I’d have to go it alone then. I reminded myself that this was the very last item on the end-of-school checklist before I morphed into “girl with no life.” And by no life, I meant I would be serving my hours, hopefully painlessly, and earning money via my new business and pet sitting. I was fairly sure I could make it through tonight, even without Blanche to entertain me.
“Oh,” I said absently, remembering my swag was supposed to arrive that day. “If a delivery truck comes with something for me, can you let me know right away? Please?”
Belén and Tilly looked up from sipping their coffee, in unison, and Belén’s deep-brown eyes narrowed, either out of curiosity or suspicion. Probably the latter.
“You’re expecting a package, Tatum?”
Crud. “Yes.” I willed myself to think of something she wouldn’t question. “It’s a college guide. One of those really thick ones. Jam-packed with statistics.”
Belén nodded in approval. “The truck usually comes before noon.”
“Great,” I said, and sipped my tea so I wouldn’t be compelled to say anything else. I couldn’t wait to see how the pens turned out, and smiled to myself at the thought of things coming together.
After a long day researching various community service options, I sat down to an uncomfortable dinner, where I was forced to listen to Belén and Tilly go through every teeny step of the dance routine Tilly would be performing that evening, and the matching facial expressions. Just before we got in the car and made our way to the school, I stuffed my purse with express-shipped TLC business cards and pens, complete with angel wing logo. I had beaten everyone else to the front door when the truck pulled up, and practically launched myself at the poor, unsuspecting delivery guy. To my amazement, the promo items had come out far better than I could have imagined. I felt very professional, knowing my swag could get me real, paying clients so I could finish off that ludicrous fine before September. And, in my more optimistic moments, I dreamed I might get that tablet after all. I spent the ride thinking of ways to discretely leave my cards and pens about, my fingers idly stroking the smooth metal of the keychain in my pocket.
As soon as we entered the school, Belén and Tilly vanished. I wasn’t sure what time Tilly was scheduled to perform over the course of the evening; I just assumed she went off somewhere to warm up, and Belén was either planning to hover over her or meet up with the other helicopter parents to gush over their perfect children. It was just as well. I didn’t think either of them would register my presence in the audience, so I strolled around the other exhibits instead of spending my energy to find out where and when Tilly was dancing.
The art on display was in the cafeteria on large portable partitions and the walls. Like all school cafeterias, the smell of stale french fries permeated the air, and I wrinkled my nose. The whole setup took me back to the very first time one of my own pieces was in an art show. I was ten, and so terrified that Belén had stuffed a paper bag into her purse for fear I’d hyperventilate before we got to the art studio. While she and my dad walked around the displays and checked out all the artwork, I made a beeline right to my painting. It was the century-old carousel from Glen Echo Park, in watercolors. My dad and Belén had taken Tilly and me there one spring afternoon when the light made the colors on the old wooden horses practically shimmer. They’d walked around; I’d sketched. When I approached my piece, I noticed two ribbons lying on the ground nearby—one red and one blue. Which one was mine? My little heart sped up, hoping against hope that the blue one was for me. First place. My dad and Belén would be so proud of me.
I picked up both ribbons and, without thinking twice, stuck the blue one to my painting and the red one to the pastel drawing next to it. I stood there with permagrin, waiting for my dad and Belén to make their way over. Which they did. With a judge right behind them. I blocked out much of the conversation that followed, but I specifically remember feeling small and confused. I was only trying to do what Belén had told me to do—do my best. First place was best, right? My dad took me aside, explained that the better choice would have been to ask the judge which ribbon belonged with which painting, and then ushered me over to said judge to apologize. The photograph of me and all the other elementary-school artists, rightful red ribbon in hand and red eyes looking at the floor, used to sit, framed, on the mantle at home. I may or may not have been responsible for hiding it in a drawer, never to be seen again.
With a sigh and a quick glance around the room, I spied my target. A long folding table was set up near the far exit, covered in what looked like brochures and program literature. Bingo. I crossed quickly, on a mission, and stepped up in front of the woman, a McIntosh parent I assumed, plastering a confident smile on my face.
“Hi there, ma’am,” I said through my grin, and waited for her to look up.
“Yes, dear, how can I help you? Can I interest you in next month’s trip to Italy?”
Who wouldn’t be interested? I accepted the flyer she handed me and practically drooled over the amazing photograph of the Ponte Vecchio positioned front and center. I doused that flame and shook my head. “Unfortunately, I’m booked solid all summer. My loss.”
The lady put on a fake pout and then raised her eyebrows, waiting to find out why I was standing in front of her. “Actually, I’m hoping you wouldn’t mind if I leave some business cards and pens here for students to pick up. I recently launched a graphic design company, and thought some McIntosh students might find my services useful. For websites and portfolios.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So you aren’t a student here, then?”
I shook my head again. “No, I go to Henderson. My sister goes here though. She suggested I advertise here tonight.” A little white lie, but who knows, maybe Tilly would have encouraged my plans. Not that I would have told her. I gave the lady my best innocent face, my eyes wide and lip on the verge of trembling. “So is it okay?”
I was just about to up the ante and bat my eyelashes when she nodded, lips pursed in a line.
