by Jen Malone
I speak into her hair. “I’m so sorry. I know I keep saying that, but—”
“No, I’m so sorry!”
“Well, I’m more sorry.”
“Fuck right off, I’m more sorry, you gronk,” she insists.
“Don’t call me a gronk when I don’t know what that means, you shitfrisbee.”
She pulls back enough to look at my face. “You just made that up!”
I half sniffle, half giggle. “I totally just made that up.”
“I love you,” she says.
“I love you more.” We cling to each other even harder.
Then Sibby lifts her head from my shoulder slightly and says, “Ugh, this crying is making my nose run. Do you care if I wipe it on your sweater?”
“I really, really do.”
There’s a pause. “Oh. Then, um, whoops.”
28
WHEN I RETURN TO SIBBY’S ROOM AFTER WASHING MY FACE (AND shoulder), she’s perched on the edge of her bed tying her shoe.
“Going somewhere?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, we are.”
“Okay. Do I get to know where?”
“I thought we might celebrate renewing our vows of everlasting friendship with a little Sibby + Lia Back in Action reunion mission.”
I stare, waiting.
“We’re getting you that mural back,” she states, plucking my bag from the floor and sliding it over my shoulder.
I shake my head. “Even if I thought that was a remote possibility, it’s the weekend. No one’s going to be at the arts commission office.”
Sibby peeks up at me from under her bangs. “Um, don’t be annoyed but when you were in the bathroom, I kind of got that woman’s cell number off your phone. Sorry, not sorry.”
“How? I didn’t have her saved in contacts!”
“Yeah, but seeing that you only had one phone number in your recents from mid-week . . .”
I don’t know whether to hit her or hug her. Actually, yes I do.
When I release her, she says, “She’s going to meet us there in an hour. I figure, on our way we can wander by the mural and get the scoop on what’s happened with it since you quit.”
“You’re kind of amazing, you know that, right?”
“Of course. I am the keeper of light and the bringer of dawn,” she replies.
“Ooh, that one’s got staying power. I kind of want to steal that for our next rally.”
She waves her hand. “All yours. I like it better for you anyway.”
What would I do without my Sib?
Ten minutes later, we’re staring at a very plain, very white brick wall.
Sibby tilts her head to the left. “Well. The bad news is Maya Angelou’s brilliant words are no longer. The good news is that whoever’s working on this now isn’t very far down their own path. Uh, how would your design look on a white background?”
“Not terrible, I guess. Although it only took a day and a half to paint the green, and with you as my servant—er, I mean helper . . .” I grin and she gives me a thumbs-up.
But the more I look at the literal blank canvas in front of us, the more “meh” I feel about repainting my design. “I don’t know, Sib. Maybe this isn’t the best idea after all.”
“You’re changing your mind again?”
I try to sort through my emotions. When I think about being up on the ladder, creating, there’s a hint of that secret jolt of excitement I always get when I’m planning or doing anything artistic. But when I picture my design up there? Solid blah.
Sibby’s waiting patiently for me to respond so I try. “Maybe it’s the quote? I mean, all bow to Maya, and I buy into every word of it, but maybe it’s not . . .” I pause to consider what the right word is, but the answer already waits on my tongue. “Me enough?”
My design is pretty, the sentiment is inspiring, the whole thing is Instagram-worthy—which I know because I’ve seen a hundred variations of the same thing on there.
Sibby is right.
I’ve been a little bit chickenshit about a lot of things, and my art is one of them.
I plop down on the asphalt and stare up at the wall, twisting a lock of hair around and around my fingers as I examine the vast expanse.
“Whoa,” Sibby says, joining me. “What’s happening now?”
“What’s happening now is that I’m acknowledging my art is generic.”
She shrugs. “I think generic is a big exaggeration, but let’s go with that for a sec. So? Ditch that design and come up with something more you.”
