EXCERPT:
As I walked down the long corridor, the burnt orange walls grew dimmer and dimmer, and okay, so I was lost, but whenever I did find my way back to Mr. Wall's art class, I could just say that I was looking at paintings. It wouldn't be a total lie, because before being accosted I was. WHAT? I WAS! One painting in particular stood out from all of the others. It was a painting of a Zen garden on fire. Red flames stuck up out of the ground as if they were challenging the grass to grow higher. But the thing that made this painting stand out from all of the others was not its HD coloring or the fact that it looked fairly newer than most of the others paintings in the museum. No, what really set this painting apart from the others is that its entirety was painted onto a door. A door that was tucked subtly into the back of the museum as if it were hiding. A door whose knob, at that very moment, started to turn…
CHAPTER 1: Portia- Suspicion Is Its Own Answer
"Ugh, how does he manage to pick the slutiest girls?" my friend Caylee Cartwright asked in regard to my ex, Jordan Daniels and his newest flavor of the week Rajah McHannon. She asked this question as we walked around the Esperanza City Museum with the rest of Roscoe American High School's— known as R.A.H.S to its students— seventh period, Day 2 art class. Here at R.A.H.S, we have block scheduling. Our first through fourth classes are on Day 1, while our fifth through eighth classes are on Day 2. We all have art seventh period, because, as far as easy classes went, it was either Esperanzan Art, which is the study of art in Esperanza--the little island right off the western cost of Ecuador on which R.A.H.S. is located— or Home Ec. where all they do is crochet. Um, no thanks. I mean, if we wanted to sew, we could just join Knit for Life, the student sponsored club that knits blankets, booties, and other stuff for local orphans. Not that that's a bad thing. Anyway, who is 'we', you ask? We are the most elite clique at R.A.H.S. Not really, but I swear that's the way my friends act. They're all free drinks and VIP tables. Can we say Gossip Girl?
"I mean slut after slut after slut!" Then seeing my icy glare, she quickly rephrased her statement, "W-well, I...um...I didn't mean you sweetie, 'cause you were...well...um... you know. You're like his high school sweetheart. And that's something that no other woman has had with him."
"If that were true, then that would be about the only piece of him that no other woman has had. My friend Giselle Colón quipped in her thick, yet childlike accent. Giselle was about 4'9", but her presence made her seem about 10 feet tall. She's hyper, opinionated, and talks about a mile a minute. Her fast-talking is partially due to her being Panazuelan: a word that Giselle invented to describe her half Panamanian-half Venezuelan background. Whatever. "But he's got a different high school sweetheart like every other day."
"No, you only get one high school sweetheart, and Portia is definitely Jordan's?"
"Right and I bet that you believe in unicorns too!"
"God, Gessie! I'm serious!" Caylee has been my best friend for the last four years. She and I are practically sisters, so understand that when I say that she is the most naïve person that I've ever met, I say it with love. She's a 5'6", 110 pound blond who is probably one of the smartest people that I've ever met. But she's also one of those people who see the silver lining in ever dark cloud. Giselle? Yeah, not so much. In fact, Gessie (pronounced like Jessie) doesn't trust anything or anyone except for us, her family, and her girlfriend in Brazil. How they can be friends, I will never know.
"Can we talk about something other than my slutty ex please?" I beg. And luckily for me, Andrew Fuller interrupts the gossip twins before they could start another argument about the joke that is my life.
"Hello ladies." Andrew Fuller has been dating our friend Daphne Moore for about six months, and she has been cheating on him for about 5 months and 29 days. To tell you the truth, I don't even see the connection. They are like the day and night. Literally! Daphne is about 6 feet tall with skin the color of virgin coffee and hair in deep raven plaits down her back. Andrew is about six foot 4 inches of icy pale skin, wavy brown hair, green eyes, and sweater vests. And not the sexy ones that guys sometimes wear with trendy blazers, but the wool kind that come in colors like puke green and dog poop brown.
"Hi Drewy," Caylee cheerfully greets as Gessie just absentmindedly waves.
"Portia, can I speak to you for a moment?" Honestly, I was getting tired of Drew and his needing to speak to me all the time. Don't get me wrong, he's a nice guy and all, but I already knew that he wanted to ask me what had gotten into Daphne, and I did not want to be the one to inform him that it was more of a matter of who had gotten into her, not what. Can't Daphne just break up with him once and for all instead of drawing out the inevitable by bedding the whole school behind his back? God! The drama with these two!
"Yeah, but why don't we talk and walk at the same time?" I sighed.
"Adieu ladies," he winked and let his eyes linger on Caylee, holding her there for a second longer than was necessary. We walked past the different exhibits and paintings while he droned on and on about his and Daphne's lack of communication or consummation or something to that effect. "I just don't understand, Portia. I do everything for her! I even do her homework early so that we can spend time together after she's done with cheerleading practice, but she always says that she has to stay late and help with the basketball practice. And lately I have been hearing loathsome rumors about," then he looked around suspiciously and dropped his voice, "fornication. But this cannot be the case, right Portia?" And here it was plain and simple. The thing that, despite all of his weird quirks and formalities, bonded Drew and me together. After all, he was nothing more than a jilted lover who wanted to hold on to the best from the one that he loved, but would grasp nothing but lies and denial. The knowledge that suspicion in itself is its own answer made him turn away from me after he had asked. Suddenly the painting in front of him needed his attention and he was only too happy to oblige. But I was too busy silently debating whether I was going to flat out lie to him to realize that one: I had never stopped walking even though Drew had, and two: the lights had grown almost as faint as the sounds of my class. This turn of events should have been my first clue that something was terribly wrong. Of course, I did not see it coming until…
"Going somewhere Portia?"
…it was too late.
