Jamie doesn’t hesitate—he takes my hand in his and squeezes. “You deserve it, Kiko.”
Now I want to die for all the right reasons.
• • •
I draw twins with black hair all tangled together who have only just realized they look exactly the same.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
It turns out Hiroshi Matsumoto is kind of a big deal.
He worked as an illustrator when he was younger, but he’s been painting for the last twenty years and has a huge online following. Images of his work are all over social media, and he has an online shop full of prints that appear to be incredibly popular.
Now I’m more nervous than excited.
Because not only is he a professional artist, but he’s kind of famous. What if he realizes he made a mistake? What if he changes his mind? What if he forgets he even asked me to come by in the first place?
I look over at Jamie in the driver’s seat. He pulls into an empty parking space and turns off the engine.
Meeting my eyes, he frowns. “What’s wrong?”
I pull my hands away from the portfolio resting on my lap. My palms are sweaty. My chest feels tight. “I think we should go home.”
“What are you talking about? We’re already here. His studio is, like, thirty feet away.” He sounds impatient, which makes me feel guilty.
The sun shines through the window. I try to keep my eyes on something other than Jamie and my portfolio, but all the passing strangers out for an afternoon stroll are making me nervous.
Jamie closes his hand over mine. He’s been doing that a lot lately. It only adds jitters to my nerves. “He’s already seen some of your paintings. You don’t have to be so nervous.”
My hand trembles beneath Jamie’s. He doesn’t understand what’s happening inside my core. He doesn’t realize there are earthquakes and tsunamis and volcanic eruptions destroying my brain and my heart and my soul. I am terrified of Hiroshi rejecting me. I’m terrified of anyone rejecting me.
I nod anyway because Jamie keeps squeezing my hand like he’s trying to reassure me. I guess I feel like I have to reassure him, too, even though it’s kind of a lie.
We stop at the door because even though Jamie insists the address is right, we’re looking directly into a small café.
Shrugging, Jamie pulls the glass door open and a bell shakes above our heads.
A petite girl with shiny black hair and eyes more like mine than Jamie’s looks up from the counter and smiles. She steps toward us and reaches for the menus, but Jamie shakes his head.
“I think we’re lost. Is there an art studio around here?” he asks.
She puts her hands on her hips and purses her lips. “Oh, it’s upstairs. The entrance is at the side of the building.” She pauses. “Is he expecting you?”
I clutch my portfolio to my chest. “He told us to stop by.”
The girl nods. “Okay, well, I’ll take you up there.” She unties her mint-green apron and hangs it on the wall. We follow her back outside and down a small alleyway next to the building. There’s a door leading to a steep set of stairs, and at the top is a wide landing and a large metal door.
When the girl pushes it open, I feel the cold hit my face like I’ve walked into the frozen food aisle at a grocery store.
“Dad?” the girl calls. “You’ve got company.”
Hiroshi Matsumoto appears from around the corner. His hands are covered in flecks of brown and red paint, and he’s wearing a gray T-shirt with a Coca-Cola image on it and black pants. There’s paint all over him, but some of it looks like it’s been there for a long time.
I feel sick. I bet he doesn’t remember us. I bet he’s going to be mad that we’re interrupting his painting.
Tucking his shoulder-length hair behind his ear, he walks toward us almost giddily. “Kiko, Jamie, so nice to see you two again.”
Wincing, I look up at Jamie. He’s grinning at me like he wants me to know I’ve been worrying for nothing.
“I see you’ve met my youngest daughter, Akane. She’s going to college in Michigan this fall.” Hiroshi stands next to her, and I can totally see the resemblance. They both have high cheekbones, happy eyes, and big, comfy lips. She’s basically a tinier female version of him.
Akane clasps her hands together, showing off her yellow and blue nails. “Nice to meet you.” She looks back at her father. “I have to go back downstairs. Frank isn’t here yet to take over the counter.”
Hiroshi nods. When she disappears, he sighs sadly. “I can’t believe she’ll be moving away soon. She is the only employee we have who shows up on time.” He chuckles like he’s made of the frothy sea.
“Is the café yours?” Jamie asks.
Hiroshi squints. “Technically it’s my wife’s, but we all pitch in when we can. She believes families who work together stay together.” He shrugs. “But both our daughters are going to college out of state, so I think she’s got that all wrong.” He holds his painted hands open. “So! Let’s see this portfolio.”
For what feels like an entire excruciating hour, Hiroshi looks through every image in my portfolio. He studies every photograph of every painting, and he spends an awful long time on each drawing. I brought my sketchbook too, in case the portfolio wasn’t enough, and he spends even more time looking at that.
