“Why do you like her?” she asks at last. “Wick’s not even nice.”
“She is.” Sort of. I start to explain, stop. There’s no point. Wick isn’t nice like Emily is, like most girls are. Plus, she isn’t the kind of nice Emily will understand. She’s thorny and sharp and complicated . . . and that makes it sound like Emily’s simple, and she’s not. I could draw her for days. Like most people, there’s so much underneath her smile, but Wick’s complicated in a way that feels like a kick. She’s not like other girls. She’s not like most people, period. She hits back. She hits first. I’d never get tired of drawing her, but I’d never get her right either.
“I don’t know,” I say at last. “You’re right. I’ve had a thing for her for years.”
Which makes it sound so stupid, but when I’m standing next to Wick, it doesn’t feel that way at all.
“Why?” Emily presses.
“I don’t know. She’s not predictable, and that makes her . . . interesting.”
“You deserve someone who’ll be good to you.”
I laugh, lifting my eyes to Emily’s and hunting for the joke. There isn’t one. She actually looks sad. “It’s true,” she says. “You save everyone else. You need someone who’ll be there for you. She won’t be.”
“And you will?”
“No.” Emily sags like this makes her even sadder. “Look, we’re friends, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So take my friendly advice: get over that girl. You’re never going to have her—even if you do, it isn’t like she’ll ever really be yours. She has too much shit following her and you’re meant for something better. You’re going to get out of this hellhole. Girls like her? They never do. Take it from me. I know about this stuff.”
“Emily, if you want out of here—”
She jumps off the counter, forking fingers through her hair. “See? There you go again. Stop trying to save everyone else. Save yourself, Griff.”
Emily slams the door behind her and I flip my bowl into the sink hard enough to hear it crack. Save myself? What the hell does she think I’m doing?
13
Some days it’s not worth getting out of bed, and today more than qualifies. My mom didn’t come home last night. Granted, it’s not the biggest deal in the world. She’s done this before. When I called her cell though, I could hear bar noise—glasses clinking, laughter—and Mom kept swearing she was going to stay with Tina, her latest best friend.
Bar noises do not equal Tina. They equal Vic. They mean she was out with him again and she’s hiding it. That’s new, and it makes me feel like something bad is coming.
Then, to make matters worse, I’m now stuck in Advanced Design. It’s usually one of my favorite classes, but Mrs. Allen’s returning our watercolor projects, and I’ll be honest, I’m nervous. Between catching some extra lawn jobs and finishing that firewall program, the assignment got away from me and I kind of phoned it in.
“After you review my notes and grading,” Mrs. A says as she goes from table to table, “you can collect your canvases from the back of the room.”
I try not to worry, but as soon as Mrs. A passes me, I know it’s bad. Her mouth goes flat and she won’t meet my eyes.
She places the critique facedown on my table. I wait until she passes and flip it over.
No way. A D? An effing D? I don’t bother reading her notes. I’m too pissed. I stuff the critique into my bag and head for the metal racks mounted to the classroom’s wall. My landscape is second to last and I spend a minute glaring at it. We’re supposed to take these things home, but Mrs. Allen always lets me keep mine here. She knows about my . . . home stuff. The pictures wouldn’t be safe.
Of course, who really cares about this one?
“It’s just not up to your usual level of work, Griff.” Mrs. A appears at my side. Both of us examine the painting and, yeah, she might have a point.
“You’ll need to do better for your portfolio.” Mrs. A puts her hand on my sleeve, and even though I won’t look at her, I can hear how she’s getting gooey on me. “They’re going to want to see a range of skills, not just sketching.”
I nod, refusing to say anything, because I don’t trust myself not to swear. No joke they’re going to want to see more range, but does she know how expensive real art supplies are? And when am I going to get the time to practice anyway?
I force a long breath through my mouth. Whatever. I’ll just work harder.
“Perhaps you could do some extra-credit work.” Mrs. A tugs her paint-spattered cardigan closer. “Principal Matthews has asked for me to organize a collage to Tessa Waye’s life, a gift we can give her parents. I would love for you to contribute.”
If I had more time, I would. As it is now . . .
“Thanks, Mrs. A.” The bell rings and everyone lunges for the door. “I’ll take this one with me. No point in storing it here.”