I scoff. “Oh, sure, under a huge time crunch I just—presto!—come up with something amazing and personal and then slap it up on a ginormous wall so it can be permanently displayed for all my friends and neighbors to see for years to come. Easy-peasy.”
She grins. “I mean, when you put it like that.”
But after a pause, she says, “Okay, so the issues are: too big, too fast, too long.”
I raise my eyebrows at her, smirking.
“Ew! Gross! Get your mind out of the gutter and work with me here. Can we change any of those obstacles?”
My neck is starting to hurt from staring up, so I lean back on my elbows and stretch my legs in front of me. “I guess I don’t have to use the entire wall, but either way it would still have to be large enough to detract attention from this nasty parking lot, so ginormous versus plain old huge? Same same.”
Sibby matches my position on the cracked pavement. I realize too late that we’re probably going to be covered in asphalt dust when we meet with the arts commission woman.
“Can we change the timeline?” Sibby asks. “What if it wasn’t ready for the soft opening, but for the hard opening? Is that a thing? Argh! Why does everything coming out of my mouth right now sound like sexual innuendo?”
I laugh, but then ponder her first question. “Maybe? If I could buy a couple more weeks to work on a design . . . The painting part itself goes pretty fast—and it’s not like I have anything else going on, so if I can stay healthy—” I break off when I see her face fall. “Sorry.”
She nods and whispers, “I know.”
We are literally saved by the bell when the alarm on Sibby’s phone goes off, telling us we need to start walking to the arts commission offices. We stand and brush each other clean as best we can, then set off up Brattle Street.
Claire is waiting outside when we arrive. I’d been expecting someone working in this capacity to express herself a little more like Sibby and me—funky, individual, artistic. But her appearance is a perfect match for her phone voice, bland and professional. Unless she changed outfits after receiving Sibby’s call, she kicks it on Saturdays in a sweater set and pencil skirt.
“Which of you is Amelia?” she asks, stretching out a hand.
“That would be me,” I answer, shaking it.
Her eyes flicker over me in surprise; she was obviously expecting someone who fit that Dying Girl stereotype a little better, maybe dragging around an oxygen tank behind me or something.
But she recovers quickly. “I’m glad to put a face with a name. Come inside, girls.”
She uses her key to unlock the door and ushers us into a small but comfy lobby, where she points us to chairs.
When we’re all seated, she leans forward. “So, Sibilla, is it? You’re very persistent and I applaud that, but as I told you over the phone and I’m happy to repeat to both of you now, I don’t think I’m going to be able to help here. I’ve already contacted the restaurant group that owns Zuzu’s Petals and informed them of your decision not to proceed.” She glances at me as she says this and I seize on her attention to interrupt her.
“Has someone else been assigned to replace me yet?”
Sibby chimes in. “We were just there and noticed the wall had been painted white.”
Claire leans back in her chair. “We had one of our interns do that last week, rather than leave a half-finished design up while we waited to hear back from the few different artists we’ve approached.”<
br />
Sibby shoots me a triumphant look. “So, you don’t have anyone specific lined up then.”
Claire sighs. “No. Not yet. And, I’ll be honest with you, it would solve a lot of my problems to simply hand it back over to you, but as I said, I’ve already told the restaurant group about your situation and—”
“And you’re not sure they’ll want to take a chance on me being alive to finish it,” I blurt, studying my hands.
She and Sibby both gasp.
“I would never put it that way!” Claire says. “Amelia, I am so, so sorry for everything you’re dealing with right now. I would like nothing more than to see you better, truly.”
Sibby slaps her hands on her knees. “Perfect. Because getting back to work on this mural is going to help Amelia’s mental state quite a bit. So then. Let’s sit here and brainstorm our way through this obstacle.”
I appreciate Sibby’s initiative, but I’m two steps ahead of both of them. “What if we could line up a replacement to wait in the wings—someone ready to see the project through to completion if I’m not able to?”
