Most people complain about having a history test the first week of school. But I don’t really mind. I mean, what’s the difference between a test the first week and a test the second week? Week one, no one is paying attention because they don’t think they have to. Week two, no one is paying attention because they just don’t want to. Meanwhile, the teacher is teaching to the people who actually care. Namely, me. A week two test has covered more, so it’s harder. More people will fail.
But Lord knows I was prepared. I never would’ve signed up for an AP class if I wasn’t ready to take a test. What’s so hard about early American history? Just an hour of studying a night, and I had that test in the bag.
Though it was kind of difficult.
CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.
Only a few more questions left…history was never my strongest point. But I have always enjoyed a challenge. Or, rather, I’ve spent so much time in my life being challenged that I got used to them.
Another flick of my pen and I was finished. I looked around me to see if anyone else had, and…no one. They were still bent over their papers like trees being sat on by elephants. Figures. Hoping that no one would notice me too much, I shuffled over to Mr. DiAngelo’s desk. He was startled from his crossword puzzle, and gave me a fleeting smile as I placed my test on his desk. I realized after a moment that I was hovering, and he looked slightly uncomfortable. On the flip side, there seemed no point to sit back down again. But what could I do? So, awkwardly, I slipped back into my seat and picked my pen back up, and resumed my mindless clicking.
Tests are always more boring when the only friend you have to share the silence with is your pen.
Then again, at least a pen won’t give you the subconscious need to turn around and give it funny looks, distracting you from the test. That could lower your grade, and that’s never a good thing. It also writes the test for you, which gives you the grade.
So the pen is good. The pen is safe.
“Miss Ahern.”
I jumped a little at the sound of my name. I looked up at Mr. DiAngelo, who was giving me a stern look as my pen slowly clicked once more.
“Do me a favor,” he said quietly, “and use that pen to write your name on your test, and then click it closed before I dismantle it.” I giggled nervously, and then made my walk of shame up to his desk. It didn’t take much to scribble my name on my lonely test (no one else was finished): Olivia Ahern. A name just like me: plain, short, and to the point.
Clicking my pen closed—Mr. DiAngelo winced—I turned back and returned to my seat. Everyone else in the class was hunched over their papers, and probably would be until the period ended. I looked at all of their faces, people I had known all my life, from kindergarten to now, our senior year. I’d watched them grow, like sprouts to flowers, and yet…they were all strangers. To me, they were empty shells, and I had no idea if there were pearls or animals inside. I suppose they felt the same about me.
As I stared at my hands, distracted by this deep thinking, they started to itch with boredom. I pulled out my chemistry homework, but I couldn’t concentrate very well. I was quite absentminded and not thinking about chemistry at all, which was very strange, especially for me. Was it really that important to me what my classmates thought of me? So important that I couldn’t even concentrate on homework? I glanced back down at the paper—and it was adorned with swirls and doodles around the edges.
“Oh, great,” I muttered, and grabbed my eraser. I couldn’t hand in chemistry work with pictures in the margins.
Eventually I had to give up, because I had obviously drawn too forcefully and, in my pursuit of deletion, the eraser ripped the page. Now ruined, I sighed and got up to throw the page out.
Before I took my seat, I noticed a pair of dark eyes peering at me through a clump of even darker hair. They were smirking at me, and the face attached to them matched their amusement. My face quickly reddened, and I sat down all too loudly and made a faint huff.
Who was he to judge? I didn’t even recognize him; his face was familiar, but I couldn’t place a name with that smile. Kevin? No, he wasn’t in this class…Randall? No, he moved after eighth grade…Maybe this--this nameless boy had just moved here over the summer…
There, that had to be it. No one would ever poke fun at me unless they had never met or grown up around me. That was rational. To block out thoughts of Nameless Boy, I pulled my chemistry work closer and stared it down. I found it a bit hard to concentrate, however; I felt those laughing eyes on the back of my head. But what could I do? It was no use to try and shake it out of my brain, because when does that work? Besides, I just couldn’t comprehend what he could be looking at.
The first thing that anyone should have known about me was that there was nothing interesting to me. Growing up with two brothers like my own, it would be hard to be anything but ordinary. However, I was nothing if I wasn’t a hard worker. There’s a lot to be said for a student with a good work ethic, or so my parents told me. My oldest brother, Ben, was that way; he would love to have seen me working on chemistry, since that is his favorite thing to talk about. I loved to see him happy like that. It gave so much promise to a young person like me.
I guess that’s really all there is to know, now that I think about it.
But nonetheless, Nameless Boy had absolutely no right to judge me. He didn’t even know that tidbit about me. With that, I could be satisfied.
Yet still, I found myself coming up with excuses to turn my head around to look at him: fixing my hair, cracking my neck, reading a poster, checking the time even though I had a watch. He looked completely normal, as compared to the others in the class. Vacant expression, pencil poised with disinterest; nothing to suggest a judgmental or otherwise jerky character. Except…except the lips. They were set in the slightest of smirks, like he was still thinking about my klutziness. That little…oh, he set my teeth on edge.
The distraction of my homework was looking more appealing.
As expected, it took most of the class until the bell to hand in their tests. At the shrill screech of the alarm, I threw my books hurriedly into my backpack and scrambled out the door.
Unfortunately, not in enough time to dodge Nameless Boy.
He bumped carelessly into me as if I had melted into the desk beside me. I caught myself on the chair, which skidded and did little to help besides adding an intermediate and halting step between the linoleum and me. Next to me, I heard Nameless Boy swear under his breath. Breathing rapidly, I shot a glance up at him from behind a stringy auburn mess I called hair.
When he was sitting, I hadn’t noticed how tall he really was. Then again, I was practically a dwarf compared to many. But it wasn’t just height that made him stand so tall; he had an air of confidence, borderline arrogance, the kind that increases spirit and a sense of danger. Something about him should have absolutely repulsed me, but at the same time enticed.
It was infuriating.
Even worse, he regained his balance gracefully, caught my gaze and held it for far too long. The smirk returned to his lips.
“See ya around, Clicks,” he crooned, and, walking backward for a moment, he sized me up, sending a foreign thrill down my spine. With a final chuckle, and a glance down at my pen which I still clutched in my hand entirely too tightly, he gave me a one fingered salute and was out the door.
After a moment, I remembered where I was. And then where I had to be in three minutes or less. Fumbling with the straps on my backpack, I made my way out the door clumsily, not quite sure what had just transpired.
It took me all the way down crowded hallways and to my next class to realize that I still didn’t know his name.

I burst through the doors of the school to the cold, rainy outside. Late New York City autumns were always more wet and less colorful than what was usually advertised. Pulling my jacket tightly around my body, I began trotting down the sidewalk, dodging strangers and avoiding their eyes.
Fifteen minutes and a soaked jacket later, I plodded up the stairs of my apartment building. Sure, we lived on the fourth floor, but who doesn’t need a little exercise? Hopefully, the climb would help dry off some of my soppiest garments before I dripped on the floors at home and sent Mom into a fit. Not that she was even home yet: she worked until five every day, including weekends, and then there was shopping or one of the boys’ games or competitions at their nearby colleges. Their acceptance letters to Binghamton and Cornell hung in elegant frames on the wall, next to equally framed scholarship notices. Thinking of them, I picked out names of the schools I’d applied to myself, with only the hope of impressing the admissions offices with good grades and my brothers as connections.
Sure enough, by the times I made it to apartment 4D, it was only 3:00 and the rooms behind the locked door were silent as the grave. I winced as the lock scraped itself away from the doorjamb, and had to give the door a hard shove before it swung open. Almost immediately, I was greeted by my lazier-than-dirt cat, Mudge, and breathed a sigh of relief as she slinked between my legs, meowing imploringly. Had it not been raining miserably, her reddish-brown coat would have gleamed in the rays of sunshine, glossy and sleek, matching my own hair. But today, in the spirit of the gloom, she sauntered off into my room and plopped down on my bed, where she knew she would get attention and a cat-nap eventually. I watched her enviously as she curled up daintily, licked her paws carefully, and then slowly settled in for what must have been her eighth nap of the day. If my mother caught me taking a snooze when I should be doing homework, she’d have my head and serve it for supper on a garnished platter.
Mudge looked so comfortable and inviting, though, that I joined her in my room, peeling off my wet clothes and hanging them to dry. I bundled her up in my arms and caressed her lovingly, feeling more than hearing her pleasure. I cast a glance at the wall behind my bed, littered with years’ worth of drawings of Mudge in varying degrees of skills. Mudge was loved by all but I always had more time to spend with her, so she was a compliant subject for my most boring afternoon pictures and poems; I knew all her special spots and she knew all my moods. And today, I was in a doodle mood.
I grabbed a piece of printer paper and a pencil and set myself down at my desk, facing my now-snoring kitty. Her whiskers twitched ever so slightly as I began sketching her outline, as if she knew all eyes were on her now. She even curled her tail more artistically around her body, in a way that improved the quality of the picture. Giggling, I shaped and shaded and added some character to my drawing; this could be the most Mudge-like picture yet.
And then, just as I was about to put on some finishing touches, I heard the doorknob rattle against the sound of keys – Mom. Home early. Really early.
“Crap,” I muttered, and quickly hurtled off the bed, startling Mudge and earning a disheveled hiss. I grabbed my homework folder and had just stuffed my drawing out of sight when my mom finally shoved her door open. I breathed a tiny sigh of relief and picked up a still-sleepy Mudge; if Mom saw me goofing off instead of doing homework, she would’ve flipped out.
“We have got to ask the super about a new door,” Mom said frustratedly, struggling with an umbrella and a bag of groceries. I gave Mudge a final stroke, then set her down, so I could grab the groceries from my wet mother.
“How was your day, Mom?” I said, afraid of the answer. She only ever came home early when she was in a bad mood.
“Oh, you know,” she said, swinging the umbrella onto a kitchen counter, “awful. No, worse than that…what’s the word…oh, Ben knows…it’s got like an ‘uh’ sound…or maybe an ‘ah’?...”
“Ostentatious?” I guessed tentatively.
“No…well, maybe,” she said as she threw herself into an armchair and pressed her fingers into her temples. “Probably. Doesn’t matter. It was so hugely horrible, I couldn’t stay.”
“When did you leave this time?” I said, and started unloading the groceries, a mish-mosh of fruits, vegetables, and protein supplements. Mom always went on a health kick when she was mad.
“Around twelve. Craig was making ridiculous accusations of us girls, something about having bad attitudes with customers.” That made sense; Mom was a secretary in a law firm, and Craig was her jerk-and-a-half boss. She reminded us of that every day. “So I went to the gym for like, three hours. Didn’t do as much as I thought, so I went shopping for tonight’s dinner.”
I looked down at the bags I was in the process of packing away in the fridge: radishes, cilantro, and kumquats. On the counter was a fresh clove of garlic and a giant knot of ginger. It was then that I really understood how bad her day was; no one in their right mind buys that with the intention of actually making a decent meal.
“You know what,” I said, placing the produce on the counter, “why don’t you let me make dinner? I don’t have too much homework, and you can take a nap.”
“Might as well,” she said, peeling herself from the chair and stumbling off to her room. “I’ll probably be up in an hour or two if I settle down.” I had already pulled out a recipe book in relief.
“Any idea when Dad’ll be home?” I already knew the answer –
“He’s working late tonight,” she answered automatically. Right, I thought to myself.

   * * *

The woman is true to her word. An hour and a half later, she came walking out, stretching and yawning as I was setting the table.
“Feel better?” I asked as she plopped down into her chair at the dining room table.
“Loads. Can’t even remember what I was mad about,” she said. “And besides that, I’m starved. What did you make?”
“Spaghetti and turkey meatballs.”
“Good, good,” she said, more to herself than anything. Her eyes were hungry as she grabbed her fork. She looked so young and childlike when she was like this. A few mouthfuls in, however, she started to act a little more like herself: she sat up straighter, pushed her hair back from her forehead carefully, speared a small portion of food at a time. Her whole demeanor had changed back to what I called normal mother-mode. For sure, the radishes and ginger were forgotten.
“What’s your homework situation tonight?” she said between bites.
“Well, I finished most of my work in school, except math.”
“Physics?”
“Finished.”
“French?”
“None.”
“English.”
“Project due at the end of the month, already almost done.”
“History?”
“I had a test today.” Here it comes. Her eyes narrowed as she thought.
“How did it go?”
“I was the first finished.”
“Did you double-check your answers?”
“Triple-checked.”
She examined my face, as if to scan for lies or hidden meanings. I wondered if she might detect some hint of Nameless Boy, but he couldn’t have rattled me that much – could he?
Finally, she seemed to give up, and went back to her meal. I sighed a silent sigh of relief, excused myself, and grabbed my dishes to wash. I was about to grab the place I had set my father as well – it was past seven, he wouldn’t be back for hours – when my mom stopped me with a jerky motion and a guttural sound.
“His schedule can change,” she said, half-stern, half-desperate. I stared at her and she stared right back, a fierce, wild gleam in her eyes that betrayed her serene face. After a moment, I shrugged my shoulders and turned my back to the table.
The day my father came home in time for dinner would be the day I get a full scholarship to every school I’d applied to.

It was obvious the next morning that the rain had cooled down both the dying warmth of the late-September summer and my mom’s mood. The air was crisp and clean, a chilling breeze which whispered tidings of autumn. In a like manner, the sharp lines of my mom’s pantsuit mimicked those upon her face, as she quickly moved about like a purposeful wind.
“I won’t be home until seven today,” she said, grabbing her travel mug as she went. “I’m sure I’ll have to pay for leaving early yesterday.”
“Good luck,” I called from the kitchen table, but she was already gone. Sighing, I dumped my cereal bowl in the sink and gave it a quick wash, considering I still had three minutes before I had to leave. Upon hearing a faint meow, I felt Mudge come up to me and slink between my legs. Smiling our private smile, I scooped her up to give her a proper goodbye.
“If only I could be a cat like you,”I  murmured into her coat. I received a low purr in reply.

    * * *

The rest of the week passed as it usually would: school, homework, chores. A fleeting moment, a sacred break with Mudge. It was a clean routine, unblemished and meticulously executed, and it worked just fine. What more could I want?
Friday came as it always does, heralded by many people. For me, it was just another day; I still had two quizzes. The weekend only brought me a new project and a paper to start. No pomp and circumstance needed for that. Anyway, due to the normal Friday buzz, the hallways were even worse than ever. I tried very hard every day to shrink as far into myself as I could, until barely a fly could notice me if it flew into my arm.
That day, however, was much worse: the first football game was that night, and the usual crowd was aided by the addition of screeching fans and gushing cheerleaders, until it reached a full-on frenzied chaos. In no way could I dodge all the activity of players warming up their throws in the halls or random acts of dancing. I was no longer drifting, unharmed, through the hallway. However, I still was invisible; if people bumped into me, I suppose they thought I was just a pillar or some other unfeeling object. Unfortunately, I found myself so terrified and distracted that I knocked straight into a teacher. To my dismay, I had no idea who he was. Even worse, all of my things went flying, and so did we.
“God damn—!”  he exclaimed under his breath, while I sputtered my apologies in broken, terrified statements. Waving them away, the teacher started collecting himself, while I frantically scrambled to retrieve the papers that had spilled from my folder. I heard a sigh, and then the hands of the mystery teacher joined my quest, gathering as much as they could grab. Suddenly they stopped – right over the picture of Mudge. I stopped also, my breath right along with me.
“Did you draw this?” the teacher asked. Finally I got a good look at his face as I stared hesitantly up at him. His curly brown hair just seemed to grow out of his head in a careless manner, and the cut of his beard was equally so. Wiry glasses framed pensive blue eyes, amazed and inquisitive. For the first time, I felt as if someone was looking at me, through me, not past me. Nervously, nodded my head ‘yes’.
“This is…I mean, it’s just…” All he could appear to do was shake head in disbelief. Why couldn’t he speak? It was frustrating and confusing, not to mention I would be late to class if I didn’t leave soon.
Crap! I looked at my watch; yes, I would definitely be late unless I ran.
“Excuse me,” I said to him, pulling the drawing out of his unyielding hands, “but I have to get to class, so…”
“No, wait! I’ll write you a pass! Just, please,” he practically begged, leading me towards the door to (I assumed his) classroom, “come in for a minute.”
I hesitated. I didn’t know this guy, so my common sense was screaming at me to just turn and go. But, still…I was curious, intrigued. Not a feeling I’ve felt very often in my life, mind you. So, I went.
Clearly, he was an art teacher. The room was covered with paintings and plasters, filling up every inch of wall and counter space. What wasn’t covered had brushes and paint sets, or was the site for easels and tables and chairs. The teacher settled himself comfortably into a desk that I almost didn’t see, so buried in art was it as well. Now out of its camouflage, I could see the sign that declared the teacher to be a Mr. Weston, and one who was shuffling around a messy desk for paper and a pen.
“Please, grab a chair,” he said, then triumphantly raised up a pencil and scrap paper. He scribbled a note, signed it, and handed it to me, seemingly satisfied. I just stared blankly. An awkward moment passed as the bell sounded. I was already nervous.
“What’s your name?” he blurted out, and I jumped a little.
“Olivia. Ahern,” I stammered.
“So,” he finally said, a touch too brightly, “I’m Mr. Weston, the art director. In case you haven’t noticed, which you probably have…” his voice trailed off nervously, like he’s never done this. I sat there, staring at my twiddling thumbs, hopelessly confused. I think he meant to say something important, but it simply wasn’t coming out.
The next few seconds seemed to drag into hours. I just wanted to leave, but I wouldn’t dream of being so rude. Finally, words:
“This drawing is amazing.”
I looked up, shocked. A doodle, amazing?
“I’ve honestly never seen such attention to detail except after a year or more of private training. Who do you go to?” I couldn’t answer. There was no answer. This was all a dream. Right?
After a few moments, I shook my head and squeaked out something like, “No one.”
He stared, like I had suddenly sprouted horns. I bit my lip awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.
“You’re kidding. Right? You’re joking,” he suddenly blurted out, startling me. I shook my head again; why was this such a big deal? It was a doodle, of a lazy cat no less! Mr. Weston gave a short laugh of disbelief, constantly glancing between the picture and me.
“Listen I really gotta go,” I said, standing abruptly. He looked up at me in shock and an infinitesimal amount of upset. Not knowing quite what to do, I turned and left.
“Wait, wait!” Mr. Weston called after me, and I faced him, nervously picking my nail. “Come to art club after school today. This room.” His eyes were imploring. “Please.” I’d never been to any kind of afterschool…thing, before. Mom wouldn’t know where I was…but she wouldn’t be home anyway.
“Okay,” I stammered quickly, then turned on my heel when I was clearly ready to be freed.
A few minutes later, my English teacher was collecting my late pass in confusion.
“My goodness, Olivia,” she said quietly, shaking her head slightly, “you’ve never been late before. I hope this doesn’t become a habit.”
I wasn’t listening. As I settled into my seat, my head was swimming with the things Mr. Weston had said. Could I actually be some kind of artist? Really? No one in my family was remotely artistic…
I shook myself a bit; I had to pay attention. This whole ordeal was just a one-time deal. Just a stop after school, and be done with it. But at that moment, it was only a minor event. School was more important. I had my parents to thank for my right-mindedness.

   * * *

At the sound of the final bell, I took my sweet time packing up my things. Maybe if I stalled long enough, that little meeting would be wrapped up by the time I got there.
After thinking that, I stopped abruptly. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ I thought. Why was I so scared of an art club? There was nothing to worry about! With that mantra, I was out the door in seconds.
How wrong I was.
As I turned down the hallway, I felt butterflies enter my stomach. I was actually meeting new people, all new individuals about whom I knew nothing. At least no one would really recognize me. I was thinking that as I pushed open the door to the art room.
“Sweet Jesus.”
Oh God. I knew that voice. That deep, laughing voice, which matched a smirk and arrogant eyes. Which were currently mocking my increasingly redder face.
“Olivia! You made it!” I was saved very minimal embarrassment by Mr. Weston. “Guys, this is Olivia Ahern. She showed me something she drew – ” that’s putting it nicely, “—and I think she’ll fit right in with us.”
I was so nervous I hadn’t noticed the other people in the room, not that there were very many others. I saw two girls, one with chopped up hair and a bubble of gum, the other with long stripes of blue and purple in her hair. Behind them was a boy who was looking me up and down rakishly, and he nudged his friend, who was, of course, my one and only Nameless Boy.
“Olivia,” Mr. Weston said, pulling me out of my daze, “this is the art club. This is Tara – ” the striped girl smiled kindly, “—and Cole –-” the other boy gave me a suggestive “’Sup?” and nod, “—Charlotte –” the other girl’s gum popped, “—and Shawn.” So, Nameless Boy had a name. It fit that smug face. “So, Olivia, get an easel and get settled!” With a clap of Mr. Weston’s hands, we were off. Well, they were off. In a rush, I dumped my stuff on the ground and followed everyone else like I knew what I was doing. Before I knew it, or approved it, Shawn was at my side.
“I believe we have the distinct misfortune of being previously acquainted,” he cooed in my ear. Then, as I looked at him in what hoped was disgust, he smiled broader and leaned in, whispering, “Clicks.”
Oh, how I so wished to stomp away and show him up. I could actually feel some small personal fire burning through my veins. Unfortunately, I was the only person there who didn’t even know how to set up an easel. But by some grace of God, I felt a slim arm loop itself with mine, and found Tara at my side.
“Is he bothering you? You’re bothering her, Shawn, go away,” she scolded. Shawn stuck out his tongue playfully, and sauntered off. Her face immediately brightened. “I’m so happy you decided to join. We need a fresh face here. By the way, everyone’s really nice, it just takes some…getting used to.” She hesitated a bit on that last comment. If my mouth wasn’t so dry, I would have gulped.
“I’m sorry,” I finally got out, “but I’m really…I mean, this is…” I felt so stupid in that moment.
“You’ve never done this before?” Tara finished kindly. I nodded, because that seemed to be all I could do.
She then proceeded to teach me what to hold and how. Within ten minutes, I was posed with a brush over a palette of paints. Unfortunately, that embarrassing struggle was the easy part, because in all the stretches of my limited imagination, I had not even an inkling of what I could paint.
“Well, why don’t you just recreate your submission?” she suggested, already busy with a scene of her own.
“My what?” I said. I had no idea what a submission was or when I might have submitted it.
“Your submission,” she said, completely off-hand. “Whatever you gave to Wes.” Suddenly she stopped and studied me. “You did give him something, right? It’s mandatory to join the club.” I just shook my head slowly, not sure if I should be afraid or triumphant or something. Her jaw dropped to the floor. She twisted in her chair and screamed to Mr. Weston, “She’s here without a submission?!”
Everyone else turned their heads, too. Okay, yeah, I was definitely scared. And by the looks of him, so was Mr. Weston.
“No, no, of course she has a submission!” He cried hurriedly, sifting through the papers on his desk like they really had daggers shooting out their eyes. “See, see, here it is!” He pulled out my drawing of Mudge with a frantic flourish. “See, it’s all fair! It’s all fair,” he breathed, regaining his composure. I looked back at Tara, and she seemed satisfied enough.
“See?” she said, already back on her easel, “just do that cat over again.”
“Ooo, bestiality,” came a chortling rumble from the Cole guy. Tara groaned and rolled her eyes.
“Stop being gross, Cole,” she uttered through gritted teeth. He couldn’t stop laughing. Next to him, Shawn seemed to struggle between humor and shame, so he settled for a holier-than-thou smile. Why did he keep doing that? I turned away, frustrated. Extra frustrated. Because I still didn’t know what to paint.
“I always know what to do,” I whispered, more to myself than anything.
“So finish that cat,” Tara said, preoccupied with her own work. “It looks like you like it a lot. Show it a little more love.”
“But –” but she was already fully engrossed. I sighed as I looked at my blank paper, hoping something might magically appear.
 

It was another two days before I thought of something to paint. I had spent half my time each day worrying about falling behind in school, because the other half of the time, I was falling behind in art club. It was a dangerous limbo.
I thought of the idea in the shower. As I was standing there, completely thoughtless, the image of a meadow dropped into my brain as if deposited by the water. I almost dropped the bar of soap, I was so startled. I lived in New York City, where did a meadow come from?
Despite it all, I proceeded to go through my day, as usual, but it was harder to concentrate. What was happening to me?
If I had more gusto, I would’ve torn through the door of the art room at the end of the day. But no. I could only walk in with slightly more purpose than usual. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because no one was there.
It was a strange stillness, though not completely unwelcome. Not the same chilled silence of my house, because the paintings and sculptures spoke volumes themselves. It made me smile. It was perfect. I sat down and started painting.
I don’t believe I had ever before worked so hard. Not even when my French teacher gave us a project that I didn’t understand or want to do. This was an entirely different drive, a buzz that I couldn’t get off of. It was…well, for lack of a better word, cool.
The crunch of the doorknob was what interrupted me, and jolted me so much that I dropped my brush. A sort of begrudging snort preceded Charlotte’s aloof face.
“Thought you’d be in here,” she said in a matching tone. “No one’s coming today, Wes left early.” I was all at once out of place and flustered. I wanted to say something to her, but she had grabbed what she needed and started to leave already, and I had nothing impressive enough to say.
“Uh…” I stammered haltingly. She turned around and arched one perfect eyebrow. “Thanks,” I squeaked. She was scary.
And once again, after she rolled her eyes and left, I was alone. Except this time I felt alone. With my retrieved brush in my hand, I had returned to that moment after the history test, but now, the brush, so fulfilling before, felt as empty as the pen. They were just what they had always been to me: meaningless tools
With a deep sigh, I began slowly packing my things away. Carelessly, I glanced at the clock on the wall, then did a double take, as the hands had advanced nearly two hours. Driven by fear alone, my brain speeded me out the doors, though my feet dragged against the pavement.
            * * *

Unfortunately, they dragged much more than allowable, for I was greeted by an infuriated mother. It was no use wondering why she was home early, and unthinkable to ask. All that mattered was that she was, and I wasn’t when she got there.
“Where the hell were you?” she screamed. I had never seen her this angry before. “I come home, expecting nothing but the usual, but instead I just found nothing! You could have been dead on the side of the road for all I knew!” I shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. She was right, of course.
“Mom, I…” I feebly tried to cut in, but she was still ranting, waving her hands around in emphatic gestures.
“…if you had called, I would’ve known,  I could’ve stayed later at the gym, but no. Now, what do you have to say for yourself?” I had no idea what to say. No way in hell was she going to know I had betrayed her trust and scared her half to death because I was painting.
“I…I was working on a project. Group project. English. Just got it today,” I heard spilling from my mouth recklessly before I could stem the flow. “We lost track of time.”
“Well…” she had no answer. I suppose she could never argue with me for doing schoolwork. “Well next time, call,” she finally spat, with as much malice as she could muster. “And wash your hands before dinner. I assume this is a poster project?” To my horror, there were spots of paint on my fingers and under the nails.
“Uhh, yeah,” I said quickly, and rushed to the bathroom, where I slammed the door (“Olivia Rose Ahern, don’t slam my doors!”) and bent over the sink to steady myself. I had just told my mother a lie for the first time in my life – actually five lies in one. Good God. Taking a few shallow breaths, I turned the knob on the faucet and scrubbed away the thin layers of paint, shadows of a peace which had now escaped me.
Her mood progressed to a kind of terseness, which was almost worse. Dinner was a tense affair, seeing as she wouldn’t speak to me, and I couldn’t think of anything to say. I found myself dreaming of earlier, that sacred time of solitude that felt so much less lonely.  I coughed to excuse myself, dumped my dish in the sink, and closed myself in my room for the night.
Thinking about the day gave me a headache. I no longer wanted to pine for my paints, because it only furthered the steady progression of the hole it had left from the afternoon. Dwelling on my lies draped another black shroud of shame on me. It also reminded me of my actual homework.
Reality. I sorely needed a dose of it.
            * * *

