It turns out my own personal supermodel stylist savior is named Lenore Bennett.
“It’s kinda an old-lady name. I was named after my grandma, so yeah—but I guess even she was a little baby Lenore at one point. All little ol’ ladies gotta start somewhere. And eventually all these Novas and Khaleesis are gonna be grandmas too . . . whoa.”
I quickly pick up on her habit of talking fast, jumping from one topic to the next like her brain is playing hopscotch. And it’s about as hard to keep up with her conversation-wise as it is to keep up with her physically. I trail after her fast pace as she leads me outside and across the lawn, weaving around groups of other students as we go. Eventually we reach the porch of the old brown house, where she stops in front of a lanky guy sitting in a rocking chair, his black leather bag sitting in an identical one next to him.
I recognize him from Mr. Gaines’s history class earlier today. His outfit caught my eye right away: a white and baby-blue seersucker suit, bright against his tan skin, with a buttoned blazer and shorts that hit midway on his thighs. His shiny black hair is tucked under a straw boater hat. On anyone else, it would look silly, but confidence wafts off him, heavy and thick, his own personal fog machine. Of course Lenore is friends with this guy.
He must notice our arrival, because he pulls his bag off the other chair, but his eyes don’t move off the sketch pad in front of him, where he’s drawing an angular figure in a dress made of flowers.
“This is Theo,” Lenore says.
“My name is not Theo,” he says, his voice stern. “That is just a nickname that Lenore has been unsuccessfully attempting to make happen for the past two years. But it has never happened. My name is Theodore Lim.”
“And like I’ve told you many times,” she says, rolling her eyes, “you don’t get to decide what I, your best friend, call you. Theo, this is our new friend, Tessa.”
I reach out to shake his hand, but he doesn’t see it because he’s still concentrated on his sketch.
“Only friend.”
“Excuse me?” I don’t understand how he’s trying to make fun of me, but my defenses immediately go up.
“Lenore is my only friend. I just want you to get an accurate picture of our relationship. This is a by-default type situation.” His right hand, holding the pencil, continues to move vigorously across the paper, but he gives a slight wave with his left hand. “Hello, Tessa.”
I’m about to just walk away because I don’t need to be where I’m not wanted, and this snarky little artist obviously doesn’t want me here.
But then Lenore laughs and leans in close to his face, snapping her fingers. “Earth to Theo! There are some humans here attempting to interact with you. She’s gonna think you a douchebag!” He brushes her away like a fly, adding some detail to the bottom of the skirt.
“He always gets like this when he’s in the zone. Like, testy is the nice way to put it, but asshole-y is probably a little more accurate,” she says to me, a hand cupped over her mouth as if he can’t hear her. “It’s my job to pull him out of it, or his goddamn hand will fall off before graduation.”
She reaches over and snatches the boater hat off his head, placing it on her own.
“Hey!” he yells, finally putting his pencil down and looking up at us. His eyes are dark and shiny, like polished obsidian, and he has the kind of perfect eyebrows that make me immediately self-conscious of my own.
“It looks better with my outfit,” Lenore says, posing.
Theodore looks her over appraisingly before finally nodding his head in agreement, “Yes, I suppose it does.”
“No offense, but you low-key had some Christopher Robin vibes going on there. Or like one of those old-timey, creepy ghost boys in movies about haunted houses? They look all sweet and normal until, like, their faces rip apart and maggots come out or something. . . . I’m really doing you a favor.”
“I was worried it was too much.” His voice is softer now, and he glances down at his outfit. It makes me like him more. “Is it too much?”
“You look great,” I say, and he gives me a slow smile.
“Thank you, Tessa. You can have Lenore’s rocking chair.”
I hesitate, but Lenore does a dramatic bow thing as she gestures to the chair, before leaning against the railing surrounding the porch. “It’s all yours.”
“So what conservatory are you both in?” I feel a little silly after the question comes out, because it’s not like Theodore is sitting here sketching but is also a prodigy violin player.
“Visual arts,” Theodore says, his hand moving quickly again, adding a crown of leaves to the beautiful girl on his page. “I dabble in painting when I’m feeling a little masochistic, but my focus is primarily illustration.”
“On paper, I’m in the visual arts conservatory too. Drawing, photography, watercolor, printmaking—I do it all,” Lenore says. “But I’ve taken classes in the film department before, and also digital media. This year I’m invading the production and design department too, because my pockets are getting real empty from too many trips to Jo-Ann’s this summer, and those guys get as much fabric as they want.”
“You make clothes?” I ask, amazed again at how cool this girl is.
