The spinning stops. My ears ring. “Wait. What are you talking about?” I thought this was about her narcissism. It’s not.
“I mean, how can I know for sure if someone didn’t do something to me when I was younger? Like when I was sleeping. So many people block those memories out—something horrible could have happened to me when I was a kid and I don’t even remember it.” Her eyes are wide now and full of something that isn’t sadness or humor—it’s craziness.
I try to take a breath, but I feel like throwing up. “Are you trying to say you think you were sexually abused when you were a kid?” My voice is so dry I’m sure my words are going to crumble into thousands of tiny, brittle pieces. I try to think logically. I try to be calm.
She shrugs and twists her face like this is a genuine possibility. “I mean, who knows? Maybe a hypnotherapist could find out.”
“Do you have any memories at all that are making you think this? Did anything weird happen to you?” I ask through stiff breaths. Like, I don’t know, an uncle sneaking into your room?
“No,” she says pointedly. “But that’s what I mean—just because I can’t remember anything doesn’t mean nothing ever happened. When I was younger, I was very attractive and very naive. I didn’t even know there were mean people in the world. Someone could have taken advantage of that.”
WHAT I WANT TO SAY:
“Nobody took advantage of you, nobody molested you, and you don’t have any repressed memories of your childhood. I’m the child who was hurt, not you. You didn’t believe me, but now I’m supposed to believe that you’re worried something ‘might’ have happened to you, even though you don’t have any reason to think that whatsoever? Why are you trying to diminish the horrible thing that happened to me and make it about you?”
WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY:
Exactly that.
I leave her and her reality TV show and her stupid, stupid made-up problems on the couch, and when I’m miles away from her, blasting Wilco in the car, I shout as loud as I possibly can, “I HATE YOU.”
? ? ?
I drive to Dad’s. It was never my plan to bring up Uncle Max ever again, but something has changed. There’s a desperation inside me that I want to rip out. I want this horrible thing out of my body and my mind, and I don’t want to touch it anymore.
I tell Dad everything.
I tell him about Uncle Max. I tell him about Mom. I tell him I know the truth about their divorce. I tell him I thought it was my fault.
He’s quiet at first, but when he starts to cry he has to bury his face in his hands to hide from me. I think he feels ashamed, even though I tell him I don’t blame him. When he calms down, he hugs me and says he thinks I’m the strongest person in the world, as strong as a polar bear.
Dad says he didn’t tell me about Mom and Brandon because he didn’t want me and my brothers to take his side. He says he’s not perfect either, and that no one is, really, but that he is trying to do right by the people he cares about.
He tells me he wants me to live with him and Serena and the twins and Shoji. He says we can all be a family.
I don’t want to tell him it’s too late for that, even though that’s how I feel. I don’t want the life I wanted as a child—I want the life in my future. I want art school. I want bills. I want friends. I want to meet people who inspire me. I want to inspire people I meet. I want to live.
Dad goes in the other room to call Mom. I stay downstairs with Serena, Shoji, and my two sisters, who seem to be growing at an impossibly fast rate. Leah is still bald. Emily is still chubby.
? ? ?
I move in with Dad. He goes with me to help pack up my room when Mom is at work. She left a letter for me on my bed. It’s from Brightwood. I’ve been accepted into their art program.
I know I should be more excited, but it’s hard to be happy when I still don’t know what I’m going to do. California feels like it’s slipping farther and farther away from me. I’m not sure I’m brave enough to go back and do it all over again but this time without Jamie.
I want to be brave. I just don’t know where to start.
? ? ?
Jamie calls me on my birthday. I don’t answer. He doesn’t leave a voice mail.
I think we might be over.
? ? ?
I draw a ghost wandering through an airport because she doesn’t know where to go.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Idon’t recognize the number when my phone rings. For a moment I wonder if it’s Jamie. Maybe he’s trying to trick me into talking to him. And for that same moment, I really want it to be him.
I answer, my voice hurried and cracked. “Hello?”
“Hi. Is this Kiko Himura?” A man’s voice, but not Jamie’s.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“This is Dexter Graham from the admissions office at Prism Art School. How are you doing today?”
Oh my God. “I’m God. I mean, good. I’m good. How are you?”
His chuckle is light and disarming. “Great, thanks. I’m calling because we’ve just looked over your application for the fall. Unfortunately, that program is already at max capacity for this semester. However, we were very impressed with your work. Your portfolio is quite stunning. So although we won’t be able to offer you a place this year, I was getting in touch to see if you’d like us to hold your application until next year. We could interview you sometime in the spring, although—and I’m not supposed to say this—the interview is much more of a formality than anything. You’d basically have a place here if you’d like it.” He pauses. “Is that something that would interest you?”
Oh my God. “Yes. Yes, absolutely. Umm. I don’t understand though. I got a rejection from you guys already.”
“Yes, for our painting program.” He pauses. “But you applied again, for drawing? About a month ago? I’ve even got your recommendation letter here from Hiroshi Matsumoto, which was quite impressive.”
“And you’ve seen my portfolio?”
“Yes,” he repeats. “Well, the photographs anyway. We’d expect you to bring your actual portfolio with you to the interview, but the photographs were very well done. We got a good idea of your level of talent.”
My stomach knots. It was Jamie. It must have been. Or maybe Hiroshi and Jamie, but either way, I didn’t take those photographs, and I certainly didn’t apply to Prism for drawing.
“So are you interested in us holding your application?” he asks again.
My heart races. “Yes. Thank you so much. This is amazing.”
He laughs a little louder this time. He must be used to the dizzying excitement on the other end of the phone. “That’s great. Well, I’ve got all your details here in the computer. We’ll be in touch to set up an interview sometime in the spring, but if you have any questions at all, please do give us a call.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“No problem, Kiko. It was nice to speak with you, and we really look forward to meeting you in person.”
The phone clicks.
I collapse onto my bed in a fit of pixie-infused giggles.
? ? ?
I paint the world in completely different colors because nothing is the same as it was before.
CHAPTER SIXTY