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a tableau vivant.”
“Tableau vivant?” he repeats. “Mmm, French. Sexy.” He rests his chin on his fist like The Thinker and gazes around the room from the corner of his eye.
Seeing Trey in his pose, Garnet seems at a loss for words, so she turns her attention on us, on the sea of crimson faces and wide eyes. “This is a refresher in gesture and proportion,” she explains. “Learn to break the body into manageable pieces as opposed to…to…to trying to swallow the form whole.” Immediately, she shakes her head; she seems relieved that none of us have the cojones to laugh at what she just said.
We have a little under an hour to try not to stare at this man who seems intent on getting a reaction from us. He crosses his legs. Uncrosses them. Opens them wide. Stretches them long. Does everything but hold an arrow-shaped sign to his crotch and shout, “Look at this!” I painstakingly work to replicate his form on eleven-by-seventeen sheets of grid paper as Garnet strolls between our workstations, looking over our shoulders and offering advice before, returning to her desk, losing herself in her own sketches.
As the minutes tick by, Harper and Plum fall into one of those our-conversation-is-so-awesome-you-should-all-hear-it chats that I do my best not to listen to. It’s about the dance this Saturday, which Harper’s Social Committee is organizing and which I don’t even want to think about. Unfortunately, those girls make it hard to ignore them—so hard that a few people, unable to endure another twang, squeal, or yip, demand they shut up.
“Ferme la bouche!” Augusto cries. “We do not care about your idiotic clothing for that idiotic dance.”
“Idiotic stripper clothing!” Emo Boy tacks on.
Lotus frowns. “Please, everyone. Let’s not argue.”
“We didn’t ask y’all to eavesdrop,” Harper snorts. “Can’t help if we’re so interesting you’ve gotta pay attention to us.”
Plum glares at Emo Boy, clutches her boobs, pushes them up, and adds, “Don’t even play like you don’t want this. You’d kill for this.”
“If you mean kill myself to avoid going near it.”
With a high-pitched huff, Plum leaps to her feet. She opens her mouth wide like she’s about to shout something terrible, but she stops herself unexpectedly. And, to my surprise, sneers my way. “Oh, whatever!”
Shoving his hair out of his eyes, Emo Boy stands, marches up to Plum, and shoves her in the chest. Hard.
“No one wants that, you fugly has-been. And that’s exactly why your PT’s gonna totally crash.”
“Crash?” She shoves him back with enough force that he loses his footing.
With that, Augusto’s on his feet, too. I can’t believe it. They’re actually going to fight.
“Crash? Just like you did—” Plum lashes at him “—on that stupid dance floor—” another strike, but she just misses him “—with that cage dancer?”
Seriously. A fistfight.
It’s insanely stupid to fight in the middle of class—especially with two teachers looking on, teachers who are grading us at every turn. But Augusto, Emo Boy, and Plum don’t seem to care. They make one of those circles you see boxers make, sidestepping and holding each other’s glowers as they lift their fists.
Finally, Lotus scurries to her feet and pulls Plum back. Reluctantly, Emo Boy and Augusto lower their fists. Garnet and Trey just watch—and I quickly realize that they’re making notes. Are they grading the quality of the fight? Or could it be that at least one of those three has declared a PT to battle their way to success?
Stunned, I find myself locking eyes with Pilot. His expression is blank, as if he’s given up on this school and the ubercompetitive people in it. Confused and wondering what’s going on in his mind, I focus again on my sketch.
The room is tensely silent for the next twenty minutes. I run through sheet after sheet of paper, feeling like I’m getting closer to capturing something interesting beyond the lines of Trey’s body, feeling myself fall into the groove. As I work up a frenzy, a cold sweat rushes over me.
“Five minutes, everyone,” Garnet calls.
Shivers run through my arms. I glance up to see if someone opened a window, but as soon as I do, my head spins. Shaking it off, I see that, in fact, the windows are all closed—and almost everyone else has stripped off their cardigans and blazers. Perhaps I’m coming down with something because it feels like the cold is coming from my body itself, from my wrists; I pull my cardigan all the way up and over my fingertips, hoping to lock in some heat, but the shivering won’t stop.
My breath is coming short and fast. Tiny, quick breaths that make my head woozy.
“You don’t have time for the flu,” I whisper to myself between chattering teeth and, trying to keep my pencil from shaking, look purposefully at Trey, demanding my body stop shivering.
But when I look Trey’s way, there are three of him.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I look down at my paper. Bad idea. The lines are blurring together, duplicating themselves. Overlapping. Straight lines are wavy; everything is spinning. What I hear next, what I remember, is the thud of my body hitting the ground after some sort of freefall from my stool. I see a burst of light; I hear gasps all around. In the flashes behind my eyes, I see my dad leaning over me, petting my hair the way he used to when I would wake from feverish dreams. The cold sensation on my wrists, it’s even stronger, like someone’s rubbing ice cubes on my skin. My dad—he seems so real, almost touchable, and if he were to lean down and kiss my head now, I might even feel it. I wrestle to lift my three-hundred-ton head to his face.
“Anne?” A man’s voice. A loud clap.
“I don’t think that did it.” A woman’s voice.
Searing pain. Shooting in my skull. I try to lift my hand to my forehead and open my eyes, but I feel pinned down. Slowly, the ceiling of the classroom comes into view. And I find a naked man bending over me.
“Trey?”
He smiles and puts on the robe Garnet hands to him. “Dreaming of me, sweetheart?”
I just blink, trying to register where I am, who he is, what’s going on. “What happened?”
“You fainted, Anne.” Garnet’s voice. I jerk my head toward her, but it hurts.
“We have you lying on the floor,” Trey adds.
I wince as I realize all of my classmates’ shadows are falling over me.
“Do you think you can stand?”
I nod.
“Lean on me,” Trey says. As I lift my head, he wraps his arm around me. “One, two, three, up.”
The room sways. I focus on a face in front of me: Pilot. Behind him, Augusto and his sad little moustache. Next to him, Lotus. I look slowly from person to person. The expressions on their faces are not what I’d expect.
“That’s embarrassing,” I say with a shy smile. But everyone just stares at me, wide-mouthed, as if I’ve turned my skin inside out. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” I pat my face, the back of my head, wondering if they’re all staring at blood on me. I’m not bleeding. “Is there something wrong?”
“No, nothing, Anne,” Pilot whispers, shaking his head like he’s trying to shush me.
“What’s everyone looking at?”
I turn to Harper, who drops her gaze. That’s when I know something is up. I’ve only known Harper a day, but I’m positive she’d happily take any stab she could at me—so why’s she holding back now? I glance at my hands, expecting to see something foreign, something alien, like scales or gigantic bruises. But they’re just my normal