“Yep! Made these pants from a tablecloth Grandma Lenore was gonna throw out.” She laughs and poses with her hands on her hips and her shoulders rolled forward, like she’s modeling for an invisible camera. “Aren’t they perfect?” she says, and I nod in agreement.
“I didn’t know you could take classes in multiple conservatories.”
“You can when you’re as talented as me!” she calls, snapping her fingers above her head.
“Oh yeah, of course. I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to, uh, question whether or not you were talented enough or anything.”
I can feel my neck burning red. But she laughs again, and nudges my toes with one of her perfect lemon-yellow slides.
“Girl, chill. Do you want to try other conservatories too? They usually let anyone try it if you can state your case. What conservatory are you in, anyway?”
“Oh . . . I just write.” I look down at my hands, so I won’t see the look of boredom, or worse, fake interest on her face.
“Nah, don’t say you just write,” she says, imitating my mumbly tone. “You won’t ever catch Theo here saying he just draws.” He wags a finger with his left hand while his right hand continues to work. “You write. Period. And you must be pretty fucking good at it to get in here, especially as a transfer. So own it, sis!”
I shrug and let myself smile a little bit. She’s being nice, and I appreciate it. But she might say different if she knew I wrote romances.
Lenore, luckily, picks up on my vibe and switches gears. “Okay, so the writers usually sit over there,” she says, pointing to a spot on the other side of the porch, covered by a large tree. I see some of the hard-core Harry Potter fans from earlier, but there’s also a cluster of girls in novelty prints and Peter Pan collars, lots of people wearing various shades of faded black, and at least two fedoras that I can count. “Shady, less glare on their laptops. And I think they like sitting there because it has the best view of the place. Lots of material for their next novels.”
“Is there, like, assigned seating or something?”
“No, of course not. But people like to be with their people, you feel me? And most of all, people like to feel like their people are better than all the other people. It’s, like, the human condition or whatever.” Lenore speaks with her hands, like she’s giving a TED talk. “We don’t have cheerleaders or football players here, yeah, but there’s a hierarchy like anywhere else.”
“Yeah, the dancers? Totally cheerleaders,” Theodore cuts in. His pencil is down now. This topic interests him.
“Mmm-hmm, the way they prance around in their spandex and leotards—they don’t need to be wearing that shit all day! They just want to show off their nonexistent booties and, like, ribs or whatever.” Lenore points to a crowd of girls and a few guys sitting on the steps of the bank building. “That’s them over there.”
“And the jocks here? The musical theater kids,” Theodore continues. “Everything always has to revolve around them, and they expect us to care about their next big show like little towns in Texas care about football. I don’t even need to show you where they are.”
He doesn’t. There’s a huge group singing “Seasons of Love” a cappella on the far side of the lawn.
Theodore continues to give me the lay of the land with Lenore’s quick commentary, pointing to each group as he goes along. The production and design kids mostly hang out inside. (“They can’t be exposed to sunlight, or they will, like, burst into flames.”) The new culinary arts students are wild cards. (“But I wouldn’t mind me a hot chef boyfriend.”) The visual arts kids flock wherever light is good and the inspiration takes them, and they’re the cool, artsy ones. (“Of course.”) And the instrumental music and creative writing kids are the nerds, apparently. (“No offense, but, like, the writers all started bringing typewriters last year. Like, it was a trend. You can’t tell me there’s a reason to lug around that obsolete technology! With that and the tubas, they probably all got scoliosis.”)
I follow Theodore’s finger around the campus, fighting the urge to take notes, but I miss what he’s saying about the film department because I’m distracted by another group that he hasn’t labeled yet. The musical theater kids may be acting all extra to get everyone’s attention, but this group does it effortlessly. There are four of them sitting in the very middle of the lawn, center stage. One guy is impossibly tall and freckled, with flaming red hair. His whole body shakes with laughter, and even though I’m too far to hear it, it’s contagious. I want to be right there, laughing along. Lounging next to him on a spread-out flannel shirt is another white guy with a backward snapback covering shaggy golden hair, and there’s a girl with them too. She has dyed gray hair, milky skin, and dark lipstick. She’s wearing an oversized denim jacket over a black dress so short I can almost see the curve of her butt cheeks.
They look perfect. They look like the cast of a CW show posing on the cover of Entertainment Weekly.
And the centerpiece of it all is the gorgeous specimen standing in the middle of them, talking and gesturing animatedly, like he’s delivering one of Shakespeare’s sonnets or Ali Wong’s comedy sets. His friends orbit around him, marveling at him just like I find myself doing now.
