Hiroshi turns a few more pages of my sketchbook. “Do you ever paint your sketches? I don’t see any of your acrylic pieces in here.”
“No. They’re just doodles, really.”
“I think you should paint them. Give color to what you want to say.” He brushes his inky-black hair away from his eyes. “How long are you in California for?”
“A couple of weeks, I think.” I hesitate because I’m not sure how much I’m ready to say out loud. “I’m not ready to go home yet.”
He closes the folder gently and straightens his shoulders. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come back tomorrow morning and you can paint here. You can pay me for the supplies you use, but you can use the studio for free. Work on something new—maybe something from your sketches. We’ll see if we can’t put together a portfolio that tells the world who you truly are as an artist.”
My heart feels lighter somehow. “You want me to paint here? With you?”
“Sure.” Hiroshi waves his hand around. “There’s plenty of space. And I’ll promise to write you a very good recommendation letter as long as you promise something in return.”
“What’s that?”
His eyes fold closed. “I want you to reapply to Prism with your new work and with my recommendation letter.”
I feel my eyes begin to burn and I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth to force my jaw to stop moving. “Why?” is all I manage to get out.
Hiroshi lifts his chin up and suddenly he seems an entire foot taller. For a second I see my father, but it passes quickly. “Kiko, I think other people can see you more clearly than you can see yourself. As an artist, you have to know what’s inside you if you want to get it out on the canvas. It hurts me to think someone as talented as you is holding themselves back without even realizing it.” And then he flexes his fingers and shrugs matter-of-factly. “Besides, my daughters have no interest in art. I never got to teach them anything about paintbrushes or oils. This will be fun for me.”
“Thank you,” I say with a closed-up throat. He doesn’t see how my skin is crumbling off me like it’s old and dead, revealing something glowing and wonderful underneath.
Or maybe he does. Maybe he sees how badly I need this—maybe he’s giving me this chance because he can see that without art, I’m nothing.
? ? ?
I draw the sun teaching the moon how to shine.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Mom doesn’t say anything when I tell her about Hiroshi. I should know better by now than to have any expectations—she will never have the reaction I want. Not about anything I care about.
I shouldn’t even have brought up my art in the first place. I mean, all she asked was “Why didn’t you call me?” and “What have you been doing?” I could have just said I was busy. I didn’t have to elaborate.
But there’s something about my mother, and when she hooks you into a phone call, it’s already too late. You’re going to tell her your whole life story if it’s what she wants out of you.
“Did you hear anything I just said?” I ask.
“I think it’s very weird he would ask you to go back to his house like that.”
“It’s not his house, Mom. It’s his studio. And it’s to paint.”
“I don’t know. Are you sure he’s even legitimate?”
I snort. “What does that mean? He’s a real artist, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I don’t get why a grown man would want a teenage girl hanging around his place if he doesn’t have ulterior motives.”
My blood gets hot.
WHAT I WANT TO SAY:
“I can’t believe you’re going to insinuate Hiroshi is some kind of child predator when Uncle Max is still sleeping across the hall from my bedroom.”
WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY:
“He’s not like that. He’s nice. He’s like Dad.”
Mom laughs wildly. “Oh, well, that makes everything so much better.”
I don’t respond because it’s impossible to make her see reason when Dad’s name appears on her target.
“Have you talked to your father lately?” she asks coolly.
“No. Why?”
She tuts into the phone. “See? He can’t even get in touch with his own kids. It’s so pathetic.”
“I don’t want to talk with you about Dad. Seriously.”
She goes quiet for a while. “He chose to leave. I hope you don’t blame me.”
“I’ve never blamed you. I know he cheated—you told me that already.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Her voice trails off. I can hear the TV in the background. “I feel like you resent me because of your dad, and I’m the one who stayed to take care of you guys.”
I want to tell her that staying to take care of us is sort of the deal you make when you have children. I want to tell her that I resent her because of Uncle Max and not Dad. I want to tell her I don’t want to talk about any of this because I’m trying to get out of the black hole she keeps sucking me back into.
But I don’t tell her any of it. I close my eyes and say, “That’s not true, Mom.”
And then she squeals into the phone and tells me about some weird outcome of a reality show about hoarders.
I call Emery afterward. She completely freaks out when I tell her I’m in California with Jamie.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she cries into the phone. “This is amazing!”
“It happened really fast, and I guess I’ve just been so busy,” I admit.
“I think I’ve been replaced.” She says it like it’s a joke, but I’m suddenly aware there might be some truth to it. I mean, she hasn’t been replaced, exactly. It’s not like I’ve traded one friend in for another. But Emery always made going out and doing things easier. She was my social crutch. She made me feel less afraid of the world because she was always nearby if I needed someone to hide behind. I used to worry I’d feel lost without her, but I don’t. And I wonder if it’s because Jamie came into my life right when she was leaving for college.
I tell her about everything else that’s been going on, including how often Mom keeps trying to call, and she tells me about school and how she’s been so busy she hasn’t had time to go to a single party. She tells me Gemma and Cassidy got into a fight because both of them hooked up with Adam. Hearing his name doesn’t make me as uncomfortable as I thought it would, which weirdly puts me in a better mood.
But even with all the news, I keep thinking about her words. Have I replaced her with Jamie? Have I gone from depending on one person to depending on another?
I don’t like how it makes me feel, so I tell myself it isn’t true.
? ? ?
After dinner, Brandon asks us if we want to play charades. I look panicked because making faces and throwing my hands around in front of a group of people sounds like an actual nightmare I’ve had more than once.
Jamie suggests we play Pictionary instead.
He’s thoughtful that way. And amazing. And so good-looking it kind of hurts my chest.
Elouise has about the same enthusiasm for Pictionary as I had for charades, but it doesn’t take Jamie very long to convince her to play.