The waitress puts down our plates. I wipe at my eyes. Without a word, she takes an extra stack of napkins out of her apron pocket and sets them by my plate. Her small kindness ruins me, and all the tears I’ve been holding in fall.
“We need to go back to therapy,” Mom says. “You need a better handle on this divorce. It didn’t happen because we worked too much.”
“Is that what she thinks?” Dad asks, completely confused, and some of my anger slides away. He can’t help that he doesn’t get me. Or other humans.
I rub one of the napkins all over my face. “No. Or, I mean, maybe. But it doesn’t matter. It’s not about you. I need you to see that I am an actual real person. Not a scorecard that tells you if you’re winning parenting.”
Neither of them seems to want to speak after that, so I start on my pancakes, even though it’s sort of a waste to eat something this bad for me when I can’t enjoy it. I swirl a bite around in the caramel sauce on my plate. May as well make the most of it.
Mom takes a deep breath. She’ll make the call on this. Dad follows her lead with me.
“Middle school is hard for everyone. And the divorce, and this Northwestern stuff, and your dad dating isn’t making it easier. But you can’t drive your life off a cliff because this summer is tough. We’re your parents. It’s our job to take the long view.”
Dad nods. If she’d said something else, he would have gone along, but this is what he wants.
“You are going to exhibit something at the showcase and go to the magnet school. Because in a year, you will be grateful you took advantage of this opportunity, and in four years, you’re going to be even happier. And if you can’t bring yourself to thank us until you grow up, I can live with that.”
I shake my head a little. I don’t know how to make them hear me. To get them to treat me like a person, and not like their very own Magnet School Barbie.
“And because we haven’t been able to trust you to get this done,” Dad continues, “you need to stay in your room today and work on your exhibit.”
“And give us your phone,” Mom says.
“Why?” I ask. Thinking about breaking this down with Vivi is all that’s getting me through.
“We want you to focus,” Dad says.
“But what’s the point? I need my laptop to work. My friends have email.”
Mom holds out her hand. “It’s the principle. Having a phone is a privilege. You can have it back after the showcase.”
“If I earn it.”
“Our love is unconditional. Our technology plan is not,” Mom says with a smile.
CHAPTER 28
Magnet School Barbie
Two days later, Mom raps on my door. “Ready to go?”
I take one last look in my mirror.
My pale-pink dress flares out at the waist, and my hair’s coiled into a low bun with a huge silk rose clipped on the side. With pink ballet flats and lip gloss, it’s a total mood.
When I come out, Mom’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “What are you wearing?”
“Would you like to dress me in something else?” My voice is calm. Ever since our breakfast, I’ve been doing exactly as I’ve been told—staying in my room, working on my exhibit, coming to meals when asked, and speaking when spoken to.
But all my extra is gone.
I do not bounce into rooms or share funny little stories about my training for the science camp or laugh at anyone’s jokes. I set the table when Dad asks, but do not discuss paintings. I wash the dishes for Mom, but do not sit with her when she turns the television on.
I’m not sure that Dad’s even noticed the difference. Mom definitely has, but so far she hasn’t said anything about it.
“We expect you to take this seriously.”
“If you want me to wear something else, I’ll change.” Two things can happen tonight. Either my plan will work, or this is my new life, and I’ll have to hide my real self behind this other, pretend Lilla. It’s only five years. I can make it if I have to.
Mom presses her lips together. “No, it’s fine. You look very nice.” She does not like to tell me what to wear. She likes it when I figure out what she wants me to wear and put it on.
I follow her down to Dad’s, grabbing my portfolio case on the way out. “Is that a clue?” he says when he sees it.
I shrug. “Everything we display has to be pinned up. It could go either way.”
They haven’t pressed me on whether I’m doing science or art. This is how they show what good parents they are.
Earlier, I heard Mom on the phone with someone saying, “Oh, we have no idea what she’s doing. We’ll find out tonight with everyone else.”
They must both suspect I’m doing art because every time they’ve walked in on me over the last two days I’ve been drawing. They’re not wrong.
We drive in silence to the magnet school. There’s a banner out front advertising the Annual Showcase.
Gripping the handle of my portfolio, I follow my parents to the front steps.
“We’ll leave you here. Parents are supposed to go around back to the cafeteria,” Dad says.
I nod.
Dad hugs me. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Mom puts her hand on my cheek and turns my face toward her. “We wouldn’t be doing this if we didn’t think it was best.”
“I know.”
And I do. And I hope when they see what I did they know the same is true about me.
A woman at the door greets me with a clipboard.
“Arts or STEM?” she asks.
“Arts.”
“Visual or performing?”
“Visual.”
“Studios across from the gym.” Her eyes move to the boy behind me.
“Where would coding be?” I ask.
“Technology and engineering are in the library.”
Figures. The school doesn’t count writing as one of the arts. And I don’t think people here are all that concerned about reading either. “What about the performing arts?”
“Auditorium. You’re not still trying to decide, are you?” she says with a smile.