“These are very good,” he says finally. “The subject matter here is very intriguing. And the way you manipulate shadows is very impressive, especially for someone so young.” He looks up thoughtfully. “Where are you applying for school?”
“Brightwood,” I answer nervously.
He nods. “Brightwood is a good school. What made you pick it?”
I look at Jamie even though he can’t help me with this one. I wish I didn’t need so much reassurance, but I’m not good at talking to new people. I’m not good at talking to old people either, to be honest.
Jamie looks down at my sketchbook like he’s studying it too. He wishes I were braver. I can see it in his eyes.
I wish I were braver too.
I gulp. “Well.” My voice quivers. “I wanted to go to Prism, but I didn’t get in. And I don’t want to live at home with my mom, so I came out here to look at schools, and I really liked Brightwood—even though it’s not Prism—and I applied because maybe I could get a job out here and go to school and not need any help.” I run out of air and my voice catches.
Hiroshi nods slowly, and then I realize he’s staring at Jamie. They look like they’re having a silent conversation. Maybe Hiroshi is wondering why I bring Jamie everywhere with me. Maybe he’s going to figure out I don’t know anything about independence because I can’t go anywhere new without having a panic attack. Maybe he isn’t going to want to help someone so small and sad.
Jamie presses his fingers against the middle of my back and leans in like he’s coaxing a puppy out of hiding. “I’m going to go downstairs and get a cup of coffee. I don’t really understand any of this art stuff, and you guys would probably be more comfortable without me hovering.” He laughs gently and his blue eyes sparkle. “Meet me in the café when you’re done?”
I nod because what else am I supposed to do? I can’t beg him to stay, and I certainly can’t say out loud that I feel wobbly and unbalanced without him nearby. It would probably freak him out.
“Tell me about this one,” Hiroshi says just before the door falls shut and we’re the only two left. He’s pointing to one of my sketches—the one of a girl with no face.
“I don’t know,” I say quietly.
“Why did you draw it?”
Because when I look at myself, the face I see and the face Mom sees and the face Jamie sees aren’t the same face. I might as well be a white canvas because none of us seem to agree.
But that’s too much to explain to someone I don’t know. It’s probably too much to explain to anyone. My shoulders rise and fall like they don’t understand his questions.
“Why are you applying to Brightwood when you want to go to
Prism?”
A scratchy feeling rises in my throat like I’m coughing up sandpaper. “I didn’t get into Prism,” I repeat. Heat radiates across my face.
“You didn’t get in this year, but what about next year? Or what about reapplying with a new portfolio? Maybe you simply need to show them the right work. Art is like that—it speaks to people in different ways at different times. Maybe what you thought was your best wasn’t really your best. Maybe it was just the work you were least hard on yourself about.” His brown eyes flicker left and right like he’s analyzing me.
I want to sink to the floor and cry. It’s too much staring. I hate the spotlight.
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.
Holding a glass of deep red wine, she sits on the chair farthest away from Brandon. He’s so busy looking for two markers in the side table that he doesn’t notice
.
Jamie comes back with a whiteboard from the office. It’s still covered in neon-colored Post-it notes in the corner. He pulls them off one by one and sets the board up next to the fireplace.
“Kiko, you want to go first?” he asks.
Brandon tosses me a marker, which I don’t catch because I’m uncoordinated as well as unprepared. “Two creative types on the same team? Seems rigged to me.”
From the partially reclined chair, Elouise clenches her teeth and pulls her eyes closed for a very long blink.
Jamie notices. He looks like he’s regretting convincing his mom to play.
“How about girls versus boys?” I offer meekly.
I feel Elouise open her eyes toward me, but she doesn’t say anything.
Brandon slaps his knee. “All right, yeah.” He points to his eyes and then to Jamie. “We got this.”
I move toward the whiteboard, and Jamie passes me the game cards that came from their old Pictionary box.
Dropping like flies.
I tighten my mouth and look apologetically at Elouise, and then spend sixty seconds doodling something that resembles an ugly waterfall. She doesn’t guess it.
Jamie gets “Planet of the Apes” and Brandon guesses before half their time is up.
Then Elouise gets “sunburn” and I guess right. She high-fives me.
The boys miss the next one, which irritates Brandon and makes Elouise smile.
After three more turns each, Elouise and I are leading by four points. She’s so happy, we may as well have won the game already. I think she finds it bizarrely satisfying to see Brandon getting so worked up.
Jamie slumps down next to me on the couch and shakes his head like he knows I have the better teammate. I laugh.
“One more, one more,” Brandon urges.
“We’ve been beaten. Let’s call it a night. I’m tired.” Jamie yawns.
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