The Symptoms of My Insanity Read Online Free

really cool.”
    “Yeah. I saw your name and your picture on their website for that Italy thing.”
    “Oh, right.” The Detroit Institute of Arts is giving six students a scholarship to study abroad at U of M’s campus in Italy this summer. Miss S. thinks I have a pretty good chance of being one of them, if I ever finish my stupid application portfolio. “So your mom’s involved in that?” I ask. “In the scholarship?”
    “Yeah. I mean she’s not a judge or anything. She’s an events coordinator there.”
    “Oh. That’s cool.”
    “So yeah the DIA, they’re having this grand opening thing for this new wing? Food, music, art and all that. Told my sister, Jillian, I’d take her. She’s a really good drawer. I mean, for a seven-year-old. Anyway, I think you’d like it too. Right?”
    “Yeah!” I say with a tad too much enthusiasm, especially since there’s no way Mom will let me go to Detroit, unchaperoned, with a guy.
    “Cool,” he says, “so you wanna come check it out? It’s on Saturday. That’s if you’re not busy working on your watercolors. Or your charcoal? You said charcoal, right?”
    “Oh, yeah. I mean yes, that one was a charcoal drawing, and no, I’m not busy,” I tell him, while telling myself that it’s not irresponsible to spend a free Saturday not working on my portfolio. It can be research. With Blake!
    “Great. Should be some good stuff there. I mean, I don’t know exactly—”
    “Yeah. Actually, I read an article on the new wing, and there’s this painter, Juliana Roriago—well, she’s more of a performance artist, and I’ve always been curious to see her live. And she’ll be there on Saturday. She’s a resident all month actually. But yes, she’ll be there on Saturday. This Saturday. She’ll be there. At the new wing. On Saturday. That same Saturday that you’re going, ’cause she’s debuting. Performance art. This new … performance art … piece.
    And thus ends my own performance art piece entitled,
English? Or Word Vomit?
    “Well cool … okay then, it’s on,” Blake says.
    “Okay. Yeah, it’s on,” I repeat, nodding my head.
    “Well, I gotta get another one of these”—he gestures to his drink, smiles—“and the guys are waiting in the car, so …”
    “Okay”—I nod my head again, and again, and again—“nice to see you.”
Nice to see you?! Blech.
    “Yeah. Oh, and I hope your shopping went well,” he says with a slight grin and walks past me to the front of the store.
    I stop mid-nod and look after him, confused, and then realize that, oh my God, I’ve been holding my Lola’s Lingerie bag this whole time.

CHAPTER 3
I’m the assistant director.
    I know Mom’s asking me to tell Cathy Mason something for her tonight when I go over to Jenna’s for dinner, but all I can think about while we fill up the trunk with groceries is Blake, his blond-stubbled jaw, and how his lips would taste if we were actually making out.
    “Izzy? Did you hear me?”
    Salty maybe? Or no, sweet from the Gatorade? Ick, no. Should I be surprised he was so nice to me just then, so nice in fact that he asked me out on a museum date? Not that Blake’s ever been mean to me directly, but he’s friends with all those guys who are.
    Oh man, he’d definitely touch my hair a lot if we made out. I’m thinking he’d brush it out of my face before he went in to kiss me. And that first kiss would be soft. But then I’d touch
his
hair. I’d take hold of it on the back of his head. And then he’d get this look in his eyes, like he couldn’t control himself any longer. He’d pull me into him gently. No, roughly. Yes, he’d grab at the sides of my shirt and yank me in super-close. And then we’d basically go at it like crazyanimals until I finally pry myself away and say all out of breath,
“Wait, we have to stop, we can’t do this here in the middle of the drugstore.”
    “Never mind, I’ll call Cathy later.” Mom sighs, picking up another bag from the cart, but