Someone To Love

part one

I never paint dreams or nightmares.

I paint my own reality.

—FRIDA KAHLO

one

"It’s not that I’m rebelling. It’s that I’m just

trying to find another way."

—EDIE SEDGWICK

The stall door won’t shut all the way.

What the hell kind of bathroom doors does our school have?

The kind with crooked doors that don’t always latch. The kind you don’t want to get caught in. Not with your head above the toilet. Not when you’re kneeling on the floor, puking your guts out. Not with a fifth of vodka—which I desperately need right now.

Shouldn’t the stalls all lock?

Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m done.

I wipe my mouth and take a stick of gum from my purse and unwrap the shiny paper. It makes me think of Andy Warhol’s famous art factory, all wrapped in silvery aluminum foil and pulsing with artists and conversation. I can see Edie Sedgwick’s haunting face. Her platinum pixie. Smoky circles around her eyes. Dangling earrings. That megawatt smile. She may have been one of Andy Warhol’s superstars—those grimy, glamorous muses—but Edie was his angel too. An angel wearing a leotard and fur coat, hiding in the backs of limousines and dingy clubs. Skinny as hell.

I’d rather be in New York. Studying art. Living in my own art factory. Get out of this sunshiny, swimming pool state. I crumple the paper into a ball, toss it into the wastebasket near the door and head for the sinks. I turn on the faucet. Pump soap onto my hands. Scrub. Scrub. Stare at the water slipping down the drain. Don’t look up.

I hate mirrors. Glass is dangerous. Water is dangerous. Windows are dangerous. Anything that reflects myself back at me is a threat. A punishment.

Welcome to my Monday morning. It’s Eastlake Prep’s yearbook photo day. Yeah. That Eastlake Prep—the one with the five-figure tuition and super-fancy alumni. Famous people have gone here, and famous people send their kids here.

It’s the end of September—we’re already a month into school—but I can’t seem to get into the swing of school. And I also can’t show up at photo day with frizzy hair and a pimple on my chin. As much as I hate taking them, I know the power of a class photo. Thirty years from now, when everyone has moved away and no one is following each other on social media anymore, people are going to pull out their yearbook and look at you. That’s what you’ll be to them forever.

Do you want to be the girl with the greasy forehead? Or the bad bangs?

No. I didn’t think so.

The spotless surface reflects my double. I smooth my hands over my long dirty-blond hair and examine my skin, slightly jaundiced under the bathroom’s unflattering fluorescent light. The problem with mirrors is that they show me only what’s already there. It’s I who has to see the potential, who has to see how much more there is to lose. How much smaller I can be. How much closer to perfection.

Speaking of perfection: Zach Park.

He’s gorgeous. Thick dark hair tousled like he’s been lounging on the beach all day. Wide green eyes with teardrop curves that seriously make me want to stop everything and get lost in them for an eternity. I’ve had a low-key crush on him since the end of freshman year when he transferred here from a Korean private school.

I had only one class with him—the last semester of first-year English—but I doubt he remembers me. I mostly drew pictures of other people in the class on my notes to avoid looking at him too much, even though I was always listening to him. He was so well-spoken and mature. So different from the other teenage boys who seemed to be interested only in playing video games or whatever party they were planning for the weekend.

Zach actually liked talking about ideas. Whenever the teacher called on him, he would say something insightful that I’d never thought about before, and I loved when he volunteered to act out scenes from the books the class was discussing, because Zach would bring them to life. It was like whatever character he was playing had stepped off the page into the classroom and was standing in front of you.

Not that I ever really talked to him.

Today’s the day. Maybe.

I just have to pull it together for the camera, in front of all the other junior and senior girls with their immaculate hair and carefully coordinated outfits, in front of Zach and his perfect jawline and forearms. Even thinking about all of them staring at me, wondering who the loser is who wandered into their perfect midst, is enough to make me want to skip school and never come back.