I shake my head. “Checking on friends.”
“Okay, but get your own exhibit set up first. Judging starts in a half an hour.”
Except for the performers, you don’t get to be there when your work is judged. Which maybe is a good thing.
Everything in the school is clean and new. There’s lots of stainless steel, bright-blue accents, and odd little seating pods. But no windows. Take time to enjoy nature and you might end up well rounded, I guess.
I don’t see Vivi or Knox. Or Kate, who’s judging tonight. So at least there’s that.
I hurry down a side hall, following a couple of kids carrying portfolios like mine. The first open door leads to a clay studio with tables set up for showing off bowls and sculptures. Clara, who I know a little, is unpacking a set of vases onto one of the stands. A flash of nerves hits my stomach. What I’m doing is not exactly art. And while I don’t care if I get in, I don’t want to be embarrassed.
The next room is the drawing studio, and it has the only windows I’ve seen in the building. Reeds sway in the meadow out back, and somehow the neighborhoods around the school are completely hidden. Easels have been pushed to the center of the room up against low bookcases that hold more pens, pencils, paints, and brushes than I have ever seen all together in one place.
I do get what Mom and Dad are saying. The art classes I take at Morningside will not be in a space like this. But behind the teacher’s desk are rows and rows of awards (most won by the same boy). Next to the awards is a list of some kind of rankings. There’s no way I could do my best work here.
“And you are?”
I turn. A woman with a messy bun, jeans, and a silver top holds another clipboard.
“Lydia Baxter-Willoughby.”
She glances at her paper. “Found you. I wasn’t sure you were in the right place.”
I hold up my
portfolio, feeling like it makes it pretty obvious I belong here.
“I know, but the dress? I’d have guessed singer. Or maybe the flute?”
“The dress is part of the art,” I say.
She grins. “Okay. Now, I’m interested. What’d you bring?”
I have to think about this. I hadn’t actually thought about the art word for my project. Finally, I say, “Collage.”
“Let’s get you a space.”
The room is designed for students to display their work. Two blank white walls are filled with tiny holes left over from thumbtacks. Most kids are hanging up either line drawings or paintings. Four to five pieces to show range. The best display is nothing but portraits done in black ink. One—an old woman—feels really sad.
The silver-top woman sees me looking at it. She nods. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s the best in the room.”
“That’s generous.” She’s surprised. “Visual arts is one of the smallest programs. They’ll only take five or six of you.”
“And whoever did that should be one of them.”
She laughs and points at two lines of masking tape. “Your space.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I pin up a line drawing of myself in my floaty blue top and leggings, looking over my shoulder. Afraid. It’s a bit of a rough sketch because I’ve only been working on it for two days, and I wanted to spend most of my time on the second drawing: two guys sitting on the front porch of their fraternity. I’m not so good that it’s clearly Matt, but I think it will be close enough for Kate.
I connect the two drawings with yarn lines to a little card. In fancy lettering, it says: Come back in a few years, sweetheart.
Underneath, I put up our map, and next to that, a graph I made from Prisha’s survey data.
I surround the two drawings with photographs. These are not super artsy. They were taken from my phone and printed at the drugstore. Next to each, I pin up a little caption.
Vivi: “You’re not the one who needs to be embarrassed.”
Matt: “Lots of girls would feel flattered.”
Kate: “He shouldn’t have whistled at you. But boys.”
Aman: “You’re a kid.”
Above all of it, I place the title I got from a Twitter hashtag in careful calligraphy: The First Time I Was Catcalled.
When I step back to take it in, the woman in the silver top comes to stand by me.
“I know the drawings aren’t…” I start.
“Shh,” she says. “Don’t apologize. It’s cowardly.”
So I watch her look. Her gaze catches on Kate’s picture and her eyes flick to the drawing. She turns slowly toward me. “You’re a junior counselor at the museum?”
I nod.
“And he works there?” She points to Matt.
I nod again.
“And Kate is Kate Krause…the education director?” This time I don’t even nod. I just wait. “You know she’s a judge?”
“Yes,” I say.
She takes in my dress again. “Part of the art?” Her mouth quirks up at the corner.
“Kate has a lot of thoughts about how girls are supposed to dress,” I say.
“Okay. First, I’m sorry this happened to you. I was thirteen the first time. Walking home from school.”
This gives me an idea.
“Before you do ‘second,’ can I borrow some sticky notes? And a pen? Is that cheating?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
When she returns, I ask her to write exactly what she said on the note and put it next to my pictures. I drag a stool over and leave the notepad and the pen on top.
“Okay. Now, do second.”
“You are a very quiet force of nature.”
“Is that it?”
She laughs. “No. What do you want to get out of this?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have a wish list or anything. But I feel like she didn’t take it seriously.” I look back at my drawings. “And neither did he. It doesn’t seem fair that I’m the only one who did.”
She’s quiet for a while. Then she says, “All right, my little force of nature. Let’s see how this goes.”
