When we get inside, Emery hovers over the pastry counter while I order the same drink I always do, because a vanilla chai latte makes the world feel better.
“What’s your name?” the curly-haired barista asks.
“Kiko,” I reply.
She hesitates, her black marker hovering over the giant cup with uncertainty. She was expecting something simpler to process.
“Sorry. It’s Japanese,” I apologize. I always apologize to people when my name confuses them. I have no idea why; I just feel like I’m supposed to. “It’s K-I-K-O.”
The girl scratches my name in. When her coworker calls me for my drink, the cup reads “Kiki.”
I sit in the corner with Kiki’s drink, and Emery sits across from me with an orange and cranberry muffin and a giant latte.
“Want some?” she offers, holding the muffin toward me.
I shake my head and sip my tea. “Did you book your flight yet?”
She tightens the corners of her mouth. “Yeah. I leave on Monday.”
I feel like someone has punched me in the chest. “Seriously?”
She nods. “That’s why I want you to come with me to get the tattoo. This is, like, my going-away weekend.”
“You mean ‘good-bye’ weekend,” I correct. “You’re lucky. I wish I was leaving for Prism early.”
Emery’s eyes widen. “You got in? Why didn’t you tell me?”
I wave a hand in the air quickly, like I’m trying to erase what I’ve said. “No, no, no. I didn’t. I haven’t gotten a letter yet. I just meant I wish I didn’t have to stay here for the summer by myself.” I don’t know how I’m going to get through it without Emery, but at least getting an acceptance letter from Prism will keep me sane until I can move out.
“I worry about you sometimes, Kiko.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugs. “You don’t really do things on your own. I’m worried you’re going to spend the next few months hiding out in your room not talking to anyone. Plus, you know, your mom.” She trails her finger along the edge of the table. Her nails are painted green today, with black stars on her thumbs. “She has a way of making you feel so insecure; I worry it’s her way of trying to keep you close. It’s not healthy.”
Neither is living across the hall from Uncle Max, but I don’t tell her that part. Telling her would require me to say the words out loud, and I haven’t done that since the day I told Mom and ruined my family forever.
“That’s why I need Prism,” I say at last.
She’s quiet for a moment, studying her half-eaten muffin like she’s waiting for it to jump up and dance across the table. “But what happens when Prism isn’t there anymore? What happens if you graduate? Or if you don’t—” She stops herself.
I know what she’s trying to say. What if I don’t get in? What will I do then, when all my hopes of making things better are in the same basket marked ART SCHOOL? I rely on these things to make me happy—art, Prism, even Emery. Without them, I’m not sure what I would do.
That’s why I have to get in.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so moody. I just think about you here by yourself all summer and it’s kind of depressing.” Emery raises her eyebrows and gives me a gentle grin.
“I’ll probably work extra hours at the bookstore once school is over. Trust me, I’m not going to be sitting at home with my mom feeling sorry for myself,” I say. I’ll probably be getting my portfolio ready for Prism. There won’t be any time to be sad.
“God, your mom. Whenever I meet her she acts like the nicest person in the world, and then you tell me stories and I honestly think she’s bipolar.” Emery takes another drink.
“I don’t think she’s bipolar. Something—but not that.”
“Well, I know where to get some lithium if she ever wants any,” Emery says dryly. She never says it directly, but I’m pretty sure her dad is a drug dealer. She knows way too many names of prescription pills—even for someone with an interest in medical school.
It was never just art that bonded Emery and me as friends. It was our families, too. Because even though Emery is so much better at dealing with it, she knows what it feels like to have parents that aren’t interested. She knows what it feels like to want to run away. She knows how badly—how desperately—I need to get into Prism, because she knows what it feels like to be afraid that staying in this town will feel the same as dying.
I make a face at her. “I would pay you actual money to be the one to tell my mom she needs medication.”
Emery laughs and brings her hand to her mouth. “You don’t think anyone’s told her that before? Not even your dad?”
I shake my head slowly. “Not a chance. A sirloin steak doesn’t try to reason with a dragon.”
She tilts her head back and laughs. “What does that even mean?”
I laugh, too, even though it’s too true to be really funny. Nobody can reason with Mom—not even Dad, when they were married. Maybe that’s part of the reason he left. Because he couldn’t get her to listen. Because he couldn’t get her to care. About him, about me. Maybe he just wanted out.
And I know I should be mad at him for that, but I’m not. I get it. I want out too.
Emery’s phone rings. “Oh, it’s my mom. Give me a second?” She plugs her finger against her ear and speaks into the phone. “Hello?”
Their conversation seems serious from the start, so I pull out my phone and search the Internet for photos of Prism. It will make Emery feel like I’m not paying attention, and it will make me feel happy.
Because Prism is the most beautiful building I’ve ever seen in my life.
Huge glass windows in lopsided shapes, cube-shaped offices, color schemes like aqua and fuchsia and marigold, which have never once made it past my mother’s beige limitations on interior design.
Prism is an enormous, colorful honeycomb, full of the most creative little worker bees in the history of the universe. Some people dream about going to Juilliard or Yale or Hogwarts, even. Because they’re prestigious and magical and a dream.
Prism has always been my dream, ever since the day I googled art schools and saw how colorful it all was—the website, the campus, and the students. Plus, it’s in New York, which is basically the art capital of the United States. I knew how much I needed it—to be a part of such a beautiful school and be taught by some of the greatest art teachers in the country. And I need it now, more than ever.
I picture my dorm room. I picture my roommate.
I bet we’d get along—both of us at a school because we love art so much we want to spend the rest of our lives doing it. How could we not get along?
She probably wouldn’t even care that I’m half Japanese and don’t fit in anywhere. In New York, people probably don’t need to be told twice how to spell Kiko. They’ve probably met a thousand Kikos before.
It’ll be my new beginning away from Mom and away from the memories and guilt I desperately want to escape.
I swipe through their website about clubs and societies and after-school activities. They have a forum section, too, where prospective students ask all kinds of questions about student life and whatever else they want to know.
And then I see it.