Jamie’s parents don’t look the way I remember them. His father, Brandon, had black hair the last time I saw him. I remember because I used to think he looked like Elvis Presley. Now his hair is full of salt and pepper, and he’s not as tall as I remember. Not even as tall as Jamie.
Jamie’s mother, Elouise, looks sort of the same, but narrower. It’s like someone squeezed all the extra water out of her, and now she’s small and thin and so tan.
She doesn’t greet me right away. She watches me the way you’d watch a stray animal you’ve never seen before. With distrust and hesitation. I wonder if she looks at all the girls Jamie brings home this way.
I wonder how many girls Jamie has ever brought home. And then I wish I hadn’t wondered it, because now I can’t get it out of my head.
“Gosh, you’ve sure grown up,” Brandon says with an earthy chuckle. His arms are around me before I even realize it. When he pulls away, his bottom lip is pulled back and his chin is dimpled. “I can’t believe this is the same girl who used to make clubhouses out of our couch cushions.”
Jamie smiles next to me and scratches his fingers at the back of his neck. “Okay, Dad, not so close, geez.”
Brandon lets go of me. “Well, it’s not like you came over to give your old man a hug.” He folds his arms around Jamie.
Elouise steps toward me. She walks like a dancer—graceful and balanced. “Hi, Kiko. It’s nice to see you.” We hug each other awkwardly—I don’t know whether to go right or left and I guess neither does she—and we pull away quickly.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” I say with as much appreciation as I can possibly find. Jamie didn’t tell them what happened at home—he just told them I was coming to look at colleges.
She eyes her husband like she’s scolding him. Brandon notices, but he keeps grinning anyway. “It’s no problem,” she says at last, turning on her heels. “You two must be hungry. Your dad made burgers.”
“Kiko’s a vegetarian,” Jamie says. “Sorry. I meant to tell you that on the phone.”
Elouise looks over her shoulder curiously. “Is she?” She looks at me for an extra second before disappearing into the kitchen.
When Brandon is out of earshot, I whisper to Jamie, “Are you sure it’s okay that I’m here?”
“Positive.” He picks up our bags. “I’ll show you the guest room.”
Something feels off. I don’t think Elouise is happy about me staying. But I don’t argue with Jamie. I just follow him.
Because at this point, where else would I go?
? ? ?
Elouise makes me a grilled cheese even though I tell her I don’t mind eating coleslaw and chips. This makes Brandon laugh, although I don’t know why. When we’re finished, Jamie and I clear the table and put all the leftovers away. His parents go off to watch TV, and we sit outside on the deck because it’s so warm and beautiful, and I can see the ocean from his backyard.
“You have a really nice house,” I tell him.
Jamie is typing away on his laptop. “I’ll tell my mom you said so. She designed it.”
“I don’t think your mom likes me very much,” I admit.
He looks up. I expect him to look surprised, but he isn’t. “No. She likes you just fine.”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
He grins. “Lying isn’t my thing, remember? Honestly, it’s not you.” He pauses. “Her and my dad are probably just fighting about something and they’re trying to hide it. Dad’s better at it, clearly.”
I remember how bad my parents used to fight right before they split up. They never tried to hide it in front of us.
Jamie might not see me as a burden, but maybe his mom does. My mom never let anyone come over toward the end of my parents’ divorce. The house was a constant war zone. Elouise might not want an outsider intruding on her private life either. I’ve got two weeks here—I need to make absolutely sure I don’t outstay my welcome.
“Hey, can I borrow your laptop when you’re done?” I ask.
Jamie spins the laptop toward me. “I’m done now.”
I look up art schools in the area, narrow it down to three, and tilt the screen back to Jamie.
He grins. “You’re not wasting time.”
“I’m growing ladyballs,” I say.
Jamie half chokes, half snorts. “What did you just say?”
My cheeks burn. “It sounds a lot better when Emery says it. Never mind.”
He laughs, and I look back at the screen.
Three schools that are still accepting late applications. Three schools with a good painting program. Three potential new dreams.
I study the applications, print out directions, and stay awake for hours after I’m in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is all really happening.
? ? ?
I ask Jamie to come with me because I get anxious going to new places. I know I need to be stronger, but . . . baby steps.
We visit the Glass Art Institution of Southern California first. It’s beautiful, inside and out. There’s curved windows and most of the building looks like boxes stacked on top of each other. The outside is all white, and the inside is like a futuristic space station. Gleaming, polished, and so modern. There are paintings and framed photographs all over the walls and glass boxes full of pottery and sculptures spread out all over the floor space.
I’m nervous to visit the art rooms in case we get in trouble for interrupting a class, but it turns out I didn’t need to be nervous at all. The entire side of the art building is glass—you can see everything that’s going on right from the sidewalk.
It’s pretty quiet inside. A few people in the pottery room, another person working on a stone sculpture on their own. The painting room is completely empty. I wonder if it’s always so quiet, or if it’s because it’s summer.
We visit Blue Phoenix next. It’s so busy we have to park across the street. The outside is cream and blue, and looks like a generic building. The reception room is full of artwork, but it isn’t as crisp and clean. It feels more like someone’s bedroom with every inch of wall space covered. I don’t mind it though—it makes me feel more comfortable. It makes me feel less nervous.
Their work spaces have the same feel. Even the half-finished projects left out on various easels make me feel calm. I might have a chance of getting into a school like this. They might accept someone like me—someone who can paint, but not quite well enough to get into Prism.
But it doesn’t feel right. Not like how Prism did the first time I saw their website.
When we step onto Brightwood’s campus, I don’t even feel like I’m in California. It’s green everywhere, and people are sitting under the trees sketching in the afternoon sun. The woman at the front desk is drinking her coffee and laughing with one of the students. The walls are olive green and full of the brightest artwork imaginable.
It’s a happy school. It makes me happy.
I tell myself I need to forget Prism. Comparing it to every other art school is never going to turn out well because Prism is the art school.