CHAPTER 29
A Complicated Jumble
I go looking for Knox and Vivi. Not being able to text them is the biggest pain ever.
The hall outside the auditorium is full of kids talking to themselves, silently playing instruments, and stretching their faces in all kinds of weird ways.
Knox sits back against the wall, curled over his guitar—the one that doesn’t plug in. He’s wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and his red shoes. My hand moves toward my bag to find my sketchbook. I want to draw him like this.
He looks up before I get to him, and his mouth falls open a little. He sets his guitar aside and scrambles to his feet. “Lilla,” he whispers.
Something in his voice makes me a little nervous. I don’t want him to say anything I don’t want to hear. So I spin, playfully. “You like the dress?”
“I do.” He holds my gaze until I look away. “Keep me company while I wait?”
“Of course.” I sit, keeping plenty of space between us. “Nervous?”
“Some.” He sounds like it.
“You’ll do great.”
He’s quiet, looking down at his guitar again. “What if my voice cracks?”
“I don’t know.” Mostly I think growing up is harder if you’re a girl. But I don’t envy boys this particular thing. It’s so public. “They must be used to it. Everyone’s always this age when they audition. Besides, if you have a problem, you can do that growly whispery thing you do.”
He looks up from his guitar. “You like that?”
“I do,” I say, embarrassed because it feels like I’m admitting something new. My feelings about Knox and boys are still a complicated jumble. With everything else going on, I’m not ready to sort them out.
“How are things with your parents?” he asks.
I’ve sent him a couple of emails, but not as many as to Vivi.
“Not great. They’re really set on me coming here.”
“Would that be so terrible?” He has to know this isn’t about him. Or Vivi.
“Look around. All this pressure. You can taste it. I’m tired of feeling anxious all the time.”
“You don’t think it pushes you to do better?”
“That might be how it works for you, but not for me.”
He nods. “Then your parents will listen. They love you.”
“I don’t know. They’re so sure they know what’s right.”
“What’d you do for your exhibit? It’s not a blank wall, is it? If you’re not careful, you’ll get admitted as some kind of modern art prodigy.”
“You want to see?”
“I’m not supposed to leave. They’re doing actors first, but they could start with us anytime.”
“I have the rough-draft version.” I pass him my sketchbook.
He grins. “Really?”
Vivi is the only one I ever let see this, but I want Knox to know, and I can’t say it out loud. “The page with the ribbon.”
He opens it. What I drew right after it happened. My own fear. Matt’s face again and again. His words all around it.
Knox stares at the pages for a few seconds. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “When?” His voice is cold.
“That night Colby found me. When I didn’t come over.”
“And you looked so sick at the museum the next day. I’m going to kill him.” Knox’s whole body tenses. Like he might leap up right now. It’s sweet, so I don’t point out that whatever Knox does, he’s unlikely to hurt Matt.
I put my hand on his wrist. “I’m taking care of it.”
Knox looks at my hand for a minute, before lifting his eyes to mine. “This is like the door thing?”
“Yeah. If I need help, I’ll let you know.”
He shakes his head. “Why didn’t you tell me before? I liked him
.”
“I didn’t know what you’d do.”
“Hey,” he says, hurt again.
“Can you tell me you’ve never…”
“Of course I haven’t.”
“I hear boys at school,” I say. “Or see them talking, even if I can’t hear.”
“I don’t. I mean, I’m not going to say I’ve never talked about a girl. But nothing like this.” He points at the sketchbook.
“But you’ve heard it.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“And did you say anything to stop it?”
“No.” He looks away. “Not unless it was about you or Vivi.”
“Ready?” Colby bounds up to us, Vivi a few steps behind.
I get up, grateful for the excuse to stop talking about this. “What are you doing here?”
“Came with Knox,” says Colby. “I’m going to throw my T-shirt at the stage when he plays.”
Vivi nudges his shoulder. “Isn’t it supposed to be underwear?”
Colby looks down at himself. “How would that work?”
Vivi says something I don’t hear, because Knox leans into me and says, “I’ll do better. Not just with you.”
I squeeze his hand. “Good luck.”
CHAPTER 30
Lend You My Coat
A voice over the speaker system says the monologues are over and instrumentalists should go backstage. Whoever it is also asks a few kids to report to the library for questions. Vivi gives me a panicked look.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “You don’t need to answer questions because your program is perfect.”
Then Colby, Vivi, and I find seats in the auditorium. We sit near the front, but I stay on the aisle. I’m half expecting my parents to demand to see me at any moment.
The bottom level is only half-full, but the balcony is packed because the parents of the performers have to sit up there. Knox’s mom and dad are by the railing, but on opposite sides.
I like how this school manages grown-ups—sending them off to the cafeteria, not letting them see kids’ exhibits until we’re out of the way, corralling them here in the theater. When I tell Vivi this, she says, “They want to make sure our parents aren’t pushing us. That we’re the ones who want this.”
Summer of Brave Page 13
