If I let Brightwood be Brightwood all on its own, I might actually like it.
“Can I help you?” the woman asks.
I step toward her meekly. “I’m just looking around. I was thinking about applying.”
“Very cool.” She smiles and slides a drawer open. “Here’s a map of the campus.” She passes me a sheet of paper. “Feel free to wander around. There aren’t many classes going on right now anyway. But if you see anyone working, we don’t mind at all if you watch from the windows; just please don’t interrupt them. Some of the professors here can be a little moody.” She wiggles her fingers in the air like she’s casting a spell and giggles.
“Thanks,” I say with a small smile.
When I turn to Jamie, he’s smiling too.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“Maybe” is all I say.
All of the rooms downstairs seem to be for pottery. The second floor is graphic design and photography. And the third floor is drawing and painting.
I look through one of the windows from the hallway and see five students surrounding a table full of objects—a jar of marbles, a horse-shaped pi?ata, a mannequin head with a neon-blue wig, and lots of other oddities. They’re all sketching furiously like they’re being timed. They probably are—I hate timed sketches. I never feel like I get to say what I want to say. Maybe because it takes me a long time to sort out my thoughts, even with art.
Some of the rooms are barren except for the drawings and corkboards all over the walls. Some of the rooms are full of desks and whiteboards. Some of the rooms are full of students.
All of the rooms are full of color. All of them feel like home.
Oh my God, maybe this is it. Maybe this is where I’m meant to study.
Maybe.
It’s easy to look around with Jamie beside me. I don’t feel like I’m going to get yelled at when he’s around. It’s like he’s protecting me from being so painfully out of place.
Jamie makes me feel safe, and right now I need him more than ever. A month ago, I’d never dreamed of driving across the country to look at colleges without even being invited. I don’t have the courage to step outside of my own element. And my element, quite obviously, is being alone and invisible.
I tell myself I need to thank him, when I’m not busy drooling into the windows and hyperventilating over the oil paintings and watercolors and canvases as big as my garage door.
Eventually we head for the door. We can’t stay here forever; otherwise I totally would. On our way out, the woman at the desk stops me, her hand waving in the air like she’s hailing a taxicab.
“Here,” she offers, handing me a small magazine. “There’s a list of all the local art events inside. There’s a student gallery coming up if you want to check it out.” She flashes a bright smile. “You never know. They could be your future peers.”
In the car, I flip through the pages. There are events happening almost every week throughout the summer, but the student gallery isn’t until August. I don’t know what my life will look like in August.
I turn another page. It’s an ad for a local art show with a white background and simple, black writing.
Hiroshi Matsumoto
Milk and Stardust Exhibit
Open to the public
June 27, 4:00 p.m.
At the bottom of the ad is a photograph of a man with his arms folded behind his back. His dark hair is pulled back behind his head, stretching the skin across his cheekbones. He’s wearing a loose white shirt and a half smile, like he’s in on a joke that nobody else seems to realize. Behind him is the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen.
A girl with black hair, small eyes, and her arms raised to the sky is bursting from the sea, and pale blue feathers sprout from every inch of her clothing. When I look closer, she has feathers growing from her hair, too, like a mythical creature from the ocean transforming into a bird.
It’s so beautiful I can hardly breathe.
“What is that?” Jamie asks from the driver’s seat.
I feel the air escape over my lips. “I have no idea. Something amazing.”
He’s grinning. “Well, when is it? Do you want to go?”
I bring my eyes to him and feel like feathers are bursting from my skin. “It’s in two days.” I want to go. I need to go. But not alone. I’d be too nervous to go to an event alone, where I don’t know a single person, in a city I’ve never been in before, without anyone to hide behind. “Will you go with me?”
Jamie doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course I will, Kiko.”
I press the magazine to my heart and close my eyes.
? ? ?
I draw a girl—no, a bird—no, a star splitting into a thousand pieces—and then I don’t draw anything at all, because all I want to do is close my eyes and dream of painting for the rest of my life.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Elouise trades a triangle of toast for her car keys and curls her fingers in the air. “I’m going to work. Put the dishwasher on when you’re finished?”
Jamie flips his thumb in the air and keeps chewing. “Mm-hmm.”
His mom smiles at him, then me, and then she’s not smiling at all—she just looks sad. She hurries out the door.
I scrape my fork against the scrambled eggs. I made breakfast for everyone, but Elouise only ate half a slice of toast. Maybe she hates my cooking. Maybe she doesn’t think making breakfast makes up for intruding into their family home for two weeks. Maybe she doesn’t want me here.
“It’s too early for that,” Jamie grumbles across from me. The skin beneath his eyes is puffy from too much sleep, and he’s wearing a blue and gray plaid shirt and jeans that fit him way too good. It’s unfair—jeans shouldn’t fit anyone that good.
I frown, but I’ve already forgotten his comment. I’m still thinking about the jeans.
“You’re thinking,” he says seriously. “Or . . . analyzing. Nothing is going on right now, you got that? Everything is cool.” He opens up his eyes like he’s trying to hypnotize me into believing him.
Laughing, I shake my head. “You don’t even know what I was thinking about. It could’ve been something good.”
“It wasn’t. You had that look in your eyes. Like a startled deer, or someone who’s just been given bad news.”
I pull my hands away from the table and shove them into my lap. “I’m sorry. I’m worried your mom is mad I’m here.”
He sets his fork down. “She doesn’t mind you’re here. I told you that already.”
“I know you did.” I rub my lip with the back of my finger. “But she looks sad all the time. I feel like it’s because of me.”
“It’s not you.” Jamie shifts his jaw thoughtfully. “It’s my dad. They’re not getting along right now. It’s part of the reason I went to stay with my aunt and uncle again.” His eyes dart away and back again because his words have slipped through by mistake.
“Again?” I repeat.
Jamie has been back home before.
I never knew. Now I know it’s because he didn’t want me to.
“How many times have you been back to visit your aunt and uncle?”
He shifts forward and shakes his head. “A few, but it’s not what you think.”