I awoke in the morning at my desk, with a half-finished history worksheet stuck to my face. My heart dropped into my stomach when I saw I had twenty minutes before school started. In a frenzy (Mom was clearly long gone), I raced to school and managed to slide into my history seat, breathless, just as Shawn sauntered in, coffee in hand.
“Good morning, Sunsh ----” he began, then finally took in my frumpy appearance and the almost-done-but-not-quite-finished worksheet. “Well, you need this more than I do.” He dropped his coffee in front of me; I disregarded it for a heartbeat, then thought better. “There you go, sweet nectar…now what have we here?” He pulled a chair up close; very close, so close I could smell the coffee that had, up to that moment, been rightfully his. He dragged my paper across my desk to him. Then, dainty as you please, he slipped the pencil from my fingers into his, and began circling answers.
“What are you--?” I whispered frantically, casting my eyes around for Mr. DiAngelo.
“Helping you,” he mumbled, distractedly, his brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s what friends do.”
“I didn’t realize we were friends.” It came out acidly, so that even I was surprised by my tone. Shawn cocked an eyebrow over an amused smirk, and slid the paper back, now completed.
“Consider this an application. Let me know if I passed,” he replied with a rakish wink, and got up to go to his seat. I sat, frozen. Too much had happened for 7:30 in the morning.
“Olivia, no coffee in class,” Mr. DiAngelo said as he bustled into the room in tandem with the bell. I shot a mutinous glare at Shawn’s laughing face as I threw away his half-drunk beverage.
I purposely kept my head down throughout the class, considering I really didn’t know the answers to any of Mr. DiAngelo’s questions. My head remained bent over my worksheet, concealing the doodles with which I was slowly adorning the edges. Who gives a damn about the Whiskey Rebellion? By the time the bell rang, I certainly didn’t.
“Mark your calendars,” Mr. DiAngelo called over the rustling of papers and voices, “quiz on Monday. Don’t party too hard this weekend; it won’t be easy.” Several groans. I only shrugged.
“My, my, my,” crooned Shawn, who had come up behind me and nearly caused me to fall out of my chair. “By the looks of your paper, Mr. DiAngelo didn’t quite get through to you today.” I threw him a dirty look.
“I’m just…having a slow morning,” I said grumpily. He chuckled.
“You’re not the only one,” he assured, holding up his left hand, now tattooed with his own doodles. For some reason, this made me more angry.
“Isn’t this where you’re supposed to trip me or something?” I spat, standing up in the hopes my waspish behavior made me look taller.
“Ooo, are we holding grudges, Clicks?” he challenged confidently, and it disgusted me. I shoved him aside roughly, and tried to ignore the feel of his chest rumble with laughter as I stormed off.
“See you later, buddy!” he called to my retreating back.
It didn’t hit me until I harrumphed into my seat in the next period just how bad things had gotten in three weeks’ time. No longer the model daughter, I was a liar: disobedient, untrustworthy. Even worse, I was losing my focus for anything but art. Without my focus, what did I have? For a blink, I said, “My art,” but it sounded foolish even in my mind.
What was really wrong? That’s what Ben would say. “What’s really wrong, Liv? Is it a boy? I’ll beat him up.” Well it wasn’t really a boy, neither was it entirely a girl. It had no gender; it was, and it plagued me. Neither old nor new, big nor small, it lived in me as a parasite.
For the very first time, I was completely, body and mind, lost.
            * * *

Out of routine, I arrived at Mr. Weston’s room afterschool, but only physically. My spirit was quite elsewhere.
No one looked up, though I shut the door rather noisily. Figures. I shuffled my feet over to Mr. Weston’s desk, where the man himself was engrossed in paperwork. He didn’t look up until I cleared my throat practically right in his ear.
“Olivia!” A huge smile I couldn’t return stretched across his face. “I was worried you weren’t coming! I peeked at your painting, and I gotta say, you’re definitely improving.” That last part was rather sheepish.
“Mr. Weston, I ----”
“Please, Olivia, everyone calls me Wes,” he said, already back to his paperwork.
“Mr. Weston.” Maybe it was because my voice had never gone that loud that both of us were startled. “Mr. Weston, I can’t, I just can’t do this anymore.” My resolve was cracking; I could feel my throat clogging slightly.
“What?” He seemed genuinely confused. “Are you…are you having…problems?” His shifty expression sent a wave of anger through me, though it must have been a tidal wave because I swooned slightly.
“What, like, like substance abuse?” The last words came out in a whisper, laced with defiance. However, I did have to grab the chair in front of his desk. “No!” I hissed; now I couldn’t get my voice above a low moan.
“Well, then, my God, what’s wrong?” he said, now physically frazzled.
“This!” I said as loud as I could go.  It felt like a scream but came out more like a strained call. “Painting! Staying after school late!  I…I…oh my God…” and finally I collapsed to the cold, black ground.
When I awoke a moment later, there were tears on my cheeks; I must have cried. Or, perhaps it was the water that had sprinkled onto my face while Charlotte and Mr. Weston were arguing.
“But it works in all the movies!”
“Charlotte, you can’t wake a girl so rudely!”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I grumbled from the ground, struggling to sit up. I felt my head leave something soft that must have been supporting it, because I didn’t get a head rush.
“Well, thank God for that,” said a rumbling voice. “My arm was losing feeling.”
“Oh, God,” I moaned in disgust as I glared up into Shawn’s amused eyes as he shook his arm out.
“Omigosh, thank God!” squealed Tara. I had to blink a few times, but finally I saw her worried expression, hands clapped over her mouth and all.
“Don’t worry, I think basket-cases like you are hot,” said Cole with a devious wink. Charlotte socked him in the arm and, to my utter befuddlement, reached out a hand to help me up.
“No one ever lets me have any fun around here,” she said, sounding completely bored by the whole ordeal. Soon, taking a leaf from her book, everyone dispersed, leaving me in a chair across from Mr. Weston, clutching the glass of water Charlotte had so recently threatened to dump all over me.
“Does this…happen often?” He still sounded and looked worried.
“Not often,” I said after a hesitated pause. “I could probably count on one hand the number of times.
“Still, that’s a lot more than normal for someone of your age,” he said, brow furrowed. “Did you not eat today? Have a bad test? Forget a---an iron pill, maybe?” I shook my head.
“I don’t know why,” I said weakly, “it just happens. In fact, I don’t even remember the others. Very well.” I shrugged.
“Well, maybe you should go home,” he said, picking up a piece of paper. “I’ll write a note for your mom.”
“No!” Though still light-headed, my hand shot out to knock his pen aside. “Please.” Now I was begging, eyes and voice.
I had no idea exactly why I wouldn’t let him write that note. It was logical to tell a parent when his or her child had fainted. However, it appeared that Mr. Weston came to a conclusion faster than I did.
“Olivia, do your parents know where you are after school…everyday?” His expression was sterner than I was used to. Humbled, and feeling rather faint again, I gulped down some air and shook my head from side to side. “Wanna tell me why?”
“I…” there was no answer though. I was ashamed? Maybe. I was cowardly? More likely. “You don’t know my mother.”
It came out before I could stop it. Oh, I hoped she’d never hear about that. Nevertheless, his face softened immediately.
“Well, what about your dad?
I scoffed. “He’s not home enough to count.” A fair answer, by my estimation.
“Well, speaking as both a child and a parent,” he said, turning towards his paperwork, “you can’t keep a secret from them forever.”
“Or…” my voice trailed off, as Mr. Weston cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Or?”
“Or…I quit before I get ahead,” I said softly, and he nearly dropped the mug of coffee he had just sipped.
“Do what?” I could tell he wanted to shout, but knew it might aggravate my nerves again. “It’s been three weeks! You haven’t even left your mark yet!”
“Exactly!” I whispered. “It’ll be as if it never happened. You can…can burn my paintings, because I – I don’t want them.” A boldfaced lie. I had almost chocked on the words. What was wrong with me?
“Listen,” he said, desperation clear, “I’m just now filling out paperwork for our first art show. It’s like an exhibition, where you get graded and ranked. If you stay and submit at least one thing, you’ll see results. If you don’t place at least…15th, then you can walk out this door and never come back.” His eyes were sincere enough for me.
“But what if I walk out now?” It was a challenge, but also a fear. A fear that if I did, I would miss out on something…something very dear; a fear that if I didn’t, I would miss out on something very necessary.
“I can’t stop a moving train,” he stated simply, throwing his hands up. “But as my mother always said, nothing ventured, nothing gained.” He poised his pen over the paper in front of him. “It’s your choice. Is it four attendees, or five?”
My choice. Huh. I didn’t know whether or not I hated them, because it seemed I hadn’t made any.
“You better not be a gambling man, Mr. Weston,” I said finally.
“Why is that?”
“Because we’re both putting all in here. And if you lose…well, who knows who has really lost in that bet.”
His face split into a huge smile. I couldn’t help it; I felt light and full of air rather than lead. I grinned right back at him, even giggling—and I don’t giggle.
“Now, it’s up to you to decide how and when you’ll break all this to your parents,” he said, down to business once more, “but I would suggest before the show. It’s on October 10th, and most parents like to go.” I gave a short laugh empty of amusement. “But, in the meantime, I will keep a close eye on the time just for you.” His eyes twinkled slightly, like the angel he had just become.
“Thank you so much,” I said, practically on my knees with relief. Mom couldn’t find out; not yet.
“Now get to work, chop chop!” he ordered, with a wink and a smile.
As I gathered my things, I felt a decidedly different rush than anything I’d ever experienced before. Beyond the mindless ecstasy, I could control this. Everything was in my control.
No, Mom did not need to find out yet.
 

As we were finishing up an hour later, I kept a watchful eye on the ticking clock. I could only use the project excuse for maybe today, possibly the beginning of next week. I never did give Mom a specific due date.
Regardless, I couldn’t take the chance that she wasn’t keeping tabs on my afterschool activity now. An hour was acceptable; two, and a storm was a-brewin’.
“Hey,” came a bubbly voice, breaking into my thoughts and making me jump. Just Tara. “You feeling any better?”
“Um, yeah, actually,” I replied, not sure what else to say.
“Good. ‘Cause, well, we’re all going out tonight, and, um, I—we—want you to come.” The amount of effort it took to say it gave me the idea that maybe not everyone wanted me to come along.
“Wow. Um. Well…” I was honestly shocked. How does one respond to such an offer? “…well, what are you doing?” That seemed safe.
“Oh, just whatever,” she said with a shrug. “Hanging out.”
“Uhh…I don’t know…” I didn’t know why I couldn’t just refuse. I was already on thin ice with Mom, and I doubted an outing would improve her mood. But even as I prepared to say no, Tara’s face seemed to fall dramatically.
At this point, Shawn scooted up behind her shifting his backpack strap to a more comfortable position. “What are we talking about?” he said eagerly. I glared. I still wasn’t over my…everything with him, and it was infuriating.
“I’m trying to convince Olivia to come with us tonight,” Tara said, turning so that she faced him. She sidled up just a touch closer to him and adopted a bit of a pout.
“Come on, Clicks,” he said, sliding up next to me and bumping my elbow with his. “You’ll get to spend some quality time with me,” he added, this time with a wink.
“Less convinced,” I said, icicles hanging off of every word. Though it wasn’t entirely true; I was curious to see how he might differ in real life from the image I saw.
“This is taking forever,” Charlotte groaned as she walked by. “Someone text me when she makes a decision. I’m turning into an old lady listening to her perseverate.”
“Well…I mean…” I was really struggling with my better judgment and my growing desire. “Well…what time are you going?”
“Oh!” Tara was now filled with exuberance, which I guess fueled her spontaneous bouncing. “Yay! How does 7:00 sound?”
“Uh, fine! That’s just fine,” I said, doing some quick calculations: home in ten minutes, Mom home by 5:00…yes, it seemed like plenty of time for…something. I’d think of something.
“Oh, this is exciting!” She suddenly grabbed my hand and scribbled a number on it. “This is my number, just text me your address. We’ll come for you.” Her face was actually flushed and beaming as she whispered, “You’re finally becoming one of the crew!”
“Uh, yay!” I said, smiling weakly. Laughing, she grabbed Shawn’s arm and dragged him out the door.
“See ya, later,” he managed to say with a smirk before he was ushered out.
I had just made plans. For myself. For fun. I was rather proud of myself as I left the building finally. Less proud when I realized no one in their right mind would refuse a night out, except maybe me.
The only real problem was my mother. There was no doubt I was hanging by a thread with her, and I was a few strings short of snapping off.
Sure enough, I had only been home long enough to set up my homework in my room before Mom came bursting through the door, trying to appear suave and unassuming, but with a distinct wildness in her eyes.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, hoping she didn’t have another lecture on hand. I kept my head down and my pencil outlining, though, just in case.
“There you are,” she said blandly, as if she had not just barged through the door in a hurry. She leaned against the doorjamb to my room and fixed me with a look. For one brief, exhilarating moment, I thought she was going to apologize for freaking out yesterday. But of course, I thought rather morosely, why would she? I was to blame, not she. “Homework?”
“Yes, though not much this weekend,” I said through an imperceptible sigh.
“Good,” she said, peering over my shoulder at my open history textbook. “Does this mean you’ll have time to help me clean?”
“Huh? I mean, yes, but for what?”
“Your father’s dinner? It’s our month.”
I almost groaned aloud, though I doubted I would be reprimanded for it. My dad has been a lawyer in a big law firm for nearly twenty-five years. In that quarter-century, he has shown so much dedication and commitment that he was now a junior partner and slaved over every need of his boss and their clients. So every month a member of the inner circle of partners would hold a dinner party with the higher up of the top echelon, where they discussed business and deals and politics, just because they could. They also rotated hosts every month, and it was our turn. Normally I wouldn’t have to attend, but considering it was taking place in my dining area, it would be prudent for me to show.
“Right,” I said, decently unhappy. “When is that?”
“Next Sunday.” She had moved to the edge of my bed, smoothing the covers and straightening the pillows. Her movements were slow but purposeful, almost tender in nature. She raised her eyes to the drawings of Mudge on my wall. “You might consider taking these down. You’re getting a little old for this stuff, don’t you think?”
“Uh, yeah…maybe,” I murmured.
“Well, I’ll let you be,” she said with a stiff smile and a little pat on my shoulder. Mudge scampered in as Mom walked out. I sighed and tickled her behind her ears.
“If only she knew,” I whispered, to which Mudge meowed in response. I giggled, then felt an idea thunk me over the head.
“Actually, Mom,” I called, “I think I need to get a new skirt for the dinner. My old one is too small.” Not a complete lie; I hadn’t worn my one and only skirt in about a year or more, so I had no idea if it fit. “I was thinking I’d go to Macy’s, maybe at like 7:00?” The silence dragged on for a few seconds. I was crossing just about every possible body part.
“Well…I guess it has been a while,” I finally heard. “Do you want me to come with?”
“No! I mean,” I fixed quickly, “you probably want to start the cleaning. But I do know someone from school who might be free…just so I’m not alone on the streets, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s fine.” I could tell she was already more focused on cleaning than my plans. “Just don’t be out too late, you know how we worry.”
“Thanks,” I said through a heavy eye-roll. I pulled out my phone, hardly believing that had worked. Reading my hand, I began a text to Tara: “It’s Olivia. Need a favor.”
            * * *

An hour later, there came a buzz from our box. I dropped the pillow I was mindlessly fluffing, more concerned with Tara’s arrival, along with everyone else, and rushed over to answer.
“It’s Tara!” came the trill of a sing-song voice. I winced a little.
“All right, come on up.” I prayed she was alone; I specifically instructed her to do so. Of all the guys, she would make the best impression. I hoped.
Maybe it was nerves, or maybe Tara was a professional stair climber, but she was knocking on my door seemingly seconds later.
“I got it!” I tripped over the pillow I dropped, placed it on the couch, and went to answer the door.
“You ready?” she asked cheerily, peering around the rooms. “Nice place you got here, by the way.”
“Olivia?” my mother called from the kitchen. “Are you leaving?”
“Hi, Mrs. Ahern!” I was hoping she wouldn’t do that. “I’m Tara Michaels.”
“Well, hello there,” Mom said, making her way to the door. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too!” Does this girl ever feel other emotions? “Your home is beautiful…my mom would love your colors.”
“Thank you!” Mom said with an awed laugh. “Now, how do you know each other?”
“English,” I answered quickly before Tara could. “She’s doing that project with me.
“Well I appreciate a student with a good work ethic, my mom said in approval. “Just try to get her home early!” A smile meant to both encourage and bite.
“We should go!” Tara said loudly, taking the hint. “Don’t forget your purse, Olivia.”
Seconds later, we were out of my mom’s piercing gaze, Tara talking my ear off with questions and comments on my home life, none of which I appreciated.
Finally, we broke out into fresh air, and, for the first time all day, I felt freed of some strange burden. Sure, I had opened a new pack of lies which made me exceedingly nervous, but I was slowly learning how to manage them.
“Look what I found!” Tara said jubilantly, directing my attention to the other three: Cole, playing wall-ball by himself; Shawn, scrolling through something on his phone; and Charlotte, looking thoroughly bored and, well, Charlotte.
“Oh, goodie,” Charlotte said, picking a nail. “It only took a lifetime.”
“Hush, you,” Tara said, somehow managing to scold through a smile. “Let’s go!”
“Where are we going?” I called, as Tara had already skipped to the front of the group.
“Don’t know!” She tried to sound innocent, but I heard a dash of wickedness. “Oh, by the way, I have that skirt you asked for. You can look at it later.”
“Thank you!” I said, sincerely; if I didn’t come back with something it would be both suspicious and counterproductive: I really did need a skirt.
“You look light-years from this morning’s ensemble,” I heard Shawn say as he fell into step beside me. I glanced at him to find that ever-present smirk, but couldn’t help the blood that rushed up my neck. I had tidied myself up a bit, after really taking in my appearance. My hair was stuck in small, odd swirls, and I had never worn clothes with more wrinkles or stains.
“You don’t look too bad yourself,” I said, meaning for it to be playfully sarcastic. ‘But then again, when did he ever look bad?’ I thought to myself begrudgingly. He chuckled nonetheless, a deep rumble from his chest that could very well shake the earth if not kept in check. “So,” I said in an attempt to regain some composure, “where are we actually going? I know you know.”
“Let me put it this way,” he replied after a moment turning to flash a wider smirk at me, “it’s time to decide if you’re one of us or not.” I gulped; that sounded dangerous. He chuckled again, and then got so close to me that his breath sent a chill down my spine as he whispered, “Don’t be scared when you have me.”
That didn’t make me feel one iota better.
It only got worse when I saw where we stopped: in front of a door with faded green paint, chipping around the edges. No light escaped the seams, but thumping music and the faint smell of pity seeped through copiously. Basically, that door was my worst nightmare.
“This?” I said bleakly. “This is your Friday night regular?”
“Oh, sure!” Shawn said, leaning against the wall beside it. “My folks are old college friends with the owner, and as far as they know, we enjoy fountain sodas and rowdy games of spin the bottle.”
“But, in fact…?” I was channeling my mother as I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow. I didn’t want to, but it happened.
“You’re smart, sweet thing,” Cole said with a horrid wink. “You can fill in the blanks.”
I gulped. This was possibly the most difficult thing I had done, beyond lying to my mother, beyond taking AP tests, beyond seeing my brothers leave for college. For some reason, I couldn’t just say no. Just like earlier, I was battling my wants with my wits. If I stayed, I would lose all respect for myself and the values upon which I was raised. I mean, I could see alcohol stains on the faded paint on the door. But if I turned around and left, I would lose respect for myself on a different level.
“Come on,” Tara said, pulling on my arm gently, enticing me. Shawn was wearing his signature smile, dragging me faster than Tara ever could. I felt the steady blaze of Charlotte’s eyes bearing down into me. Cole was already opening the door.
“No.”
It popped out of me so suddenly I almost missed it. Everyone stopped.
“I’m…I’m sorry, but I can’t,” I said, trying to control the quiver in my voice. “If this is what you count as fun, then have at it, but—but count me out.”
I took a step back, for fear they might pounce. In my head raged the insults I was sure they would soon be throwing at me, but they just stood there, staring, contemplating. And in a split second, they were all smiling, looking at me with undeniable approval—even Charlotte.
“Welcome to the Club, Olivia,” Shawn said, clapping my arm as Tara cheered with glee.
“Thank God!” Cole exclaimed, slamming the door shut once more. “The stench was really getting to me.”
“But—I—” I sputtered, stunned and horribly confused.
“Come on, Liv!” Tara squealed through a laugh. “We were just testing you! We don’t have a damn clue what this is!”
“Probably a cult meeting room,” Charlotte said in disgust. “I am not about to sell a finger to the devil for Jell-O shots from hell.” She gave a shudder. “Now can we actually get a move on? To where we actually want to go?”
“Of course!” If Tara were any bubblier, she’d have been a fine champagne. I followed their lead numbly, not believing I had made it out of there alive.
“I still don’t…understand,” I said under my breath to Shawn, who had kept beside me. “Why go through all that and scare me half to death instead of just asking me a simple question or…something?” He chuckled.
“People lie on surveys all the time, Clicks,” he said. “It’s when you’ve faced with a tough decision that your character shows. And in our Club, we don’t follow; we all lead.”
Strangely, in a messy, convoluted way, it made complete sense.
            *  *  *

Down through the smoky city streets we walked, talking and laughing. Friday nights in fall are the best, because the tourist count is at a minimum. However, despite the heady feeling that was gradually setting in, I was feeling nervous; it was only getting later and I wasn’t exactly sure how I would find my way home.
“Any chance I might get a clue as to where we’re going?” I called out. “And how much longer ‘til we get there?”
“Calm down, Nervous Nelly,” Charlotte said from the front. “It’s only another block from here.”
“Joy,” I muttered. Shawn snickered beside me, and I glowered up at him. “I’m not very good with directions, okay?” I said grudgingly. “I don’t know exactly how to get home from here.”
“You mean to tell me that Miss AP Class doesn’t know the map of New York City backwards and forwards?” His mock disbelief was spoiled by the smirk that I wanted to reach out and rip off of his face.
“Just forget it, I’ll be fine,” I grumbled, pushing past him—and right into Cole’s back. Apparently, while Shawn and I were talking, everyone had stopped to wait for us.
“My, my, Olivia,” Cole said with a devilish grin.
“Oh, shut up,” I growled, trying to hide my flushed cheeks as Shawn came up behind me.
“Oh, Olivia,” he sighed, “you must stop meeting people like this.”
“We’re here!” Tara cried joyously, interrupting my furious retort. She threw the door open and we all clambered in and up a set of narrow stairs. Soft music floated around the air, mixed with a harmony  of clinking glasses and chattering voices. At the top of the landing was a door, with “Rudy’s” painted in black cursive. Tara paused with her hand on the knob, clearly very excited.
“Ready?” she whispered. Charlotte groaned loudly.
“My God, just open the damn door before I open something on you!” she said, and shoved the door open herself.
It wasn’t dark. The air wasn’t smoky. No one was passed out with empty shot glasses around them. There was a bar, but only one guy behind the counter, polishing glasses and mugs. To our left were four or five pool tables, a smattering of tables and chairs on the right. A jukebox was nestled in the corner, glowing and crooning a Bob Dylan song. All the others ambled over to the bar, dragging me with them.
“Hey, guys,” the man said. “How was school?”
“Terrible,” said Cole immediately.
“Dreadful,” Tara piped up with a smile.
“Agonizing,” Shawn said, chin in hands.
“Like sticking needles through my ears into my brain.” Charlotte was always so happy.
“And who is this?” The man turned a kind smile on me, and it instantly put me at ease.
“This is our new comrade, Olivia,” Shawn said, putting a hand on my shoulder, which shocked me slightly. “Olivia, this is Rudy, the actual friend of my parents.”
“He’s kind of the best,” Cold said, thumping Rudy’s arm as both of them laughed.
“All right, what can I get you guys?” Rudy asked, leaning his forearms on the counter.
“Uh, I think I’ll be good with a beer,” said Shawn off-handedly.
“Me, too,” Cole chimed in. “Hey, Shawn, pool?”
“Sure man.” They grabbed the bottles Rudy had set on the bar.
“Ooo, wait for me, guys!” Tara squeaked. “Can I have a lemonade, Rudy?” He filled a glass to the brim and she skirted around her chair to join the boys.
“Hello? Earth to Olivia.” Charlotte waved a hand in front of my face. I didn’t realize until then that I had frozen, shocked by the requests.
“I thought…I thought you were friends with Shawn’s parents!” I didn’t mean to accuse him, but I just couldn’t see how you could betray a friend like that. Rudy only chuckled.
“Oh, get off your high horse, Sandra Dee,” Charlotte said in disgust, “you don’t have to drink.”
“And yes, I am close with Shawn’s family,” Rudy replied, giving Charlotte a look. “They actually helped me build this place up, so they know the ins and outs.” His watery blue eyes were kind, but pierced me all the same. “They’d know if I let their kid get a real buzz.”
“Ha! He barely lets us get a zap,” Charlotte scoffed, as Rudy threw his towel at her. “Hey, I’ll have one of those fruity wine coolers if you’ve got ‘em.”
“Gotcha,” said Rudy. “And you, little miss?”
“Um…I guess just a coke?” I felt pathetic saying it, but I couldn’t see myself having anything else.
“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t give you anything alcoholic,” he said with a laugh, reading my concern. He filled two glasses with beverages and set them in front of us. “I need explicit permission from the parents of a minor before I can serve them anything like that. It’s part of the contract.” He picked up his towel and glasses again. “Besides, the stuff I sell here is the bare minimum of alcohol, hardly counts by most other standards. ABV of 1.2% or less…that’s the—”
“—alcohol strength by volume, I know,” I finished, and he nodded, looking impressed. “But then what’s the point of having it as an option at all? If you know it’s not safe and all, especially for kids.”
“Safer than letting them get sloshed at a hardcore party. If you lessen the…mystique,” he added, thinking hard, “then they might stop treating it like such a cool thing to do.” He winked at me much like Shawn would. “Just doing my part to clean up the city, little lady.” I guess it made sense.
“So, what’s your deal?” Charlotte asked a minute later. “This whole…innocent bit. I’m not buying it.”
“Well…” I was stumped. What was she looking for? “My parents always warned me against drugs and alcohol and that sort of stuff—”
“No, no, I don’t give a rat’s ass about that,”  she said, waving a hand wildly in the air. “It’s obvious you’re a goody-two-shoes. But we’re in the same grade and the first time I ever saw you was two weeks ago.” She took a healthy sip of her drink, then pointed a finger at me and continued, “And you clearly have something to hide, if you’ve got Tara sneaking you a skirt.”
“Um…I never knew I was good at art?”
“Bull s***!” she proclaimed, emphasizing each word loudly as my cheeks flushed. “I saw what you were doing the other day! Only idiots just ‘discover’ they’re that good.” I wasn’t completely sure, but I thought it was a compliment. “Unless…are you a victim of abuse?”
“What? No!” I said, totally horrified. “Do I look like I’ve been abused?”
“Honey, with that hair, you don’t look like much of anything good.” I stared at her blankly. She gave a little laugh and nudged my shoulder. “Dude, I’m kidding. No, it was just a thought.”
“What the hell kind of thoughts do you have up there?” She laughed again, harder. It was like tinkling glass and I felt a very warm balloon begin to swell in my chest.
“Abused people repress bad memories, duh! You might have always been a painter but held it back to soothe your damaged soul.” Her voice deepened into a rich mockery at the end.
“Well, that is certainly not it,” I said, taking a sip from my glass. “Nice try.”
“Hm…” She was observing me over the top of her glass, squinting and dreaming up other insane scenarios, I assumed. “Well, I guess if your inner Monet is still a mystery, then tell me why you had to lie to get out with us tonight.”
“Oh…” I stared down at the droplets of condensation rolling from glass to wood, sinking like I wished I could completely. “Well, my mom is…see, she’s, uh, a little high-strung…I was late the other day, and she, um, f-flipped out…she’s not…usually—”
“Trust me, you haven’t known grounding until you’ve met my mother,” she said, giving a short laugh. “One time, I was barely allowed to see daylight for three months. Only school, which is pretty absent of all happiness anyway.” She took a loud gulp; her glass was almost empty now. “When’s your longest?”
“My what?”
“The longest you ever went without going out.” She gave me a casual glance which hardened into a furrow. “Okay, hold on just a damn minute.” She steadied herself on the counter. “You’re either telling me you’ve never been grounded, or you’ve never gone out with friends.” I shifted around uncomfortably, casting my eyes around for something, anything else to look at, and landed on Shawn leaning into a shot. “Both?!” Charlotte’s incredulous screech tore my eyes back to her, cheeks flushed, though I wasn’t entirely certain why. “Wait, you do have friends, right?”
“Yeah! I—well, I mean…” I sat back in my chair. I tried to conjure up someone. Just one name, one face in twelve years of schooling, but beyond a girl with pigtails who had moved after third grade…nothing. “Now that you ask…” She looked at me with a sad mixture of awe and pity.
“Wow. That’s, um, yeah, well never mind.” She looked around awkwardly. “So I’m guessing you’ve never been on a date, then.” My face burned.
“No,” I murmured, trying to mask my embarrassment. “I’m not the dating type.”
“That can change. Just give me a credit card and pliers.”
At that moment, Shawn came sauntering over and leaned against the counter nonchalantly. “I don’t suppose you’ll give me seconds?” he called to Rudy on the other side of the bar.
“Not a chance, slick,” Rudy called back, dropping change into the hand of a customer he was helping.
“Fine, fine…I’ll have what the lady’s having,” Shawn said with a wink at me. Inside, I had this surge that made me hope he hadn’t heard the end of that conversation. Which he probably had.
As soon as he collected his Coke, he slid away again, and I couldn’t help but follow him with my eyes for a fleeting moment.
“Oh, honey,” Charlotte said, shattering my reverie, “you are barking up the wrong tree. It’s loaded with hives.”
“W—uh, what?” I said, blinking too fast and coughing too loud.
“Listen, you’re new here, but you’re not blind, or dumb,” she said bluntly, taking my jaw in her hand and jerking my head around to look at the pool game behind us. Tara’s high laugh pierced the soul music of the jukebox, and Shawn gave a small sigh as he wrapped his arms around her from behind to help her make a shot. “They’ve been at it on and off ever since they met. With a golden halo like hers, how could he not?” Charlotte’s voice dropped into a dull, low register. “Even if they’re really over this time, he’s no good for you. I have more faith in you than I ever could with Giggly McSugar.”
“I seriously don’t think we’re on the same page,” I said, taking a long draft of my cool drink, willing it to tone down my blush. “I mean, he’s annoying and cocky and—and pretty much repulsive.” It felt good to speak some truth.
“Mm-hmm,” she said, and I was pretty sure she didn’t believe me.
“What’re we talking about?” Cole slung his arms around our shoulders, smelling of beer and sweat.
“Oh, nothing…just an Egyptian river Olivia seems to love,” Charlotte said off-handedly, throwing his arm off. I shot her a glare that she didn’t acknowledge, then pushed Cole away, who ran right into Shawn and Tara. I couldn’t help the snicker that came tumbling out.
Before long, it was around my curfew—or rather, the time Macy’s would’ve closed—so we paid our bills, wished Rudy a good night, and we were back on the streets. On instinct, I tensed up when I saw a cop car rolling past, as if he had come to collect the underage delinquents standing outside a bar. But then Cole cracked a joke, and the fear lost to a hearty laugh.
The whole gang walked me back to my building, and I paid attention to the route this time. Tara gave me a bag with a swishy skirt, and then a very claustrophobic hug. The others maintained a healthy personal bubble, and I was gone.
As I walked into my apartment, I felt an emptiness in the well-furnished rooms for the first time. I could still remember when we first moved in, how my mother had struggled over every pillow, every paint, carpet or hardwood. My father stood beside her at every home improvement store, agreeing profusely in the hopes they could be done with it all. I was six.
Eleven years ago, it was perfect. It was home, and I loved it. It made my mom happy. But now, it was all gray and clean and boring. Even my room had gray walls.
I sighed, and moved to my room. I called out a greeting to my mom, collapsed on my bed, and dreamed of pool and a jukebox.