I screwed things up enough my freshman year. I was dating this guy—Ollie Barrios—who was a really popular junior basketball player. I’d just lost a lot of weight and he was my first boyfriend. It felt amazing to be noticed. To be wanted—no, desired—by someone. I should have seen the red flags though. Ollie was always telling me what I should wear or who should be my friends. He’d even choose my food at restaurants.

I ended up gaining some of the weight back during the first few months of school, and Ollie dumped me. We were leaving from my house to go to the homecoming dance. Ollie stopped me before I could get in the car. We’re not going, he said.

What do you mean? I asked, thinking maybe Ollie made other plans.

That dress makes you look like a stuffed sausage.

I—I can go change, I stammered.

God. I was so stupid. That would have just been putting lipstick on a pig.

How much weight have you gained? Ten? Fifteen pounds?

I don’t know, I said.

My skin was crawling. I wanted to escape my body.

Don’t you keep track? Most girls weigh themselves every day.

I’ll start eating better. Exercising, I pleaded with him.

Whatever, Liv. You obviously don’t care about yourself.

He left me crying on the doorstep.

Ollie spread his version of the story around the entire school. He said our relationship wasn’t working out because he was an athlete and I wasn’t disciplined enough, which was obviously code for eating too much and not exercising enough. Everyone looked at me like I was the biggest loser. But Ollie was right. I was a fat cow. I immediately went on a revenge diet. I started fasting for days at a time, but then I would get so hungry that I’d binge and eat way more than any normal person should—pasta, burritos, ice cream, whatever was available—and feel so guilty about bingeing that I’d puke everything up.

I’ll never let myself gain weight again.

I’m a yo-yo girl. What goes down must come back up.

I’ve been keeping myself from bingeing pretty well the past couple of months, but I still have to purge. I hate the feeling of being full. It makes me nauseous.

I smash the gum between my teeth, partly to cover the acrid smell, but mostly to give my mouth something to do. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. I try to push away the thoughts. I’m stronger than my hunger. I take a cleansing breath to clear my head.

One.

Food is disgusting. It never made you happy.

I exhale slowly. My breath is my mantra. My focus.

You are not a slave to your hunger.

Two.

I’m finally ready to take on this torturous rite of passage.

I leave the bathroom and am walking around the corner of Decker Hall when a guy staring down at his phone runs into me, nearly knocking me over.

What the hell?! I say, then I realize I know him, a smile forming on my lips.

It’s Sam. We’ve been best friends since elementary school.

Sorry, he says. I was looking for you . . . You left class early.

Obviously. I roll my eyes and make a sarcastic face at him. I had to prep. Don’t wanna turn out wretched in my yearbook photo. I look down at my simple, sleeveless black dress. The color suddenly seems so wrong. What was I thinking? I look like a vampire. And not even the cool kind.

Oh please, Sam says, laughing as he puts his arm around my shoulder. You look great.

"Greatly appalling, I say. Do we have to do this?"

I twist around to look into his deep blue eyes, trying to plead with him to cut class with me, but Sam doesn’t cut class. He actually likes school. He’s really smart—I’m sure he’s going to be a genius-level scientist someday—and handsome in that geeky, still-needs-to-fill-out kind of way, but there’s no way I’m ever going to tell him that.

Why even bother asking? Sam says.

Fine, I say, moving his arm off my shoulder. You can at least walk me over to the shark tank. And button your shirt. I don’t even wait for him. I start doing it myself.

Just like when we were kids. They don’t go anymore, but Sam’s parents used to take me sailing with him and his older brother, James, on the weekends. I remember standing on the deck, the boat going full speed, the wind whipping my hair back and forth across my face, feeling weightless and completely free from the prison of my own body. Sam may not be the best at dressing up for yearbook photos, but he seemed so confident on those sailing trips. The way he handled the ropes so deftly, how he steered the boat with ease. I envied him, because Sam was the master of his own destiny on the water.

I miss those days.

They’re yearbook photos. Who cares? We’re all just going to stuff them in our closets anyway, Sam says.

Wrong, I say. "Yearbook photos are like diamonds. They’re forever."