“I suppose it would be fine. I’m sure there are plenty of students looking for help with portfolios for college applications.”
I smiled and hauled the stuff out of my bag before she could change her mind or I could lose my nerve. It still didn’t sit well that I was keeping my graphic design business a secret from my dad, but he wasn’t here to tell anyway, and I definitely wasn’t going to tell Belén. I’d always felt she looked down her nose at my art, thought of it as favorable to something like 4-H but definitely not as good for my résumé as violin or tennis. I was perfectly happy allowing her to believe the Schmidts were paying me excessively to watch Maya and Kate. I arranged the business cards in a fan design and laid a small pile of pens horizontally at the base of the fan.
The woman picked up a card. “Well, aren’t these darling? I love the angel wings.”
“Thank you.”
“And TLC, that is just precious. Tender Loving Care, am I right?” Well, at least she didn’t reference the singing group.
“No, ma’am. It’s actually a play on my name.”
She inspected the card closer, looking for my name, which I’d left off to avoid my family catching on, and to also steer clear of any weirdos who might randomly find my site. “Ah. You said you do websites?”
“Yes, ma’am. And graphic design.”
She nodded and tucked my card into the back pocket of her mom jeans. “My daughter is just finishing ninth grade, but I’m going to keep you in mind for next year.”
I gave her that winning smile again. “Thank you very much. I’ll look forward to working with her.” I offered my hand to shake; it seemed like the right thing to do. She took it and shook it firmly.
“Nice to meet you, Miss TLC.”
“You too.” I gave her a little wave and walked away. At least I’d impressed one person.
I meandered aimlessly through the exhibits and found myself standing in front of a wall decorated with student-made event posters. They boasted things lik
e poetry coffee houses, school plays, and concerts. Little placards were posted underneath, sporting a different name from the ones displayed on the posters. The artists. My face burned with jealousy. They were beautiful reminders of how much better my own work might have been at this point if I’d benefitted from the amazing teachers here. And yet, like a train wreck, I couldn’t stop looking, wishing I had something on display for all to see. Wishing I wasn’t forced to be at McIntosh to see all I missed out on. Wishing I wasn’t going to be missing out on even more this summer. Wishing things were different in a lot of ways.
I wish, I wish, I wish.
Anger rose in my chest, threatening to spill out in a scream, but I muffled it with a clamped jaw. With clenched fists, I slid along the wall of posters, the bright colors and swirly scripts blurring before my eyes.
“What do you think of that one?” I jerked my head to the left, surprised to find someone standing next to me. My eyes landed on a pair of green ones, the same color as sea glass. I blinked a couple of times before I realized he had asked me a question.
“I’m sorry, what?” I looked away quickly, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
He laughed, soft and low. “You okay there? I just asked what you thought of the poster.”
I jerked my head to where he was gesturing. The advertisement was for the jazz ensemble’s holiday concert, created by someone named Summer Smith. The gold font was big and showy, glittering like the photographs of the instruments themselves. Sparse snowflakes dotted the border. I nodded slowly.
“It’s nice work. There’s a definite theme, and it feels like a true collaboration between the artist and the musicians.” I smiled at my shoes.
“You have a good eye. One of my friends plays the trombone for that group; they worked for a week batting ideas back and forth with the designer.” The guy pointed to the next poster on the right. “And this one?”
I lifted my head and inspected it. This poster, by James Williams, wanted the viewer to attend a solo cello recital. It was stark—white with a black, androgynous stick figure and an outline of a cello between its straight-line legs. The spare words simply listed a time and place, and the name of the performer, Seamus Kipsang.
Frowning, I cocked my head to the side. “What kind of name is that? Wasn’t he Harry Potter’s friend?”
A musical laugh came from beside me. I shifted my eyes and took a minute to look him over. Wow. Maybe I should have done that first. The bright-green eyes were attached to a face with the most flawlessly perfect skin I’d ever seen—an exact match with tawny brown on Pantone’s color palette. He stood half a head taller than me, and his cheekbones gave John Legend a run for his money. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my dress, the warm metal in my right hand calming my nerves.
His left eyebrow lifted. “So, the poster? What are your thoughts?”
I managed to collect myself long enough to look back at the poster and consider the actual picture. “Right. It’s okay. A little boring. I might have added a little color somewhere. Maybe the performer’s name in red or something. I dunno, it doesn’t really move me. Or tell me anything about the performer. Honestly, it doesn’t make me want to go to the show.”
“Brutal,” he said, laughing. I shrugged, and the guy nodded. “Yeah, color would definitely make it stand out more.”
“Right? You want people to notice you and come to your performance.” I pointed to the poster to the right of the black-and-white one, this time for a duet ballet performance by Graham Lund and So Jung Ha. “Take that one. What jumps out at you?”
He turned and looked at it thoughtfully. “The definition in her muscles.” The designer had used a blue-and-white photograph of the female dancer’s neck and collarbone, only adding a small amount of script across the top and the bottom so the viewer’s eye was drawn immediately to the picture.
