secretly hoping he dined with his brother
He smiled so big I thought his face would crack, but I had to go. Quick. I could already hear my teacher, Mr. Petrocelli, beginning his lecture.
“Just Inkling me!” I said over my shoulder, throwing the door open and jumping inside
I closed the door behind me, and caught a class of thirty-five total strangers… staring right at me.
I froze, heart pounding like a war drum in my chest.
“Ms…?” Mr. Petrocelli, a stout husky man with a funny goatee, was standing in front of the rows of black lab stations in front of a full wall-length chalkboard covered with intricate diagrams and formulas that freaked me out just at the sight of it (wait, I thought there was no math in biology? Was in the wrong room??)
“Polizzi?” I asked
Mr. Petrocelli shifted through some papers on his clipboard and scanned through the attendance list, making a mark with his pen.
“You’re ten minutes late” he gruffly informed me
“Sorry, I…” I glanced at the many strangers still staring at me the way sharks stared at a tiny defenseless fish. Maybe they smelled my blood and sensed I was a newbie “…got lost”
A few girls with neon-dyed hair in the third lab station snickered. I blushed hotly.
“Ms. Polizzi, there’s an odd number of kids in this class. Since you’re new to my roster, and late,” he nearly snarled the word. I shivered in fear, clutching my books insecurely to my chest “you can sit with Mr. Greyson at Lab Station 12”
Mr. Petrocelli pointed to the last lab station in the far back of the room—I was always a front row seat kind of girl, so this was going to be interesting—where the only empty seat was.
And sitting in the seat right next to it… was a boy. I sucked in a breath at the sight of him. If Demetri was pretty, this guy was… how could I describe him? As a writer I’ve never really been at a loss for words, until now. He was gorgeous in that dark, mysterious way that all girls loved. And as I made my way down the aisle that seemed to grow longer with each shaking, slow step I took, time slowing down, thirty-five pairs of eyes staring me down and sizing me up like prey, my heart beat faster and faster as he came closer and closer in sight. He was only getting prettier, and it wasn’t helping with my mad blushing or shaky breathing.
He looked like a beautiful walking cliche. He was tall and lean, with hard muscles underneath a tight black shirt and a worn-out black leather jacket. He had soft wavy jet-black hair that I wanted to push out of his blue eyes, which pierced right through me with… was that curiosity? Indifference? Annoyance? I couldn’t tell but whatever it was, he was looking at me with those piercing crystal-blue eyes that sent shivers rolling down my spine. I wanted, no, I needed to write a poem about this guy. I had too…
When I reached Lab Station 12 I tripped in my pink slippers. The same girls from Station 3 snickered loudly once more. My face was on fire. Smooth I groaned silently in my head.
This boy, to my surprise, didn’t laugh with them. He just pulled his eyes away and looked down at his hands, shadows crossing his face, seeming lost in some deep, troubling revelation. I slammed my books down on the table, slid off my heavy messenger bag, and took the empty seat next to him. Mr. Petrocelli continued his lecture about what dissections we would be expected to perform this year, but I couldn’t hear him. I pretended like I was jotting notes down in the fresh, brand-new notebook I’d bought for this class (but was dying to instead use for poetry) and seem focused, but my thoughts were loud and elsewhere. I couldn’t help but glance out of the corner of my eyes at the beautiful boy sitting next to me, and I don’t know if it was just my silly imagination, but I thought I caught him peeking back at me a few times.
“Hey, can I borrow a pen?” a deep, husky voice asked
I slowly turned over and caught him staring at me full on with those blue eyes. God, they were genetic masterpieces. I was hesitant—was he seriously talking to me?—and my mouth quivered. My mind—and heart—were racing, but I had to control myself. I couldn’t screw this up.
“Blue or green?” I accidentally squeaked, then blushed harder
“Um, doesn’t matter” he simply said
I shoved my madly-shaking hand in my messenger bag and pulled out one of my green pens. I handed it to him, his fingertips almost brushing mine when he took it, but he put it down and never used it. He looked back down at his hands again. Okay…
Mr. Petrocelli was showing us a diagram of a cat’s anatomy on his projector and I tried copying it, but I couldn’t stop staring at him. I noticed the roughness of his dark leather jacket, like he’s never taken it off. I wondered what it would feel like on my skin… then shook those sinful thoughts out of my head. I was feeling dizzy.
“What’s your name?” I asked, trying to strike up a conversation
He looked back up at me, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. Easy girl, get a grip…
“Shadow”
Shadow? So far everyone I’ve met has had really unique names.
“Oh, is that, like, a nickname?” I cocked my head curiously. It was more of a nervous tick.
He shook his head and said nothing. Alright-y then.
“Mine’s Catherine” I smiled. It must’ve looked creepy instead of pretty.
He nodded his head and looked back down. Hm, not big talker. Damn it.
“I like your jacket” I tried again.
But instead of what I expected, he lifted his head up and his alluring ice-blue eyes appraised me. He looked ready to pull out his cell phone and call up the nearest mental asylum.
‘I like your jacket’?? Really? Was I THAT pathetic?
“Umm… thanks” he was giving me a weird look, but there was something else as well. Curiosity? Whatever. I couldn’t look. I was sooo embarrassed.
I looked away, a blushing disaster, furiously writing in my notebook to try and forget my stumble. He kept looking at me. Why is he still looking at me?