"Actually you’re wrong, he says. The whole concept of a yearbook is obsolete. Everyone blasts their lives on social media now, so what’s the motivation to rummage through some old book?"

He takes over buttoning his shirt when I get up to his neck.

Have you not seen the awful yearbook photos of celebrities on the internet? Just because they’re not on social media to start with doesn’t mean they won’t end up there.

A tie hangs limply from his pocket. Do you know how to tie that? I ask.

I watched a tutorial, Sam says. "It can’t be that hard."

I laugh.

We must look like a couple, but everyone knows we aren’t together. I love Sam. We always sit next to each other in classes because our names are so close. Sam Bailey. Olivia Blakely. He’s super smart and will probably do something exceptional someday, like work on a giant particle accelerator. He’s also the most loyal guy I know.

He’s had a crush on a few girls over the years, but neither of us has been that lucky in love.

We better get going, I say, continuing on my way. I want to be early.

I start thinking about Zach. Again.

If only he knew that I exist. And that I’m totally in love with him.

He’s always off and on with Cristina Rossi. God. That girl. Model gorgeous. And, since this is Los Angeles, she actually is a model. She even appeared half-naked for a Calvin Klein underwear campaign on a billboard next to the Chateau Marmont this summer. They both look like works of art. Ms. Day, my studio art teacher, might call them aesthetically pleasing. Well-proportioned. Shapely. Statuesque.

Sam pulls the tie out of his pocket. He tries to tie it as he walks. It’s as defiant as his unruly hair. He can’t manage a Windsor knot to save his life.

How ’bout just ditch the tie? I say.

Help me out, Liv. You’ve known how to tie these since the fourth grade.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a guy with brown, slicked-back hair and a gray suit striding across the quad like he owns the school. Jackson Conti. He’s a mass of muscle and has the confidence to match. We sat near each other in biology sophomore year, but I haven’t hung out with him outside of school or talked to him much since then. I hear he’s planning an event with Zach, who happens to be his best friend, in Marina del Rey on a 148-foot yacht that belongs to Sean Clark, an up-and-coming action movie star.

Did I mention that Zach is also an actor?

He played a minor part in one of Sean’s recent movies. Sean’s letting him borrow the yacht to throw a killer party for his friends and cast members while Sean’s out of town. It’s not the actors I’m interested in though—except Zach, of course. I overheard Cristina’s best friend, Felicity, whose father is a big art dealer, telling someone that Geoff LeFeber, a major contemporary artist, is supposed to be visiting from New York and might be going to the party. I guess one of the executive producers of the TV show Zach stars on knows him. It seems like a long shot that he’ll attend, but anything’s possible in Los Angeles. It’s a smaller place than people think.

I have to be there. LeFeber’s my favorite living artist. He puts together these insane installations that completely alter your perception of reality. I’ve never been to one in person, but I watched a YouTube video the Museum of Modern Art put out that took you through this massive open room filled with tunnels of tape attached to the beams of the roof and pillars. It looked like you were caught in a giant spider’s web from the perspective of the fly. Besides looking otherworldly, the installation was supposed to illustrate the dangerous intoxication of curiosity and wonder. I love how LeFeber can make simple shapes and materials seem dreamlike and surreal. I may be a painter instead of an installation artist, but I’d die to talk to someone like LeFeber.

My parents are well connected, but they’re not that interested in art. They’ve taken me—or have let me take myself—to a lot of museums, but never to gallery openings or lectures where the artist is actually present. There are so many questions I would ask him. How do you come up with your ideas? Did anyone believe in your work when you were young? When did you really know you were an artist?

I’m determined to get an invitation to the party.

A girl can hope.

I glance behind me. Sam has finally managed to finish tying his tie on his own. I’m glad I ran into him before photos. Being around him usually makes me less nervous.

Now that I know Sam looks put together, I have to drum up the courage to see what I can find out about that boat party.

I’ll be right back. There’s someone I gotta talk to, I say, leaving him so I can catch up to Jackson.

