The Sweetest Thing by Christina Mandelski Read Free Book Online

books to page ninety-two.” Wasserman finally decides to get off the topic of my dad’s impending star-dom and do his job.
    Matthew sits next to me, notebook open, doodling. He’s drawing a caricature of Mr. W with Albert Einstein hair; big, bloodshot eyes; and a brain in his hand. It’s funny, but I’m in no mood to laugh. The whole school knows: Donovan Wells has hit the big-time, and he’s dragging his daughter along for the ride.
    By the time I get to last period, or Art Hell, as I like to call it, I have experienced firsthand the power of the St.
    Mary telegraph. From what I can gather, sous-chef Danny told his daughter, Lucy, who told Dora McBride, who told Payge Nelson, who relayed the information to Sydney Mann, who everyone knows has the biggest mouth at St.
    Mary High. Once she got wind of the news, that was it; she 50

    ran it up the flagpole, and now there isn’t a living soul in a twenty-five-mile radius who doesn’t know.
    I slip into my chair next to Jack. “Hi.”
    “Hey. I just heard you’re playing yourself in the made-for-TV movie of your dad’s life.” He is mocking me. But the rumors have really gotten that weird.
    “Not now,” I warn.
    The bell rings and Mrs. Ely stands in front of the class.
    She’s practically glowing; that’s how excited she gets about art. We’re studying van Gogh today, the crazy guy who sliced off his own ear.
    “Take out your assignments, please, and pass them to your left,” Mrs. Ely says, impossibly frumpy in her black artist’s smock and Sears clearance-rack comfortable shoes.
    I pull out the homework, a time line of Vincent’s life, which was kind of short, thank goodness.
    I gotta hand it to Mrs. Ely. She doesn’t mention my father or the show or anything related to cheesy cable TV
    stations. We just slip into a nice discussion about art and insanity. Yes, it’s depressing, but at least no one brings up ExtremeCuisine TV.
    As we wait for the bel to ring, Ely sidles up to our table.
    “Hey, Sheridan.” Here it comes. “How are your nature sketches coming?”
    “Um . . . okay,” I lie. I’m a terrible liar.
    “Listen.” She taps the table with a chipped fuchsia fingernail. “There’s this art camp for incoming juniors and seniors.
    51

    It’s in Upstate New York. I thought you might want to apply.
    I think you’d have a good chance of getting in.”
    Me? At an art camp?
    “Oh. Thanks.” I glance at Jack. “I’ve got so much going on, though.” Is she for real? I imagine myself sitting around a campfire with a bunch of smock-wearing, one-eared losers.
    Ely taps the table again. “Just think about it, okay?” She waits for me to look up and acknowledge her.
    “Okay. I’ll think about it.” She’s always writing gushy comments on my assignments, like, “You have natural talent, Sheridan,” or, “This is amazing, Sheridan.” But what does she know? A small-town art teacher with questionable taste in footwear?
    At last the final bell rings and this horrible day is over. I can’t escape fast enough.
    “You know,” Jack says as we walk to our lockers, “she doesn’t suggest that camp to everyone. It’s real y tough to get in.” I turn my lock, open the door, and stare into the jam-packed space. Then I switch out a few books and slam it shut.
    “So? I don’t want to go to art camp.”
    Jack closes his locker two rows down and looks disgusted. “What is wrong with you?”
    “Nothing,” I sigh. “I just wish people could talk about something other than this stupid show.”
    Mike, the Math Club geek with the locker next to mine, walks up. “Hey, Sheridan. Heard about your dad. Pretty cool.”
    “Yeah,” I say between clenched teeth.
    52

    Jack tugs on my arm as we walk away. “Come on, don’t worry so much. Your dad won’t make you move. Don’t you think he’ll let you stay here? And then he can go and get famous. Make some serious dough. Maybe you really will get a nice car for your birthday. You know, like with the