“Of course,” says Feng.
“Have you ever seen a ghost?”
“I think people see ghosts all the time,” says Feng. “And I think ghosts want to be seen. They want to be reassured that they truly exist. They drift back into this world after passing through the gates of death into another dimension, and suddenly they hear every thought, speak every language, understand things they didn’t get when they were alive.”
I nod.
“What about you?” Feng asks. “Have you seen a ghost?”
“I’m not sure about ghosts, specifically. But I guess that’s the closest thing to it. If I told you…” I pause, tasting the words before they come.
Her eyebrows pop up. “If you told me what?”
“Would you believe me if I said I’ve seen my mother?”
Feng is silent as she considers the question. She picks up a napkin and begins folding it like origami, into quarters, then triangles, making creases with her nails. “Yes,” she says finally. “I would believe you.”
I lean back in my chair, feeling somehow a bit lighter.
Feng gives me a sidelong glance. “So where did you see her?”
“Here. And back at home, a couple times. She’s—” I pause because I know it sounds ludicrous. “Um. I see her as this… well. She’s this huge red bird.”
“A bird,” Feng repeats.
My grandmother makes a sound that gets our attention. I watch as she slowly bends to pick up something in the dark, shadowy corner beneath her side of the table.
She holds up a long, silky feather, the color of a rose.
71
I thought I would be able to sleep after tonight, but instead all I can think about is that feather, and ghosts, and other dimensions. And what’s real.
And colors.
I see colors in the dark now. Sometimes they form shapes, or even faces. Sometimes they get angry with me, turn a dirty, boiling crimson. Sometimes they try to soothe me, drawing themselves like crystals in a pale dusty blue.
I don’t even have to close my eyes. The colors are just there, floating above me, like little truth tellers. Wherever my thoughts go, they follow.
I desperately want to sleep. I would even take a nightmare.
The colors shape themselves into a face. Like a sketch made with oil pastels. I know those eyes. That nose. That chin.
“Mom?” I say softly.
She vanishes in a cloud of red, and the colors crumble away to nothing.
72
FALL, SOPHOMORE YEAR
The late September chill was just beginning to set in. My sophomore year Art II was ninth period—the last period of the day—and as I packed up, Dr. Nagori pulled me aside to say he’d called my house.
At first I thought I was in trouble with my favorite teacher.
“I wanted to speak with your parents myself so they would take this seriously,” he said.
“Both of my parents?” I needed to know how much damage control was ahead of me.
“Your mother answered the phone. I told her I think you should submit a portfolio to Kreis in Berlin.”
I blinked. Understanding was slow to set in. There was only one thing I registered with certainty: I was not actually in trouble. “Berlin?”
“Kreis—Raum für Kunst,” he said. “Remember those slides from that young artists series last week? Those were shown at Kreis, an art gallery for young emerging artists.”
I did remember, but I still didn’t get what he meant. I wasn’t German. I wasn’t a real artist. I was just a high school student.
“They’re doing a new thing next summer: an international show for artists under the age of eighteen. It’ll be a juried exhibit. You have to submit a portfolio by the beginning of June. The theme is surrealism—your work would be a good match.”
June. That felt so far away.
I didn’t know that by June everything would flip upside down. That somehow, in a blink, everything could change.
Or not a blink. In a few swallows. In four slashes.
“The months will go by quicker than you think,” Dr. Nagori told me. “I would encourage you to begin working seriously now. The stuff you’ve been doing is excellent. It’s like the summer gave you a new pair of eyes, a new perspective. I want to see you expand on this last set…”
I wondered if he realized what I was up against. If he could even begin to guess that my father hated the amount of time I spent with my sketchbook.
If Dad found out about this, there was no way in hell he would let me do it. I could hear it already: You are absolutely not going to waste your time on this. Leigh, if only you took this energy and applied it to studying for the SATs! Or tried to bring up your chemistry grade. It’s not that you don’t work hard—it’s that you focus on the wrong things.
But only if he found out. Which maybe he wouldn’t.
“If the submission fee is a problem, I think I can maybe persuade the school to cover it,” Nagori said kindly, quietly. He was trying to guess at my thoughts, and it occurred to me that the expression on my face was probably not the most positive.
“Thank you.” I forced out a smile. “I’ll… talk to my parents about it.”
Staying to talk to Nagori caused me to miss the bus, but it didn’t matter. Axel had just gotten his license and Tina’s old car. The ancient Toyota Camry was dark blue with boxy corners, and waiting for me in the back of the junior parking lot. The engine ran with an eternal growl, but it was the smoothest thing to drive. He’d already let me try it out.
I told him what Nagori said.
“That’s amazing, Leigh!” he shouted, swinging right at the circle to take the fast way home.
The windows were down because he liked the roar of the wind blowing past his ears, no matter how cold it was. I climbed halfway out of my seat to reach for his hoodie in the back. It smelled like Thai food, but I slipped it on anyway.
“I guess,” I replied. “He sounded so serious. It didn’t seem like a good thing.”
“That’s just your brain in shock trying to balance it out,” Axel shouted against the wind. “You deserve this.”
I curled up low in the seat. “But why did he only talk to me? What about you?”
“C’mon, Leigh, you can’t expect everyone to be good at everything. Face it. This is something you’re really great at. Nagori sees the talent. Anyone would, from a mile away.”
“But you’re good. You should submit, too. Your watercolors—”
Axel shook his head. “Art is your thing. It’s not my thing. Sure, I like it. It’s fun. But for me it’s all about the music—you know that. The visual just helps me get there from a fresh perspective. If God told me, You’ve maxed out, you can’t have any more art, I’d get over it. But if someone tried to take art away from you—I think you’d shrivel up and die. You’d turn into, like… a raisin. We’d have to bury you in a matchbox.”
When I was silent, he turned to look at me. “Come on. What color?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know.
It wasn’t until later that I realized what was bothering me: Art had always felt like our thing. Not my thing. Something we shared. We spent summer afternoons meandering through the woods, finding new stuff to get down on paper. If school was canceled for snow, Axel came over to trade portraits.
As he dropped me off that afternoon, he wished me luck for the conversation I’d have with my parents. Slamming that car door shut, I felt a strange sense of separation. When Dr. Nagori singled me out, he severed something between me and my best friend. I wanted my art; I wanted to be good. But I wanted Axel, too, exactly the way I’d always had him. As a partner in crime. Not a cheerleader.
My mother was sitting on the piano bench with her back to the instrument, like she’d been waiting for me to walk in. There were bags under her eyes; I wondered if she was having trouble sleeping again. She stood up when she saw me.
“Dr. Nagori called,” she said.
I slid my backpack off, let it thud to the floor.
“How do you feel about art show?”
“Excited, I guess.” I sounded anything but excited.