“This is looking great.”
It was a week later, and I was putting some last touches on my painting before I packed up for the weekend. Everyone had started to trickle out, and Shawn was no different as he stopped beside me. I gave him a small smile.
“Yeah…it’s just missing something, you know?” I said, frowning a little bit as I sat back to observe it.
“You’re the artist, so it’ll never be complete for you,” he said, sitting down beside me, searching for what he couldn’t see. “The concept is really interesting, though.”
I looked at it intently; I had to agree. It had morphed itself into a single white daisy. Mr. Weston had been giving me mini lessons, sharing tips on shading and techniques when using real paints and brushes. So at this point, it was a pretty realistic looking daisy. But, by mistake, one day I had been trying to paint a petal and it came out much too long and teardrop-shaped. And I liked it. So much that I began to pepper the canvas with white and green droplets.
“It’s…melting,” Shawn murmured. I nodded enthusiastically.
“In essence, it’s a beautiful flower, but something has made it melt, as opposed to wilt,” I blurted, happy to finally share it with someone. “But what I’m missing is the—the pain.” I made sharp gestures with my hands, brow creased. “It’s dying, but death isn’t painless, you know?”
Shawn was still scrutinizing the painting, and the intensity of his gaze made me slightly nervous. Did he not feel it? Was I way off base?
“What if…” he began finally, “…what if you added some streaks of red?” He stroked the air above the stem, leaning close and reaching across me in the process. If I turned my head, we would be quite literally nose and nose. It was unsettling, and I could barely breathe.
“Yeah,” I whispered softly. His eyes flicked over to mine, and a true, sincere smile rested on his lips. I could see flecks of gold in his eyes and a faded scar above his eyebrows.
Suddenly, I was very aware of my sweaty palms, and looked down at them as I rubbed my hands on my pants. And in the process, saw it was after 3:30.
“Crap,” I said under my breath, grabbing my things and standing abruptly. “I really need to go.” I didn’t know why it sounded so much like an apology.
“Oh,” Shawn said, and rose much more gracefully. I hated him for that. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at Rudy’s.” I groaned, and my head fell into my hands. I had forgotten until that moment that I was doing last-minute prep for the dinner.
“I can’t,” I said, backing out the door. “Maybe next week.”
“What could possibly be more important than pool and me?” Smug Shawn was back. I stuck my tongue out at him.
“My mother. And a dinner party on Sunday. Cleaning, cooking, living; you know, the works.”
“Ah, yes, I am…quite familiar,” he said, staring off into the distance peculiarly. Then he became quite zealous. “Hey, maybe we’ll stop by to help.”
“No!” I partially screamed. We were now at the door of the school, and the only person around was a janitor, who gave us a very strange look. “I mean, it’d be best if you didn’t.”
“What, you got a secret lair up there?” He was teasing, but the word “secret” made me feel rather queasy.
“Will you just drop it? Please?” I hissed as we walked down the steps to where everyone else had been waiting for us.
“Drop what?” Tara said brightly, walking over to me and looping an arm through mine, though she fixed her blinding smile on Shawn. He shifted his gaze to me, looking uncomfortable but trying to hide it.
“Olivia’s ashamed of us,” Shawn said immediately. “Or her mom. Or both,” he added mysteriously, and Cole snorted.
“I am not!” I cried defensively. Charlotte pierced me with a stare, like she totally didn’t believe me. Ever since our conversation at Rudy’s, she had been much more open and involved with me. “It’s just…”
“What?” said Tara, squeezing my arm a little. “Come on, you can tell us everything.”
“Unless it includes like dead animals, or freaky sex objects,” Charlotte said, chill. “Then please spare me.”
“Well, it’s not that,” I said coolly, shooting her a fierce glare. “It’s just that…well, my parents, um, don’t know…” My voice trailed off into a pathetic squeak.
“Don’t know what?” Tara asked quietly, like I was going to reveal some tragic truth.
“They don’t, uh, know about me. Doing this. Painting. Art.”
“WHAT?!” The answer was unanimous, and very loud. To an outsider, I might have just told them I sold all of their secrets to the government. Or announced my impending sex change. Such was the intensity of this exclamation, that I cringed, and silently begged for mercy.
“What wouldn’t you tell them?” Charlotte demanded. “I mean, not like none of us have ever lied to our parents before. On any other terms, I would worship the ground you walk on for pulling off such a secret. But this…this is more than a coffee stain on the rug!”
“Yeah!” Tara agreed, nodding so profusely it looked as if her head might pop off. “I mean, I guess this explains why you told your mom I was in your English class…but, like, why did you lie in the first place?”
“Olivia,” Shawn said seriously, taking me by the shoulders, “are you actually ashamed of us? Like, for real? Because we can always, you know, kick Cole out.”
“Hey!” Cole retorted.
“No!” I finally shouted, because they were all talking at once, besides Charlotte, who had just become eerily calm. “Guys, I’m not ashamed of you! You’re the last people I would be ashamed of!” And this, from the deepest part of my soul, was true, and they could see it on my desperate face. “It’s just…you don’t…” I sat on the step of the school, uncertain of how to proceed. Finally, with a sigh, I said, “My parents think that only academics can get you far in life, unless you’re, like, Meryl Streep or Michael Jordan. And up until three weeks ago, I did too.” I peeked up at their faces, trying to find some shred of compassion or understanding. “So you can imagine the world of hurt I’d be in if I told my mother I’ve been using up precious schoolwork time to paint, the greatest of non-professions—to a practical eye,” I added quickly. “I mean, the only reason my brother got away with basketball is because he could shoot two pointers when he was five, and he’s been riding that wave to the NBA ever since. Maybe you’re right, Charlotte,” I said, looking directly at her, “maybe I didn’t just get this good at art…but I hadn’t given it a chance until this year, and neither have my parents. My only hope here is a wish and a prayer.” I let my eyes fall to the ground, waiting for the rebuttal that never came. Instead, Charlotte sat down next to me and placed a hand on my knee tenderly.
“We all get it,” she said gently. “You think my parents were thrilled when I skipped some PSAT classes for art lessons?” I laughed, fighting off the shock of the situation. “But you need to tell them.”
“I know,” I said, “it’s just—”
“Oh, come on!” She was more forceful now, like always. “Grow a pair! They need to know! And if they don’t take it well, they can go to hell!”
“Yeah!” Cole cried, pumping a fist in the air. “If the truth is too much for them, they should get out of the kitchen!” We all stared at him strangely. “Or, you know, something like that,” he said, scratching his arm awkwardly. “D-do you, girl.”
We all laughed heartily, Cole punched Shawn in the arm, and both girls gave me a reassuring squeeze. I said a quick farewell and was home in no time.
The evening was spent cleaning the apartment, setting up the menu, and worrying about how to tell my parents. But…I just couldn’t do it. Looking at my mother, face twisted with frustration at every detail, I knew she was in enough emotional turmoil without my confessions. She wanted to host this dinner party as much as I did. So I didn’t tell her, and I went to bed at nine to avoid telling my father.
            *  *  *

The next day, we spent hours vacuuming the cushions and scrubbing the floors. The good china was stacked on the dining table we had bought for occasions like this—it expanded to fit twelve.
My mom had handed my dad a list of groceries she still needed that morning, a job he was more than willing to take. The best grocery store was ten minutes outside of the city, and he enjoyed the excuse to “get some fresh air”. He patted me awkwardly on the shoulder before leaving, in a way that made me feel more ignored than if he hadn’t at all.
I always wondered why he volunteered to do this dinner. Clearly, he was uncomfortable staying in his own home longer than necessary; why would he torture himself and his family by hosting a party? Then again, why did my father do half the things he did?
I also watched the way my mother gazed at the door when he left, and slaved over making the apartment perfect. It mystified me how she put up with it. Was it a sign of strength, or just her giving up?
I didn’t tell them on Saturday.
            *  *  *

By Sunday, I was just about a wreck. My head was filled with a web of unrelated thoughts and fears attached to one very important string. I was afraid to speak, should I slip and tell the truth unceremoniously, but silence was almost worse.
“Olivia? Can you help me polish the silverware?” my mom called from the other room. Oh, God. Wait, it was just utensils. No one needed to talk.
“I hate these,” Mom sighed ten minutes into polishing. My shoulders tensed up instantly. “It really stresses me out. I hate being stressed. You know what it does to me.”
This was true. My mind flashed to the intense fatigue of one such stressful day, when every word had a snap and every moment a greater headache. I shivered.
“You know,” she continued, and I almost groaned aloud, “sometimes I think that if I hear one more piece of bad news I’ll break.”
“Come on, Mom,” I mumbled, over-buffing a fork.
“No, I’m serious!” She finished the last knife and leaned against the counter, looking exhausted. “I’m already pulled thin…I can barely sleep for the pain in my stomach…” She shook her head and continued onto the spoons. I recognized that look.
“Mom, why don’t you lay down for a while?” I suggested quietly.
“Oh, no, I’m okay,” she said, then gave me a small smile of thanks. “I’ve got this odious party to worry about.”
“It can’t be that bad,” I said, trying to focus on controlling the situation.
“Oh, so your idea of a good time is to sit around pretentious snobs choking down the food you slaved over, then talking about business, business, and more business?” Her eyes suddenly lit with a crazed fire.
The clock behind us chimed 4:00, startling her into a frenzy. She mumbled random words like “fluff” and “iron” and “baste”. I took that as my cue to get dressed, and I didn’t need to be told again.
In my room, I held up the skirt Tara lent me. It would have been the most perfect, attractive garment I could ever wear, landing just above the knee and flowing beautifully—except for the shreds. Every sensitive part was barely covered, for the slits that came out of nowhere from every angle left almost nothing to the imagination. I was horrified; I couldn’t use this. And even worse, my skirt from last year really was too small, along with most of my dresses. I was out of options.
I looked at Mudge in dismay as she slid in, hoping desperately that she might turn into a fairy godmother and solve my problems. All she did, however, was leap up onto my desk, and settle down next to my old sewing kit. Another dream dashed.
I was ten minutes into scrounging around my out-of-date closet when I fully recognized my cat’s genius. Half-crazed, I lunged at her, smothering her screeching form in kisses, before tossing her unceremoniously to the side in favor of my sewing kit.
My skills were rough—the last thing I patched was a pair of jeans in eighth grade—but luckily I remembered how to thread a needle and tie a knot. At first, my sutures were large and fairly ugly, but as I fell into routine, my newfound artistic skills guided my hands in small patterns. Within twenty minutes, my borrowed skirt was covered in spiral-like stitches, leaving only small openings at the hem of the skirt. Swelling with pride, I threw on the skirt and an acceptable shirt, swiped some lip gloss on, and flew out of my room.
The coast was clear. My mom was still getting ready, my dad was nowhere to be found, and the room was sparkling. Breathing a sigh of relief, I slipped into the bathroom. I combed through a few snarls, pulled my hair into a half-ponytail, and passed a little mascara over my eyes. This was as good as it was gonna get. Not that it really mattered.
As I exited the bathroom and began straightening utensils out of habit, my father finally pushed through the door. As usual, you’d never know he was late to his own party; his hair was as neat as his suit, and slick as the smile he gave me.
“Hey there, Munchkin,” he said cheerfully, ruffling my hair and my feathers. He never took the time to remember I’d grown out of that nickname.
“Hey,” I said, smoothing my hair back down. “Pass anyone on your way up?”
“Oh no, you know I always make good time.” He dipped a finger in the bowl of sauce, and straightened out his tie in the reflection of the refrigerator.
“Hey, stranger.” My mom slid out of her room, fluffing her perfectly coiffed hair.
“Hey, hot stuff,” he said with a wink that made my bile rise uncontrollably. “Everything looks great.” I turned away quickly, but not before my dad dipped Mom and gave her a long one. I couldn’t believe that my mother enjoyed that rancid display of affection, but I heard a faint giggle escape her throat. Gag.
I proceeded to ignore them for the next few minutes, fixing the table setting, and checking my phone periodically. Maybe if I kept quiet enough, I would vanish. I didn’t.
Promptly at five o’clock, a buzz and a “Hey, it’s Harold and Laurie” came from the box next to the door. As my father buzzed them in, I couldn’t help but feel that only those being admitted to hell felt my current apprehension.
It was just as I expected: a dozen adults I didn’t know, many of whom were more imposing than I thought my parents could handle. A few faces were vaguely recognizable from the last and very long-ago dinner we had hosted, but I made no attempts to conjure their names. As more people showed up, the air grew increasingly stale with hairspray and false smiles. Finally, when all the niceties were had, and the drinks passed out, we moved to the dinner table, and the topic of discussion continued southward.
“So, Jerry, how’re the kids?”
“Marianne, this spread is just exquisite!”
“Did you hear? They’re firing Joe in Wills and Estates.”
I longed for the companionship of my brothers. When I was little, they would make funny pictures out of their food, or whisper silly jokes to me, and eventually convince Mom that we were too tired, and then stay up and tell ghost stories. I was just smiling to myself about one Mr. Frankel, the Ghost of Frankelville, when my reverie was interrupted.
“So, little lady, what’s new with you?”
I look up in mild surprise, though my inquirer seemed more interested in his pasta. He was a pudgy old man with wispy gray hair, and, by the look of stunned horror on my dad’s face, very important.
“Um…” I blanked. What was new with me? Nothing. There really never was. It was always just plain, un-changing Olivia. Except…no, I couldn’t. “Well, I, um…I’m finishing up college applications.” Yes, college. That was safe.
“Oh yes, yes,” he murmured, trying to sop up his gravy with a piece of bread. “College, very important. A person can’t be without it.” I saw my mother’s nostrils flare minutely. “And where are you hoping to go? Not too far, I hope.”
“Uh, no…no, not far,” I said slowly, my brow wrinkling slightly. “I like Columbia, but NYU also wouldn’t be bad.”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh…and what are you hoping to study?” He raised his eyes for the first time, and pierced me in a steely blue stare. I felt oddly violated, and yet also as if he was the only one at that table—perhaps in my whole world—who was seeing me for who I really was.
Words escaped me. Seconds ticked by as I struggled internally. Before I met Shawn and them, I couldn’t say what it is I wanted to do. But now, I had lost myself in something, something I knew I needed. Acutely aware of the others’ eyes, I refused to meet them. I could hold back no longer.
“Art. I’d like to study art.”
In the corner of my eye, I could see my parents’ faces. Dad looked confused and surprised. I expected as much; he would never have had an inkling that I could even draw stick figures. Mom appeared…conflicted. Like she was outraged I would say such an impractical and unexpected thing, but unsure of how to express that while keeping face.
The man, with whom I was holding an unbreakable stare, was smiling, as if everything was going according to his design. The corners of my mouth began to twitch and curl up in response.
“Well, um…that’s…” one of the guests started to say, but the man kept going.
“You know, I’ve met your brothers, and two brighter boys I have never met,” he drawled, working his way through a large chicken breast. “Tell me, how did a basketball star and a rising chemist manage to get an artist for a sister?” Mortification slowly crept across my parents’ faces, but it only encouraged my growing smirk.
“Um, sort of by accident, I guess.” I tried to say it evenly, but everyone was watching me now.
“Intriguing,” he said with raised eyebrows. “But true talent cannot be an accident. Surely, there must be some evidence from the past.”
I thought for a minute. My past seemed empty of those blindingly happy moments I had experienced at the canvas lately, as if it was just an accidental occurrence. But slowly, as I allowed my practicality to slip, I felt my mother’s clawing voice release its grip on my psyche, and I no longer cared what, in all my life, had made me supremely happy. For the first time, I saw color flood my childhood and fill in the empty spaces.
I felt the musty brown of Mudge and the ice in Mom’s eyes as she reprimanded me for drawing on the wall.
Red, nova-like bursts of energy surrounded my brothers’ faces, and a butter-yellow feeling rushed through my body as my tiny hands pinned up the first picture of Mudge.
Heavy purple seeped onto the canvas as I watched my parents argue at 10:00 PM, Dad having just arrived.
An intense muddy green as Kyle sank a shot and Mom screamed ecstatically, my ice cream fallen and forgotten by all but me.
An insistent gray colored my long, lonely nights of studying and working. A boring color to match a boring life of unintentional competition.
I was jerked back to reality by my mother’s foot sailing into my shin. I blinked, and was momentarily confused by the bleak atmosphere that clashed so horribly with my brain. My eyes adjusted, only to find everything fundamentally unchanged: dull, stifling, and hardly worth my respect. Eleven pairs of eyes boring into me, and I had no patience to pay any mind to them.
“I’ll be back,” I muttered, through Mom’s broken protests. In my room, I tore down my most recent portrait of Mudge, roughly drawn but softened by the watercolor paint. Breathing heavily, I reentered the room. It appeared that some of the adults had tried desperately to change the topic, but to no avail: the old man was gazing in my general direction, clearly waiting to see what I would bring him. Evidently, he controlled the room, and every valiant voice died down immediately when I handed him the paper. He fumbled for his glasses and examined it, thoroughly.
“I-It’s just doodling,” my mom said hurriedly, like she didn’t want him to question her mothering. “Just something she does.”
“It’s magnificent,” he breathed. “When did you paint this?”
“About two years ago, I think,” I said in an intense blush. “But,” I added, feeling bold, “I’ve been taking art lessons, afterschool, and I think I improved. I recreated that picture, actually.” I didn’t dare look my mother in the face, but I could see her furious gape as she put two and two together.
“Marvelous. You’ve got every ounce of talent your brothers have. Maybe more.”
“Well if she spent less time painting and more time studying, then maybe her grades would reflect that,” my mom fumed suddenly. The man’s eyes flashed and he looked sharply at her. I was mildly impressed at how well she composed herself.
“Talent exhibits itself in many media, my dear,” his voice cold as steel. “If it chooses to manifest itself in one area and not another, it is not up to us as humans to argue. And you would be a fool to disregard the raw skill on this page.”
My mother’s face reddened and she blinked several times, her eyes downcast. Silence veiled the room as everyone searched awkwardly for something to say. It took a few minutes for anyone to regain some sort of normalcy, but when it felt safe to sit down again I could feel my mother’s fury emanating off of her. I didn’t even care.
I tried not to exchange any looks or words with my parents for the rest of the dinner, though I couldn’t hide some of my timidity. They kept shooting furtive looks at one another. Despite it all, I hoped I hadn’t screwed up the whole thing for my dad.
After dessert and coffee was cleared , I busied myself with helping hand out coats to several people who wouldn’t make eye-contact. Finally, the old man came toddling over on his cane. I felt an odd flush of affection for him as I hurried over to help him with his hat and coat.
“I didn’t catch your name, little lady,” he said, fixing his sleeves.
“Olivia.”
“Ah, yes, good strong name for an artist.” He straightened up and looked me in the eye. “Herbert  Jefferson, at your service.” He stuck out a hand and I proudly shook it.
“I have an art exhibition on October 30th at McHenry High School,” I said under my breath. “I would be honored if you would come, Mr. Jefferson.”
He smiled mischievously.
“I’ll see what I can do, Ms. Ahern.”
And I watched as my biggest hero left my apartment.

I shut the door softly behind Mr. Jefferson, my breath ragged. Perhaps, if I kept my head down—
“Olivia Rose Ahern.”
No dice. I came to halt but did not dare raise my eyes. The outlandish boldness I had felt a half hour ago had quickly dissipated, but it was too late to back out now.
“What the hell was that?” There was no need to look at my mother; the ice in her words was enough. “Art? Are you kidding me?”
“No, mom, I’m not kidding you,” I said quietly. I felt an old sense of shame creeping up my throat, but I swallowed it back.
“Like hell you are!” she shouted. I could hear fire in her footsteps. I still didn’t look up. “I did not raise my children to be so foolish!”
“Marianne, calm down…” my father pleaded weakly from the side of the room.
“Why should I?” Now she was shouting at him. Sometimes I wondered how angry she really was, or if she just like to scream. “Because of her talent, I was humiliated by a stuffy old man!” My father protested loudly, but I was louder.
“He is not stuffy!” It came out shrill and defensive, but it cut the room to a chill. “He’s brilliant and insightful and seems to know me better than you ever did!”
Stillness covered the scene. I could see my parents just staring at me, blurred by the tears in my eyes.
“If you cared about anyone but yourselves, maybe it would be different,” I whispered, shakily, then ran to my room, where I locked the door and sank into my bed. Outside, my parents resumed their very loud arguing, and suddenly I was six years old again. I saw the images as if they were burned into my eyelids, doomed to play and replay into oblivion. Mom, wailing on the couch in our old house, screaming words like “you promised” and “can’t trust you” and “cheater”. Things I didn’t understand then. I watched my dad try to touch her, reassure her of his love. “I would never…I love you…just my job…” She threw off his arm and his words. And I felt a depth, a well of something that couldn’t be described as sadness or despair. We moved that year.
As their shouts grew, I pulled the covers over my head and sobbed.
            * * *

I stumbled out of my room early that morning, but not early enough it seemed. My mother sat rigidly at the table, sipping her coffee through pursed lips. I would have slid past her, but my stomach growled too obviously to ignore. Quickly as possible, I grabbed a breakfast shake, planning to run out the door, but before I could yank it open Mom had already started speaking.
“I want to meet this teacher of yours,” she said tensely. “I assume you have a teacher, of course.” I took a deep breath and nodded. “Good. I’ll be there after school.” I tried to keep the dread off my face as I slid away from the table and out the door, in a haze.
When I arrived at school, I was still preoccupied with my mother’s announcement. Suddenly, the whole school felt subject to scrutiny: how could such tiny lockers accommodate adequate subject materials? The walls were looking particularly grungy lately. And were all the teachers stupid, or was it just me? It was impossible to tell. I trudged into homeroom gloomily, and knocked right into Shawn.
“Hey, there, Slick,” he said. I didn’t even apologize. Or move. For some strange and awkward reason, I just stood there, leaning on him like a board. You couldn’t really call it an embrace of any sort, but I drew an odd sense of comfort from just his scent and feel. “Are you…okay?”
“No,” I mumbled into his chest.
“Do you…uh…wanna talk about it?” I could feel the awkward level rising in his voice.
“Mom. Coming here. She knows.”
“Oh…oh.” Dawning realization. Finally, slowly, I felt an arm rise up and tentatively pat my back. I could have cried. “Does Wes know?”
“No.”
“Ah.”
“I should warn him.”
“Yeah, I would get on that.”
Sighing, I unstuck myself from Shawn’s chest, and looked up at him. I knew I looked God awful, eyes puffy and clothes wrinkled, but still he stared right back. And for an instant, he dropped his smug normalcy and revealed a beautiful display of sympathy. I hated how good it made me feel.
“Thanks, Jerk,” I said with a faint smile.
“Anytime, Clicks.”
I tried to go on with my day as any normal Monday. I laughed at Cole, let Tara fuss over my hair to drop in on Wes to give him his heads-up. Like a champ, he concealed his almost certain terror and promised to be the model teacher my mother would never expect. Not that he had a choice: we were all going in after school to work anyway, so I would be watching.
Promptly at 2:30, the five of us were settling in just as there was a knock on the door. I had made Cole swear to not do anything sexual, but my palms were still sweating at the arrival of my mother.
“You must be Mrs. Ahern,” I heard Wes say, as his chair scraped the floor. “I’m Daniel Weston, the art teacher.”
“I surmised as much,” she said, and I rolled my eyes at her slightly inflated tone. “Shall we talk somewhere more, uh, private?”
“No can do, I’m afraid,” he said in such a way that put an image of a cowboy tipping his hat in my head. “You see, I can’t leave the students in a room unsupervised.” Shawn and I exchanged a look; Wes left the room for at least a half hour every day.
“Well, I guess this will do,” Mom said uncomfortably, from which I derived a twisted sense of pleasure.
They chatted quietly for about ten minutes, while I painted with my ears wide open and strained. I focused on the brush strokes, every breath with a new line, trying to appear like I wasn’t hanging on every word.
A while later, I heard them get up and make their exiting pleasantries. To my utter surprise, I felt a body come up behind me a moment later, a very definitely female body.
“That’s a very interesting piece,” Mom said in a low voice, and I nearly dropped my brush.
“Thank-thank you,” I stammered, but didn’t look at her.
“And, are these your…friends?” I felt the barely controlled judgment in her tone, but I chose to ignore it. I cleared my throat.
“Yeah, um…well, you’ve met Tara,” I said.
“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Ahern!” Her bright response did less to set the room at ease than I think Tara hoped it would, but it at least gave me the satisfaction of seeing my mother startled.
“And that’s Charlotte over there.” Charlotte looked up and smiled brief, but soon resumed her work. “And Cole over there—” he gave a goofy little bow “—this is Shawn.” I gestured next to me.
“A pleasure, Miss,” he said, laying on the charm thick. He got up and gave her a bracing handshake and a winning smile. “I can see where Olivia gets her good looks.” This seemed to stun Mom further, who then patted her hair and breathed a flustered sigh.
“Well, I…” She had to clear her throat several times. “I guess I will see you at home, Olivia.” And she gave me a fleeting kiss on the cheek and left.
“Is she a charmer or what?” Shawn said once she was out of earshot. “Gee, are you a lucky gal, Liv.”
“Don’t I know it,” I muttered, though I was now very visibly relieved. There were no more secrets, and no more need for them. I finally had some room to breathe everywhere I went.
            * * *