The boy has dark eyes that I can see sparkle even from here, olive skin, and tousled chocolate hair, short on the sides and long, loose curls on the top. As he speaks, it falls in his face, and he brushes it back in a way that makes my stomach do backflips. He has broad shoulders that hold his crisp white T-shirt with a round, stretched-out neck like a hanger over his skinny frame. His legs are long and lean—like, remarkably so—and this is only highlighted by his tight, faded black jeans and brown leather shoes with no socks.
He’s straight out of the story I’m currently working on, the Tallulah one. Thomas, the unbelievably cool singer-songwriter, come to life—walking out of my words and into my life, ready to make me his muse. It takes all of my strength not to run over there and profess my love right now. I want to whip out my laptop and record every detail.
“Who are they?” I ask, subtly gesturing toward the group with my chin. I hope I sound casual even as my heart rate speeds up in anticipation.
“Oh, them,” Theodore responds, rolling his eyes.
“More theater kids?”
“No . . . well, actually I think Grayson may be in the theater department, but he’s strictly the highbrow stuff, no musicals,” Lenore says, talking loud and blatantly staring at the group. I wish she would turn around. “Those are the founders’ kids.”
“What does that mean?”
“Their parents are super rich and donated all the money to start the school ten years ago, just so their precious prodigies could go here one day,” Theodore explains, his face full of disdain. “So they, by default, think they’re the shit even though their talent is remedial, at best.”
“Theo’s just bitter because Poppy—that’s the girl—beat him out for a featured gallery in the winter gala freshman and sophomore year,” Lenore laughs.
“And I deserve to be bitter. . . . Poppy’s work would make more sense as the stock photos in frames at West Elm,” Theodore scoffs, returning to his sketch pad again. “I mean, how many gouache beach landscapes does the world need? Really.”
“She looks cool. . . . I mean, I like her hair,” I say feebly.
“Oh, don’t let her looks fool you,” he mutters. “Her exterior may be manic pixie dream girl, but inside she’s all Regina George.”
“Anyway,” Lenore goes on, “Poppy is in visual arts. Rhys—the ginger—is in film, I think, and the guy in the middle is Nico. He’s in creative writing, like you. None of the rules we just explained to you apply to those kids. Money and status trump conservatory when it comes to social groups here, and they’ve got that to spare. They basically run this place.”
Nico is in creative writing, like me. I try to steal another quick glance at him, but when I look up, my view is blocked by Sam, lumbering across the lawn to our group. His corduroy jacket is tied around his waist now, and he’s carrying a lunch box. My neck starts to feel warm, worrying about what my new friends will think of him.
“Hi, Tessa!” he calls as he walks up.
“Oh, is this your boyfriend?” Lenore asks, shimmying her shoulders.
Sam turns scarlet, and I’m already shaking my head.
“No. No. Not at all. We’re just friends.” I’m talking too fast. “Neighbors, really. We just met.”
Theodore looks up at that and arches one perfect eyebrow.
“Oh,” Lenore says with a smug smile, “Well, Tessa’s neighbor, I like your shoes. You should join us.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks. Thank you,” Sam says, nodding too much and awkwardly crossing his arms and leaning against the railing. “Tessa, you, uh, changed your outfit?”
“Yep.” I look past him, not wanting to relive that mortifying recent memory, and I make direct eye contact with Nico across the lawn. He grins right at me, bright as the sun, and winks. Winks!
“How’s your day going?” Sam asks, somewhere back on Earth.
I can feel the smile on my face, so big it hurts.
“Better.”
Tallulah thought back to the day she had first met Thomas. Or maybe “met” isn’t the right word, because they didn’t actually speak. Saw. No, that’s not right either. Connected.
Tallulah was walking down the halls of Roosevelt High, talking to her best friend, Collette, when something—the universe, divine intervention—told her to stop. Pay attention. This is important.
She looked up, and the sea of students parted to reveal a perfect specimen of a boy standing in the middle of the hallway. He was tall and thin but still had a powerful presence, like he had stepped off a runway somewhere. His dark hair tumbled over his eyes, almost masking the alluring energy of his warm gaze. He was wearing a faded shirt for a band she didn’t recognize, jeans that hugged his body perfectly, and loosely laced black boots. He was new here. He had to be. Tallulah would have noticed him before today if he wasn’t. This boy was not someone who goes overlooked and underappreciated.
Collette pulled Tallulah along to their English class, repeating a question that she must have missed. She could tell from Collete’s tone that her friend was irritated, but she didn’t care. Her mind swirled with thoughts of the boy, and also, surprisingly: “I will know him and I will love him.” Tallulah was as sure of it as of the sun’s rising and setting.
And then he winked at her, but it was more than a wink. It was a sign, a promise, that he felt the same way.