“What’s today?” Andrew asks. His mug broke in the kiln, so he’s just been watching us glaze.
“Keely’s big first day,” she says. “Our little baby’s all grown up.”
“Video store?” he asks. He has a thin stripe of purple paint on his left cheek and I wonder how it got there, considering he hasn’t touched the paint all class.
I nod, feeling the swooping rush of nerves in my stomach. I glance up at the clock and see that the class period is almost over. Suddenly I want to throw up.
I tried to dress up a little bit today. I wore black pants—real pants instead of leggings—and the new sweater my mom got me for my birthday. She keeps complaining that I haven’t worn it, but that’s because it’s too small and bunches around my boobs. Usually I try to keep attention away from that zone, but today I thought I’d try something new for James Dean’s sake.
“Are you nervous?” Hannah flutters her eyelashes in a way that means she’s talking about James Dean and not the job.
“You’re an animal, Collins,” Andrew says. “You’ll kill it.” He reaches down and digs around inside his backpack, pulling out a bag of potato chips. I don’t know how he can stomach them right now—the room smells like clay and turpentine—but I’m not surprised. As he’s mid-chew, a girl comes up to our table. She’s walking with quiet hesitant steps, like a deer in a forest worried it’s going to be shot. She’s thin and dainty like a deer too, with big eyes and a pointy nose. Her name’s Madison Jones. Sophomore.
“Um, sorry,” she says. “Excuse me. Sorry.” Madison says sorry a lot in class, like she’s apologizing for existing. She taps Andrew on the shoulder. “Sorry. Are you done with the blue glaze?”
She’s focused only on Andrew, directing her question at him, even though he’s clearly eating potato chips and not painting.
“Oh, yeah.” He turns to me. “Collins, you done?”
She glances quickly back to her table, a group of sophomore girls, and their heads are all bent together, whispering and giggling.
I slide the jar of blue glaze over to her. “Yeah, whatever. This mug is hopeless anyway.”
“It’s not hopeless,” Hannah says, ever reassuring. “You have a lot of potential.”
“Oh, sorry,” Madison says, flicking her eyes to me and then back to Andrew. “I didn’t know your girlfriend was still using it.”
I feel myself turn red, but it’s more because of the fact that she won’t look at me directly, that she won’t address me by name, than the accidental use of the word girlfriend. It’s not like that’s new. Andrew is red too, his freckles bright, and he puts the bag of chips down.
“She’s not . . . I mean—”
“Actually, yeah, I’m still using it.” I slide the jar back in my direction.
Andrew looks flustered, and I roll my eyes at him, because he should be used to this by now—it’s only happened to us once a day since the start of high school. But for some reason it still ruffles his feathers. He always has to correct whoever makes the mistake: She’s not my girlfriend. Because God forbid somebody keep thinking I’m a real, datable girl.
Hannah looks flustered too, her eyes darting back and forth between Madison and me. I know she hates conflict and she’s horrified I won’t share.
“Oh, okay, sorry,” Madison says. She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, brings the tip of her braid into her mouth.
“We’re not together,” Andrew says again, as if Madison is dense and needs extra clarification.
“Not anymore,” I say, smiling sweetly at Madison. “I dumped him last year after the incident with the cheese.”
“The what?” asks Madison.
“Collins,” Andrew says, a warning in his voice.
“Never mind.” I pick up the jar of glaze and hold it out in her direction. “Take the blue.”
“Sorry, are you sure?” She’s still chewing on her braid.
“Yes,” I say. If she apologizes one more time, I might lose it. “Just take the stupid jar.”
I slide it toward her, but it’s too forceful, my arm is too tense, and before I can stop it, the jar is flying through the air. It lands with a crash on the tile floor, and blue glaze sprays everywhere—all over Madison, all over my nice birthday sweater.
She shrieks, the braid falling out of her mouth. Hannah runs to the sink to grab some towels. Miss Blanchard, our art teacher, runs over in a panic. Andrew is laughing deep belly laughs, and then I’m laughing too, because his laughter is contagious. I look down at my ruined sweater and realize I’ve forgotten to be nervous about James Dean. For a while I wasn’t even thinking about him at all.
* * *
• • • • • •
That disappears the second Hannah drops me off in front of the store.
“You’ll do great,” she says. “Now off you go.”
She practically shoves me out of the car. I’m wearing my coat so my ruined sweater is hidden, but I know I’m going to have to take it off at some point. I didn’t wear anything underneath the sweater, and I’m definitely regretting that decision now.
Hannah drives away, and I stand for a moment outside the door, trying to psych myself up. Then I push it open. My nerves calm down when I get inside because James Dean isn’t there. Instead it’s a heavyset, balding white guy behind the counter—probably the owner, Mr. Roth.
“Welcome,” he says when he sees me, breaking out into a smile. “How can I help you?”
I raise my hand up to awkwardly wave. “I’m Keely. Your new—”
“Ah!” he interrupts. “My new recruit. Come in, come in!” I’m already in, but I guess he means to come farther into the store toward him. He claps his hands together, as if I’ve done something worthy of applause. He might be the jolliest person I’ve ever met. “Come get settled in. Today should be relatively easy. I just have some paperwork for you to fill out. Want me to hang your coat?” He reaches out a helpful hand, but I pull my coat tighter around me.
“I’m okay, thanks.”
“Let me just see if Dean has your papers,” he says, turning toward the back of the store where there appears to be a break room. The name sends a burst of nervous energy through me. “Dean!” he calls, and then there he is.
He looks just as perfect as I remember him—better maybe—in a black T-shirt just like the other day, except this one says HERZOG. I guess directors are his Thing. His hair is combed back in a style perfectly mimicking that of the real James Dean.