The next few weeks passed by seamlessly. Nothing had really changed. My parents had a firm talk with me, reminding me that school came before art, and that I was to be home by 5:00 every day. I found that if I came home earlier on Fridays, Mom was even okay with my going out in the evening.
Things were a little more tense among the group, regardless. The nearing exhibition ruled our moods even at Rudy’s. The anxiety I felt was the worst since my first AP exam. I found myself waking up in the middle of the night, unable to get the fear of failure out of my brain. My paintings started looking like kindergarten scribble, no matter what I did. I took to staring at my pieces rather than fixing them, nervous that one wrong flick of the hand might ruin an entire picture.
Finally, it was October 30th. I hadn’t slept a wink the night before, but I did my best to look presentable for the day. I let the day slip by in a blur, unable and unwilling to pay any mind to my surroundings.
At the end of the school day, we congregated outside of the school with our canvases and stands, and waited for the bus. Cole cracked some feeble jokes, but even on the ride over, there was no room for humor.
“Wow,” I gasped as we pulled up to the school. There had to be two hundred other kids, give or take, toting around easels and statues. I whipped my head around to face Wes. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“You’ll be fine,” Shawn whispered with a bracing smile, which I returned weakly.
Knees knocking, we clamored off the bus and into the sea of people. We were assigned numbers and stations in the school’s gymnasium. People were milling about so haphazardly, I couldn’t tell artist from spectator. I gulped, and almost immediately felt warmth on the small of my back. Shawn’s comfort flooded my body, and I looked up at him. We shared a fleeting smile that stopped my breath for a beat, then he cleared his throat and ushered me through the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tara throw a look of mild contempt at his hand.
“Okay, kids,” Wes said fifteen minutes later once we had all set up our displays. “I see some judges over there on the other side, so that’s my cue to skedaddle.” He clapped Cole on the shoulder, and gave me a pointed look. “You are some of the most talented kids I’ve taught. You’ll all do fine.” And with a wink, he was gone.
“Why is it so much harder to breathe now?” I said much louder than I wanted to. It was all I could do not to faint.
“Why, do you need mouth-to-mouth?” Cole said rakishly. “Only too happy to oblige.” Charlotte shoved him.
“So…what do we do now?” I asked as my face reddened progressively.
“Sort of just hang around,” Tara said in an uncharacteristically nonchalant way, examining her nails thoroughly. “Sometimes the judges like to ask questions, so you shouldn’t drift too far from your painting.”
“Oh, God, questions?” I sounded like a wuss.
“Basic stuff, no art theory or whatever,” Shawn reassured me quickly. He shot Tara a furtive glare.
“Well, enough scaring the newbie,” Charlotte said, clearly bored. “Judges are coming ‘round.”
Except they weren’t really. It took another twenty minutes for anyone with a clipboard to make it over to our area. Luckily, no one asked for anything harder than my name, nor did they show much interest in anything else.
I busied myself with searching the crowds for Mr. Jefferson while I waited for the exhibition to wrap up. I knew in my heart of hearts that it would be a long shot for him to actually come, but I had little else to do, and little effort. Finally, just as I was beginning to lose hope, I felt a light tap on my shoulder.
“The artist in her natural habitat,” said Mr. Jefferson slowly. My face split into the brightest of smiles, and he smiled shrewdly as he leaned in and added, “It’s nice to see you where you truly belong.”
“I’m so glad you’re here!” I said, trying not to actually be so excited as I felt my friends’ eyes on us.
“So this is your masterpiece,” he said, turning to my flower. “Most intriguing, indeed,” he muttered a moment later. “It feels so painful, a rare quality in such youth.” I blushed, not really sure if it was a compliment, but flustered all the same.
“Uh…um, Mr. Jefferson, these are the rest of my cohort,” I said finally, and everyone else knew to stand up a little straighter. “This is Tara Dawson,” I said with a gesture, as she smiled, suddenly saccharine again. “And Charlotte Pugliano.” She stuck out a hand and a civil smile. “That over there is Cole Aguilera.” Another handshake. “And Shawn Harrison.” Shawn tipped an invisible hat and plastered on a charming smile.
“Harrison,” Mr. Jefferson drawled. “I recognize your style. Is your father, by any chance—”
“Yes, he is,” Shawn said with a short laugh, though he dipped his head slightly. “You caught me, Mr. …”
“Herbert Jefferson,” he said authoritatively. “An entrepreneur of sorts, one might say.” He took on a hard smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, I should be moving along. Best luck to you all.”
So he wasn’t warm and fuzzy. But I was at least glad he was there.

   * * *

“How long do we have to sit here?” I whispered to Shawn an hour later. He laughed under his breath.
“So impatient, Clicks,” he crooned, and my nostrils flared. “They’ll call off the top fifty placers who’ll move on to the next round.”
“Next round?”
“Next exhibition.”
“And when’s that?”
“Why, you think you’ll be going?” He gave me a smug smile while I fumed at him. “It’ll be some time in December.” I stuck my tongue out at him in thanks.
An older man with a stuffy air cleared his throat into the microphone on the stage. In his hand was a long sheaf of paper, on which were tiny, barely visible scribbles of numbers. My stomach clenched.
“Before we announce the finalists, let’s have a round of applause for all our participants, aren’t these pieces spectacular?” His bored voice was drowned out by the light clapping that followed. Charlotte gave my weak applause a sideways glance.
“You ready?” she whispered.
“To be handed my fate?” I replied. “Why not?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” But I didn’t answer.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the man on the stage, “we will call off by number, starting with the fiftieth placer and so on up.” He cleared his throat and straightened the paper. “Number 132…number 74…number 160…number 144…number 15…”
On and on he went in the same monotone voice as I silently counted down from fifty, sweaty fists balled in my lap. Charlotte and Shawn were both staring at me.
Cole came in at twenty-five, and we all whooped in relief for him. Tara came in close behind a twenty-one, and then Charlotte at eighteen. But not me.
“I need this,” I muttered under my breath. Then, as we broke the top ten, I heard a faint “number 63…”
“Oh, my God,” I gasped. That was me. At ninth place. Out of all those people, ninth! Shawn shook me hard by the shoulder as I sat, stunned, absolutely frozen. Then, a few people later—I lost count—Shawn’s number was called off, and we all gave a shout of joy.
At the end of it, the gym was filled with mixed emotions. A couple of people who hadn’t placed were crying, but most everyone else was composed. Wes came crashing into us, smothering us in hugs.
“All my kids, finalists,” he said, practically crying. “And you!” He was screaming at me now. “I told you!” I couldn’t help the small tears of joy. I was moving on.
“Most impressive, Ms. Ahern,” a voice said softly behind me. Mr. Jefferson was at my elbow.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, beaming. I thought to pull him into a hug, but settled for a handshake. He patted my hand tenderly.
“And now I must go sing your praises, my dear,” he said, smiling. “Have a good evening, everybody.” I turned back to my friends as he toddled away on his cane. They were chattering happily with Wes and collecting their things. I smiled broadly once more.

   * * *

There was a party atmosphere on the bus ride back. We made rowdy plans for Rudy’s later, and actually laughed at Cole’s jokes. When we got back, we piled our stuff in the art room, then hit the town.
“Rudy!” Cole cried, throwing the door open with vigor. “Your finest for the champions!” There were few other people scattered around who either didn’t notice the outburst or ignored it. Rudy chuckled and filled a pitcher of root beer.
“To us!” Tara said, grabbing glasses and passing them around. “Top twenty-five, all of us!”
“To the next art show!” Shawn said, raising a glass.
“To kicking ass!” I said, and we all laughed raucously.
“I know I hate you guys a lot,” Charlotte said after a long draught, “but today I can tolerate you.”
“Aww, thanks, Char,” Tara squealed, hugging her with one arm.
“Except Tara,” Charlotte breathed to me, and I almost snorted soda out of my nose.
We all broke away to do our own things: Charlotte was ensconced in a corner, talking to some guy who looked dumbstruck; Tara and Cole were laughing by the pinball machine. I lingered by the bar, smiling contentedly, and found myself joined by Shawn.
“What a day for Miss Olivia Ahern, artist extraordinaire,” he said, and I felt a pinch of warmth in my cheeks. He took a swig from his glass. “You should get that fixed, by the way.”
“I beg your pardon?” I said defensively.
“Your name. Doesn’t roll off the tongue well.”
“I can’t exactly do much about that.”
“Just use a penname.” He took a long sip while I stared him down. When he saw I wasn’t budging, he sighed and set down his drink. “What’s your middle name?”
“Uh…Rose.”
“Olivia Rose Ahern…” He tasted it, long and hard, but puckered up his face in displeasure. “Still doesn’t flow right. How about…” he trailed off in thought, then waved his hand, “…Aire.”
“Huh.” I thought it over: Olivia Rose Aire. “There are worse things I suppose.”
“You’re welcome.” He winked and took another drink.
“And why is it that you don’t need to change your name?” I replied, rather indignantly.
“Because ‘Shawn Harrison’ is an epic name in itself,” he said matter-of-factly. I gave a disgusted, guttural noise and took another swig.
“So you’re recognizable, huh?” I turned to face him completely, feeling bold. He sighed again, more sharply, a hint of exasperation in him.
“What can I say? I’m famous.” An over-stretched smile replaced his features.
“All right, if you don’t want to tell me,” I said, starting to turn away again, but his hand stopped me.
“You really want to know?” His eyes, stripped of all play, arrested me, so I just nodded stiffly. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then said, “My father is the head of one of the biggest companies in the city and a few offices in other major cities around the country.” He said it all very quickly, like he was embarrassed by his own life. My jaw hung open for a few seconds before I could recover.
“Wait.” I blinked a few times. “So if Mr. Jefferson knew who you were, then—”
“He probably works for or with my dad in some way, yeah.” He tapped the counter for another root beer.
“But he said he recognized your work, too,” I said, still very confused.
“My dad sort of has this thing for advertising his family on the very walls of his buildings,” he said with another bored sip, in a much more Charlotte manner, “whether they want it or not.”
“Wh-why wouldn’t you want your parents to be proud of your talents?” I was flabbergasted. He looked at me like I had three heads, but I was thinking the same thing.
“I started to really get into art when I saw it as a way out of assuming the family business,” he explained finally, after studying my face for some time. “I’d rather stay completely out of it, in every way.”
“Well, you make little sense to me, my friend,” I said, staring into the depths of my glass, “but I will respect your boundaries.”
“Hmm,” he hummed, voice like satin, “I could get used to this.”
“Oh, get over yourself,” I groaned and shoved his shoulder. He laughed loudly, and I couldn’t help but join in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tara jerk her head up suddenly to watch us from the pool table.

   * * *

“Let me walk you home.”
It was after 10:00, and we had only just gotten out of Rudy’s when Shawn ran up next to me.
“Don’t you go right?” I checked my watch nervously and began to chew on my lip.
“It’s Friday night,” he said, shrugging. “I can get home left, too.”
I debated it for a minute, not wanting to get him in trouble but also glad for the chance to not get mugged. I checked my watch again, and worked my lip even harder. If I sat around thinking any longer, I would be in trouble. “Fine,” I said finally. “Uh, thanks.” He fell into step with me, and I took an involuntary half-step away.
“So, Olivia,” he said, blowing out air. “Tell me something mind-blowing about yourself.” He winked. “I wanna be amazed.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I said, twirling my apartment key on its ring.
“Come on, there’s gotta be something.” I just shook my head. “Really? No freaky childhood or something? Secret fan-girl shrine?”
“Seriously, why does everyone think I’m a closet psychopath or something?” His eyes twinkled at my ire. “No, no shrine, no freakishness, no nothing. Besides, my mother would have a conniption if I wasted my time like that.”
The air between us became very serious all of a sudden. I saw true sympathy in his face, though he said nothing.
“Hey now, no pity,” I said, shoving him for what felt like the hundredth time in my life.
“Me? Pity? Pfft!” He tried very hard to hide it, to his credit. But it peeked out again when he said, “She’s really like that?”
“Yup, that’s dear old Ma,” I laughed, short and hard. “At least I’ve got Ben and Kyle.
“Illegitimate children?” Shawn said with raised eyebrows. I gave him a quelling look.
“Older brothers, sicko.” I smiled, thinking about them. “They’re pretty awesome. When they come home…well, things get a lot better.” I laughed again, embarrassed this time.
“They must be pretty special, to get that kind of smile,” said Shawn sincerely. I touched my face. “I like seeing that smile.” We locked eyes for a long drink of each other, until I cleared my throat and looked away, blushing madly.
“Um, this is me,” I said, gesturing up at me building.
“I know,” he said softly, and moved in a step closer. I felt my breath catch in my throat, stuck behind a wad of apprehension. Shawn reached up and pinched my chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger, forcing my face up. I tried not to blink too much, which translated into worrying my lip again. He moaned almost imperceptibly, and then smirked.
“Good night, Olivia Rose Aire,” he whispered, and leaned in and kissed my cheek. Feather-soft and sweet, short. With a small smile, he was gone.
My high kept me up that night.

As the autumn deepened, I found my senses coming alive in alien ways. On every walk to and from school, I picked up musty scents and an unexpected vibrancy in the browns and grays.
“Did you know that fall has, like, a smell?” I said to Shawn one Monday morning in mid-November on our way in to homeroom.
He stared at me blankly. “What, like soggy leaf?” he said. I giggled, and he gave a surprised smirk.
“No! Like…like fallen rain, or an old house.” I realized I sounded a little breathless, perhaps from running out of the house late and distracted, but I pushed away the embarrassment.
“Mmm, it’s catchy.” He sniffed the air. “Maybe they should make it a cologne.” I made a face and settled into my seat.
“Okay, boys and girls,” Mr. DiAngelo said closing the door as the bell rang. “Just a friendly reminder that your papers on the Corrupt Bargain are due by the end of the week. You’ve got four, count ‘em, four days.” My heart sank to my stomach.
“Crap,” I whispered, my head dropping to my hands.
“Haven’t started?” Shawn muttered.
“No, I started, I just forgot about it!” The thought of forgetting about schoolwork gave me heart palpitations.
“So don’t worry about it,” he said, leaning back. “I don’t even have an opening sentence or anything.”
“But I usually need, like two full weeks for this stuff! I’ve been spending so much time afterschool, it just…flew out of my mind…” My voice trailed off as the panic began to swell up and swallow my words.
“Hey, hey, hey, simmer down,” he said, tapping his foot against the back of my leg soothingly. “Just breathe, you’re gonna be fine. When was the last time you failed anything?”
“Um…the block test in preschool?”
“So, never.” He frowned.
“Uh, yeah, I guess.”
“You’ll be fine. So you BS one paper in your life, big deal. Won’t kill you.”
“You’re right,” I sighed, kicking him back.
“No problem, Clicks.” I started to give him a withering look out of habit, but I just didn’t have the energy or will anymore.
Later that day, I told Wes I had to go home early every day that week, as I had decided that was the best and, really, only solution to my problem.
“You get your homework done on a regular day, right?” he asked, brow furrowed with confusion.
“Well, Mom doesn’t know about this paper, and if I get home excessively earlier than her, she’ll never have to know.” I had come to terms with hiding the truth. Lying still gave me agita, but covering the full truth was okay.
“Look who’s getting a backbone,” Charlotte said with an approving look.
“That’s hot,” Cole called from across the room.
“Everything is hot to you, Cole,” I said, half-disgusted, half-entertained.
“I know, I know, I’m a pig with no respect for the opposite sex, no, I don’t have remorse, yes, I can sleep at night,” Cole said and winked to the room at large.
Unfortunately, as far as I could tell, I was headed for a sleepless night. I sat staring at my laptop for an hour when I got home that afterschool, ready to delete the couple paragraphs I had managed to scrape out. My fingers itched for a brush and a canvas; who really cared about the Corrupt Bargain anyway? There was nothing unique about a couple of guys making a deal to get into office. My mind was lost in art again. Instead of nineteenth-century politics, I was fantasizing about the new stippling and sponging techniques Wes had taught me the week before.
I leaned back in my chair and exhaled sharply, then placed my fingers on the keys and just typed, fueled by my desire to paint again. If I could finish and edit quickly, I could hand it in early, and get back to where I belonged.
 
* * *

Wednesday morning, I handed in my paper and breathed out a sigh of relief.
“I hate you,” Shawn said when I sat down.
“What?” I gave him a confused look, but grinned a little bit.
“You sat here having an anxiety attack on Monday, and now you’re done early. I still haven’t started mine.”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” I looked at him shrewdly, then my grin broadened. “I’m a superhero.”
“Really?” He leaned forward on his forearms and whispered right next to my ear. “And what are your powers?” I leaned back so that my mouth was on his ear.
“It’s a secret,” I breathed, more sensually than I’d intended, but I got some savage pleasure out of watching him clear his throat several times.

   * * *

When I got home that day, my mom was sitting at the dinner table, nursing a scotch.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, dropping my key in the bowl.
“Hey, hon,” she said distractedly, her voice soaked in more than whiskey. I stopped; she never called me pet names.
“What’s wrong?”
“Got a call from your brothers,” she said morosely. “Neither of them can make it for Thanksgiving.” I felt a stone fall to the pit of my stomach. She shrugged and sighed shakily. “Ben will be moving into his new apartment with Kate, and Kyle’s doing training for basketball season.”
“But, it’s—”
“I know,” she said, reaching over and patting my hand gingerly. “I know.”
Dinner was a somber affair that night. The air was laden with the one thing we knew but wouldn’t say: we both relied on my brothers’ presence during the holidays to provide a pretty distraction from our lives.
In bed later on, I texted them “Jerk faces :P” like any good little sister. They immediately responded with apologies and jokes, enough to put a glimmer of a smile on my face for a while.
Now that I hadn’t their homecoming to look forward to, I immersed myself more completely in my painting. I stayed later and later after school, until my mind was completely soaked in anguish and paint. I knew it was no skin off of my mother’s nose; she barely acknowledged me each night, no matter the time. At school, it was no different: I devoted mind and body to the art room. But unlike with my mother, my frequent flyer miles did not go unnoticed by Wes.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said to me one afternoon, “but why are you here so much lately? Love having you,” he added quickly, “but it is…peculiar.”
“Just feeling anxious for the 14th,” I said with a tiny smile. “If I could justify cutting classes for this, I would.” I hid my face from his shock.
“Well, looks like you’ll be amply prepared.” He eyed the canvas leaning against the easel at my feet, and the one in front of me.
By the time it was Thanksgiving week, while every other human being eagerly awaited stuffing and a long weekend, I faced four days alone with my gloomy parents and two finished paintings. I fretted over every detail, to the point where I dreamed in lines and blotchy blurs.
“So, Olivia, what are your holiday plans?” Tara asked brightly that Wednesday, and I jumped about a foot in the air. She had startled me out of a dazed trance.
“Um, mostly a big fat nothing, I guess,” I muttered, face going a little red.
“Nothing?” She sounded horrified. “I mean, you’ll spend time with your family, right?” I winced.
“Actually, I’ll be looking for very little of that,” I said with a short laugh. “Anyone free any or every hour, possibly?”
“Sorry, kid, we’re driving up to Vermont,” said Charlotte. She really did sound sorry.
“And my parents do this super long ‘family fun package’ every year,” said Tara, faking her annoyance.
“For you, I’m always free, chiquita,” Cole said with a decided wink. Then something seemed to dawn on him. “Except my mom will probably ground me for the math test I failed, so I wouldn’t bet on me, either.” I was quickly running out of options, so I turned to Shawn. He was concentrating on his canvas, but looked up in time to catch my gaze.
“I will unfortunately be detained for most of the weekend,” he said, and I groaned. “I thought you would want to hang with your brothers, though?” I dropped my eyes to hide my sudden upset.
“They, uh, won’t be coming home this year,” I said to my feet, then glanced back at him. He understood immediately. Noticing everyone else staring at us, I cleared my throat and said, “Oh, well. Just some quality cat time for me, I guess.”
As we filed out of the room an hour later, I felt as if I was embarking upon some sick prisoner’s march. I couldn’t take four days cooped up with a depressed mother and a father who would rather be in the office. Maybe I should have joined a bigger club with more people.
Utterly unsurprising to me, my mother had nothing prepared by the time I came home. I shoved my way through the door and found her on the couch, reading a magazine idly. I didn’t bother striking up conversation. I locked myself in my room to stare at the blank canvas painted on the walls.

   * * *

The next morning, I was woken by the sounds of a roaring crowd. I stumbled out of my door to the kitchen television tuned into the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
“Why don’t we ever go to that?” My mom was fixing herself a cup of coffee on a bare counter when I asked. “I mean, we live down the road.”
“I usually have a full meal to cook, and an apartment to clean,” she said on cue. “Not to mention it’s cold, crowded, usually raining…need I go on?”
“I think I got it,” I said, interest lost. “Well since the festivities seem to have come to a roaring stop, I am going to go for a walk.”
“Oh?” Surprise? Disappointment?
“I could use the fresh air.”
Once I broke out onto the street, I was met with the faint sounds of music and cheering. The parade was staged a few blocks north of us, so I stayed to the other side of the city. I had no desire to encounter insane tourists.
I was learning to control my new view of New York: falling leaves? Gorgeous. A tin can? Not so much. But I still allowed myself to be amazed by touches of simplicity, like the patch of green on the corner of that block or a steady drip of water into that sewer. How I never saw it before, I had no idea.
I stopped in Central Park, though I knew I couldn’t be completely alone. I parked myself on a bench and let all my senses soak up the surroundings. The smell of the wink on the rain-soaked trees assaulted my mind, though the sun shone brightly. I caught sight of a little girl running around the hills, giggling loudly, until a tall man scooped her up and started tickling her. They twirled around, looking happy as ever…something I recognized. I felt hidden tears prick my eyes, so I forced myself to get up and turn my back on them.
When I got back to the apartment later, both my parents were setting the table.
“Real food?” I said in shock.
“Stouffer’s,” said my dad apologetically.
“It’ll do,” I muttered, shrugging off my jacket. I grabbed a stack of napkins and started folding.
“So, Mr. Jefferson is raving about you,” my dad said as we settled in at the table. My mom shot him a sudden warning look but kept quiet.
“Well, it was nice of him to come to my show,” I said in a steely voice, not looking up from my food. There was a moment of silence as we slowly chewed our food. I did my best to keep my eyes trained on my plate, slicing my meat with precision.
“I didn’t know you had a show,” he said softly. His words startled me slightly, but still I stared down. He cleared his throat and continued, “Well, um, Mr. Jefferson says you’ve got an incredible piece from that.”
“Well, I came in ninth place, so I guess it was pretty good.” I didn’t mean it to sound so rude, but it came tumbling out unbounded.
“Out of how many?” Good old, reliable Mom: only in it if there was winning involved. I did some rough estimations in my head.
“Round about…two hundred?” They both stopped and stared at me. I knew very well that Ben had never even placed anywhere near there, proportionally, for all his intelligence and natural talents.
“Olivia, that’s amazing!” Dad said with a laugh. He started to reach across and pat my hand, but thought better of it, I suppose, because he let his hand drop to the salt shaker. I shrugged, though I had to fight a small smile.
“It means I move on to the next exhibition,” I said, and allowed myself to peek at them. Dad was still openly gaping at me, but Mom was a little stealthier; she returned to eating steadily, though she shot a few glances of mixed awe and contempt when she thought I wasn’t looking.
“And when is that?” Dad said quickly, smelling the rising trouble. I pierced him with a look. “Maybe I can go.” I nearly snorted; the idea of him leaving the office for even an hour to attend any event of mine seemed ludicrous.
“December 14th,” I said reluctantly. “At my high school.”
“Can’t go,” my mom said abruptly, speaking for the first time since the morning. “Neither of you.” My heart dropped into my stomach.
“Why not?” It came out panicked, shallow, almost childlike.
“The Christmas party?” Her acerbic voice cut into me like a knife. “Your father’s company Christmas party? Ring any bells?” Her expression soured even further than her tone. “Or have you lost all sense of responsibility?”
“Marianne!” my father said sternly. “If she wants to do the show, she’ll do it.”
“She has a duty to her family,” she persisted as I forced back a snort, “and I will not allow her to compromise our reputation among our peers.”
“Among Dad’s bosses, you mean,” I said acidly. “In case you haven’t noticed, Mom, I don’t even encounter anyone from those parties in everyday life. I would do less damage to your reputation far away from them, anyway.”
“What time is your show, Olivia?” Dad cut in, sounding borderline frantic. He seemed desperate to stamp out the growing fire between us, even as Mom and I actively stared into one another with a burning intensity, unwavering and sharp.
“Noon,” I replied, refusing to break my glare with my mother.
“And the party starts at 5:00. You’ll have plenty of time!” He sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile, evidently the only one in any stage of relief. My mom continued to survey me icily, her lips pursed in a hard line.
“You have to be home by 3:30,” she relented finally, “and if you’re not ready in an hour, we’re leaving without you.”
“With a punishment like that, who would be on time?” I muttered under my breath, but not quietly enough to escape Mom’s ears, whose eyes narrowed into slits. I sighed and returned to my plate of food. “I’ll be ready in time.” The rest of the meal passed in relative silence, with a few feeble attempts by my father at conversation that floundered within seconds.
That night in bed I texted Charlotte: “How well do you do hair and makeup?”
Response a minute later: “Look at me, aren’t I always fabulous?”
I smiled. “I need your help then.”
“What’s your payment?”
“…warm fuzzies?”
“Maybe Tara is available…I hear she re-stocked her glitter supply.”
“I’ll pay your Rudy’s tab for a month.”
“Deal. Nice doing business with you.”
 