Claire’s foot jiggles as she thinks. “I mean, we’d have to vet the artist, make sure his or her work is of a certain skill level.”
“I’m just spitballing here,” I say. “But how about if I approached the set designers at the American Repertory Theater. Would they pass muster?”
Sibby catches on now and straightens in her chair.
Claire laughs derisively. “Obviously! They have a great track record for supporting worthy causes too, but good luck getting a meeting with them. I’ve been trying to schedule something with their director of partnership for months now to pitch them on working with us and the Cambridge Youth Initiative to create a back-to-school program for underserved kids, and I’m afraid September is going to have come and gone before her calendar has an opening.”
I drop my chin. “Oh. Hmm. You’re probably right.”
With my head still ducked, I wink at Sibby from the corner of my eye, and she stifles her grin and whips out her cell phone.
Holding up a finger to Claire, she says, “’Scuse me for one quick sec.” Then, into the phone, “Hi, Mum? Hey, so Lia needs a favor.” She laughs. “You haven’t even heard what it is yet! I know . . . I know . . . she needs you to take a meeting with the Cambridge Arts Commission tomorrow before work.” She listens for a sec, then puts her hand over the mouthpiece and asks Claire, “Is seven thirty too early for you?”
Claire uncrosses her legs and closes her mouth. “Uh, no. No! Tell her I’ll bring the coffee.”
Sibby nods, relays Claire’s message, and listens for another few seconds before saying, “Ta, Mum! I’ll tell her.”
She presses End on the call and turns to me. “Mum got you a Statue of Liberty piggy bank she said reminded her of you, and she wants you to come home with me after so she can give it to you in person.”
I smile, then we both turn back to Claire.
“Your mother is Kyra Watson. I should have put it together from the last name combined with the accent,” she says, sounding begrudgingly amused.
“Like mother, like daughter,” Sibby says, shrugging. “And if you couldn’t tell, Lia here might not sound like either of us, but she’s family all the same. My mum would do anything for her. Anything.”
Sibby isn’t the least bit subtle, and Claire holds up her hand. “Okay, girls, point made. I think you’ve given me a lot to work with here, but let me have a few days to try to sort it out with everyone involved, okay?”
I cringe, but force myself to ask, “Um, this might not be the best time to push our luck, but if they go for it, do you think there’s any chance they might agree to a short extension on the completion date? I know that means it might not line up with their soft opening, but with the lost time this week and however much longer it might take to get their decision, plus I was thinking about making some changes to the design, which of course I’d send to you for approval, but—”
She holds up a hand again. “Let me stop you right there. We learned on Friday that the opening is already going to be delayed a couple weeks over a slight snafu with the liquor license. The next meeting of the state’s Alcoholic Beverages Control Commission is May fourteenth. Would that give you enough extra time?”
“Wow, that’s—that’s like a gift from the universe!” Sibby says.
Claire examines a fingernail. “Mmm. I’d term it more of a gift from a well-placed woman who doesn’t take kindly to a restaurant manager calling her daughter-in-law babycakes during the building inspection, but you girls are free to look at it however you want. That guy was immediately fired, by the way, and the team’s response was enough to assure me the rest of them are decent people. We wouldn’t associate ourselves with them—or ask you to do so—otherwise.”
I jump up and hold out my hand. “I trust you. Whether it was the universe responsible for the delay or this mother-in-law, or both, I’ll take it! Thank you for agreeing to go to bat for me—again. I swear you won’t regret it.”
I’ll make sure of it.
29
LIQUOR LICENSE DELAY OR NOT, IF I’M GOING TO HAVE TIME TO design and paint a whole new mural in a matter of weeks—even without allowing for the possibility of health-related distractions—I can’t afford to wait for the official greenlight before getting started on concepts.
Except I slam straight into a hard reality: it can be, er, challenging to design a piece of art that tells the world, “Hello, this is me!” when you’ve recently determined you might not have the most decent handle on which parts of you are authentically you.