It’s not like people don’t know me. Dad’s position as the Speaker of the House is high profile, but his job also means that I’ve spent a lot of time on both coasts and helping out my parents with their projects—mostly Mom’s literacy campaign and whatever hot topic Dad happens to be dealing with at the moment—which means less time for making friends in LA.

After the Ollie incident, I’ve mostly been a loner the past couple of years. It’s not like I don’t have any friends, but I don’t put myself out there that much.

Hey . . . Jackson, I stutter.

My stomach instantly hurts.

Olivia. He smiles. Jackson’s all teeth and eyebrows. He talks to people like a salesman. Like they’ll all be potential clients someday. I’m not interested in him, but he’s the one hosting the party so I pretend to flirt. I have to be there.

Is . . . that a new suit? I ask. You look great.

God. I’m an idiot. What a suck-up.

You do too, he says. That color is hot on you.

Did he really just say that? I try to stifle a laugh, but this ugly, garbled half chuckle, half groan comes out of my mouth. Who takes sexy yearbook photos?

I can feel Sam following behind, so I grab Jackson by the elbow to get away. I haven’t told Sam about my plan yet. He would think I’m being stupid. Or shallow.

Going inside? I ask, propelling him forward. I hate school photos but really love our photographer, don’t you?

I don’t even know what I’m saying. I do this thing when I get nervous and start talking about anything to avoid an awkward silence.

She’s all right, he says without much enthusiasm. Made my teeth look big.

No! I say to Jackson. "I mean, not too big. Plus, big teeth are in these days. Don’t you watch Silver Lake?" The entire reality cast has giant teeth, like they’re a bunch of big-toothed piranhas about to attack the cameras and each other in every scene.

No . . . he says. Should I?

They all have them, I say. That big teeth thing.

He stops, runs his tongue across his top teeth. They do?

I turn around. The hall is filling up. Here comes Sam. And Zach. And Felicity Pace. She’s basically a teenage socialite, with her bouncy blond hair, which she swings back and forth as she walks down the hallway, linking arms with Cristina Rossi.

A massive crowd of students begins to descend on us like a horde of gorgeous, perfectly groomed, well-dressed zombies. No. No. No. I need to talk to Jackson alone. It’s the only way I’m going to get invited to that party. Maybe I’ll never have a chance with Zach, but I might still have one with LeFeber. I have to talk to him.

I grab his arm again. We head into the photo studio and join the queue.

So that boat party, I squeak. The one in Marina del Rey?

What about it? Jackson asks.

Dad mentioned . . .

I don’t want to tell him I overheard Felicity. Embarrassing.

Yeah? he says. Aren’t he and Sean pals?

I nod. Ever since Sean Clark campaigned for my dad for the House, they’re tight. Dad totally went Hollywood.

My family is nearly perfect—at least to the public. There’s Mr. and Mrs. Blakely, the charming political power couple, Mason, who turned his life around after rehab and now works in venture capital in Silicon Valley, and Royce, who has already had an article published in the New York Times while in college.

Then there’s Olivia Blakely.

I’m just trying to survive my junior year of high school.

That’s cool, he says. He seems like he’s about to say something else, but he looks over my shoulder. I whip around to see Zach and his entourage walking toward us.

Cristina. Felicity, her best friend. Thin. Tan. Fashionable.

Do you need us to bring anything Friday? Felicity asks. My parents bought a case of St. Germain. It’s delicious with champagne.

You lovely ladies just bring yourselves, Jackson says. Zach and I will take care of the rest. And don’t worry, we’ll make sure the girly drinks are there.

My feet feel heavy. My purse feels like it’s hiding an entire system of gravity and slings toward the floor. I barely catch it. The girls are laughing at something Zach says.

It’s like they’re all talking in slow motion.

So charming. So at ease with themselves.

I can’t outwardly hate them. They haven’t actually done anything mean to me other than to be.

But they don’t have to weigh every single piece of food they put in their tiny bodies like I do. They don’t have to count ounces and measure milliliters. Their brains don’t constantly tell them that they’re ugly and fat and should give up on their diets because they’re never going to meet their goals anyway. They probably drink to have fun with their friends. Not to numb the hunger long enough to fall asleep.

