“I can barely speak English.” Jamie scratches his head with a grin.
Hiroshi’s laugh is like a song. “I always ask, because people always ask me if I can speak Japanese. I try to beat them to it.” He looks over his shoulder at some of the other people waiting to speak with him. I get the feeling he’s trying to avoid them. “Do you both go to school around here?”
I shake my head like a frightened rabbit.
Jamie nods at me—he’s trying to be encouraging, but it’s not working. I don’t know how to talk to strangers, and especially not ones I admire. He pulls Hiroshi’s attention from me to break the silence. “I do, but Kiko lives in Nebraska.” He pauses thoughtfully. “She’s actually here visiting to look at art schools for the fall.”
Panic floods my body. He wasn’t supposed to tell him that. Now Hiroshi’s going to think I’m an artist. He’s going to wonder if I’m any good. He’s probably going to assume I’m better than I am. And I’m a complete amateur compared to him.
This is so embarrassing.
“Art school, eh? And what’s your flavor?” Hiroshi presses his lips together in a tight smile.
“Acrylics,” I say meekly. “But not like this. I mean, I’m not as good. As you, I mean. I’m not as good as you. At all.” Oh my God, I can’t speak English either. I look at Jamie, my eyes begging for him to save me, but he doesn’t seem to understand that I’m drowning.
“We all start at the same place, but you’re completely in charge of where you finish,” Hiroshi says. “You can be as good an artist as you want to be. You just have to practice and work hard. I’m sure your parents have told you this, yes?”
I’m frozen. My parents don’t talk to me about art. Will he know this without me saying it? His serious eyes tell me he does.
Hiroshi presses his hands together like he’s praying and rests his chin on the tips of his fingers. “My parents told me art was what lazy people did when they just wanted to work on the side of the street. They wanted me to be a doctor. So when I had two daughters, I told them they could be anything they wanted, even if it was a painter on the side of the street. And do you know what? One of them is in medical school and the other wants to be a surfer.” He laughs. “We all have to dream our own dreams. We only get one life to live—live it for yourself, not anyone else. Because when you’re on your deathbed, you’re going to be wishing you had. When everyone else is on theirs, I guarantee they aren’t going to be thinking about your life.”
Jamie pulls his phone out. “She’s really good. She just doesn’t realize it. Here, look.”
I don’t know what’s going on. Hiroshi is leaning in to Jamie, looking down at the brightly lit screen while Jamie swipes again and again and again. Each time, Hiroshi stares thoughtfully, grunting to himself the way a dog does when it’s having a dream.
What are you doing? I manage to mouth. Seriously, Jamie, what are you doing?
Jamie shakes his head at me like he doesn’t want me to ruin whatever moment they’re having. I make the mistake of leaning forward and looking at his phone.
They’re pictures of my paintings. Pictures of my portfolio. On Jamie’s phone.
And Hiroshi Matsumoto is looking at them.
Can I please die now?
I feel my body shrinking and shrinking. I’ve shriveled up into a small, frightened child. Why would Jamie show him those photos? Why did he even have them on his phone to begin with? Has he completely lost his mind?
I hold my breath and try not to vomit while I wait for Hiroshi to look back at me. I’m sure he will, eventually, to say something along the lines of, “Good effort. Just keep working hard.” Something to confirm I’m nowhere near as good as I’d like to be. Words to remind me I’m not good enough for Prism and their superstar art program.
When Hiroshi looks back at me, a black strand of hair hanging at his temple, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me like he’s only just noticed me, even though we’ve been talking for at least five minutes.
A tall woman with a short bob taps Hiroshi’s shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a Mr. Bolton here to see you.”
Hiroshi nods. “Okay, I’m coming.” He looks at me and Jamie and gives a wrinkled smile. And then, just to me, he says, “You should bring your portfolio to my studio sometime. Those art schools like their recommendations. I’ll see what I can do.”
I think my brain might actually blow up. I nod frantically, like a bobble-head strapped to a rock crawler.
Hiroshi floats away like a phantom, the hem of his white dress trailing behind him.
“Oh my God, what just happened?” I hiss in Jamie’s direction.
A smirk appears. “I think he was impressed.”
I blush. “Why did you take photos of my portfolio?”
“Because I wasn’t sure if you’d ever let me see it again. You’re so private about your art—you panic if you think anyone is watching you draw in your sketchbook.”
“Well, that was super embarrassing.” And a huge violation of my privacy, I want to add, but I don’t because my tongue is fighting with my brain and really I’m just hearing Hiroshi’s words on a continuous loop. I clear my throat, and then I’m unable to contain my happiness. “And awesome. And seriously the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me in my life.” Hiroshi Matsumoto wants to see my portfolio. And write me a recommendation. And help me get into art school.
Jamie doesn’t hesitate—he takes my hand in his and squeezes. “You deserve it, Kiko.”
Now I want to die for all the right reasons.
? ? ?
I draw twins with black hair all tangled together who have only just realized they look exactly the same.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
It turns out Hiroshi Matsumoto is kind of a big deal.
He worked as an illustrator when he was younger, but he’s been painting for the last twenty years and has a huge online following. Images of his work are all over social media, and he has an online shop full of prints that appear to be incredibly popular.
Now I’m more nervous than excited.
Because not only is he a professional artist, but he’s kind of famous. What if he realizes he made a mistake? What if he changes his mind? What if he forgets he even asked me to come by in the first place?
I look over at Jamie in the driver’s seat. He pulls into an empty parking space and turns off the engine.
Meeting my eyes, he frowns. “What’s wrong?”
I pull my hands away from the portfolio resting on my lap. My palms are sweaty. My chest feels tight. “I think we should go home.”
“What are you talking about? We’re already here. His studio is, like, thirty feet away.” He sounds impatient, which makes me feel guilty.
The sun shines through the window. I try to keep my eyes on something other than Jamie and my portfolio, but all the passing strangers out for an afternoon stroll are making me nervous.