My art teacher Miss Leekley’s wispy voice is in my ear. “Isn’t that what the process of making the art is for, to reveal to yourself who you truly are? Let the blank page whisper to you.”
Yeah, Miss Leekley can suck it.
“If I could just find a starting place,” I moan to Alex and Sibby on Sunday afternoon, as we polish off slices of pizza bigger than our heads. As soon as Sibby learned a side trip to Santarpio’s was included, she wasted no time volunteering to come along while I dropped off Alex at the airport.
Well, pizza and the fact that we have a lot of lost time to make up for after a whole week apart.
“Whatever direction you decide to go in, it should have a llama in it,” Sibby says.
“What?”
Alex crams his crust into his left cheek and speaks out of the right side of his mouth. “She’s got a point. Llamas are super trendy right now. People will eat it up.”
“You should eat it up.” I point at his chipmunk cheek and the crumbs escaping it. “I’m not sure I’m going for super trendy, but I’ll keep it in mind.”
Sibby grins conspiratorially at my brother. “There are always owls.”
“So last year,” he says.
I appraise them, then steal the last slice of pepperoni without the slightest twinge of guilt. “Quite the comedy duo you two make.”
Sibby wipes her mouth with a napkin before balling it up and stuffing it into her empty cup. “Does it need to be some huge statement piece? I mean, it’s your first attempt at going rogue—can’t that be achievement enough?”
Alex nods. “She has a point. This doesn’t have to be your masterpiece. You wouldn’t even want it to be, because who wants to peak at eighteen?”
People who might not see nineteen? I nearly say aloud.
But why am I not saying that out loud? my brain chides. You told yourself you wanted to be more open about facing this reality, so why are you still shoving the thoughts aside, refusing to give them air?
I draw in a deep breath, then fling the sentence into the world.
“Don’t say things like that!” Sibby points at me, eyes wide. “I refuse to let that happen.”
Alex merely drops his eyes to the table and stares hard at his empty plate.
I rub my neck. “Obviously, I don’t want it to either, but it’s part of my reality right now. And I think . . . I think it has to b
e in the design, if it’s going to be personal. That would be the expectation.”
Alex stands and gathers our trash. “Screw that, Li. You don’t owe anyone anything,” he says, before leaving to throw it out.
Sibby stands too. “For what it’s worth, I agree with him. I’ll be right back—I gotta change my tampon.”
I remain at the table and consider what Alex said. He might be right: I don’t owe anyone. I owe me, though. I can’t see any way to put my own voice on this piece right now, at this moment in my life, and have the design be all bunny rabbits and sparkly rainbows. Or llamas. (I’ll keep that last bit from Sibby, though.)
But that doesn’t mean I have the first clue how to start, or that I have faith I’ll figure it out before the mural’s deadline.
What do I have to offer on the topic of death?
The thing is, when somebody lives to be a hundred, people say things like, “Oh, she was blessed with a long life,” or “She achieved so much in her time on Earth.” Even making it to that age is considered an accomplishment.
But when someone’s really sick at eighteen, no one says that. They say, “Well, if anything tragic happens to her, it must have been for a reason; she must have been sent here to teach us some lesson.”
The alternative is that life is cruel and random and pointless and who the hell wants to accept that?
But I don’t have anything to teach anyone; I’m just as confused as everyone else.
Maybe more so.
I am one giant fucking I Don’t Know. My dad would be so proud.
Alex is back. “We need to head out. The line for security’s always a nightmare on Sunday nights. I don’t want to cut it too close.”
“Fat chance of that. We’re, like, what? Three minutes from the airport?” Sibby says, reappearing as well.
Alex snickers. “That reminds me—you ready for Jeff Linehan’s latest?”
Sibby and I start for the exit, Alex on our heels, as he says, “Did you ever wonder why slim chance and fat chance mean the same thing?”
Sibby halts mid-step. She brings her fist to her forehead and explodes it.