Jackson turns away from me to talk to Zach.

I don’t even register on his radar.

There goes my stomach again. It feels full. Gorged. I wish I hadn’t eaten at all this morning. I’ll be bloated for the pictures.

Then I really start to feel it. The invisibility. The cloak. Like an atmosphere, it surrounds the real me. The fullness is totally noticeable now. My stomach is bursting. My brain burns with shame. I’m fat. Everybody can see how huge I am right now. From my cheeks to my fingers. My waist. My hips. My thighs.

I just want to be perfect. I want to be worth noticing.

Is that too much to ask?

I ate half a grapefruit for breakfast.

I drank two cups of green tea.

Took two pulls of the vodka hidden in my closet.

Just to take off the edge.

I feel every pound I weigh, and every ounce, like my life, is too much. Even though I already threw up at the end of class, I feel like I have to get it all out again. I excuse myself and run back to the bathroom and start heaving in the empty stall.

Something has to come out.

Something. Anything.

two

Creativity takes courage.

—HENRI MATISSE

Can anyone figure out the origin of this painting? Ms. Day asks, fluffing her afro with one hand. Her gold hoop earrings glint under the light of the projector.

My mind wanders from the class, thinking about how the photo I took the last period turned out. The photographer took the picture before I was ready, and I’m almost certain I had a deer-in-the-headlights kind of look, but they only take one shot before they shuffle you off and move on to the next person in line.

Look at the subject, Ms. Day adds, patiently waiting for the class to respond.

The painting on the screen behind her shows a young woman wearing a pale pink dress being pushed on a swing above an admiring young man. The two figures aren’t touching each other, but the artist painted their movements so dynamically that they seem like they’re about to leap across the painting to embrace each other. A lush garden surrounds the lovers. Every leaf and flower has been painted with an incredible amount of detail and attention to light and shadow.

A girl at the front—Emma—raises her hand.

The fashion definitely looks English or French, she says.

Ms. Day nods. She’s not giving any hints.

I have her for two classes. AP art history and studio art. She’s the only teacher I feel like I can actually talk to honestly about my future goals. Not because I like her subject the most—though that’s true—but because she never mentions my parents. Or my brothers. Not that they would have ever dreamed of taking an art class.

I’d say French, Emma’s friend sitting next to her adds. Even though she’s wearing stockings, the way her legs are exposed is too scandalous to be English.

Forget her legs. Nate, a boy who sits in the back, snickers. He’s looking up her dress. Bet he’s totally going to get him some.

Our very own connoisseur of the romantic arts speaks, Ms. Day says. Tell us more, Casanova! The other boys snicker, but Nate’s too embarrassed to say anything else. I love how salty she can be with her students. She’s my favorite teacher.

Ms. Day turns away from the painting and gives him some serious side-eye. She puts her hands on her hips and sighs. "It is French. French Rococo, to be exact. The painting’s official name is The Swing. It was painted right before the Revolution by an artist named Jean-Honore Fragonard. The painting was commissioned by the notorious French libertine Baron de St. Julien as a portrait of his mistress. That’s all I’ll say for now. What do you think this painting is about? What’s the context?"

The class is silent again. History is important to understanding art, Ms. Day continues, asking us for our analysis of the piece before she gives us her interpretation. But becoming a truly great artist means keeping your soul trained on the future. What will someone hundreds of years from now think or feel when they view your painting? What speaks across time and culture? Think about what truly moves you as a viewer.

Emma raises her hand again. It’s kinda playful.

That’s right. Ms. Day paces across the front of the room. "Many of the painting’s critics called it frivolous. Why do you think they might have used that word?"

Well, I say, leaning forward in my seat to see the painting better. It’s not like the subject is an important religious or historical person or event or anything. And the painting’s focal point is clearly her pink dress.