Traditionally, my parents used Black Friday to visit old friends from college, a mind-numbingly boring event they mercifully hadn’t subjected my brothers and me to in several years. In the past, I had looked forward to using this day to goof off with Ben and Kyle, but their absence forced me into a lonely corner. Nevertheless, as my parents filed out of the apartment (Mom averting her eyes and refraining from speaking to me at all), I found myself suddenly grateful from some time to myself. And I almost got it, too: I had Mudge stowed on one end of the couch and a bowl of popcorn on the other end, ready to channel-surf all day, when there was a buzz from the box by the door.
I stared at it as if it was malfunctioning. Half of me hoped that maybe it was, until it buzzed again. Groaning, I trundled over to answer.
“Hello?” I said, and it sounded much more like a moan than I intended.
“Downstairs in five minutes or you’ll never see your cat again.” I couldn’t help the small turnover of my stomach, though I did feel a wry smile break through my irritation.
“How do you…oh, never mind,” I grumbled, and grabbed my things and headed down the stairs. He was leaning against the wall of my building when I finally made it all the way downstairs.
“What an unpleasant surprise,” I mocked, shoving my hands in my coat pockets.
“Well, in that case, I guess I should…” and he started walking away. The first real laugh in days bubbled out of me, and I reached out a hand to stop him.
“What are you doing here anyway?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. “I thought you were going to be, like, chained to a chair all weekend.”
“What kind of family do you think I have?” His false consternation smoothed into a classic smirk as we rounded a corner. “I caught my parents in a particularly good mood today, so they freed me, and now I am here, clearly brightening your day.” He winked.
“So certain,” I chided and dug my elbow into his side. “Yeah, my parents always take off on Black Friday, and with my brothers gone I would have been alone anyway.”
“Parents?”  He stopped walking in surprise and examined my face, brow wrinkled.
“Yeah. Um. Mother and father. Life-givers. Bane of my existence. Shall I go on?”
“Like, both of them?”
“…yeah.”
“Oh.” He looked down for a moment, forehead creasing even further, and then started walking again. “I just thought…never mind.” He shook his head.
“No, what?”
“Well, you…” he struggled to put whatever it was into words, and I could see, to my amazement, a tinge of embarrassment seep into his eyes. He took a deep breath and said the next words quickly, as if hoping I wouldn’t hear them. “You never really talk about your dad, so I kind of thought he just wasn’t in your life.” He dropped his eyes to the pavement, but looked up when I gave a hard laugh.
“He might as well not be in my life,” I said darkly. I didn’t feel bad for saying it.
“Oh.” Clearly, Shawn didn’t know what to make of that. He tried for a weak return to light humor. “Um…abusive?” I laughed awkwardly, shaking my head.
“Try absentee. He’s got a closer marriage with the office than with my mom, or any of his kids.” Suddenly any cheerfulness faded from me and I looked away, at the sea of strangers. “It wasn’t always like this, but I accepted it as truth a long time ago.” I glanced back at him, smiling scornfully. “He’ll always show up for the important stuff, though.”
Shawn’s eyes probed my face, pushing heat into my cheeks, a shock in the frigidity of the day. Immediately, I looked away, as if that could force the blush back down, but then I felt him slip his hand into mine, and the fiery blood pooling in my cheeks seeped into my veins with a renewed intensity.  My hand, unfamiliar with such contact, reflexively itched to pull away, but instead I leaned into him, a wordless thank-you.
“So where are we going?” I said finally, as we had gone a few blocks east of nowhere. “It is Black Friday after all…I hope you weren’t planning on doing much shopping.”
“What do you take me as, suicidal?” But he did little to assuage that image as he pulled me down into the subway terminal. We swept past flustered tourists trying to load MetroCards and being repaid with rejection beeps.
“Where could we possibly go, that’s safe, which needs the subway?” I asked warily once tucked away in a car. Shawn, standing in front of me, gave me a crooked smile.
“Patience, young one,” he said with a wink. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
We resurfaced five minutes later to the much decreased hustle and bustle of an area I recognized at once: Greenwich Village. Silently I agreed with Shawn’s earlier statement; no mere visitor to the city would think to come here on a big shopping day.
For the end of November, it wasn’t too harshly cold, but tooling around the sidewalks for fifteen minutes was enough for the brisk air to set in and chill my whole body. Though I tried my best not to let my teeth chatter, Shawn noticed in an instant. He ducked into a narrow doorway, seemingly on a whim, and pulled me through, and suddenly we were transported through time and space. I stood transfixed for a time, because we were in the tiniest, cutest coffee shop I had ever laid eyes on. Forget the fluorescent colors and all too familiar trademarks of Dunkin’ Donuts and Starbucks, this was coffee paradise. Maybe three small round tables were crammed between the door and a long counter packed with machines and pastry containers, and the walls, painted a dull green, were nearly covered with eccentric pictures and posters. The smell of coffee roasting was enough to chase out the cold, and my fingers relaxed their stiffened, frozen fists. A girl, not much older than we, was wiping mugs and placing them carefully on a shelf.
“Hey, Alice,” said Shawn with that smothering charm I was growing to count on. Her face brightened at his greeting, and my stomach twisted with this foreign sense of something. Jealousy?
“Oh, hi, Shawn!” Alice said a decibel too loudly.
“Just the regular for me,” he said with a warm smile that visibly melted Alice. She turned to me expectantly, her smile a bit too forced to be natural. I watched her eyes rove critically over my face, and I began to shrink back into myself. I could almost hear Charlotte scolding me: Grow a pair, loser! But before I could do so much as open my mouth to say anything, Shawn quickly said, “And this lovely young lady will have your house special.” Alice’s expression contorted slightly, her mouth puckering at the word “lovely”, but she turned around and busied herself with our drinks. It took several seconds to tear my widened eyes from her back, only to find Shawn staring at me expectantly, his chin perched on top of folded hands. I blinked several times, startled, but his gaze never faltered. Eventually I regained the use of my tongue after great struggle.
“So are you a player or what?” I tried to whisper so that Alice wouldn’t hear, though the words nearly got stuck in my throat. He chuckled and leaned back in his chair, but never dropping his piercing eyes.
“Oh yeah, heartbreak city over here,” he said, and flashed me a smirk. He sighed dramatically then and narrowed his eyes slightly, before saying, “So what do you want?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it, like a deranged fish. “I’m sorry?” Alice came back with our coffees, so I sipped mine to give myself something to do. Unfortunately, I scalded my tongue in the process, and ended more foolishly than I began, clutching my throat and wiping tears from my eyes. I thought I heard a snort from Alice, but I chose to ignore it as my cheeks filled with heat. Impressively, Shawn made not even a peep, though I detected a hint of a laugh in his eyes.
“We’ve got the whole day to ourselves,” he said, knocking back what looked like half his drink with ease. “And an entire city. What do you want?”
“Um…” I could think of one thing, but it sounded ridiculous even in my head.
“Come on, I can see it in there,” he said, swirling his finger around the air in front of my face. I swatted away his hand.
“Well…I never go window shopping,” I said quietly, feeling myself retreating inward. I felt like a little kid again, too terrified of my mother’s eternally full schedule to ask to go to the park. My eyes fluttered ashamedly to my mug, which I was spinning slowly on the table, but looked up again when I heard the clatter of ceramic on glass of Shawn’s mug falling in surprise.
“Your whole life in the city, and you’ve never been window-shopping?”
“You seem positively perturbed,” I said, biting back a laugh.
“This has to be amended! Quick, we must fly!” He dropped some money, grabbed my hand, and dragged me out of the shop without so much as a “see ya” to Alice.
Once we regained a normal pace, Shawn led me past every store and let me view the city as an outsider would. Every building looked exceptionally intrusive, all gray steel and glass. Underneath each impressive tower lay a small shop, some boutiques with toys and clothes, some filled with kitchenware. We took goofy pictures in front of the displays and ran away anytime a shop owner came to scold us. Finally, around noon, we stopped in front of a larger store, cloaked wall to wall in elegant dresses. I fingered my purse wistfully and sighed, dread slowly dawning on me.
“What’s wrong?” Shawn was staring at me as pensively as earlier. “Do you want to go in?”
“I would, but I don’t have enough money,” I said. “It’s a shame, I really need a new gown.”
“What’s the occasion?” He picked under his fingernails, leaning against the window. I sighed again and slumped against the glass too.
“This big Christmas party thing at my dad’s work,” I said, and regretted it the moment it came out when he gave a small snort. I glared at him and continued, “Don’t hate, I don’t want to do this. It’s for my dad’s job.”
“Oh, I gotcha,” he said, tapping his finger on his temple. Then he rolled himself off the window and made for the door. “So what are we waiting for?”
“I—but—I don’t—” I sputtered. I really didn’t have enough money for those dresses, I was sure.
“Don’t you remember?” I stared at him blankly, refusing to move an inch closer to the tempting inside. His face split into a sudden and bright grin. “My father owns one of the biggest corporations in the world. You think I can squander my portion of the inheritance all by myself?” And with that, he pulled me, stumbling, into the store.
I felt obnoxious and uncultured standing in the middle of that floor, well put-together women of a certain age greeting me and pulling dresses off of racks. Shawn took to the sea of fabric, holding up endless colors and styles and placing them upon my neck, wrinkling his nose and muttering to himself. Several times, I had to clutch my side to prevent a gale of laughter at his ridiculous expressions, never sure if they were in jest or if he genuinely knew what he was doing. Soon, I was thrust into a room with a thousand layers of brocade and satin and tulle taking up half of the small space. I donned dress after dress and sashayed out to Shawn, who sat on a ludicrously frothy, pink couch, yeaing and naying with an entitled air.
“You know,” I grunted, voice muffled in material, “I can bring a guest to this thing.” I forced the dress, a pale blue on the verge of cloudlike, around my curves and zipped it up. I stepped out carefully.
“Olivia Rose Aire,” he said, grasping his chest, “are you asking me on—a date?”
“No, I’m asking you to be my date,” I said with a slight edge. He nixed the gown, so I trundled back in and began to peel it off. “I didn’t go last year because I was sick, and I don’t remember exactly how miserable I was by myself the year before that.”
“So you’re asking me to waste away in misery with you?”
“Something like that.” I grabbed the next dress off its hanger and began pulling it on. The rich, forest green silk had a beautiful flare at the bottom but a fitted bodice with buttons down my back, beyond my reach. I sighed. “Shawn, can you come help me? I’m a little out of my own reach.” I heard his deep chuckle and then the swish of the curtain opening. There was no time to adequately prepare myself before his deft fingers were at my back. He whistled long and low.
“Good gracious, I see what you mean,” he murmured. I held my breath in an effort to fake some calm. “When is this thing?”
“The fourteenth, after the competition.”
“Well, I’ll have to clear my schedule of all bumming around for that day.” I snorted derisively, then the air hitched in my chest as he finished with the buttons and let his hands rest just above my hips. Then he gently whispered, “Because I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Staring back at me in the mirror was someone else entirely. It had to be, because Olivia Ahern would never wear such a gown, with such a plunging neckline and such intricate embroidery. And she would never, ever be caught wearing that dress in a dressing room with a boy clutching her waist, the heat from his fingertips somehow bypassing every other surface but her cheeks.
And yet.
“Well,” I said in clipped tones, “I think we have a winner. Unbutton me, please.” But his hold didn’t loosen. I turned my face from the mirror, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at his face. “Shawn.”
“Such a spoilsport,” he chuckled after another moment, a smirk wandering its way back onto his face. Soon enough, I was released from the stays and Shawn left me to redress. I met him at the register, where the cashier gave us a mischievous smile I pretended to ignore. There was a series of beeps and clicks as she rang up the price, and I tapped my fingers nervously against the counter.
“With the Black Friday sale, it came down from $550 to $189,” she said once the receipt stabilized, and I gaped. “How are you paying?”
“I am,” Shawn said with a grievous sigh, as if he had not volunteered for this. He handed over a card, and her smile widened just as he turned his back to her. She whipped the card through the machine and soon we were out the door, me clutching the bag like my life depended on it.
“I can pay you back,” I said. “It wasn’t that bad after all.”
“Nope.”
“But—”
“People deserve gifts every once in a while.” He gave me a sly look. “Consider this your gift for two or three onces-in-a-while.” I punched him on the arm, then, without thinking too hard about it, stretched up and kissed him on the cheek..

   * * *

We stopped in at my apartment so I could hang up my dress, and I left a note for my parents in case, by some miracle, they arrived home before I did.
“Where to now?” I said, jamming the door closed behind me where Shawn was waiting for me in the hallway. He was just getting off his phone, looking uncharacteristically disappointed.
“Change of plans,” he said in a resigned voice. “My parents are going out to dinner and they need me to babysit my little sister.” He shrugged apologetically.
“Okay,” I said, pushing past him. He stood for a moment, confused.
“Where are you going?” he asked to my retreating back.
“To babysit.” I felt a Shawn-like smirk plant itself firmly on my lips as he jogged up next to me.
“You are a goddess,” he said as we made our way down the stairs and to the streets. “Quite literally, the bomb-dot-com.”
Shawn’s apartment was about as far to the right as I could walk. After about twelve blocks, we had passed all my familiar landmarks: the school, Rudy’s, my mother’s building, even a couple of trees I recognized from my childhood. I was just about lost when Shawn stopped in front of an enormous brick building, that reminded me more of a hotel.
“This is where you live?” I said in awe.
“Nope.” I whirled my head around, but he was pointing to the top floor. “That’s where I live.”
“Please tell me there’s an elevator, or a jet at least,” I said. He gave me a disparaging look.
“This close to making you climb.” I gave him a funny face, and he just looked smug.
It took a full minute to reach the penthouse. Well, seventy-six seconds to be exact. Counting was still a bit of a nervous tick. We leaned against opposite walls in silence, like strangers. Maybe he was nervous, too.
“Just a disclaimer,” Shawn said as the doors slid open. “My family is a little nuts.”
“Holy s***,” I breathed in horror, and he gave me a quizzical look. “Not nuts, anything but nuts! Get me out of these uncharted waters!” I turned hastily back to the elevator in mock, and Shawn grabbed me under the arm. My smirk returned. “I can handle nuts.” With a deep breath, he winked at me and swung the door open.
“SHAWN!” An enthusiastic yelp greeted us and a mop of blonde hair came charging down the hallway.
“There’s Birdy!” Shawn was laughing a way I had never heard, clear and pure, and dropped to the ground to roll around with the giggling heap beside him. I stood watching and laughing, but felt awkward nonetheless. Finally, he hoisted himself up, cradling in his arms a small, incredibly excited girl.
“May I present,” Shawn said in a lofty voice, “her squirminess, Lady Alberta Patricia Harrison of Upper East Kingdom, heiress to the throne and keeper of a thousand Barbie dolls.” The girl giggled uncontrollably.
“Well, how do you do, my liege?” I stuck my hand out and curtsied, as she now started to laugh loudly.
“Your stickiness,” Shawn said, “I would like to introduce Miss Olivia Rose Aire, grande artiste and homework aficionado and tonight’s co-babysitter.”
“Do you play Barbies?” Birdy asked suddenly, reaching out to me.
“Not as much as Shawn, I’m sure,” I replied taking her hand as her little face screwed up with laughter. He shot me a vicious glare, but couldn’t help a fresh grin.
Shawn set Birdy down and she pulled me into a vast, autumn-colored room, with plushy couches and pillows stationed in front of a mahogany entertainment set. The floor was littered with dolls and accessories beyond the wildest dreams of any other five-year old. Birdy settled herself in front of a large Barbie Dream House, and beckoned me closer.
“This one is Katrina,” she said, handing me a tall blonde in pink chiffon. “She’s best friends with Brittany, and they’re having a tea party.” She held up a dark-skinned girl dressed head to foot in lime green, then situated her on chair, inviting me to do the same. She stopped, and looked up at Shawn expectantly. He sighed, then grabbed a dashing Ken doll, and knocked on the door of the Dream House like he seemed to have done too many times.
“Katrina, look!” Birdy stood Brittany up in excitement. “It’s Ken!” Brittany opened the door and allowed Ken to trundle through.
“Might I join you for a cup of tea, dear ladies?” Ken said in a grandiose way.
The game continued that way for a solid hour. Birdy kept adding friends and changing outfits, making up more and more ridiculous situations. Shawn and I exchanged many looks and stifled several giggles. Finally, as she started to run out of ideas, Shawn took the opportunity to declare dinnertime.
Birdy kept us entertained all through a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, alternately engaging us in her game and making us double over in laughter. Every now and then, I stole a glance at Shawn, heating food up or washing dishes. The colors in the room seemed to brighten before my eyes with each hidden glance.
After dinner, I noticed Birdy starting to fade, and, not wanting to get her wound up again, I suggested a movie. She bounced over to the TV with what little energy she retained and pulled a DVD off the shelf, pleading Shawn to put it on, to which he gladly obliged. We piled onto the couch, Birdy wedged in between Shawn and me. Shawn hit a button on a remote and the lights dimmed just as the movie started.
“She’s asleep,” I whispered twenty minutes into the movie. I didn’t blame her; it was just a bunch of unicorns dancing around a forest. But Shawn didn’t make any sign of moving her. He just casually tossed an arm around the back of the sofa, his hand grazing the back of my neck, though on purpose or by accident I couldn’t tell. He was careful not to jostle Birdy, for fear of waking her.
Finally, ten minutes and a hundred dead brain cells later, Shawn quietly scooped her up in his arms, silently instructing me to turn off the insipid movie.
“She’s the last door on the left,” he whispered, and I hurried to open the door and turn down the sheets. Her room was as pink and fluffy as the rest of her personality, like a cloud of cotton candy. Shawn gingerly placed her, fully clothed, in the bed, kissed her forehead lightly, and tucked her in tight. I smiled wildly, blushing just a little.
“Thank God that’s over,” Shawn said in a normal voice once we had closed her door shut.
“I think she’s sweet,” I crooned, petting the name plate on her white door. He chuckled darkly and pushed away.
“Just a sweet, everyday reminder that your parents have still got it.” He seemed less than thrilled with the notion.
“Better than watching them crumble,” I murmured, then looked away quickly. It was the first time I had said the words out loud, though they had tumbled around in my head for what must have been years. I felt…dirty. We stood there a moment in silence, the still air a strange comfort.
“Enough of this,” Shawn said finally, pushing away from the door and heading back up the hallway. I followed him through another door, and found myself, for the first time, in a boy’s room.
“What—we—I—” I sputtered.
“Calm down, Clicks,” Shawn said, chuckling, and settled down into a desk chair. He turned on his laptop and pulled up a few pages. “I’m going to go on the assumption that you have yet to apply to any art schools.” He looked up at me, and I just shrugged apologetically. Unruffled, he returned his attention to the screen, and after a minute or two, turned it over to me.
“Shawn…” I started hesitantly.
“You may sit here and apply to all of them until you are blue in the face.”
“Shawn, these are some of the best schools in the country!” I flipped through the tabs of applications: Rhode Island School of Design, the Art Institute of Chicago, California Institute of the Arts…it was overwhelming. “ I’m not going to get in.”
“Who says?” He pierced me with an unfaltering stare, just like earlier. I started to object, but he just cut me off. “You won’t know unless you try.” I hesitated, so unsure of what to do or say next. “But it’s up to you, of course.” And he lay down on his bed with a book. Finally, with a deep breath, I began typing.
I clicked away furiously, deeply immersed in every word. I wrote and rewrote essays, treating each chosen word like a dab of paint. I came to the end of the first application within the half hour until I read the bottom of the page.
“Shawn?” My voice quavered slightly, so I cleared it. “They, uh, they want a portfolio.”
“That’s pretty standard.” He didn’t move from his lounge, unconcerned.
“Well, that’s great and all, but I don’t have one.” The feverish desire that had burned in me minutes before edged away slowly as anxiety and disappointment mounted in.
“Sure you do.” Shawn swung over the bed to the computer, and pulled up a file labeled “portfolio”. “It’s just a scan of some of the pieces you’ve done. Considering your late arrival, I would just scan them all.”
“Scan what?” I was starting to sound a little hysterical now. “Every drawing of Mudge I ever did? The stick figures of my family from kindergarten?”
“Well, maybe not the stick figures, but I’d throw in some of the Mudge montage.” All jokes were, for once, absent from his eyes, his stance, his voice. “A progression of skills over a few years isn’t a bad idea, I’m sure not many people have such a specific set as that. On top of those, you’ve got the melting flower, the new one for the art show, and I’m sure you’ve squirreled away others none of us have or will ever see. With all that extra time with Wes,” he added with a knowing look. I turned my gaze, sheepish. “You’ll be right as rain.”
I sighed. “I hope I can trust you.”
“Have I ever given you reason to doubt me?” He winked, all rogue again. I smiled and glanced at my watch, and did a double-take.
“Holy crap, I gotta go!” I quickly saved my application, grabbed my things, and headed for the door. Shawn walked me to the elevator, and I stopped before I got in. “Hey…thanks.”
“Anytime, Clicks.” He smiled, grabbed my hand, and kissed it.
I was safely in the elevator before I realized I had been holding my breath.

Life sped up immediately following that weekend, as it always has. Brothers or no brothers, Mom cheered up with Christmas around the corner. Nothing put her in high spirits like decorating. I avoided the whirlwind as much as possible by staying late afterschool. I soon had a small stack of pieces to join the others I had squirreled away, just as Shawn had guessed, and they were all scanned and sent off with my applications.
Now that I had taken the deep plunge, I was quickly becoming obsessed with the idea of art school. I found myself, more than once, giddy with anticipation, spending hours every night investigating programs instead of doing homework, or else checking on my applications. Most of the schools I had applied to would not get back to me for another few months, a fact of which I made myself well aware, but still I checked, just to be certain.
“How is everyone doing with preparations for this weekend’s competition?” We were all huddled in the art room on a particularly rainy Thursday afternoon in early December. I shifted nervously in my seat next to my most recent pile of paintings. I glanced around at everyone else, some fingering their brushes distractedly, or else staring directly at their canvases. Charlotte was dabbing some more strokes onto a deeply blue-violet piece; Cole was murmuring Spanish under his breath in a steady stream, christening his Picasso-like abstraction; Tara’s watercolor meadow practically puffed off the easel like pastel cotton candy. Shawn was the only one who faced Wes confidently, brushes aside and painting pristine as usual.
“What are the specifics on this exhibition again?” I asked. I knew them all by heart. Someone else’s confirmation made it seem more achievable.
“Arrive at the school around 11:45. Set up. Schmooze for about an hour after everyone is ready, then they read off the winners.”
“Which will take how long again?”
“Well, it’s a much shorter list than before. Only the top twenty-five continue. So that might take…fifteen minutes? Twenty if we get a slow counter.”
I did the math. By his calculations, I should be home before 2:00, which would suit my mother just fine. Shawn shot me a wink and a small, reassuring smile. I smiled weakly back.
I studied each of my new pieces with care. They were so vastly different from my imaginings, and from each other. My first successful attempt at oil painting lay against my easel, each stroke punctuated and deliberate: it almost looked like pointillism, all different shades of blues combining to form some sort of jagged rain. Another picture stood next to it, this one a revamped Mudge picture. I was able to achieve such lifelike textures and gradients with the techniques I had learned from Wes, she looked as though she might curl off the canvas and into my lap. But the one drying on the easel was my new favorite: rich, vibrant fire hues that created the most perfect, most glamorous watercolor sun. It filled me with a light I often lost upon going home.

   * * *

Saturday dawned bright and sharply cold, just like my mother’s mood. With a twinge of guilt, I realized she had a point, however misguided: she didn’t even know if I had a dress yet. It would appear, from the outside, I really had turned my back on my family.
I took an extra-long, boiling hot shower to steam out my negative energy. Charlotte had instructed me to do nothing in the way of makeup or hair, by threat of “accidental” blue hair dye, so I left everything untouched.
It was only 10:00 in the morning when I found I could no longer stand my mother’s frost or my father’s saccharine encouragement. Making sure I had all I needed for later, I said a hasty farewell and headed out the door. My feet carried me all the way out of the building before my brain asked, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” But it felt about two degrees, so I urged myself forward and into the nearest store: a drugstore.
I had no idea what I was supposed to do for an hour and a half in the local CVS, but it was warm and much friendlier than my own home climate. I perused the shelves without purpose. The knick-knacks and remedies were comforting, though rationally I knew that was impossible. Eventually, I came to a stop right in front of the makeup.
Never in my life had I seen so much makeup in so many different colors. Mom hadn’t bought me much makeup in my lifetime; when I was about twelve, I asked her why, and she said that I didn’t need it. I took that to mean it was impractical to own, but now…now I wondered if she thought I was pretty without it.
“Miss?”
I blinked and looked around. A tall man, maybe about Kyle’s age, was standing next to me, an anxious expression on his face. “Yes?”
“I asked if you needed any help.” His eyes were slightly concerned, but his voice was kind. I momentarily wondered how many times he had asked me that question, but I pushed it from my mind.
“Uh…no, thank you,” I said, struggling to smile genuinely. He smiled back.
“Well, just let me know.” He trudged back to the desk, and I was alone once more.
I set off down the aisle, pulling bottles and jars off the shelves ask I went. They were just like paints, some nice than others, all in luxurious colors and textures. I spent an hour texting Charlotte for advice, picking out the best options, and finally unloading onto the counter. The man from before looked a little flabbergasted, but chattered away, complimenting my eye and taste.
“Have a good one!” he called as I ventured back out into the frigid air.
I took my time walking to school. In no way did I want to swing by the apartment, even for just a few minutes. Better by far to be early to the competition.
To my surprise, I was not alone, though I arrived nearly twenty minutes early. Wes was already putting up signs when I got there. Quite impressive, considering his notoriety for tardiness afterschool.
“Olivia, good! Come help me.” He thrust a pile of numbered papers at me. “These go along the wall in chronological order, you know…well, of course you do, big brain like that.” I chuckled darkly.
“Not as big as my brothers’ brains, I assure you.” I sounded bitter even to my own ears.
“You kidding me? I’ve seen your transcripts!” I shot him an inquiring look, and he looked away sheepishly. “Before you started coming afterschool. I wanted to see if you’ve ever taken any art class here.”
“Wouldn’t you have known me if I had?”
“I only started working here two years ago, after your freshman year and some of your sophomore year.”
“Oh…that must be why I didn’t know you either.” That and I had thought his profession to be ludicrous.
“Anyway, I have seen your grades, and they’re…quite impressive. What’s your class rank?”
“Fifth. But that’s really nothing, Ben was valedictorian.”
“Olivia.” Wes sounded uncharacteristically serious. I stopped taping up signs and looked at him. “You’ve got to stop comparing yourself to other people. It’s not healthy.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing today?” I stared him down hard.
“As much as students come here to compete, they also come just to show off. Each person has talent worth sharing, and deserves equal respect as the first place winner or the last.”
I could hear opening doors and footsteps approaching, but Wes held my stare. I felt myself begin to falter, slowly cracking down the middle as his words really sunk in. Then I felt arms around my waist and I was lifted off the floor.
“Cole!” I squealed, and he set me down with a rumbling laugh. Tara was also there, and pulled me into a fierce hug. Charlotte rolled in a moment later.
“Got some goodies for me?” she asked, and took my shopping bag to examine the contents.
“You ready for tonight?” said a voice from behind me. I sighed, and turned to find Shawn, cheerful as ever.
“Which part?” I said. I sounded unnecessarily exasperated, but I couldn’t control myself at the moment.
“Oh, it’ll be a barrel of laughs, don’t you think Clicks?” I shoved his arm and set off to put my display together.

