Page 10 of This Loving Feeling (Mirror Lake)

As fate would have it, Monique was in her advanced art class. Not because she was any good at art but because she said she needed a “relaxation course” to help offset all the pressure she felt from applying to Ivy League schools. One day, Monique passed by the art table where Sam was working on her portrait project.

“Wow, he’s hot,” she said. “Who is that guy?”

The grays and blacks of a solitary figure emerging from the shadows were offset by a bright red background. There, captured on the canvas, was the sexy, leaning silhouette, one Converse shoe propped carelessly against the bright door.

Sam had been obsessed with capturing his face. Not so much its beautiful oval shape, or the curve of his cheekbones, or the thickly curved brows, but she’d somehow managed to capture a certain ... moment.

It was the way the Clinker’s boy looked at her. Or how she imagined he did. Those mysterious eyes, full of secrets, his gaze turned on her as if he’d just been surprised, just turned his head, maybe because she’d called out his name. And upon discovering her there, he liked what he saw. A lot.

It was her best work, and it was turning out well. She could feel it. This painting was speaking to her in a way unlike all her other pieces had, and she knew it was good. Really good.

“You’re anamazingartist,” Monique said. Sam’s gaze flicked up briefly, then she went back to work, praying Monique would go away. She wanted nothing to do with the Clubbers. Even Reggie, her quarterback crush, was starting to hang out with them, and they were turning him to the dark side. Monique cleared her throat. She was still staring at the portrait, and it was making Sam nervous. “Your friend Amy’s really good at calculus,” she said at last.

Sam bit her lip.Don’t engage, she told herself. She didn’t need trouble right now, and she was no fool.

Sam grabbed a few brushes and left her seat to wash them out, anything to get away. But Monique followed. “Maybe you can help me get a couple projects done. Like how Amy’s helping us. Because, you know, it would be a shame for me to ruin a 4.0 GPA with a stupid art class.”

“Um, I’ll pass. Thanks anyway.” Sam headed for the sink.

Monique blocked her path. “Um, I don’t think you have a choice.” She dropped her voice to a sharp whisper. “Bow down and worship, bitch.”

Heat flooded to Sam’s face. Had she heard wrong? Had Monique really said that? Of course she did, because she was mean. But Sam wasn’t a cowering flower. Growing up with all those brothers had made certain of that. She set down her paintbrush. “I don’t bow down and worship anyone in this high school. Especially not you. And leave Amy alone because I have no problem telling Mr.Malone what you’re up to.”

Something flashed in Monique’s eyes. It might have been fear, and for the first time, Sam felt she’d done something positive to stop these cruel, vindictive people who preyed on the weak. She would take a stand. She’d be brave and fight for what was right. She’d get Amy, and together they would march into Malone’s office and set the record straight. The good guys (and girls) would win. Evil would be defeated.

Sam had to paint sets for the play after school that day, and Amy had band practice, so they made a plan to visit the principal after the next morning’s study hall.

Bad move, because the next morning, Sam’s portfolio was gone.

The art closet had been locked all night, Mrs.Kissinger said. There was no sign of anyone breaking in. It had simply disappeared.

That day, Sam approached Monique’s table in the art room. She and three of her cronies were painting pep rally posters. Pint-sized cans of orange and black acrylic paint, Mirror Lake High colors, lay strewn about the table. “Give it back,” she said simply.

“Hey, Sam, did you find your art?” Monique asked, shooting a knowing smile at Reggie. “We feel so bad it was lost.” She punched a few buttons on her phone and held it up to Sam’s face. “Did it look like this?”

The blur of a photo came into focus. It was her precious painting. The Clinker’s boy one. It was lying on asphalt—she could tell by the scattered leaves surrounding it. From off to the side, an arced stream of water was hitting it.

No, it wasn’t water. It was urine, because at the source of the stream was ... oh, God.

Sam squeezed her eyes shut to block out the vile image. No, no, not her painting, her best work ever. And all her other work, the work that would ensure her a future.

Shock hardened to fury. In one quick movement, Sam grabbed a can of paint and flung the contents at Monique. Bright orange blobs landed in her hair, her face. Dripped down her brand-new blouse and onto the art room floor. “You’re scum,” Sam said.

“At least I’m not a pathetic loser whose family can’t even afford art school.”

Sam lunged, taking her down. She’d never fought anyone before, but she knew how to get into it with her brothers. Hands flew, hair was pulled, and none of it was pretty. Mrs.Kissinger and five other students had to pull Sam off the vile, vile girl.

Sam struggled to pull out of the grasp of the students who held her, her friends who wore looks of shock and concern at the formerly mild-mannered girl who’d gone postal. “She stole my portfolio,” Sam heard herself say in a high-pitched, almost hysterical voice. “Check her phone. There’s a photo of my painting on it.”

Mrs.Kissinger picked up Monique’s phone. Principal Malone came running in. He was usually pretty laid back, but the look on his face was one of pure shock to see her—Samantha Rushford!—at the center of such a disaster.

He’d always seemed like a reasonable man. Surely he’d see what they’d done and take her side. She wouldn’t need to say anything about it. The picture would tell the entire story. She was counting on it.

“I’m not seeing it,” he said, flipping through the photos.

“It’s hard to miss a picture of someone’s dick urinating on my painting!” Sam said. Who could make that up? She was crying. The smell of acrylic paint stung her nostrils. Her shirt and jeans were ruined. Monique’s eyeliner was running and between that and the orange color, her face looked like a Halloween nightmare.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs.Kissinger said. “There aren’t any photos of—ahem—anyone’s genitalia in here.”

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