I had always hated my name. Mimi; it sounded like a girl who went to raves and colored her hair pink and OD'd on ecstasy. Or, in one of my less generous moods, it sounded like a Second-Rate Prostitute. Whichever, Mimi did not sound like a girl who dressed in paint splattered denim and consumed poetry books and was torn in half by her indecisive sexuality.
Noah had come from Britain, with messy hair and an accent that threatened to make half of the female population mothers. My girlfriend at the time, Lisa-What's-Her-Face, dumped me, convinced she had a chance with him. It was not without some satisfaction I saw him turn her, and them all, away.
The two of us sat in the art room, him molding a clay bust of some dead rock star, while I inked a poster for my then-current boyfriend's band. It was sweltering inside and freezing outside, not an unusual dilemma. The upperclassmen grabbed the seats nearest the window, shouting seniority, and the Hardcore Freshmen Artistes were quickly summoned to join them, Noah and me included.
Working on auto drive, I noticed the Specks of Pink dotting his cuticles. Similar specks had dotted my four year old sister's fingers that morning, but I was pretty sure Noah's weren't from Play-Doh.
Before I could say anything, however, he buried his hands in the clay, saying to me, "Mimi, right? Great name."
"Thanks," I said shortly, then, "Damn it." I reached for the whiteout, but he gave it to me, streaking the little bottle a muddy brown. He then said, almost wistfully, "My name's so boring. I'd love a name like Mimi."
"Mmm-hmm," I replied, wiping the clay stains onto my jeans, where they muddled the Day-Glo colors on my hip. He was silent as I redrew the line that had gone astray. I was just returning to the stupor that the temperature demanded, when he asked suddenly yet hesitantly, "Will you trade names with me?"
My usually steady hand jerked, the zigzag of ink continuing onto the table, and onto the corner of a Senior's painting. He complained loudly, and as the Juniors and Seniors glared at me I wondered if I'd be asked back to the Elite Section.
I shot Arrows of Hatred at Noah, to avoid the confusion I felt from his question, as I sat down at a table in the center. Examining the damage to the poster, I swore loudly. No amount of whiteout would cover the inky trail, and the band needed it for their performance that night.
Pulling off my shirt to reveal my sports bra, I went to the Supplies Closet. No one paid attention, as there were people with less clothes on than me.
Fate would have it that the size of paper I needed was on the top shelf. Vertically Challenged as I am, I looked for a stool, and so great was my need that I didn't notice Noah was with me until he had placed the paper in my hands.
"What the fuck?" I asked, reflexively crossing my arms over my chest, although he was looking at the floor. "What do you want?"
He opened his mouth, but shut it again as he blushed. I wasn't annoyed enough not to notice my favorite color, vermillion, on his face.
But not calm enough to give him another chance. "Look," I told him firmly, feeling that was a tone that would produce more results than others with him, "All I need right now is to start a new poster, and figure out how to make the temperature affect me less, both of which are your fault. I don't need or want to trade names with you, as I don't see what favors you've done for me, other than get me the paper off the top shelf and make my last girlfriend break up with me. Excuse me."
As I tried to figure out how I could make a good quality poster in half the time, I kept on sensing that Noah was watching me. As long as he didn't try to talk to me again, I was relatively happy.
After skipping Science and Lunch to hide out in the art room (miraculously, after my art class had left, the temperature inside became pleasantly warm), I had managed to finish the poster. After testing it out on the Brainiacs, the Yes-Men, and the one Somewhat-Talented Artist in the Beginner's Art Class, it was determined the poster was excellent, and that no one could recognize the mistakes I thought were obvious.
I then took the rest of the day off, partially to get ready for Open Mike Night, partially to avoid seeing Noah, although the one class I had with him was Art. My boyfriend then, Tony-Something-Or-Other, had instructed me not to wear denim. This was hard, as denim was my fabric of choice. However, after the fiasco with Lisa and Noah, I wasn't yet ready to get dumped.
In a stupor, I put on my version of Pop Star Girlfriend Apparel: Converses, mini skirt, tank top. In the quick glance at the mirror, I noticed my breasts forced the top into a deep V, and the skirt was attempting to join my hips. My mom had told me once, "Pick hips or tits. Don't show both, unless you really DO want to look like this fictional prostitute you keep moaning about." Chagrined, I grabbed the leather trench coat on the table on my way out.