First morning of classes of Wash Arts and I was already off to a “great” start.
Good job Catherine, good job…

Jersey

Head throbbing and pulse racing, it took every ounce of willpower in my body not to for-go my first day of Advanced Photography and go back to bed. I knew if I skipped another class, Skye would be on my case—forever. She’s my best friend, but she really needs to stop worrying so much about me. Ash needed to just tell her he loves her already.
Speaking of love, or lack thereof, rumor has it that I hooked up with some random dude last night? Timmy? Trevor? Whatever it was, I had to admit it was probably accurate.
I threw on a loose salmon coloring t-shirt dress that Jessica made me for my 17th birthday (“It works with your tan coloring, bitch”) and a pair of beige espadrilles that made me not look like a midget. Rushing across campus, I strode, hot chocolate-less, into my severely hungover photography class and took the nearest seat I could find before the teacher realized I was running late.
“Whoa, we got a badass over here!” a voice behind me quipped. I turned around, head spinning from the hangover that won’t go away, and there was a guy. Whoa, a cute guy. With awesome hair.
That second, my phone buzzed inside my purse. I had a weird, icky premonition who it was. The same guy whose no-doubt-sleazy texts I’ve been ignoring all morning.
“I do what I can.” I muttering, sinking down onto my stool.
The WashArts photo labs were all amazing, but the Advanced Photo Lab was heaven. The air was filled with the distinct aroma of developing fixative chemicals and brand-new photo paper—this was the last year the Photo Department would be using the dark room. Next year’s crop of newcomers, along with my dance studio sister Triss, would be going Digital, so naturally I was happy that I was a senior and wouldn’t have to conform to such madness. Even for Wash Arts’ Fine Arts buildings, this room was truly the best masterpiece. Black-topped tables were arranged in slanted rows with rustic stools, with quirky decoupage photo cutouts from students in years past. Black-and-white, sepia, and highly-contrasted photos of beautiful hippie girls smiling dreamily in sunlit fields, or sunlight shining through a lush, fairy-tale forest. I filled with my lungs with the familiar developing fixative scent that seemed to welcome me home. My hangover was magically cured, and I was ready for whatever this cute new guy was going to throw at me.
My phone buzzed again. Damn it, Timmy!
He was still smiling at me. There was something very captivating about it.
“You look pretty good for 10 am and hung over” he commented, appraising me with wide brown, puppy-dog eyes. If it weren’t for the playful tone, I would’ve thought he’d be creeping on me or making fun of me.
“Thanks. You should see me sober” I was still on my flirtatious streak from last night with Trevor, but now it felt gross thanks to the hangover. As I talked I fished through my bag and pulled out my Nokia. The screen was aglow with four new text messages from Tommy (oh, so that was his name). Ugh. I’d read them later.
He seemed to like that, but not in a creepy way. “Will you be sober by 1? Wanna grab some tuna avocado rolls after class?”
Wow. This guy didn’t waste time. He had charm, I’ll give him that. Sort of like Tommy…
Before I could respond, my old photo teacher, Ms. Fitzinger, walked in. I loved the way her floral peasant skirt matched the crushed leaves she entwined in her gray wiry curls. Jessica would have called it a “homeless hodgepodge”, but I had the urge to shoot her lanky frame on the quad. Whereas most of the teachers at Wash Arts were young in that fresh-out-of-college way and indie, she was old and more on the hippie side. She often wore hand-tie-dyed Woodstock T-shirts with her ever-present brown Birkenstock sandals.
“Welcome to the first day of Advanced Photo, seniors. Congrats for making it this far! This semester we will focus on the more challenging aspects of photography, such as using people as dominant subjects. Right now, I want you to look around your table,” she cleared her throat, “Take this class period to get to know the people sitting near you. They will be in your photo groups, and you will assist each other throughout the year in shooting and developing.” She smiled, “Tomorrow we will discuss our first assignment.”
I looked around me. In addition to the cute brown-eyed boy, I noticed Big Tony, Donte’s homeboy, and a sweet-looking girl with glasses and blondish hair. I then realized I never got the cute boy’s name.
“I’m Jersey,” I said open-endedly.
“Jersey! It’s been, like, a minute!” Big Tony boomed. Nobody actually knew Big Tony’s actual name.
“I’m Mack,” The cute brown-eyed boy smiled. At me? My phone buzzed once again.
“Chloe.” The blonde smiled. My phone buzzed. I pulled it out and read all five messages from Tommy.
Last night was fun, let’s do it again sometime ;)
Hey, what was your name again?
I have your bra, babe.
You busy tonight? I’m tryna get it in…
Jersey, right?
What a douche, I thought to myself. Skye was right. I had to start making better drunken decisions. I reverted my attention back to my photo group.
“So you never answered my question.” Mack grinned at me. There was something familiar about that goofy smile.
“What question?” I pulled my light brown hair over one shoulder and looked at him with my hazel-green eyes.
“One o’clock. You, me, photo talk, and sushi?” he asked.
I was about to give him my biggest smile and say absolutely, but then I remembered I promised Skye we’d grab lunch together, “I promised my friend we’d eat together.” I admitted, “Can I take a rain check?”
He shrugged adorably, “Okay, but I hope you use it sooner rather than later.” He brushed his dark brown hair out of his eyes.
“If you’re lucky.” I grinned.
I was back at WashArts, and it felt oh-so good.