When I was little, I had no idea how important Rose’s mom’s magazine was or where her dad’s office was located—which is the reason we are friends now. Had we met in high school instead of knowing each other most of our lives, I would never even have tried to speak to her.
Not that she would have noticed. There are a million others lured into her orbit by her glamorous parents, her stunning beauty and smarts and stature. Rose has no lack of people who would be happy to go to parties with her and gossip about boys and clothes if I disappeared. Yet she puts up with my moods and withdrawal. She tolerates my obsession with my mother’s painting and doesn’t ask questions that I know she must have about why I won’t let her near my father. She insists on being my friend even when I’m terrible at returning the favor. Thank goodness, because she’s the only person I know I can count on, even when I find myself not wanting to count on anyone.
Taking a deep breath, I ask, “The committee—do they actually like my work or are they interested in seeing more because your father asked them?”
“Does it matter?” she asks. “You want to learn more about your mom so you can finish her work. The best way to do that is to talk to the people who might know what inspired that work. Do you really care if having connections is what got you through the door?”
Resentment bubbles thick and black because I do care. The idea that someone would pretend I am talented in order to curry favor with Rose’s father makes my stomach turn. But I bite back my indignation because this is Rose. She wouldn’t hurt me on purpose. And when I set aside my ego and think about her words, I realize she isn’t wrong. If finishing my mother’s work is important to me, then the only thing that matters is arriving at that goal. And having my work submitted means I might still have a chance.
“You have a point,” I admit.
Rose’s laugh rings bright like the sun. “Good. I like to be right. They have to make a decision on who gets into the program really soon, so—”
“How soon?”
“By tomorrow night.”
“What?”
“Don’t freak out,” Rose insists, and waves to her brother, who nods back. “All you have to do is go by their office before then with your real portfolio. My mom told Isaac to drive us, and he said he could if we do it now.”
“Now?” The word catches in my throat. Isaac strides across the grass toward us. His smile is teasing, and the wink he gives me says he knows what it feels like to be neatly trapped into doing something by his sister.
“If I’m going take Meri to Liberty Tower we have to get going. I have to meet Dad at his office later, and you know how he is about being late.”
“If that’s the case then maybe I should just—”
“No backing out.” Rose grabs my arm and pulls me off the picnic table. “We can drop by your house for you to change clothes and download any files you need for your portfolio, then head over there. They said it wouldn’t take long, so you should be back home in no time. And maybe you’ll see or hear something inspiring to you when you’re there. Like your mom did.”
The mention of my mother gets me moving, just as Rose knew it would. We climb into the new black sedan Isaac’s dad gave him earlier in the month. Isaac had wanted a sports car. Instead, he got the same model his father drove, but with bright gold wheels. Isaac mutes the National News Screen on the dash and cranks the music. Rose yells at him from the back seat to slow down.
“Not all of us drive like turtles. Right, Meri?” Isaac yells over the wailing of guitars, drums, and bass.
The trip to my house takes a matter of minutes. I jump out of the car and turn to Rose, who is starting to climb out. “You don’t need to come in. I’ll be out in a flash.” I turn and hurry toward the brick bungalow before Rose can follow.
It takes me just a few minutes to change from my school uniform into a pair of black pants decorated with large yellow and orange and white flowers and a white top. I tuck in the shirt, tie the belt, and slip on a pair of yellow high-top sneakers, knowing full well Rose will complain about my wardrobe choice the minute I get to the car. But when I tie an orange scarf around my neck and look in the mirror, I actually smile at the reflection. While I still see the fatigue beneath the makeup, for the first time in forever I see something other than the hurt I’ve felt since my mother’s accident. I see me.
With a nod, I head to Mom’s studio to transfer the few finished portfolio projects from her computer to my tablet. While I wait for the computer to boot, I glance around the sunlit room at the paintings scattered throughout the space. A large painting created just before I was born shows a gold-and-silver city stretching toward the sky. Sitting behind it—a lake of brilliant blue. Another from a year ago hangs near the hallway door and depicts a blue cobblestone path winding through a park filled with children of all ages. After I pull up the files I need, I step to a corner of the room where a group of small, unframed canvases leans against the base of the wall—out of sight so my father won’t have to see them if he decides to open the door and step inside. These are the pieces she worked on during the months leading up to the accident.
Unlike all her other works, these are abstracts. A half circle of burnished red seemingly guarded by a fence of deep maroon against a background of silver. A heavy, dark-gray form that reminds me of a wrought-iron flower. A stiff beige ribbon that slashes from one corner of the canvas to the opposite corner on the bottom of the other side. What looks like the tip of a black boot on a block of light blue stone. A line of seven red rectangles marked with a strange winged figure painted in gold—and finally, the one that she had yet to finish.
A horn honks, reminding me that I’m supposed to hurry. Still, I take one last look at the group of paintings. While I didn’t understand what drove her to paint them, I recognize the talent that made the images leap off the canvases. All my life I have worked to be as skilled an artist as my mother. I’m not. Even without the small head-shakes of disapproval she used to give my screen, I knew that. But if she could take the risk of creating something this different, maybe I should take a chance on the unknown, too.
The horn honks again as I leave a message on the kitchen memo screen for my father in case he gets home before me. Then, clutching my tablet tight to my chest, I hurry outside.
The music has been turned down from deafening to bearable. The minute I get in, Isaac peels away from the curb and Rose begins a steady stream of instructions that cause me to rub my palms on my pants.
“Katy Mitchell runs the City Art Program, but Victor Beschloss is the one that you’ll be meeting with. Dad says he is a good guy.”
Which meant he probably never unbuttoned his collar and didn’t smile a whole lot.
“Tell him all about your love of art and design and why you want to be a part of the program and how important you think the program is to our city and to our national identity.”
“Maybe I should salute the flag while I’m at it?” I ask sarcastically. Although it would be easy enough to do, since every house and business was gifted a flag at the time the new star was added.
Isaac grins at me as he stops at a light. Rose continues her monologue as if I never interrupted her.
“Make sure you smile.”