   * * *

The process went much faster this time. I took a leaf out of Shawn’s book, and plastered a charming smile on my face every time a judge passed by. I engaged them in polite conversation, describing and explaining my pieces. I had chosen the sun and the rain pieces, for their obvious dichotomy that somehow brought them together.
We were all more confident. Since the first exhibition, I had gained more of an eye for fine art, and some of the things there simply were not fine. It looked as if some students had just slapped some paint on a canvas the night before, and yet they guarded their work haughtily; one girl caught me staring at her peculiar mish-mosh of dissimilar colors and gave me the stink-eye.
“Will everyone please gather in front of the podium for the results?” A stuffy old woman beckoned us a while later, gesturing to about a hundred chairs. Our school cafeteria was not large, but it looked exceptionally small as we all packed into that one area, nerves taut.
“Before we read off the finalists,” the woman said, and the buzz of chatter died as everyone took their seats, “I would just like to congratulate everyone on a wonderful display of skill. It is truly an honor to be party to such youthful talent in the arts.
“A quick reminder that this competition narrows down to twenty-five contestants in the state-wide exhibition in April. The top ten finalists at that event are guaranteed a $10,000 scholarship, each.” My jaw dropped. No one had informed me of that tidbit. Suddenly, placing well today became much more significant.
“And here we are,” the woman said, as another older woman handed her a list. “As before, finalists will be identified by the number assigned them. Starting in 25th place: number forty-two…number twelve…number seven…”
I sat biting my lip almost viciously. Statistically, my name not yet being called could be equally good and bad. All five of us were in the thirties: Cole was thirty-one, I was thirty-two, Charlotte thirty-three, Shawn thirty-four, and Tara thirty-five. Charlotte grabbed my right hand and Cole’s left, so I grabbed Shawn’s in my left, and Cole found Tara’s. I had never felt so cared for as in that moment.
“Number thirty-five.”
We all jumped and hooted, as Tara exhaled sharply. Her relax fed us all, and the tension began to fade.
Cole came next. He stood up and did some nasty gyration of his hips, and Charlotte tugged him down just in time for Shawn to be called. More wild applause. Charlotte came in somewhere around ten. But I was not picked. We were getting closer and closer to the end. This was it. My fool’s errand had come to a close.
“And finally, number thirty-two. Congratulations.”
I couldn’t move. The wind was knocked clean out of me as my friends shot up wildly. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, but I just laughed them away. Charlotte and Shawn yanked me up and enveloped me in a hug, joined quickly by Cole and Tara. I couldn’t breathe; and I couldn’t be happier not to.
“Not to kill the mood,” Charlotte said in a muffled tone, “but I don’t like any of you this much.” We slowly disentangled our various limbs and took a breather. “All right, sister, we should skedaddle. And so should you,” she added poking Shawn in the chest. I had filled her in on the particulars of our deal. “It’ll take hours to get you cleaned up.”
“Speaking of,” Shawn said, turning serious, “I might be a little late tonight. My parents need me for a couple hours.”
“That’s okay,” I said, breathing out a little. It really was. I was worried he might think he needed to pick me up, but clearly that was not the case. So Charlotte and I said our goodbyes, got a few congratulatory hugs from Wes, and hustled out the door.
“A word of advice for you about my mother,” I told Charlotte as we made our way to my apartment. “She won’t like you.”
“That’s fine, I don’t think even my own mother likes me.”
“Well, as long as you’re prepared.” We turned into my building and started up the stairs. “But do yourself a favor and stick to ‘hello’, ‘goodbye’, and ‘Lovely apartment’. And scurry away.”
“I can handle myself.” We stopped in front of my door, and she touched my arm with a serious look; “But thank you.” I smiled a little, then pushed the door open with the usual force.
“Olivia? Is that you?” My mom’s voice floated in from her room.
“Yeah,” I called back, and tried, unsuccessfully, to hustle Charlotte back into my room before Mom came out.
“How was the competition?” she asked as walked out of her room in a silk robe, then stopped. “Who’s this?”
“Mom, this is my friend Charlotte. She’s going to help me with my hair and makeup.” I didn’t bother reminding her that she had at least seen Charlotte once before.
“That’s nice of you,” my mother said with a tight smile. I saw her eyes rove over Charlotte, taking in every detail: her dark yet precise makeup, the edgy clothes, her chin turned up defiantly, her shiny hair which was brown any other minute but shone a gorgeous dusty violet in the light. I was sure my mom’s thoughts were anything but complimentary, but I was gradually realizing the terrifying beauty of my friend. “Well, you’ve got a couple hours. Remember, out the door by 4:30.”
“Got it! Thanks!” I grabbed Charlotte by the arm and pulled her into my room.
“Jesus, obsessed with your cat?” Charlotte said as I closed the door. Mudge herself was sprawled on my bed, and lifted an eyelid open as Charlotte began stroking her gingerly.
“My best subject.” I emptied my bag of makeup on the floor. “My only subject, really.”
“She is a cutie,” Charlotte said distractedly, a real smile playing softly on her lips.
“Okay, I…don’t know what to do with any of this stuff,” I admitted, helplessly lost. Charlotte snapped out of her trance, rolled her eyes, and joined me on the floor.
It took half an hour for her to do my makeup, because she was teaching me along the way. Her tiny strokes tickled a little, but I didn’t fidget so she wouldn’t mess up. When I opened my eyes finally, my face felt oddly stiff; I was afraid to close my eyes for fear that my eyelashes had turned to actual butterflies at her hands and might fly away.
Hair was more difficult. We commandeered the curling iron and hairspray from the bathroom, and she set off twisting and pinning and spraying. She muttered frustrations under her breath about the quality of my hair, and swatted me every time I tried to apologize. “Not your fault,” she repeated over and over.
After what felt like an hour, my hair was secured tightly to my head. Charlotte had managed to work some sort of magic, and I could tell it was fabulous even though she ushered me out the door before I caught a glimpse.
“Where’s your dress?” Charlotte was back on the bed, snuggled up against Mudge. “I want to make sure it was worth sacrificing my fingers to that hair.” I giggled and dug into my closet. I found the bag hidden in the back and unearthed it carefully. As I pulled the bag away from the garment, and instantly heard a gasp.
“Damn, girl,” she breathed, and got up to inspect the fabric more closely. “If I ever doubted your taste before, I truly apologize.”
She helped me shimmy out of my jeans and shirt, cautious not to disturb the hairdo, and slowly stepped into the gown. It was even better than I remembered, with the rest of me looking glamorous.
“You got any bling? Shoes?” I pointed at my dresser top, and Charlotte retrieved the jewelry I had bought a few days after my outing with Shawn while I strapped on my heels.
I glanced at the clock. 4:15. Breathing out a sigh of relief, I fastened the jewelry to my ears, neck, and wrist, and took a few tentative steps in the heels. Everything seemed well-attached, and I didn’t feel uncomfortable in the shoes. I took a little spin, and Charlotte gave an almost Tara-like giggle. I started laughing, then finally saw myself in the mirror on my door, and my breath caught.
“Is…is that me?” I whispered, and Charlotte snorted, but looped her arm around my waist.
“Yes, dummy,” she said, and gave my arm a little squeeze. “Now come on, you have to go outside sometime.”
I teetered out the door and into the main room, where my parents were waiting. When they turned toward the sound of my shoes, their jaws both dropped visibly.
“My goodness,” Mom said, shocked. “You look…just…”
“…amazing,” my father finished. I hadn’t even heard him come home, but he was appropriately clad in the tux he saved for special occasions. My mom was also properly dressed, draped in a beautiful black dress, her diamonds glistening on her ears. But she looked at me like I was a whole new gem of my own. I looked away, blushing minutely, knowing I should still be angry with her, though it was harder when she looked so…proud. Charlotte cleared her throat awkwardly.
“Oh, uh, Dad, this is my friend, Charlotte,” I said hastily, and they shook hands.
“You paint together?” he asked, more cordial than Mom a few hours earlier.
“Yes, sir,” Charlotte replied. “Your daughter is incredibly talented. She just placed first at the competition this morning.” I was startled by the sudden advertisement and praise, and was tempted to bury my face in my hands, but I didn’t want to screw up my makeup.
“Is that right?” He seemed sincerely impressed, and gave me a stunned smile. He looked about ready to hug me, but stayed away. “Sweetheart, that’s fantastic!”
“It really is, Olivia,” my mom said, but her eyes weren’t convincing me. It felt all like a show for Charlotte.
“Thank you,” I said with a cold smile. “Should we get going?”
“Yes!” Dad said, looking at his watch. “Charlotte, it has been a pleasure.”
“That it has, Mr. Ahern,” Charlotte said, taking her leave. “Olivia, I’ll see you later. Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Ahern.” And she was out the door.
“Olivia, grab a sweater or a coat,” said Mom, grabbing her own purse and overcoat. I rustled through the closet by the door and pulled out my only nice-looking coat, and grabbed the clutch I had set aside. “Everyone ready? Good.”

   * * *

We pulled up in front of a grandiose stone building a half hour later. According to the sign, it was some extremely fancy hotel, but it looked more like a castle to me. Like where the king and queen of Manhattan might live and rule the city from.
A pimply teenage boy in a red suit jacket, hardly older than me, claimed the keys from my father and drove away to park his beloved vehicle. My dad spent an hour every Sunday washing and waxing that precious car, for which he saved pennies for years. I had to give him credit; it had to be more than ten years old, but it still looked like new.
“Good evening, ladies, gentleman,” said an older man in the same red jacket. “Just through these doors and it’s the first room on the right.”
I smiled at him, and turned to wait for my parents, who were talking with another couple. The dying light of the winter sun peaked through a wall of buildings. My fingers instinctively twitched, looking for a brush and paint, but I balled my hands into fists and headed inside.
Even without the excitement and extravagance of the party, the building was ornately beautiful in its own right. The marble tile on the floor perfectly highlighted the high, stone ceiling, with pillars carved into the walls. Gorgeous brass adornments scaled the doorways and matched the vases placed on delicate glass tables. Inside the room, an illusion was spread before us: the whole room seemed to be wrapped in an incredible veil of gold. A towering Christmas tree stood in every corner, and about a hundred rounded tables, elegantly clothed, peppered the floor. An orchestra played a soft waltz in front of a wide expanse of floor, clearly meant for dancing.
“Little bug!” I heard from the side, and then I was attacked by giant pairs of arms. I laughed, and returned the hug to my brothers as best I could.
“Stop calling me that!” I said, pouting.
“Hey, you’re the one who ate the bug!” Kyle said with a broad grin.
“I was five! And you made me!” I shoved him gracelessly, and he fell into Ben, who was escorting his longtime girlfriend, Kate. She gave a small yelp, then detached herself from his arm to hug me tightly.
“My God, Olivia! You’re all grown up!” she said brightly.
“I’ll never look like you, though,” I conceded happily. She did look stunning in a deep burgundy sheath dress.
“Kate!” My mom had caught up, and wrapped Kate in a hug.
Ben escorted us to their table. “Is there room for one more?” I asked. He raised both eyebrows.
“Why, Miss Olivia, do you have a date?” He was playing with me, but I could only blush. Ben and Kyle started laughing raucously. “Wait, seriously? A boy is coming here for you?”
“Is it so unbelievable?” I said hotly, now defensive.
“Of course not!” Kyle said through a laugh. “It’s just…you’re our baby sister, you know?” I rolled my eyes.
“Don’t start getting sentimental on me now. And he’s just a friend.”
“Oh, right, sure,” Ben said, and winked. “We’ve heard that before. Hey, Mom do you know this date of your daughter’s?”
“Date?” Mom looked at me in surprise. “You didn’t say anything about a date, Olivia.” I shrugged, but I did look at her apologetically.
“It slipped my mind, I guess. He’s really just a friend, though; I didn’t want to be the only one at the table alone.” A man offered to check my coat as I spoke, and I gave it up, though I kept my purse close to me. “He should be here any minute.”
Except he wasn’t. Five minutes passed, and no sign of Shawn, I fingered my phone in my bag, constantly checking the time. Ten minutes, and still Shawn didn’t arrive. Ben and Kyle were giving me hell the whole time.
“I don’t know, Ben,” Kyle said seriously at 5:30, “I’m not sure this date exists.”
“I’m with you, Kyle, he sounds too good to be true,” said Ben, stroking an imaginary mustache.
“I haven’t told you anything about him!” I said peevishly.
“His presence on this Earth is too much to believe,” said Kyle. I was just about to punch him when I felt a body behind us.
“No need to fight over me, there’s enough for everyone.”
I turned on my heel, literally, and came face-to-chest with Shawn. He didn’t look cute or hot; he looked handsome and mature in a crisp, clean black tux, his hair perfect, his eyes clear, his very atmosphere the epitome of charm.
“You’re late,” I said, trying not to sound breathless.
“I told you I might be,” he said with a smirk.
“My, my, my, Olivia,” Kyle said, interrupting us, “you were right. He was worth the wait. Don’t you think, Ben?”
“Oh, yes,” Ben chimed in. “He’s a cutie.” I groaned aloud. But to my utter astonishment, Shawn laughed.
“I like to think so, yes.” And then all three of them were guffawing and talking like old friends. I looked at Kate in bemusement. Boys, she mouthed, and I giggled.
We all settled down at the table, Shawn at my right hand, Ben at my left. Shawn greeted my parents warmly, which was returned equally. As dinner was being served, he kept up with the conversation like the perfect diplomat, and even made my mother laugh.
“And you’re an artist as well, son?” my father asked over a glass of white wine.
“That is correct,” said Shawn. There was a confidence in him I had never seen before; cockiness, yes, but absoluteness like that? I was almost in awe.
“And what is it that draws one to painting, Shawn?” said my mother. She sounded casual, but I’m sure she was waiting to hear all about the brainwash techniques they had used on me. I got a glare ready just in case.
Shawn took his time formulating an answer: he took a bite of chicken and wiped his mouth, slowly, thoughtfully. “It’s not something that draws you in randomly, Mrs. Ahern,” he said finally with a winning smile. “Some people are just born with paint for blood.”
“How quaint,” she said with her own charming smile. “Although, if I’m not much mistaken, Olivia never exhibited artistic tendencies before this year.” Sugary, buttery; she might as well have been a Southern dessert.
“Yeah,” Ben piped up. I’m sure he could smell the trouble brewing. “When Mom told me, I couldn’t believe it. I’ve never even seen you draw, little bug.”
“That’s not true,” Kyle said with an impish grin. “She did a pretty impeccable rendering of you when she was, like, three.”
“Oh, you mean with my head sprouting limbs?”
“That’s the one!” Everyone chortled appreciatively. The mood lightened immediately, but I knew my mother’s eyes were still on me.
“Shall we dance?” Shawn whispered in my ear. My eyes flashed to the empty dance floor.
“I don’t dance,” I said, a little frantically.
“You do now.” He took my hand and hoisted me up from my chair. “If you’ll excuse us, this is our song.” He led me away from the table.
“Our song? It sounds like Mozart.”
“Brahms, actually.” I fixed him with a look. He sighed. “I’ve been to a lot of things like this. I know my way around a fancy evening.”
“Well, bully for you, but I still can’t dance.” I was definitely getting hysterical now; about eight hundred pairs of eyes had shifted to follow us.
“Relax,” he breathed. “Left hand on my shoulder.” I did so as he drew my other hand up and placed his free hand on the small of my back. He kept a polite distance, but the cut of the back of my dress was so low that his hand pressed into naked skin. The heat seared my whole body, and then I was lost: lost in the music, lost in his intense eyes boring into mine, lost in the haze of the room.
We twirled slowly, moving with a synchronization I didn’t know existed. More and more couples joined us on the floor, but I hardly noticed. I had no idea if seconds or days passed before he spoke again. “You are exquisite tonight.” I blushed and looked down shyly.
“Thank Charlotte, she’s the mastermind,” I muttered, but he lifted my chin and stared straight into me.
“No one thanks the artist of a masterpiece,” he whispered. I’m not sure I’d ever seen him so serious. And then his face crinkled up into another crooked smile. “So your parents seem nice. I can’t see why you have problems with them.” I snorted in derision. And then I just laughed. And we were laughing together for the very first time, and it was so…
“Blue,” I said aloud.
“I beg your pardon?”
“This is all very blue,” I clarified. Shawn still looked bewildered. “If I painted you right now, it would be all in blues.” I suppose it sounded ridiculous out loud.
“You can see that?” He looked and sounded floored. I nodded slowly. “That’s, well…incredible.”
“Really?” I never thought of it as unique, just… an art thing to do. “You don’t”
“Never! You, Clicks, are something special.” I laughed uneasily. “So if I look very blue, what are you?”
I pondered it for a moment. “A red violet.”
“Interesting…and our dance?” I started to feel very hot.
“Um…sort of, silvery.” I gulped. His eyes burned with mischief as his arms tightened around me, forcing me closer as he bent his head down and placed his mouth at my ear.
“And now?” he crooned with the music.
“Gold,” I replied in a trembling, throaty whisper.
The strings gave a final strum, and the music died.

My door opened with a loud bang the next morning, startling me as light flooded the room. I turned over with a moan, then felt a large body plop down at the edge of my bed.
“So what happened with Stud Muffin last night?” I opened one eye a sliver, and found Ben chowing down on a bowl of cereal.
“Don’t you have your own apartment with people to annoy?” I growled, and rolled back over.
“Kate’s going back to Minnesota for Christmas, and who wants to be alone for the holidays? Huh, little bug?” He poked my leg incessantly.
“Don’t call me little bug!” It would have been more menacing if it wasn’t blocked by a pillow. Ben snorted and got up.
“This conversation isn’t over, Liv.” And my door clicked shut again.
There was no point in trying to fall back asleep, I realized with a sigh. He brought up a good question. What had happened last night? I rolled onto my back and stared up at the ceiling.
Nothing. Nothing had happened, but everything changed. I felt a shift in Shawn under my fingers as we danced. His every move was deliberate, calculated, but there was a fire in his eyes. At the end of the night, he kissed my hand like a proper gentleman, like Black Friday, but he somehow maintained both a mischievous smirk and a serious gaze. I saw my mother give him an approving nod as she took my father’s arm, but then he was gone again.
I rolled onto my side in my bed and watched the pieces of dust swirling around the slits of light from my window, and sighed again.
The sun set and rose again. Extraordinary melts into ordinary without a second glance. And I was just going to have to deal with it.
Activity was slow in the rest of the apartment. Mom was still asleep, and Dad was probably cleaning his car again. Kyle and Ben sat on the floor, violently playing a video game like they were still twelve and fourteen I shook my head, and went for some cereal of my own.
At noon, my mother drifted out of her bedroom, showered and fully dressed. “My, look at the time!” she said brightly. I smiled to myself; it was so refreshing to see her so happy. I didn’t even roll my eyes when she instructed me to do my homework.

   * * *

That night, after a rousing game of Scrabble, the whole family lounged on the couch for a good Sunday night movie.
“Olivia, all your work is done, right?” Mom said from her end.
“Yep,” I said automatically, not looking at her. In actuality, I had an outline to finish, but I was getting sick of her hounding me every day.
“Good,” she said, sounding a little distracted. “You should get your break work early so you can start working on it. I expect you won’t have much time.” My eyes flicked over to hers for a moment.
“Why?” Was she perhaps realizing my duty to painting for the next few months.
“You don’t want to have too much to do while we’re at your grandparents’ house.” I groaned, but I wasn’t alone.
“Mom, really? Do we have to?” Kyle whined.
“Yeah, we go every year,” Ben agreed.
“Which is why we have to go!” Mom sounded shocked at this sudden uprising. “They love seeing you, you know that.” I couldn’t really attest that; last time I saw my grandmother, all she could say for me was that I had finally developed real breasts.
“It’s such a snore-fest,” said Kyle, pleading with his whole body.
“We are going, and that is final.” The three of us straightened up when we heard the familiar and unmistakable steel in our mother’s voice.
“Come on, kids,” my dad put in finally as he plopped down with a bowl of popcorn, “it’s family tradition! And we don’t leave for another week…it’ll be fine.” I felt Ben give an almost imperceptible snort next to me.
I suffered through the rest of the movie in silence, my mind completely elsewhere. Besides the mind-numbing boredom of Christmas at Grandmas and Grandpa’s, I would be away from my paints for at least a week. I couldn’t bear to think how it might affect my progress, something no one else in the room understood, clearly.
I voiced my concerns to Wes the next day afterschool. He didn’t seem nearly as worried.
“You could always bring your paint things with you,” he suggested, as he put aside some papers.
“And risk them being burned or otherwise harmed? No, thank you,” I said, and he laughed.
“Well, you could at least bring a sketchpad. You’ll be in a new atmosphere. It might be a good time to stretch some of your other artistic legs.”
“For a whole week?”
“I know you’re skeptical.” He smiled kindly. “It’ll all be okay.”
I still wasn’t convinced.
I did my best the whole week to get ahead, both in art and in school. My mom was right: I wasn’t going to have a lot of time while we were away.
“Olivia! Wait up!” Shawn called to me down the hall afterschool on Friday. “I’ll walk with you.”
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I said with a giggle once he fell into step.
“As fate would have it, Tara stuck some mistletoe on Wes’s doorframe, and I have no intention of walking under it with her.” He gave me a look that set off tingles along my skin, and I looked away. Things were a little different between us after the Christmas party; I had been so busy, and we never had a chance to hang out with each other. Or with the rest of the group for that matter.
We walked the last leg in relative silence. Once we got to the door of the art room, there was in fact a sprig of mistletoe hanging above us, like a small, demonic ornament of tension and awkwardness. We were about to enter the room, but Shawn shot out an arm and cleared his throat.
“I would recommend going in one by one,” he said in an undertone. I raised an eyebrow coyly.
“What, you don’t want to kiss me?” I whispered, and smirked just as he would. He chuckled deeply and leaned in very close.
“Not in front of our art teacher and a half-naked painting of Venus,” he breathed, and then walked through, making me once again the stock-still one.
This afternoon’s meeting was more of a party than anything. Wes had nicked some food from the teachers’ lounge, and we sat around chatting and laughing. Cole was trying to pull one of us girls under the mistletoe, and when that didn’t work, he started bribing Shawn.
“Dude, no!” Shawn yelped as Cole wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Look, take it as a compliment,” Cole said, moving in closer. “My standards are pretty high…if I try to woo you, that means you’re definitely a hot piece of ass.” He winked, and Shawn shoved his head away. We girls burst into a fit of giggles, and Cole erupted with laughter. Shawn shrunk into his seat, looking grumpy.
“All right, all right,” Wes said, laughter dying. “I think we should wrap it up for today.” We all started moving around, throwing out trash, packing our book bags. “I would ask that you all take your paint things home with you over the break…they’ll be safer there.” I shot him a look of indignation, but didn’t dare talk back to a teacher, even Wes. He looked back at me with a finality only I could understand.
“So, what holiday fun will you be having?” Shawn asked me as he sidled up next to me. I snorted.
“None,” I said. “We’re packing up and shipping out to my grandparents’ house for the week.”
“Oh,” he said, trying to look stoic like usual, but he almost sounded disappointed. “You’ll be there all break?”
“No, we get back next Saturday.”
“So you’ll be home for New Years?”
“Uh…yeah, I guess.” I kept me head bent down as I packed up my paintings, but I glanced up at him through my eyelashes.
“Well, it’s your lucky day, then,” he said with a sly smile. “My parents are throwing a New Year’s Eve party. Small, cozy.”
”Cozy, in your apartment.”
“Birdy will be awake for at least the first hour.”
“I’m there.” I smiled, and backed out of the classroom. “What time?”
“9:00,” he called. “And stay semi-formal…leave your fancy wear at home unless you want fifty-year old men chasing you.” He winked. “Merry Christmas, Clicks.”

   * * *

My grandparents lived in upstate New York, four hours away from the city. They used to be in Ohio, where my mother grew up as an only child, but once the grandkids started popping out, Grandma insisted on moving closer.
When we struck out Sunday morning, I couldn’t help feeling more and more lonely with each passing hour. The sky was a dirty gray, clouds sculpted out of the vast expanse of heaviness. Though it was hard to feel too miserable; the farther we got from home, cement and glass gave way to tree-covered mountains, until we finally entered a valley, completely surrounded by sloping greenery.
“Almost there!” Dad said in a sing-song voice. I leaned my forehead against the icy glass of the window and peered out of it. I could see the small, familiar house sitting on its own atop the only high point. Smoke was puffing out of the chimney cheerily, and small lights glittered along the roof. It was the perfect Norman Rockwell painting.
“Marianne!” My grandmother met us as we pulled into the driveway, her arms up in excitement as she trotted through the thin blanket of snow. “Kids! Oh, George, the kids are here!” she called over her shoulder.
“Mom, it’s freezing out here!” my mother said sheepishly, but allowed her mother a hug and a kiss.
“Oh, hush,” Grandma said, moving to my dad. “Jacob!” she said warmly, giving him an equally warm smile.
“Always a pleasure, Millie,” said Dad, hugging her tightly. I tried to busy myself with my bags, but Grandma got me with a hug before long.
“Beautiful girl,” she cooed, just as she had since I had been born. She cupped my cheek with one hand, gnarled with use and age, and I remembered for the first time all week that I loved my grandparents’ house. “But where are the boys?”
“They’re driving up separately,” my mom said. “There’s not enough room in our car for all of us, now they’re all grown.” She frowned slightly and swept the road for incoming cars. “They should have been here just after us, actually.”
“I’m sure they just stopped off for an adventure, or a beer run,” came a deep voice from the door. My grandfather had just walked out to join us, giving an almost stern smile which fit his forbidding stature. “Boys will be boys.” He stuck a hand out to my suddenly dwarfed father. “Jacob. How you doing, son?”
“Fine, George, just fine.” My father fixed Grandpa with a strong smile and handshake, and I heard his voice deepen ever so slightly.
Grandpa gave my mom a small kiss on the cheek, then turned and put his hands on my shoulders. “You are just growing like a weed, young lady,” he said, though I hadn’t had a growth spurt in probably five years.
“Thanks, Grandpa,” I said with an awkward grin. I couldn’t help feeling intimidated.
“Well, let’s get out of this cold,” Grandma said, bustling around the car. “Let me take something.”
“No, Mom, we’re fine,” Mom said, sounding exasperated. “Just go inside before you catch your death.”
“I believe I am your mother, not the other way around.” Grandma sounded cross, but trudged inside anyway.
We were safely tucked away within the warmth of the house for nearly half an hour, drinking tea in front of a crackling fire, before Ben and Kyle tumbled through the door. They were quickly enveloped in hugs and kisses.
“Dinner, I think!” Grandma said, clapping her hands, and we shuffled into the dining room. Tantalizing smells hit us as we clambered into the room. Again, the dining room was picturesque: the windows were draped in elegant shades of green, red, and gold, beside a table cloaked in what looked like magic. Candles in ornate gold candlesticks sat in the middle of a perfect wreath, and seemed to glisten.
“Grandma, this is amazing,” Kyle said with a charming smile. “Food’s in the kitchen?” Without an answer, the three of us kids hurried to the kitchen for the steaming dishes of food.
“So I’m saying tomorrow night until Grandma drives Mom nuts,” Kyle said in an undertone.
“Nah, definitely Christmas morning,” Ben muttered. “Liv?”
“End of tonight,” I said, glancing over at the adults in the other room.
In fact, Mom was looking increasingly strained throughout dinner, though it was easily masked. She kept quiet, mostly eating and tittering at Grandpa’s stories, though the laugh was only ever half-hearted.
“—and then  I said, I’ll tell you what I said, I said, ‘Lady, you can shove these crappy golf clubs right up your—”
“I think we get the picture, George,” Grandma interrupted sharply, though both my father and her husband had tears of mirth in their eyes. Ben and Kyle were grinning broadly, but I think they were watching Mom’s eyes narrow at her father.
“Ah, well,” Grandpa sighed, wiping his eyes. “So, Marianne, still at the firm, are you?”
“Uh, yeah,” Mom stammered, surprised to be spoken to and caught midway through a sip of wine. I exchanged a glance with my brothers.
“Well, any job is better than no job,” my grandma said with the smallest of sighs, though her smile never faded. My mother’s froze, however.
“I do what I have to for my family,” she said through slightly clenched teeth. “Maybe it’s not glamorous, but we have two, soon to be three, college tuitions to pay. A fate from which you were spared.” My brothers and I immediately dropped our gazes to our plates and Dad seemed unfoundedly interest in the chandelier.
“A very worthy cause,” Grandpa said quickly, and reached over to pat Mom’s hand in an attempt to melt the sudden ice. “Your mother and I are proud of you every day, aren’t we, dear?” he added to his wife.
“Of course!” Grandma said genuinely as if nothing happened.
Dinner and dessert were much more subdued and stiff. My mother gave many furtive glares at Grandma, but kept silent, as though she might explode if allowed to speak again.
“Look at the time!” Grandma said, though it was only 8:30. “You’ve all had a long journey. Bed.” I suppressed a small laugh.
I unpacked my things in my room, the same as it always was. It even had the purple bedspread and walls I ‘d pined for as a little girl. Now, as I laid my sketching pad on the bed, all I wanted was Mudge, to bury my face in her fur and forget the whole day. But even as my hands clutched the air ridiculously, I knew she was tucked away at the pet hotel near the apartment back home. Sighing, I slid off the bed to get a glass of water.
As I crept out of my room, I could hear voices floating through a small crack in the door across the hall: my parents.
“…always goading me…” My mom’s voice was muffled, but I thought it sounded furious and tearful.
“I know, sweetheart…” Even to me, my father’s comfort sounded empty, feeble. I hurried down the hall to the bathroom determinedly.
“Psst.” I was stopped in my tracks on my way back to my room a few minutes later. Ben’s face was peering at me through a tiny sliver in his doorway, beckoning me in. Ben and Kyle were both standing behind the door. They had shared a room since they were small.
“You won, little bug,” Ben whispered with a small wink, and shoved two Hershey kisses in my hand, our standing payment for bets.
“Just too easy,” I whispered, smirking and then shaking my head. “Poor Grandma.”
“Better her than one of us,” he said, though he looked apologetic even as he said it. That was on the things I like best about him, something Kyle obviously lacked, as he snorted. I grimaced, and then bowed out of the room quietly.
Once I was safely in my room, I silently and guiltily agreed with Ben and Kyle: it was refreshing to see Mom lose her head at someone else.

