“I just . . . I want to have something for the county show,” I tell Gretchen, which seems to satisfy her, even though the county show has flown to some faraway corner of my mind.
Once the red page is done, I tear another sheet out of my sketchbook and dive into the blue paint. Blue like my mother’s bathrobe that she was wearing the morning she left for San Juan, that’s still draped over the armchair in her bedroom. Blue like the mac-and-cheese box. Blue like the houses in Old San Juan. Like track three of the Firing Squad album. Like the daisy-print dress Victoria had on for her birthday last year—worn once, and never seen again. Like that pair of shoes I had with the stars on them, the ones I begged my mother for and then left outside in a hurricane. Can anyone look at blue and not wonder, for a moment, if they’re going to fall into it?
But as hard as I try to experience the colors, painting here is nothing like painting at the Estate. The red page especially looks so . . . flat. There’s no urgency behind it, no danger, except for the possibility of making Mrs. Pagonis regret those recommendation letters she wrote for my college applications a few months ago.
Mrs. Pagonis taps on the board to signal everyone to switch to the constructive criticism portion of the class period. Oh, yay.
Rider pushes his pattern into the center of the table first, and Gretchen takes the lead on the critique, pointing out Rider’s use of detail and some places where his lines could be cleaner. I confess I’ve never thought much about Rider’s work, but I wonder if there’s a central theme to it all that I’ve missed. I wonder what he’d say if I tilted my head and said to him, “Who is Rider, really?”
I snicker at this, then straighten up and stare into his picture.
“It’s honest,” I tell him, by which I mean, it is what it is. It is tiny angles and microscopic dots of color. It’s repetition. I kind of want to turn it into a shirt or a tablecloth. This isn’t a bad thing, but I still don’t think I’m going to say it.
And then Gretchen’s lizard picture hits the table with a clatter. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, have at it.”
“I have a question,” I say, meeting Gretchen’s eyes instead of the lizards’.
“Sure,” Gretchen says.
“How did it feel to paint this?”
“Horrible.” Gretchen glances over to be sure Mrs. Pagonis is occupied at another table. The Yellow Table, where everyone creates appropriately cheery pieces. “Every moment of it was terrifying. I’ve never had a paintbrush feel so heavy, you know?”
I don’t really know. But I nod.
“Anyway.” She puts on a smile. “Like it or not, this is going to be my submission for the show.”
“Well, I like it!” Rider says. I try to shoot Gretchen a look that says, Hey, can we get this dude transferred to the Yellow Table? But she’s busy taking the lizard picture to a shelf in the back of the room.
When the bell rings, I fumble with my paints and the wet, messy slices of red and blue. Mrs. Pagonis comes over and taps me on the shoulder.
“Nothing for critique today?” she whispers.
“Not today.” It’s hard to talk normally when the other person’s whispering.
“You’ve been off task a lot lately.”
“I’m putting a lot of ideas together.” I point to the blue-painted paper, the paper part of which seems like it’s going to collapse under the weight of all the paint I slathered on it. Is it even worth setting this page, and the red page, on the back counter to dry?
“Ideas are fine, Mercedes.” Mrs. Pagonis walks away to cough, and on her way back she grabs the fallen FP #1 picture and tapes it back into place. “But I need to have something to grade you on. I’d love to see you do something like this piece again.”
“We’ll see.” I drop the red and blue pages in the trash can on the way out the door.
The Dead Guy’s memorial bench is not quite long enough for Vic—her arms and legs dangle off. But she makes it look comfortable. She even manages to keep her legs together so that no one walking by is able to see up her skirt. Her eyes are closed. It’s always weird when you close your eyes at school—it sticks you in an uncertain place, like when you wake up in the middle of the night and the power has gone out. I try not to get to that place very often.
Victoria’s tired, though. I know this. Last night was her late practice. The Juilliard people are coming to Miami in less than two weeks, and she’s got her end-of-the-year show to practice for.
“Gershwin again,” Vic says. “Just like last year’s show. Wait! No, sorry. That was two years ago. You know I never got Rhapsody in Blue out of my head? I still hear it when I’m trying to fall asleep.”
That was the first show she invited me to, and I remember how nervous I was for her when she stepped out to do her solo. It was the climax of Rhapsody in Blue, the moment where the orchestra sounds like it’s diving down into itself, and you’re not sure if it’s coming back up. But then, ah, it does, and you can’t believe you were ever uncertain. Victoria danced beautifully, gliding alongside the melody, leaping into it and landing in place. And so it was strange when I went to the R&B-themed spring show a year later and felt the same heart-stop when she danced. Process of elimination—it was not the music this time, it was not her dancing, it was something about her, something else entirely.
“Vic, I need help,” I tell her quietly, figuring I’ll only expand if she asks.
“With what?”
“You know, shit. Life.”
“Oh, dearie. I don’t know what I can tell you right now that doesn’t involve dance.” She turns her head toward me, puts a hand on her brow, and opens her eyes.
“No, that’s perfect. Tell me again how you started to dance. Tell me anything you remember.”
“Mmm, okay.” She’s quiet, and she has her eyes closed again. Across the courtyard, Connor Hagins and his buddies still occupy the tables we sat at last year, and strains of their nonconversations threaten to drop into our spot if someone doesn’t start talking soon. “Well,” Vic says, slowly, “there was a little girl in an apartment in Brooklyn, and there were her parents, who traveled a lot, and there was this girl’s nanny, Celine. So one day, the girl was supposed to be watching Sesame Street while the nanny did whatever the nanny did, but the girl started going through the big cabinet by the TV, and she found her mother’s collection of Broadway cast albums. And she put one on the CD player and started to move around.”