You think there’s more to the painting than that… Ms. Day walks up the aisle and pauses by my desk, gesturing toward the painting. Don’t you, Olivia?

"She always has something to say," Nate groans.

I ignore him. This is pretty much the only class in which I feel in my element.

That playfulness that Emma mentioned? I think she’s right. I also think the painting is about seduction. Except the moment doesn’t seem so planned out. It’s like their desire is spontaneous. I wonder whether someone will ever feel that way about me. Why do so many things have to come together perfectly for people to fall in love?

"The French would call that joie de vivre, Ms. Day adds. That translates to a cheerful enjoyment of life. An exultation of the spirit. Of the soul. Everything one does becomes filled with joy. Conversation. Work. Play. Eating."

I wish I could feel joy when I eat. The only thing I feel is dread.

Why do you think the painting is about seduction? Ms. Day asks.

Besides the fact that the man on the ground is pretty much looking up her dress? I pause for a moment. The boys in the back laugh. They know they’re being provocative. She’s letting her shoe fly off her foot like she’s Cinderella. He’s her Prince Charming. They’re gazing directly into each other’s eyes. Maybe they’re in love.

"Or lust," Ms. Day says. The class murmurs like they’re scandalized.

I trail off, thinking about Zach’s eyes and what I might feel if he ever looked back at mine that way. I’d probably melt into a puddle on the floor.

While I’ve been thinking about Zach, Ms. Day has moved on to analyzing other parts of the painting. What details do you notice? Look at the background.

The class goes silent. We’re stumped.

See this statue of a cherub on the left? Ms. Day walks up to the screen and touches the left side of the painting. Can you see what he’s doing?

Oh my god, Emma squeals. I totally see it.

Everybody squints and leans forward. We’re still all confused.

The little cherub? He’s holding his index finger in front of his lips. He’s trying to keep everything a secret.

Ms. Day smiles and draws circles around the other statutes in the garden with her finger. What about the other sets of cherubs? The ones below the humans looking up?

A few students respond to her question.

They look concerned.

More like afraid for her.

I think they’re scowling.

"Yes. This is obviously an illicit love affair, Ms. Day says. Yet the painter casts off the moral concerns of the day to illustrate a moment of lighthearted pleasure. It is frivolous. Free. In fact, the painting’s alternate title is The Happy Accidents of the Swing."

They’re definitely, like, living life to its fullest or whatever, Emma says.

YOLO, Nate adds.

"Exactly. Ms. Day laughs. Homework for tonight is to research…"

I lose myself in my thoughts while she gives us tonight’s assignment.

I can barely remember the last time I felt truly happy like the woman on the swing. When I was younger, tapping into that feeling of freedom seemed so much easier. I could ride my scooter fast down the street. I could get on a swing and pump my legs until I was soaring high over the playground. What happened to that girl? Did I lose her?

Am I living my best life? Am I even trying to?

The bell rings for lunch and all the students start piling out the door. I slowly put my notes and my textbook in my backpack while Ms. Day turns off the projector.

Olivia, she says. I wanted to tell you something in studio art this morning, but you were out the door too fast. Do you have time to stick around for a few minutes?

Of course I have time. It’s not like I actually eat lunch anyway.

I have only one rule about eating at school. I don’t do it.

Yeah, I say. What’s up?

There’s an opportunity that would be great for you. She walks to her desk and grabs a neon-yellow flyer. One of my old friends from grad school is part of the staff at an art gallery that wants to feature young artists from the area.

My pulse quickens. This could be huge. Which gallery? I ask.

It’s called the Wynn. It’s fairly small, but they have a great schedule of contemporary artists lined up for this year. It would be a huge deal when you’re applying to art schools to say you’ve shown your work there already.

Sounds…great, I say, unsure.

I’ve heard of the Wynn before. It’s an up-and-coming gallery that mostly features artists early in their careers, but I’m not sure I’m good enough. I sketch and paint constantly, but I don’t like showing my work to people. I come up with these concepts in my mind, but I can never seem to execute them exactly the right way. Sometimes I feel as if my skill will never match up