“Wake up, little bug!”
I groaned and rolled over, only to be sandwiched between my two rowdy brothers.
“Come on, it’s Christmas!” Ben cried.
“Presents!” Kyle shouted.
“Joy beyond measure!” Ben started bouncing up and down. I started to giggle in spite of myself. I pushed Ben off onto the floor and threw the covers back. It was still obscenely early, so though we ran to the tree, we did so as quietly as possible.
The tree was decked out head to foot just as always, and piles of presents were squeezed underneath. We did our best not to tear them to shreds before the adults got up, so we settled for hopping in place excitedly.
“Good m-m-morning,” my dad said through a yawn as he and Mom stumbled in, tying their robes closed around themselves.
“Can we open them now?” Kyle was practically panting as he said it.
“No, we need to wait for your grandparents. Will you stop jumping?” Mom added crossly and fell onto the couch I was currently bouncing upon. “You’re all grown adults.”
“Not me!” I said. This was true, as I was not yet eighteen. I plastered on a goofy smile and leaned in very close to her and batted my eyelashes like a five-year old. She moaned, a hand covering her eyes, but smiled and ruffled my hair.
“Have we missed it?” I heard Grandma say from the doorway, and I looked up. She and Grandpa were already showered and dressed in garish, chunky Christmas sweaters. Ben and Kyle whooped and descended upon the wrapped packages. Two hours later, the floor was littered with bits of paper, and each of the seven of us had a pile of gifts threatening to topple over. My face hurt from smiling and laughing so much, and I felt a slight buzz in the room. I allowed myself to be distracted from the spat between Grandma and Mom, from any animosity amongst my parents and myself. I even stopped yearning for my paints and canvases, and basked in the glow.
Grandma passed around mugs of hot chocolate as we chattered happily. I was gazing lovingly at the set of new brushes Ben had gotten me; I had no idea where in the city he could have bought them, but I was determined to get the name.
Eventually, we started to drift out of the room: Ben and Kyle slipped off to their room with their new Rock-‘em, Sock-‘ems, Grandpa slunk off for his nap, and I helped Grandma clean up paper and mugs.
“Those were some nice brushes Ben gave you,” Grandma said to me in the kitchen. “I had no idea you liked to paint, your mother never said a word.” I smiled, and then it registered. The sweetness I always saw as grandmotherliness had crystalized ever so slightly and I recognized what had my mother reacting so harshly the first night. It was bait.
“Well, she’s very busy lately,” I said, rather more coolly than I’d intended. I felt some incredulity at sticking up for my mom, and I really didn’t know why I was doing it.
“Oh, of course, dear,” she said, and patted my hand. I smiled again, tight-lipped, and left at the soonest possible time, back to the family room.
And there were my parents, standing by the window in silence, watching the snow fall softly. My father had his arm around my mother, who leaned against his shoulder while he whispered something in her ear. I stood rooted to the spot, and saw him kiss the top of her head tenderly. They looked so content.
I slowly backed out of the room, and then ran on tip-toes to my room. I shut the door quietly and sank to my knees, strangely tired and weak, almost sad. It broke my heart to think it had taken four hours and a family fight to bring my parents together, even for that fleeting moment. And here, I had been so selfish, wrapped up in paint and ignoring my family.
My head dropped to my knees, and I began to cry.

   * * *

The days passed quickly, but the nights were slow as molasses in—well, actually, December. My brothers challenged me to snowball fights and Chinese checkers, or otherwise invited me to laze around in pajamas and watch back-to-back movies. I generally availed myself of the ever-present, fresh-baked cookies, and even convinced my mother to play a videogame with us. My dad spent most of each day with Grandpa, doing, I don’t know, grown-up dude stuff.
But nights were really when I came alive. I would excuse myself after dessert each night, feigning fatigue, then flipped open my sketch pad.
These pages betrayed my long nights, however. It was less than a third full of drawings, most of which were meaningless scribbles. I was doing my best to follow Wes’s order, which soon became a terrible new experience for me; I had never been unable to complete a task for a teacher. But I found very little new inspiration despite the beautiful scenery. In fact, I was leaning over the pad in consternation on the last night when I heard my door creak open.
“Hey, little bug,” Ben said. I only flicked my eyes up for a second.
“Don’t call me that,” I said automatically. It didn’t even occur to me to hide my sketch pad, keep my art private like I had done for so long now. Ben sat at the end of the bed and bent over the pages.
“Wow.”
“Crap, right?”
“Not at all.”
I grunted half-heartedly, and then rubbed my eyes. “I haven’t drawn a blank like this since I started.”
“Well, I’ve never seen anything of yours, so I can’t really tell but these look really great.” He smiled kindly.
“You’re sweet. You have no idea what you’re talking about.” I tried not to let my frustration color my words too much. I really did appreciate the sentiment. He chuckled.
“This all really came out of left field for us. None of us had ever had a clue…” His voice trailed off.
“Well, no one really bothered.” I regretted saying it the moment the words escaped. I sounded so bitter, so angry, so…jealous. I chanced a small look at him; he was staring hard at the paper, the corners of his mouth turned down minutely in the smallest of frowns. I opened my mouth to apologize.
“You’re right,” he said, cutting me off. He looked at me and smiled again, though more intently, like he was the one who needed to apologize. “We were all far too caught up in everything else…we should’ve known, little bug. I’m sorry.” My cheeks burned a little bit.
“Well, Kyle’s had his head way up his ass for years now,” I mumbled, and we both laughed.
“Thank God the boy can play basketball,” Ben said, shaking his head. “Lord knows his grades were less than stellar.”
“I think I inherited that unfortunate gene,” I sighed, looking at my forgotten pile of homework I’d promised I would do over break. Ben scoffed.
“That is so far from true! What’s the lowest grade you’ve had all year?”
“Um…a 76,” I muttered shamefully. “But it was only once, and I did extra credit to bring it up fifteen points!” I added hastily, though I knew I needn’t have. I had done all my explaining to my mother earlier in the month.
“See what I mean?” He sounded comforting and exasperated all at once. “You’re a good student! You work your ass off in every subject! I leaned on my science and math grades to carry my through high school!”
“Yeah, ‘cause you were naturally—”
“And now you’ve got art to worry about! I never did half of what you do.” He punched me playfully, making me giggle. My smile faltered immediately.
“If only Mom saw it as you do,” I said, fire reigniting in my veins.
“Oh, just tell her to shove it,” he said brusquely. I gaped at him. “Well, say it more nicely.”
“No, thanks, I’d rather not be fileted.” I stole a look at my sketch pad again, then slammed it shut in defeat. “I give up.”
“You just need sleep,” Ben said soothingly. “I’ll leave you alone.” He heaved himself off the bed.
“Good night,” I called softly to his protruding back, curled up on top of my bed.
“Good night, little bug,” he called back.

   * * *

I spent the morning trying to stay out of everyone’s way. My mom, whether or not this trip had relaxed her, was a fierce storm when she packed. I found myself hidden in my room, sitting on my bed, staring at the sketch pad again, my filled bags leaning against the wall by the door. I frowned, my brow furrowed, my teeth clenched; I couldn’t understand this block. It was overwhelming my every thought. Suddenly, I could feel hot tears prick the corners of my eyes, and I shoved the paper aside. I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes, until I could see stars.
“Olivia?” I heard a knock on my door, and my grandfather’s voice. “I think your parents want to get on the road soon.” I sighed.
“Thanks, Grandpa,” I called back, and gathered up my things.
My family was congregated at the door, talking over one another. Grandma was pinching Kyle’s cheeks, and trying to shove a box of cookies into Ben’s hands. When she saw me, she pulled me into a tight hug, and pecked me on the cheek.
“Stay in touch,” she said, talking low so that only I could hear her. Then, more loudly, ‘Sure you all won’t take more food?”
“Mom…” my mom said, looking harassed.
“All right, all right,” Grandma said, waving her hands genially. “Well, have a wonderful New Year’s, dears.” She bestowed us each with another kiss, and pushed us out the door.
“Mom, I’m gonna ride with Ben and Kyle,” I said as she stuffed bags into her car. I slipped into Ben’s backseat before she could refuse.
“License plate game!” Kyle exclaimed once we were on the road.
“Hey, Ben?” I called to the front.
“Hmm?” Ben seemed to be wrapped up in scanning the road for license plates.
“Washington!” Kyle yelled.
“Are we doing anything for New Year’s Eve?” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Nevada!” came from Kyle once more.
“I don’t think so,” Ben said. “Ooo, Connecticut!”
“Cool,” I said, though I had to suppress a grin.

I had never seen my mother so happy as when we got home. She had taken to humming around the apartment, baking and laughing while my brothers made fools of themselves.
“Hey, loser, come outside,” was all I got from Charlotte the night we got back. As we trolled the streets that night, and for days after, I found corners and alleys of the city I knew even my brothers didn’t know. I liked that concept.
“Hey, kids,” Rudy said the night before Shawn’s party as we tumbled in, laughing and clutching our sides from something Cole said. “Ready for school in a couple days?”
“Never,” Tara said immediately.
“You kidding?” said Charlotte, straightening up.
“Kill me,” I wheezed, wiping my eyes. In all honesty, I was anxious to get away from my parents again; my dad was spending a disturbing amount of time at home, leaving work early every evening. But, for the first time in a very long time, I was less than excited to get back to balancing work with something else.
“Good to know,” said Rudy with a chuckle. “But I thought you’d be itching to finish out your senior year?”
“That’s what they make tranquilizers for,” Shawn said darkly, and we all erupted into fresh laughter.
“Well, I appreciate you gracing me with your presence.” Rudy gave a little bow. “The usual?”
“Yup,” we all said together.
This time, Shawn hung back at the counter with me. I thumbed my glass, fidgeting awkwardly, trying to find something to say.
“So you’re definitely coming tomorrow?” he said.
“I said I would,” I said, sounding a little harsher than I’d intended. God, why was I so nervous? I took a deep breath to steady myself. “Sure I won’t be out of place?”
“Oh yeah, it’s just an intimate little thing,” he said, shrugging, then glanced over at the others. I took that to mean they would all be there too, which relaxed me a little bit. “Can I tempt you?” he added, pointing at the billiards table.
“We all saw how well it went last time,” I said with a laugh. “The balls spent more time on the ground than on the table.”
“Suit yourself,” said Shawn, then he winked and joined everyone else at a poker table. Charlotte was in deep concentration, muttering what I’m sure were swear words into her cards.
“Can I get you anything else?” I heard Rudy’s deep rumble behind me, making me jump. I turned to find him smiling warmly at me,
“Um…no, thank you,” I said, managing a small smile.
“Don’t worry about the party, squirt,” he said, reading my mind. “I’ll be there.”
“You will?” I felt relief flood into parts I hadn’t realized were a little cold.
“Yeah, old friends of his folks, remember?” His smile grew even wider and more jovial. “Just a nice get together is all it is.”
“Good,” I breathed, more easily. “I hate being around stuffy adults.”
“Oh, there’ll be some of those, too,” Rudy said, and patted my hand when my eyes grew wide. “Not to worry, just a couple of them. Always is.”
“Goodie.” I sucked on my drink, my eyes going slightly unfocused again.

   * * *

My dad went to work on Monday, even though it was New Year’s Eve, a point Mom made very clear several times the night before from what I could hear through my bedroom walls. That morning, Mom wasn’t out of bed until noon.
“So what’s up with all the sleep?” Ben muttered to me. We had been watching television, avoiding her door, when she rolled out, yawning and stretching.
“She gets stress headaches a lot lately,” I whispered back.
“Have her ulcers gotten any better?”
I shook my head and frowned. “It’s always worse when Dad does s*** like this.”
“Yeah, he even had me fooled the past couple of days,” he said, uncharacteristically bitter.
I close my eyes, and blurred images floated in: Dad coming out of the room, clicking the door shut…”Mommy’s sick,” he’d said with a sad smile…the resentment I felt years later whenever Mom “got sick” anytime Dad spent all his time at work…Suddenly I felt a sharp pain.
“Liv?”
I blinked several times. My right hand was stabbing with pain; I had clenched my hands into such tight fists that I broke the skin.
“I asked if you were okay.” Ben’s face finally swam into focus, etched with concern.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said with a smile, “just…you know.”
“What are we talking about?” Mom had come up behind us and placed a hand on each of our shoulders. We looked up and smiled too brightly.
“Just Liv’s school stuff,” Ben said, inventing wildly.
“Yeah,” I said, shooting him a look, “I’m totally psyched to go back.”
Mom actually gave a half-hearted laugh and squeezed our shoulders feebly. I felt such a strong surge of pity, I even forgot to feel bad about lying.
“Hey, Mom?” She had started to turn away, but looked back quickly. “A friend invited me to a party tonight…is it okay if I go?” She studied my face for a moment.
“Is all your schoolwork done?” she said, scrutinizing. That was the mom I knew.
“Yes, ma’am.” Another lie.
“Then that’s fine, I guess,” she said, looking weary again. With a triumphant smile, I settled back into the couch, and was met with Ben’s raised eyebrows.
“What?” I asked, though my smile betrayed me.
“Hot date?” he said, voice dripping with humor. And Kyle chose that exact moment to walk out.
“With Shawn?” Kyle dragged out the last syllable sappily, sticking his face in mine.
“Mr. McHottie?” Ben came in on the other side of me.
“It’s none of your business, pests,” I said matter-of-factly, training my eyes on the television.
“Oh, do you hear that, Ben?” Kyle said, crossing his arms across his chest.
“It’s none of our business, apparently, Kyle,” Ben said, sounding pompous.
“That’s right,” I said, and stuck my tongue out at them.
“Well, that sure knocked us down a peg.” Kyle bowed his head irreverently.
“As you wish, little bug,” Ben said, backing away with a flourish of the hand.
I stood up very suddenly, kept my chin held high.  “I’m going to my room.”
“To get ready for your date!” They boys began their jeering anew. Making sure my mother had her back turned, I flipped them the bird, which earned me a chorus of hoots, and stalked off to my room.
“Boys,” I muttered under my breath. Then, with nothing else to do until the party, I resigned myself to the remaining work of the break. All the while, my mind whirred with the prospect of this party. I kept trying to convince myself there was nothing to be nervous about, but my previous experience with dinner parties was none too encouraging. And if Shawn shared those experiences like he said, I had little to look forward to.
A bit after 8:00, I gave up the essay I was trying to revise as a bad job, as my brain hadn’t stopped swirling. Suddenly, with each passing moment, each second that ticked away, I lost a fraction of my nerve, until I was nearly the shell of a human I was so many months ago. And then, I heard Charlotte’s voice in my ears, clear and cold: “Don’t be such a wimp, loser.” I took as calming a breath as I could manage. She was right.
God, I was going nuts.
By the time I finished stressing over my appearance, I was definitely going to be late, which added a whole new level of stress. I heard Ben tap on the door to check on me, and whimpered in response. I looked at him balefully as I tore out of my room, trying to offer an apology with my face, though I’m sure it was little more than a grimace.
I pounded on the door of the penthouse at ten minutes after 9:00, my heart pounding in tandem, wondering if my absence was noticed, and was met on the other side of the door with a squeal I sincerely hoped was Birdy’s.
“Is it Lilia?” Birdy shouted over and over again, as thumps paraded through the crack in the door. She was jumping up and down, no doubt.
“Olivia, sweetheart, O-li-vi-a,” I heard a patient female voice explain. My heart jumped up into my throat as the door swung open.
Shawn’s mother had wide, kind eyes made softer by her broad smile. She welcomed me into her home like a child offers a favorite toy to a new friend. I did not miss the significance.
“You must be Olivia,” she said, and without another word, swept me up in a hug. “It’s wonderful to meet you. Shawn’s in the back with Rudy, darling.”
If I had thought Shawn’s home was beautiful before, its party state was immaculate. Every surface shined as I walked to find Shawn, and the decorations, though festive, were perfectly matched in a way that would set my mother green with envy.
“There you are!” I had finally reached Shawn, but Rudy found me first and slung an arm around my shoulders. I realized I had never seen him out of the bar setting; he seemed somehow smaller, even friendlier than usual. Like a dog made into a puppy again. “Did Cheryl smother you?”
“Uh…”
“My mom has a habit,” Shawn said, and held his arm out for me to take. “A talent, really. It makes most uncomfortable.”
“A welcome breath of fresh air, actually,” I said, as he started to lead me around the room. The gesture seemed absurd initially, until he introduced me to some of the other guests. Buttoned and trussed up, the bulk looked like they’d just stopped off from the office. Suddenly, the smugness and charm he rode on made so much more sense. And everywhere I looked, I could find neither hide nor hair of the rest of the Club
“I thought the others were coming,” I hissed in Shawn’s ear, smile plastered on my face.
“They came once. Can’t come back,” he muttered back. We stopped to grab drinks.
“Cole?” I said over the rim of my cup.
“How perceptive of you,” he said with a hint of a wink.
“Lilia!” I heard the shuffle of small feet, and then there was incessant tugging at the hem of my jacket. Birdy stared up at me with an expression of zealous desperation.
“What’s wrong, babe?” Without blinking, I got down on my knees and scooped her up in a hug.
“Don’t wanna go to bed,” she whimpered, bouncing up and down, but she rubbed her eyes betrayingly.
“Wait. Aren’t you sleepy?” I widened my eyes in mock surprise.
“Nuh-uh!” she said in a defiant yawn.
“My goodness! But then you’ll be up all by yourself!” I looked over my shoulder quickly. My voice dropped to a stage whisper. “All the grown-ups and big kids, we’re really sleepy.” Her eyes widened ever so slightly. “In fact, I was just telling Shawn how nice it would to take a nice, long sleep in a warm bed, under lots of blankets and stuffed animals…” She yawned again. “But, of course,” I said, standing up abruptly, “you’re not sleepy. So you stay up and we’ll all go take a nap in your bed.” I had to bite back a laugh at her horrified face.
“Lilia!” She tugged on my jacket again. She looked up at me with a pained expression. “Can I go beddy-bye?”
“If that’s what you want,” I said, shrugging, and I took her outstretched hand. In her room, I put her in her pajamas and tucked her in, then I clicked the door shut quietly; Shawn was waiting for me with our drinks.
“That was incredible,” he said, shaking his head and laughing a little. I smirked, and grabbed my drink from him. “I’ve never been able to put her down so successfully during a party.”
“Watch out, I’m gonna start charging,” I said, leading him away from the door so we could speak more freely.
“I say give up art altogether,” he said, “this is your true calling.”
“Ugh, you sound like my mother,” I groaned, then straightened up. We had just stopped in front of Shawn’s mom who stood next to a man who, with his stature and well-structured face, could only be Shawn’s father. Shawn cleared his throat very slightly.
“Mom, Dad, this is my very good friend, Olivia Ahern,” he said. “Olivia, my parents.”
“It’s really nice to officially meet you both, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison,” I said, suddenly shy all over again.
“Didn’t I tell you how sweet she is, Jack? I told you,” said Mrs. Harrison, beaming at me.
“We’ve heard so much about you, Olivia,” Mr. Harrison said, thrusting out a hand. “Shawn tells us you’re a wonderful artist.”
“She’s amazing,” Shawn said, and my cheeks burned. “And she just coerced Birdy into going to bed in under five minutes.”
“Impressive,” Mrs. Harrison said, smiling so broadly it was a miracle her face hadn’t split in half. “Many thanks, dear.”
“Oh, of course, no problem, Mrs. Harrison,” I said. I tried to stealthily dig my elbow into Shawn’s side, because I could feel his self-satisfied smirk.
“Oh, please, Mrs. Harrison is ninety years old and smokes like a chimney,” she said, chortling. “Call me Cheryl.” I laughed nervously, making a mental note to never call her Cheryl.
“You know, Olivia,” said Mr. Harrison, “I display some of Shawn’s work at my building. If you’re really as good as Shawn says, and I’m sure you are, I’d be happy to show some of yours.”
“Dad—” Shawn muttered warningly.
“Just an offer, Shawn,” Mr. Harrison said casually, and smiled warmly at me. I felt intimidated nonetheless.
“I think we’ll go find Rudy now,” Shawn said firmly. He tugged my elbow and pulled me away, but not anywhere near Rudy. I started to protest, but he whispered, “I wanna show you something.”
He led me carefully through the crowd and out a set of glass French doors. The balcony through the doors was as tastefully set as the rest of the apartment, with pots weeping with flowers artfully placed around the area.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“That’s not what I wanted to show you,” Shawn said with a grin. He dropped his hand from my elbow to my hand and dragged me to the edge of the balcony. And there, right in front of us, was a close-up view of the New York skyline. Buildings towered up and around each other, highlighted in a strange luminescence against the inky sky. Below us, the cacophony of millions of people and car horns drifted up in an eerie symphony I had never noticed before. All around us, the colors I had been picking out one by one suddenly blended into one beauty. I looked at Shawn, who had been staring at my face, at my every reaction.
“You feel it, don’t you?” His voice was no more than a murmur, but his eyes were alive, hungry or something I finally understood. He turned his gaze back to the edge. “We moved here when my mom got pregnant with Birdy. Exactly what every thirteen-year old boy needs: an unfamiliar place and the knowledge that your parents are still hot and heavy.” He leaned his forearms on the balcony’s edge and let out a deep sigh. “I was angry at them. Every day. So every day I came out here to brood and avoid them…and it captivated me. I’ve been painting, re-painting, drawing, re-drawing this exact spot for five years…I never could quite get that feeling on paper, though.”
He turned abruptly to face me. His eyes pinned me down in an intensity I couldn’t face head-on.
“Well, some…some things can’t be put on paper, I…guess…” My voice faltered. He was close, so very close. I saw tiny flecks of gold in his stormy gray eyes.
“At least someone other than me knows,” he whispered. With one hand, he lightly pushed some hair behind my ear, then he put a hand on both sides of my face, his fingers entwined in my hair.
“I—never—” I stammered.
“Shut up,” he said gruffly, and pulled my mouth to his.
I melted under his touch, urgent and excited and sweet in all the best ways. He held me fast, and I fought the urge to fall into him. Slowly, I threaded my arms around his neck, and I felt his lips curl into a small smirk. His hands found their way down from my hair to around my waist, and when he boldly turned his head to deepen the kiss, I felt light-headed. In what seemed to be the far-off distance, I heard cheers. Stupidly, I thought for a minute people were watching us, until I heard the cheers down below. It was the new year.
He broke away, too soon, but held me to his chest.
“We should go in,” he said softly into my hair.
“Do we have to?” I moaned. His chest rumbled with laughter.
“Greedy now, are we?” I swatted his arm.
“Smug now, are we?” He lifted me chin up with a finger and planted a very quick kiss on my lips. Then he smirked.
“We should go in,” he said with a wink and, with a hand on the small of my back, we ventured back inside.

The weeks that passed felt like something out of another reality. Every day, I put all my effort into each new piece, but I found myself blissfully unaware of many of the regular schoolwork woes.
Shawn was a wonderful distraction after Ben and Kyle went back to school. My mother finally dragged herself out of bed when they went, and I could feel the air change around us. But the minute Shawn stood outside our door, there was little she could do. She couldn’t very well dislike him, as he was ever the perfect gentleman at the Christmas party. And anytime my dad happened to cross paths with Shawn, he wouldn’t stop raving about him. I felt myself becoming almost as smug as Shawn.
“Did you do that essay yet?” Shawn asked me one day in March as we walked hand-in-hand down the hall from first period.
“Yeah, I finished that on Sunday,” I said.
“We went out Sunday night,” he said, confused.
“I finished it in the morning.”
“What are you, a robot?” He pulled me close and winked suggestively. “This is me. See you at Wes’s?”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling like an idiot. He kissed me and was gone.
I noticed lots of eyes on me in the art room after school once we resumed classes. Tara stared at me icily for weeks, and Charlotte just seemed weirded out.
“I’m never gonna get used to this,” she muttered the first day back. I blushed and blinked a few times.
“Don’t kill my buzz,” I whispered back, determinedly not looking at her.
“If he breaks your heart, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she sighed. I remembered our conversation all those months ago at Rudy’s, and my face burned brighter.
Despite it all, there was hardly any time to be cutesy, and I didn’t really want to be cutesy anyway. I’d sat by and watched too many girls in my grade gush and simper over a guy for a month, only to hate him at the drop of a new hat. It looked…uncomfortable.
As the weeks wore on, the big competition drew closer, looming large and menacing above us. Tensions ran so high that Tara broke a paint brush and burst into tears.
I couldn’t deny similar feelings. Every painting I produced looked mediocre, no matter what Charlotte or Shawn said to placate me. Even my mom, who was in the throes of a fresh round of headaches, noticed a teetering shift in me. One morning in late March, I actually found a cup of tea at my place on the table.
“When is the competition again?” Mom asked one night as we were clearing the table after dinner.
“The seventh,” I squeaked. The date tripped over my tongue on the way out, as it always did. Mom carefully placed some dishes in the sink, taking her time, and then cleared her throat.
“And would…would you like your father and me to be there?” My hand stilled halfway as I reached for a glass. I smiled a little bit.
“That would be…really great,” I said, and my voice cracked at the end. She smiled a little, and nodded.
That night, I lay awake, my stomach in knots. My eyes kept darting to the pile of letters on my nightstand. Atop the pile were two letters that my parents had no idea about. I hadn’t opened either until a week after they arrived, for fear of the content. I could make out the outline of each headline even in the dark: Columbia University and California Institute of the Arts.
Both said yes.
I hid the letters from my parents—from everyone—I even tried to hide them from myself. Sometimes I hoped that, if I didn’t look at them, something else would make my decision for me. How could I choose? Columbia, a life that was handpicked for me so many years ago; California, three thousand miles and several dreams away. Both alma maters that could take me far. Both highly skilled in preparing me for whatever lay ahead.
Different dreams, different lives.
I rolled over, my back to the letters. I would worry about it tomorrow, or the next day.

   * * *

A week before the competition, I stayed behind after art, fussing with my things. I told Shawn to go ahead without me when he held out a hand; I needed Wes alone.
“Everything okay, Liv?” Wes asked when Shawn had left the room.
“I need your advice.” I cleared my throat, nervous to say the words out loud.
“Something Shawn can’t know?” I knew he was teasing, but I shook my head.
“He won’t understand.”
“Oh.” Wes cleared his throat. “Well, then, what can I do for you?”
“It has to do with college. Choosing one, really.” His brow creased.
“I can’t make that decision for you,” he began, but I cut him off.
“I’m not asking for that, I just…” The words came out delicately, because my mind was fogging quickly and I refused to confuse them. “I got into California Institute of the Arts.”
“Really? Olivia, that’s wonderful, congratulations!” I closed my eyes to his excitement, not wanting to lose my determination.
“And Columbia.”
When I opened my eyes, Wes was mouthing wordlessly, eyes wide and shocked. “So you see my problem.”
He closed his mouth and rubbed his stubbly chin carefully, like he was chewing on words.
“Well,” he said finally. “Well. They are both excellent schools.”
“I know,” I sighed.
“And you would do well at either.”
“I hope.”
“It comes down to what you really want out of your life.”
“I knew you would say that,” I groaned, and dropped into the chair in front of his desk. My nerves started to tense up as a bit of my usual hysteria rose, but I bit it back.
“Well, what do you want?” He sat in his chair too and examined me over his clasped hands.
“I’m not sure!” I blurted out, then covered my face with my hands. “Nine months ago, Columbia would’ve been a done deal, no questions asked, didn’t matter that I had no clue what I wanted to be!” I got up and started pacing, arms folded over my chest. “Now, I’ve found something fulfilling, but it’s so risky and volatile and I don’t know that I want to drop everything and move thousands of miles for something that may fall through!” I was a little light-headed when I finished, but I fought my swoon. Wes seemed to recognize the beginnings, too, because he got up and led my by the shoulders back to the chair, then went to fill a cup of water for me.
“If you’re worried about making it as an artist—”
“Of course I’m worried!”
“If you’re worried,” he said firmly, “just know that you have great potential. More talent in your little finger than most kids who have been taking lessons for years. And you’re smart, so smart you pick things up in a minute I only learned the week before.” I cracked a small, reluctant smile. “If you’ve got a passion to paint, then follow it. I did, and I still set up galleries during school breaks.” He smiled genially, and I laughed a little and sniffed loudly. Then my face sank again, and I was surprised and mortified to feel wetness on my cheeks.
“But what if the passion dies?” I whispered. “Then I’m stuck.”
“You can’t predict the future, no matter how much you may want to,” he said, smile sad now, sympathetic. “You need to do what’s right for you in this moment.”
“I guess…” I started, then wiped my cheeks. “I guess I need to wait and see about this scholarship.”
“Will it really change anything?”
“It sure as hell will change something for my parents.”
“And to you?” He gave me a pointed look that made me squirm a little in my seat.
“I would like to see if what I can do is really worth $10,000,” I admitted finally. A grin spread across his face.
“That’s what I want to hear,” he said, chuckling.
“What was that all about?” Shawn asked me later when I met them down at Rudy’s.
“Just some last minute tips,” I said, shrugging. He slid a hand over the small of my back, and I shivered slightly.
“You’ll be fine,” he breathed in my ear, then kissed my flushed cheek.
“Ugh, give it a rest, please,” a voice groaned on my other side. Charlotte had plopped onto the stool next to me and was making retching faces.
“I think she’s jealous, Liv,” Shawn said playfully, and started poking her shoulder. “She thinks I stole her best friend.”
“Just because she’s the only one I can stand doesn’t make her my best friend,” Charlotte said with a withering look, but I laughed. We both knew that was a lie.
“Do you want some sugar, Char?” I said. I puckered up my lips and leaned in, but she shoved my face away with her whole hand.
“If I needed any more sugar in my life, I’d eat Tara,” she said sourly, and we all dissolved into gales of laughter.
Tara gave us a sharp look from the jukebox, her eyes following the curve of Shawn’s arm to his hand on my waist.