“Exactly. The lines are phenomenal, and definitely make me think of power and strength, which is what dancing is all about, right?” I knew that much from watching Tilly for so many years. I checked out the designer’s name. “If Radhika Vij was here, I would shake her hand.”
The guy fumbled with his pockets and pulled out a tiny notebook, similar to the one Abby always had with her. His face took on a panicked look, brows knitted together in a straight line. He patted the pocket at his chest and gave up, sighing. “You don’t have a pen, do you? I want to write down what you just said.”
“Are you a reporter or something?” I quirked an eyebrow up, unsure if being quoted in the McIntosh Musings was a good idea for my anonymity.
He shook his head adamantly. His dark hair, closely cropped to his head, had a tight curl running through it. “No, no, not a chance. I’m crap at research. I liked your comments and didn’t want to forget them. They make sense to me.”
Before I could decide if he was for real or just handing me a line, I blushed. I’m not a blusher normally, but there was something in the way he said it, something honest, that made my cheeks light up. To distract myself, I stuck my hand down into the pocket of my messenger bag and came up with a lone pen that somehow hadn’t made it onto the table earlier. I handed it to him without looking at his face. “Here.”
He took it, and about a millimeter of my skin brushed against his, but it was enough to send a shiver of electricity up my arm. I jerked my arm back in shock, and maybe a little bit from fear of being so close to him—not that I’d admit that out loud. He looked up when I took my arm away, and confusion flashed in his eyes, now brighter with emotion. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and I blushed again, this time from embarrassment.
“No, I was, I mean, you, er . . . Oh, crud.” I trailed off, wishing I could cover myself with the performance posters and fade into the wall. He didn’t seem to notice my bumbling, as he was scribbling furiously in the notebook. I glanced over and saw my thoughts, word for word, entwined with his own. I looked a little more closely and read them aloud.
“Close up of body, maybe bow, rosin dust on the fingers,” I read slowly. “These are your notes to the artist?”
He nodded. “Kind of. I’m getting a jumpstart on my summer assignment for senior English. Due first day of school in the fall.” He looked at me quizzically. “Which you would know if you went here.”
I shrugged. “Just along for the ride today, I’m afraid.”
He nodded, and we moved on. We walked slowly, pausing at each piece of artwork, each installation, each small flat-screen broadcasting a clip of a performance. He asked my opinions and I gave them openly. I noticed as I spoke that he always looked me in the eye, always stayed in the moment with me, didn’t allow himself to be distracted by the people around us. If I was being honest with myself, he looked at me like I was actually there, which for me was a nice change of pace from feeling like persona non grata lately. It was also nice to have an intelligent conversation, or actually any conversation, that didn’t involve me being scolded or made to feel like the planet’s biggest human disappointment. I tried to keep the smiling to a minimum, so to not scare him off with my mega-wattage. I was enjoying myself so much that I didn’t even realize the guy had stopped walking; like inertia, I kept on moving, and my face met his chest. Like a brick wall.
“Ooof.” I stumbled backward less than gracefully, rubbing my nose. As I tried, unsuccessfully, to regain my balance, thrown off not only by the collision but by the rock hardness of his pectoral muscles, a pair of even stronger hands gripped my forearms and held me steady.
“You all right?” He released me gently once I was stable.
“Oh sure, nothing wounded but my pride.” I gave him a tight-lipped smile and crossed my arms, attempting to seem nonchalant, unfazed, when in reality every bone in my body was screaming to abort the mission. I scanned the room and noted Belén standing off to the side, phone attached to her fingers. “Hey, uh, I should probably get going, I see my ride looking like she’s had enough art for one night.” No need to mention who I was here with. He might have class with Tilly, and
if he did, he might know about me, and frankly, I was content to leave things as they were. Better to be the semi-interesting girl who knows a little bit about aesthetics than Tilly’s black-sheep stepsister.
When I looked up, his eyes completely focused on me like no one else was in the room, I thought I detected something like disappointment on his face. He blinked it away and smiled, then handed the pen back and closed his notebook, holding it behind his back.
“Well, it was really nice talking to you. Refreshing, actually.”
This surprised me. “How do you mean?”
“Everyone around here is so caught up in themselves and trying to be the best. So they humor you and compliment your work, even if it sucks, because they’re afraid you might turn around and be just as honest with them. Artists have fragile egos, it seems.”
I put a hand on my hip and arched an eyebrow. “And you don’t?” I wondered what kind of artist he was.
He laughed out loud. “Oh, I have my moments of uncertainty.” At least he had a sense of humor about it. “It was nice to talk to a girl who isn’t afraid to say what’s on her mind. I appreciated the honesty.”
I snorted. It did not escape me that this random guy who didn’t know me from Adam thought I was great for doing exactly the thing my best friend hated me for—telling the truth. He tipped his head to the side, confused, and I replaced my smirk with a smile.
“Thanks for that, it’s nice to hear.” And I meant it. He just didn’t know how much or why.
I felt a chill and realized Belén was glaring at me, her almost-black eyes threatening to march herself over here and remind me that I was still being punished, which I’m sure meant no chatting with cute boys and looking like I was having fun of any kind.
I sighed. “I really need to go. It was nice talking to you too.”
It Started with Goodbye Page 5
