“What’s it supposed to be?” I asked.
“It’s not what it is; it’s how the art makes you feel.”
“The painting makes me feel like the artist is confused.”
Sundog laughed and scratched the side of his face, leaving a bluish-gray blotch on his cheek. “Confusion is like curiosity—it reminds us we’re alive. To not feel confused means we no longer care. Not caring is death.”
He reached into the tent behind him, pulled out another large piece of paper, and set it down in front of me. “Try using the paint to express yourself.”
I shrugged and pressed my hand onto his palette, then pressed it on the center of my paper. When I pulled away, my handprint looked small, like a child had made it. It made me think of being a little kid and tracing my hand to make turkeys for Thanksgiving.
“What do you see?” Sundog asked.
“My handprint,” I said.
“And what do you feel?”
“Nothing. Not everything has meaning, you know.”
I got more paint on my hand and ran it across the paper, smearing the handprint and making it into nothing.
“Have you ever felt like you were wrong about everything you thought you knew?” I asked Sundog.
He added some paint to the white parts of my paper. “Growth comes from questioning our own hearts. But unrelenting self-doubt can lead you astray.”
I wasn’t sure that qualified as an answer. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Your perception of the world is your own. No one can take it from you. Don’t let fear overwhelm what you know to be real.”
I thought of Lizzie in the woods, howling at the full moon, learning how to be a werewolf.
“But what if I’m wrong about what I think is real?”
“If you believe it, then it can’t be wrong.”
“Thanks for the advice.” I pushed my piece of paper toward Sundog. “You finish it.”
On my way into the house, I passed Timothy Leary curled up in a patch of sunlight. I patted her on the head, forgetting the paint on my hand. She craned her neck toward me for more affection. She didn’t mind the streaks of color I’d left on her fur. Unlike me, she didn’t see it as a mess.
Chapter 20
Day Thirty-Seven
I was at the sink washing my hands when Mychelle Adler left a bathroom stall, which I thought was pretty awful timing, especially first thing on Monday morning.
“Well, look who it is,” Mychelle said. “I’m glad you’re not still feeling under the weather.”
“And I’m glad you were so concerned about my health.”
I finished rinsing my hands quickly so I could get out of there, but Mychelle stepped between me and the paper towels.
“What were you doing at that party? Besides getting sloppy and embarrassing yourself, I mean.”
I’d had enough of Mychelle. I was sick of her ruining my days. I was sick of having to dodge her because I didn’t know what she’d say and how much it might hurt my feelings. What made her think it was OK to be so horrible to people?
“Wow,” I snapped. “I’m being called sloppy by a girl who’s gotten wasted at parties and spread her legs for half the football team since eighth grade.”
Mychelle looked like I’d slapped her. She took a step toward me, and I took a step back.
“If you want to have a cat fight, wash your hands first. You just came from the toilet, and you’ve already spread enough diseases to the senior class.”
“You can’t talk to me like that,” Mychelle said, but she didn’t step any closer.
“No. It’s the other way around. I’ve spent four years avoiding you in the halls because you only feel good about yourself when you make bitchy remarks to me. But guess what? I don’t care anymore. The difference between me and you is that I don’t have anything to lose. So say whatever you want to. Just know that you’ll be getting a response.”
For a moment, the bathroom was dead silent. Then Mychelle said, “Go to hell, Hawthorn.”
I laughed. “I’m already in hell. Welcome to Griffin Mills High School.”
I pushed past Mychelle and out into the hallway. For a Monday morning, I was feeling pretty OK.
? ? ?
The feeling only lasted until lunchtime. Up until then, I was so busy replaying my victory over Mychelle that I didn’t worry that people were making fun of me for throwing up at the party. I didn’t even care about all of the stuff I was hearing about homecoming, because everyone was just concerned with what they were going to wear and where’d they’d have after-parties, and no one was thinking about how I was a loser because I didn’t have a date. Maybe. Probably.
My good mood disappeared at lunch when Emily didn’t show up behind the gym.
I ate my food slowly, thinking maybe she was late because she got caught talking to her third period teacher or something. It had happened before. But when my food was gone and lunch period was halfway over, I was pretty sure Emily wasn’t going to show.