Jamie closes his hand over mine. He’s been doing that a lot lately. It only adds jitters to my nerves. “He’s already seen some of your paintings. You don’t have to be so nervous.”
My hand trembles beneath Jamie’s. He doesn’t understand what’s happening inside my core. He doesn’t realize there are earthquakes and tsunamis and volcanic eruptions destroying my brain and my heart and my soul. I am terrified of Hiroshi rejecting me. I’m terrified of anyone rejecting me.
I nod anyway because Jamie keeps squeezing my hand like he’s trying to reassure me. I guess I feel like I have to reassure him, too, even though it’s kind of a lie.
We stop at the door because even though Jamie insists the address is right, we’re looking directly into a small café.
Shrugging, Jamie pulls the glass door open and a bell shakes above our heads.
A petite girl with shiny black hair and eyes more like mine than Jamie’s looks up from the counter and smiles. She steps toward us and reaches for the menus, but Jamie shakes his head.
“I think we’re lost. Is there an art studio around here?” he asks.
She puts her hands on her hips and purses her lips. “Oh, it’s upstairs. The entrance is at the side of the building.” She pauses. “Is he expecting you?”
I clutch my portfolio to my chest. “He told us to stop by.”
The girl nods. “Okay, well, I’ll take you up there.” She unties her mint-green apron and hangs it on the wall. We follow her back outside and down a small alleyway next to the building. There’s a door leading to a steep set of stairs, and at the top is a wide landing and a large metal door.
When the girl pushes it open, I feel the cold hit my face like I’ve walked into the frozen food aisle at a grocery store.
“Dad?” the girl calls. “You’ve got company.”
Hiroshi Matsumoto appears from around the corner. His hands are covered in flecks of brown and red paint, and he’s wearing a gray T-shirt with a Coca-Cola image on it and black pants. There’s paint all over him, but some of it looks like it’s been there for a long time.
I feel sick. I bet he doesn’t remember us. I bet he’s going to be mad that we’re interrupting his painting.
Tucking his shoulder-length hair behind his ear, he walks toward us almost giddily. “Kiko, Jamie, so nice to see you two again.”
Wincing, I look up at Jamie. He’s grinning at me like he wants me to know I’ve been worrying for nothing.
“I see you’ve met my youngest daughter, Akane. She’s going to college in Michigan this fall.” Hiroshi stands next to her, and I can totally see the resemblance. They both have high cheekbones, happy eyes, and big, comfy lips. She’s basically a tinier female version of him.
Akane clasps her hands together, showing off her yellow and blue nails. “Nice to meet you.” She looks back at her father. “I have to go back downstairs. Frank isn’t here yet to take over the counter.”
Hiroshi nods. When she disappears, he sighs sadly. “I can’t believe she’ll be moving away soon. She is the only employee we have who shows up on time.” He chuckles like he’s made of the frothy sea.
“Is the café yours?” Jamie asks.
Hiroshi squints. “Technically it’s my wife’s, but we all pitch in when we can. She believes families who work together stay together.” He shrugs. “But both our daughters are going to college out of state, so I think she’s got that all wrong.” He holds his painted hands open. “So! Let’s see this portfolio.”
For what feels like an entire excruciating hour, Hiroshi looks through every image in my portfolio. He studies every photograph of every painting, and he spends an awful long time on each drawing. I brought my sketchbook too, in case the portfolio wasn’t enough, and he spends even more time looking at that.
“These are very good,” he says finally. “The subject matter here is very intriguing. And the way you manipulate shadows is very impressive, especially for someone so young.” He looks up thoughtfully. “Where are you applying for school?”
“Brightwood,” I answer nervously.
He nods. “Brightwood is a good school. What made you pick it?”
I look at Jamie even though he can’t help me with this one. I wish I didn’t need so much reassurance, but I’m not good at talking to new people. I’m not good at talking to old people either, to be honest.
Jamie looks down at my sketchbook like he’s studying it too. He wishes I were braver. I can see it in his eyes.
I wish I were braver too.
I gulp. “Well.” My voice quivers. “I wanted to go to Prism, but I didn’t get in. And I don’t want to live at home with my mom, so I came out here to look at schools, and I really liked Brightwood—even though it’s not Prism—and I applied because maybe I could get a job out here and go to school and not need any help.” I run out of air and my voice catches.
Hiroshi nods slowly, and then I realize he’s staring at Jamie. They look like they’re having a silent conversation. Maybe Hiroshi is wondering why I bring Jamie everywhere with me. Maybe he’s going to figure out I don’t know anything about independence because I can’t go anywhere new without having a panic attack. Maybe he isn’t going to want to help someone so small and sad.
Jamie presses his fingers against the middle of my back and leans in like he’s coaxing a puppy out of hiding. “I’m going to go downstairs and get a cup of coffee. I don’t really understand any of this art stuff, and you guys would probably be more comfortable without me hovering.” He laughs gently and his blue eyes sparkle. “Meet me in the café when you’re done?”
I nod because what else am I supposed to do? I can’t beg him to stay, and I certainly can’t say out loud that I feel wobbly and unbalanced without him nearby. It would probably freak him out.
“Tell me about this one,” Hiroshi says just before the door falls shut and we’re the only two left. He’s pointing to one of my sketches—the one of a girl with no face.
“I don’t know,” I say quietly.
“Why did you draw it?”
Because when I look at myself, the face I see and the face Mom sees and the face Jamie sees aren’t the same face. I might as well be a white canvas because none of us seem to agree.
But that’s too much to explain to someone I don’t know. It’s probably too much to explain to anyone. My shoulders rise and fall like they don’t understand his questions.
“Why are you applying to Brightwood when you want to go to Prism?”
A scratchy feeling rises in my throat like I’m coughing up sandpaper. “I didn’t get into Prism,” I repeat. Heat radiates across my face.
“You didn’t get in this year, but what about next year? Or what about reapplying with a new portfolio? Maybe you simply need to show them the right work. Art is like that—it speaks to people in different ways at different times. Maybe what you thought was your best wasn’t really your best. Maybe it was just the work you were least hard on yourself about.” His brown eyes flicker left and right like he’s analyzing me.
I want to sink to the floor and cry. It’s too much staring. I hate the spotlight.