“Olivia, where is this competition again?” my mom asked the day before the exhibition. My stomach jolted as it always did at the mention of the art show.
“The Hilton in Midtown,” I said. “Because it’s the whole state,” I added, more for my benefit than hers. She nodded to herself, washing dishes methodically.
“We should all sit down and talk about college soon,” she said after a while. My hands hesitated momentarily as I put more dishes in the sink, heart pounding. “You’ve been very private about it, but the deadline is coming up.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, trying to sound nonplussed, not irritated.
“You haven’t even said which schools you’ve gotten into,” she continued. I knew she was fishing, and I had to shut her down.
“Just, let me get through tomorrow, okay?” I said too quickly. “I can’t think very straight right now.” And before she could protest, I muttered an excuse of homework and went to my room.
With the door closed, the air seemed to coagulate around me, thick and exhausting to breathe. I threw open the window to let in the night, but as I trekked across the room, I caught sight of the two letters on my nightstand, and I felt sick. Clutching the window pane, I closed my eyes and took great gulping breaths of fresh air. My phone lay on my bed, and I thought to call Shawn, but I couldn’t open my mouth, much less speak.
Finally, when I thought I could stand it no longer, I felt my knees buckles and myself crumple on the floor as everything hazed over to black.

   * * *

When next I opened my eyes, my room was pitch-black. A soft breeze made my curtains shiver and blew over my face. My head ached, and so did all the joints that had seized up in awkward positions. I lifted my head to read the clock on my nightstand: 10:30. I had been out for three hours.
Just as I began to gather myself up onto my bed, I heard coughs and moans from the room next to me. I tiptoed to the connecting wall of my room and my parents’ room and put my ear to it. Even a wall away, I could make out some unintelligible babble, cut through with a sharp gasp or groan every few seconds. Keeping as quiet as possible, I made my way to my door and peered around it.  My father’s things were not hanging where they would be if he were home.
A flicker of anger licked my stomach as I gently closed the door and climbed into bed. Oh, how wonderful it would be to be three thousand miles away in that moment.

   * * *

Mom showed no trace of illness the next morning, aside from noticeable shadows under her eyes. She treated my dad as benevolently as always, as I looked on hatefully. I was so fed up with both of them that I couldn’t look either in the eye, and I left for the competition with hardly a word.
Wes had arranged for a bus to take us to the exhibition, though I was rather surprised to not be the only one waiting for it in front of the school. Tara was toeing the ground nervously, looking up and down the street every few seconds. When she caught sight of me, she rearranged her face into a tight smile, but made no move to hug me like I thought she might. I frowned and took a deep breath. If my mom taught me anything, it was manners.
“Did I do something?” As calculated as it sounded in my head, the words tumbled out in a tangled, nervous mess. I feared the answer, but I couldn’t wait another minute. She blinked and gave a half-bright smile, eyes wide with surprise.
“Of course not!” Her voice was milk and honey, and I wanted to believe her.
“Are you sure? You can tell me,” I said. For a moment, her eyes flashed with something, but it soon melted away with a simpering smile.
“Just pre-competition jitters.” I opened my mouth again persistently, but at that moment Shawn walked up and wrapped an arm around my waist.
I didn’t tell Shawn why I was in such a bad mood on the bus ride, and he didn’t pry. He tried coaxing it out of me for a while, but settled for holding me as I stared at the seat in front of me blankly. My fingers traced patterns on the frames of my pieces as my mind swam between images of my parents and Tara. I couldn’t tell what was feeding the knot in my stomach more.
As we pulled into the parking garage of the Hilton, my heart began to run its usual race. I squeezed Shawn’s hand quickly before gathering my things to my chest and held in my rising bile. At least twenty buses had already rolled in before us, and students were pouring out onto the sidewalk.
Inside, we silently set our paintings up in a sort of forced routine. A row of people, looking much more official though younger than I was used to, stood chatting and laughing. My blood thickened with fear, then boiled when I saw my parents walk in timidly and make a beeline for the coffee table. Out of the corner of my eye, Tara was flipping her hair and talking animatedly to one of the younger judges, who looked too mystified by her to notice her piece.
“Look at her,” I hissed to Charlotte.
“She wants to win,” she said, half contemptuous, half admiring. “This is art. It’s a dog-eat-dog world.”
“Well, good thing I’m a little bit of a b****,” I growled, then plastered a bright smile on my face. Shawn gave me an odd look, then shook his head and turned away.
Each minute passed like sludge, and despite all my best efforts, I couldn’t breathe. I answered every question between clenched teeth, because if I opened my mouth any wider, I would have vomited. Over the course of the hour, my parents shuffled over to me once, looking very out of place, and I watched as Herbert Jefferson found his way over to us. When it was time to announce the winners, Mr. Jefferson patted my hand while Shawn swiftly took the other. My parents were already on the other side of the room.
“I’d like to preface this with our unending gratitude for the young artists,” a young man in a neat suit said from the stage ten minutes later. I sat with my hands balled up in fists. Shawn’s arm was slung over the back of my chair, and he was maddeningly calm. The heat from his arm was searing right into my skin, and if I wasn’t so paralyzed with fear, I’d have twisted away. “Without these people,” the man continued, “there would be no future for the arts. Art, its past and present included, lives on in them. They are the pale stars, at the beginning of their artistic lives.” Everyone applauded. I could barely twitch my pinky.
“Before we announce the winners,” a woman in a brightly-colored pantsuit said, “I would ask those whose names are called to come up to the stage and briefly explain your collection. Just a reminder, each winner is awarded $10,000 in scholarship to their college of choice.” I didn’t dare look back at my parents’ faces. I could imagine well enough.
“Shall we begin?” said the man with a sick, tantalizing smile. I smattering of applause followed.
“Okay, first up…Michaela Atkinson!” Cheers erupted from the far corner of the room, and a girl with bouncy red hair practically ran up to the stage. She had a hand clamped over her mouth as she greeted the judges with the other shaking hand. She briefly told a story of butterflies and flowers and abstraction, then stepped back, smiling broadly. My stomach flopped.
“Jeremy Foley!” A shaking boy with too-long hair climbed the stairs and clasped the judge’s hand. I think he said something about concrete buildings, but my heart throbbed so loudly in my ears that I wasn’t sure.
Andy Smith and Jack Matthews went next, with varying degrees of collectedness. I didn’t hear their explanations for all the ringing my head. A girl went next; I couldn’t make out her name.
“Olivia Ahern!”
A lead weight dropped into the pit of my stomach, and I almost threw up. Or cried. Shawn grabbed me by the arms roughly, shouting words I didn’t understand. Charlotte pulled me up by my hands and shoved me toward the stage. All of a sudden, the stairs were all too steep to climb. The lights were blinding and scalding. The judges’ faces stretched too tightly with smiles. They wrung my hands, and I pulled back quickly like they had burned me. And then I was pushed in front of the microphone and all sound ceased.
“Uh…” I searched the sea of waiting faces. Shawn and Wes’s faces swam into view, all grins and thumbs-up. And then I found my parents, their eyes wide with surprise, their mouths twisted into smiles mixed with false joy and greed. My stomach burned, and my vision blurred with anger.
“Uh, my collection was mostly about lies,” I said, confidently, dangerously. “Each piece represented a lie or sugar-coat in my life.” I saw my parents’ smiles falter. “Like success can only have one form, or money doesn’t actually rule Dad’s life.” In an instant my mother’s face contorted, but my dad looked away to the wall. “But in the end, you live and learn, right?” I smiled and stepped back, and after a few moments the crowd rippled with applause.
I kept my eyes fixed on the clock on the back wall. Tick. Blood pounded in my ears, across my cheeks, up my neck. Tock. My breath came in short, shuddering bursts. Tick.
At the end of the ceremony, we each got our picture taken and a business card for transferring the scholarship. I avoided eye contact as much as possible, shrugged off the patting hands as politely as I could. Finally, I made my way to my group, but I couldn’t face their surprised looks, so I just kept walking. I didn’t stop to glance in my parents’ direction. I just kept beating my feet into the ground until the murmur of the crowd gave way to that of the streets. The bus driver looked up from her crossword, but I walked resolutely past her.
I’ve done it this time.

   * * *

I had about a ten minute lead on my parents by the time I got back to the apartment. I screamed with frustration when the door stuck, and kicked it open. Shaking, I flew into my room. Mudge came in mewing and coiling around my feet, but I stepped out of her embrace. Without a second thought, I started throwing clothes and paint supplies and makeup into a bag.
Distantly, the sound of feet pounding the floor floated to my ears. I ripped the pictures of Mudge from my wall. The door scrapped the ground. I grabbed the real Mudge roughly and stuffed her into a small bag, where she squirmed for a moment, then went still obligingly.
“Olivia!” My mother’s voice rang out like a clap of thunder. I seized my bags and, with a deep breath, ventured out into the family rom. She sized me up furiously, and her eyes flashed when she saw the bags in my hand. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Anywhere.” Truthfully, I hadn’t thought that far, but I would never let them know that. My father leaned against the pristine countertop, shifting nervously and never once looking up.
“Don’t even think about it,” Mom snarled, and advanced a few steps. “You are going to stay here and apologize—”
“Apologize for what?” I said with a harsh, sickening laugh. “Telling the truth? Gosh, I am so sorry.”
“You ungrateful little—”
“Marianne,” Dad said quietly, warningly, and I rounded on him.
“Don’t act like a martyr here, Dad,” I spat. “Like you don’t hate me too for spilling the secrets of this family.”
“You EMBARRASSED your father—”
“Embarrassed?!” I was hysterical now. “He better be embarrassed! He better be humiliated that thousands of people now know what a terrible father he is! I wish they knew how many weekends he spends in the office, doing God knows what! And how often you get sick when he stays out, and yet you defend him!” I pointed a shaking finger at her. Tears began to burn the back of my throat. “You, who forgot about me! You, who I fought for love from! You…you disgust me.”
Rain began to spit on the window, muffled by the palpable tension in the air. For a full minute we stared at one another, until I felt something crack within me. I nearly swooned on the spot, but I refused to let myself waver. Mudge began to squirm again, and I remembered what I was doing, where I was going.
Where was I going?
I pushed past my parents to the door, and this time neither tried to stop me.
When I burst through the front door of the building, the rain hit me on all sides. I drew my coat in around me, pulled Mudge closer to my chest, and headed in the general direction of nowhere.
“Olivia!” I heard someone call to me faintly. I turned, and found rain-soaked Shawn jogging toward me. “Hey, I’ve been trying to reach you, you haven’t…” His eyes trailed down to my bags, then frantically back up to mine. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t.” I swallowed, choking on a wad of air and tragedy. “I can’t be there.” He placed hand on my arm and squeezed, but I shrugged away and started walking.
“Come on, you can stay with me, I’m sure my parents—” he began, catching stride with me, but I shook my head furiously, quaking full-bodied tremors. “Liv—Olivia, talk to me—”
“And say what?” My body couldn’t handle another outburst, so I whispered it. “That my family life is a disaster? You already knew that!” I gulped down a breath and shut my eyes for a moment, listening to the rain, smelling its musty concrete-infused scent, feeling it drive holes in my skin. When I opened them, Shawn was searching my face. He was so close that I could see the gold flecks by his irises. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Just before I could step out of his intoxicating gaze, he pulled my lips gently to his, and conveyed what I knew he couldn’t say. And then I slipped away, down the street, into the crowded subway station on the corner.
Amidst the steaming, screaming bodies, I was cold, distant. I boarded a train, still not certain where I should go, but sat all the same. I watched children kick the metal poles, saw the adults look down on them in disdain, but I didn’t really see them. Perhaps if I had, I’d have seen how one little boy sat, face turned downward, toes pointed in and swinging slowly back and forth. Maybe I’d have smiled sweetly and waved, and let him pet Mudge. But I didn’t.
“Next stop Rawson Street, Queens,” came the grating, robotic voice from the speaker. A spark of recognition lit in me, so I got up and waited silently by the door. I sprang out as soon as they opened, and found myself eerily alone on the streets. Almost unconsciously, I twisted and turned though the buildings, until I stood on a doorstep in front of a maroon door. I knocked three times, calmly, steadily, and after a minute, it opened.
“Olivia?” Kate’s kind face was pulled in at the eyebrows. Her cheek was splattered with paint. I could spy a picture of her and Ben on the wall behind her. Suddenly, something shifted, and I shattered. Sobs tore out of my chest, and I lost control. Panicked, Kate pulled me inside and called over her shoulder, “Ben, it’s your sister!” She eyed me again. “She needs help.”

A mug of tea scalded my hands as I slowly created a puddle on their couch and rug five minutes later, but I trembled so hard that I barely noticed. I wanted to apologize for my wetness, my intrusion, my meltdown, except my throat was so thickly coated with tears that nothing came out. Kate threw two blankets around me and slid an arm across my shoulders, and Ben sat across from me in an armchair, concern etched in every premature line of his face.
“Liv…” It seemed he, my wonderful, brilliant brother, was at a complete loss for words. He reached out and took one of my freezing hands. “What happened?”
I didn’t answer right away. Would he be proud that I stood my ground? Or ashamed? The walls in the room over shone with wet paint, and the smell ensnared me for a fleeting moment of paradise.
“I…” How does one explain a day like this? “I…well, I won a scholarship.” Ben and Kate exchanged surprised looks.
“Um…wow, Liv, that’s awesome!” Kate said, squeezing my shoulders. I smiled weakly.
“Mom-Mom and Dad were there,” I continued, and my voice grew stronger word-by-word. “And I thought about all the times they went to things for you and Kyle, and how proud they were of you guys, and they looked at me like that and I felt…nothing.” I paused and swallowed another sob. I looked down at my tea and watched as the steam spiraled off into nothingness. “It wasn’t real. It didn’t make me happy the way it should have…the way I thought it would.” I was too embarrassed to look at him now. I didn’t want to see pity, or worse, understanding. I cleared my throat. “So I sort of called them out. In front of lots of strangers.”
“Oh, Olivia…” Kate whispered, but she didn’t loosen her hold on me. Raindrops leaked down my hair and dripped off onto her leg, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“And they threw you out?” I was shocked by how hard Ben’s voice was, so much so that I looked up into his face. His mouth was set in a hard line, and his features were altogether stony.
“No!” I couldn’t stand seeing him so angry. What would he do? “Well, maybe Mom might have if I gave her some more time, but I left before she could.”
Mudge was napping in the corner in the corner of the room. In the dull gray light of the day, her fur was ordinary, comforting. I watched her back rise and fall with each breath.
“Well, you’re staying here as long as you need,” Kate said firmly. “Can you get to school from here?” I sniffed.
“Actually, it’s spring break now,” I said, wiping my nose. “Are you sure I won’t be too much of a bother?”
“Absolutely not,” said Ben, pulling me to my feet. “we finished the guest room last week…someone should break it in.” The guest room was painted a pale, mossy green, with a springy rug the color of a dirt path. The puffy cream comforter looked warm and inviting, and I wished I could sink into the floor of that oasis.
Ben steered me in and led me straight to the bed, like he could feel how tired I was through my skin. He cleared his throat and said, “If Mom or Dad calls and asks where you are, should I tell them?” I shrugged hesitantly.
“If you must.” He nodded and left the room.
I heard a light knock on my door and turned around. Kate had my bags and a dry sweater bundled in her arms.
“Thought you could use something else to wear,” she said, and laid her things on the bed. Mudge sauntered in and leaped onto the bed as well. Kate tickled her behind the ears. “You’re always welcome here,” she added, looking out the window with a thoughtful smile. She reached over and squeezed my hand. I was struck with her sincerity so suddenly, I almost burst into tears again. With a final smile, she left me with my thoughts.
I sat gingerly on the bed, still damp and slightly numb. I yanked my shirt over my head and replaced it with Kate’s sweater. It was warm and smelled like cinnamon. I rummaged through one of my bags for my phone. Eight missed calls, four from Shawn. One from Wes, two from Charlotte. One from my dad. Suddenly, I lost the energy to contact Shawn—anyone—and I lay back on the pillows. Mudge climbed into my lap and curled around herself. The warm pressure on my stomach alleviated some of the suffocating pain.
I drifted off to sleep, thinking about my parents’ faces in the crowd.

   * * *

Ben and Kate’s place was the painter’s paradise I had been looking for all year long. We took turns cooking meals, usually burning everything and ordering in instead. They let me set up my easel anywhere I chose on a given day, and pretended not to pass behind me every few minutes to see what I made. And at the end of the night, Ben tutored me in chemistry, slipping in really bad jokes wherever he could.
“I can’t believe anyone would tell you not to pursue this talent,” Kate said in awe two nights later after dinner. Ben and I exchanged knowing looks.
“You clearly haven’t spent enough time with our mother,” said Ben, and I laughed bitterly. “Have you talked to them? Anyone back home?” He directed it toward me, and I looked away.
“Just Shawn, my art friends,” I said. My tone darkened a little as I continued, “No way in hell I’m talking to them.” I spat the last word so it was clear who “they” were. Ben nodded, but hesitantly.
“You’ll have to talk to them eventually,” he said, trying for nonchalance.
“Well, that day is not today,” I said irritably, turning a page in my textbook too forcefully.
“Just saying,” he said under his breath.
“Let’s make some hot cocoa,” Kate said loudly, and marched us into the kitchen.
At night, I lay awake, staring into space, thinking about colleges. Even without my parents’ influence cloaking me every hour, I was still caught between a rock and a hard place. The thought of staying in the city, being suffocated by my mother, turned my stomach. And yet, as I rolled over and listened to my brother laughing, I wouldn’t be able to do this in California.

   * * *

“Oh, hey, you dropped something.” The next morning, Ben and I were folding laundry, and two sheets of folded paper slipped out of my back pocket onto the floor. I froze as he knelt to pick the, up. His eyebrows knit together when he read the headings embossed in the corners.
“Olivia…what’s this?” I searched wildly for an excuse, a lie, anything, but my hand close around nothing.
“My…my acceptance letters,” I whispered, my eyes to the floor. My lips felt dry with nerves, so I licked them, but my tongue was dry, too.
“My little bug,” he said hoarsely, and pulled me in tightly. “Leaving me forever.” I laughed into his shoulder, then looked up at him, confused.
“Leaving you?” I asked, nose wrinkling. “Who said I was leaving?”
“You really expect me to believe you’re gonna stay anywhere near this place for another four years?” He tapped my forehead, then tweaked my nose, making me laugh again.
“Well, I haven’t decided yet,” I said, rubbing my nose. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.” I punched his arm, and he shoved me into the pile of laundry on top of the dryer.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Thinking it was probably Kate with the groceries, I said, “Got it,” and hurried to the door. I yanked it open and was met with my father.
His usually impeccable hair wasn’t gelled back. In fact, it barely looked combed. He smiled weakly, but he had none of his confidence or disingenuous charm. He looked terrible.
“Dad.” Ben had come up behind me and opened the door a little wider.
“What are you doing here?” I said between frozen lips. What little smile he had managed slid off his face.
“Can I come inside?” Dad said. I hesitated, forgetting that it wasn’t my house to bar entrance to, but I stepped aside like it was. Dad clambered over the threshold, shifting uncomfortably until Ben took his coat and led us to the kitchen.
“Can I get you something to drink, Dad?” Ben said, trying to sound light and pleasant.
“Some coffee would be great, bud,” he said, again forcing a smile. We sat stiffly at the table, avoiding each other’s eyes. Only when Ben placed a hot mug in front of Dad and, after a moment’s awkward searching, settled for leaning against the counter.
“I know you probably don’t want to see me,” Dad said after a minute. My shoulder twitched in a sort of shrug, still not looking at him. I felt enough shame for what I said to keep my eyes on my clasped hands. “And I will admit I stayed away this long because I was hurt by what you said.”
I started to say “Don’t pretend to be the victim here,” but he was the victim. No matter how much he deserved it, it was unprovoked and ruthless. But before I could apologize or make any sound, he continued.
“But staying away only proved you more and more right.” I wrenched my stare off the pitted wood of the table up to face him for the first time. His eyes bore into mine, strained and hollow. “Because you’re right. Everything you said about me, about this family…” He gulped and looked away.
“Dad—” I began, but he held up a hand.
“I haven’t been there.” His voice grew tight. “Maybe if I had, we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation.” His face pulled into a fleeting, pained smile, and I had the sudden urge to reach across the table for his hand, but I didn’t. “But it’s my job to set things right again, so that’s what I’m going to do.”
“It’s a little late for that, Dad,” Ben said suddenly. I had forgotten he was still in the room. His eyes were like cold, flat steel cutting into our father, and his voice was clipped.
“As long as it’s not too late, I’ll give it my best,” said Dad firmly. He and Ben stared at each other for a few seconds, until Ben nodded slightly. Dad looked back at me, suddenly looking nervous again.
“And I thought you should know that your mother and I are going to counseling now,” he said softly, plaintively. A hard lump formed in my throat and I blinked several times, looking away. Just then, Kate pushed herself, arms loaded with grocery bags, through the door.
“Who wants to help? Oh!” Her mouth dropped into a comical “O” at the sight of my father sitting at her kitchen table. “Hi, Mr. Ahern! What a…wonderful surprise!”
“Don’t lie to an old man, Kate,” Dad said with a chuckle and an easy, sad smile. I watched Kate struggle to think of something, anything to say, but he stood up abruptly, startling us all. “Actually, I was just leaving…I need to get some things straightened out.” He smoothed down his jacket and gave me a pointed look. “I hope to see you soon.” And with a final nod, he was gone.
“Are you okay?” Ben said, slipping an arm around my shoulders protectively. I nodded shakily, sniffling and pawing at a tear on my cheek. Kate took one of my hands in both of hers and squeezed. Suddenly, Ben swore under his breath and, withdrawing his arm, crossed to the other side of the kitchen. “Why did he have to come?” he demanded furiously, the muscles in his arms taut with agitation. In one swift motion, Kate dropped my hand and stepped in front of him. She cupped his face gently in the palms of her hands, forcing him to look at her.
“We may never understand why anything happens how it does,” she said quietly but firmly. “All we can do it take it and hope it’s not the end of things.” She leaned her forehead on his, and he began to visibly melt under her fingertips. He places his hands over hers and sank into the warmth, closing his eyes and breathing more slowly. They stayed that way for a long time, and I sat, transfixed.
That night, I leaned my forearms on the windowpane in my room, staring up at the sky. There were far fewer lights in this corner of the city, so I could make out some stars. And for the first time, I thought about the competition, what those judges had said. I remembered the man, pristine and chic and yet so warm, calling us “pale stars”. It hadn’t registered at the time, but now, as I stared up into the night sky, I understood.
Millions of  miles away, billions of particles of matter come together continuously to form volatile balls of gas. The brightest stars have remained so for millions of years already. They form our constellations, they pierce the inky abyss, and yet they are death-bound. It is the palest, forgettable stars, the babies, who will one day dominate, who will control and illuminate this void called life.
I smile softly to myself. There I was, in that room and up in the atmosphere simultaneously. And there I would stay.

Not even the swollen, crushing heat of August can stifle New York City. Cars still crowd the street, their horns polluting the sweltering air. Thousands of suited, pinned-up businessmen and women pile into the subway and fill the sidewalks, too self-absorbed to notice the heat.
This was the city I loved. This was the city I was leaving.
The muted sounds from the street drifted in through the closed windows of the airport. I kept my back turned stalwartly away from the sight, in case my determination crumbled. I fingered my bags nervously and counted them one last time.
“Well, this is it,” my dad said, sidling up next to me and slipping an arm around my shoulders. “My little girl’s leaving me.”
“Oh, Dad, I’ll only be across the country,” I said, and we both fell into mournful laughter. For the first time in my life, I looked up into my father’s face and didn’t want to leave him. “Besides, you saw it with me, you know I’ll be okay.”
I moved back in with my parents after the school year ended, after I had decided on California. Mom tried not to be too disappointed about Columbia, but was visibly uncomfortable with California. So for our first family vacation in several years, the five of us plus Kate boarded a plane headed west. Dad even took a whole two weeks off in July, and was home every night well before counseling. Mom had never looked healthier.
“Olivia, come one, I need a picture of you with your brothers,” Mom called from the other side of the room. Ben and Kyle linked my arms in theirs and frog-marched me within Mom’s reach. They took turns poking me and pulling my hair, all the while with big smiles on their faces.
“Flight 209, now boarding,” said a nasally female voice over the PA system. My stomach twisted and tightened, and I went to collect my things.
“You packed all your things?” Mom said anxiously. I nodded, afraid to open my mouth. She nodded unconsciously, wringing her hands. “Have you heard from Shawn?” I felt a sharp, short twinge at the sound of his name.
“Yeah, he’s leaving for Chicago in two days,” I said, looking down at the floor, trying desperately to sound blasé. Truthfully, we hadn’t talked much lately; it was already too difficult being apart and we weren’t half a country away from each other yet. There were a few desperate promises made in dark corners, but that’s all I could handle.
The best thing about new Mom was she didn’t probe too much. Instead, she touched a hand to my hair lightly, a few sudden tears pooling in her eyes.
“I’m very proud of you, Olivia,” she whispered, smiling. I reached up and covered her hand with mine, laughing and crying all at once, reveling in the feeling as the words washed over me. Mom pulled me in for a tight hug, and I folded inward, allowing me to fall into the closeness found in three months that far surpassed anything made in the previous seventeen years.
Then my whole family was on me, surrounding me, embracing me in one ball of bodies. Finally, unwillingly, weakly, I extracted myself carefully and made my way to the gate, turning around to watch them wave constantly.
When I was safely tucked away on the plane, I stared down at the ground as buildings and trees merged together. Cotton clouds floated in the heavy blue sky and the sun streamed in between, distracting me momentarily from my sadness.
Amidst everything, I remembered where I was going, and why, and something bubbled up within me. I thought of the first time Wes saw my drawing, the first time I me the Club. I couldn’t fight the smile that crept onto my lips. This was it, what they had all prepared me for all year. They were all off to their own corners of the art world, and I was off to mine. I placed my hand on the window and curled my fingers in, like I could grasp at my dream on the other side. A giggle slipped out. Soon…soon.