“Always,” I say, and mean it.
“Put in only what you love, and if they ask you why all your work has a similar feel to it, tell them it’s because that’s the work that excites and interests you right now as an artist. Tell them it might change someday, but for now this is the art you’re making.” He shrugs. “Maybe some admissions people will worry you can’t do anything else, but I bet most of them will admire you for having a vision.”
“Huh.” I think about it. “I can’t tell if I actually think you’re right or if I’m just so relieved at the thought of not having to do a decent sketch that I’m convincing myself I think you’re right.”
“In either case . . . can I please see the sketches?”
“Only if you promise to agree that they suck.” He reaches for the pad, but I move it away from him. “I’m serious, Finn. Don’t tell me they’re good—I hate phony praise.”
“I promise to adequately convey any disgust I feel,” he says. He takes the sketchbook out of my hands and leafs through it, flipping the pages up and over as he finishes with them. He doesn’t say anything, just studies them thoughtfully. He lingers for a while on the one of Lily. I drew her with her head leaning back against the van headrest—she’s smiling up at nothing in particular. To me, there’s something too static about it. It looks like her, but I didn’t capture her energy and restlessness.
The last one is of him. I drew him turning to show Lily a photo on his phone. (She’s not actually in the drawing, though, and neither is the phone.) I made him look too young in the drawing, more like a fourteen-year-old than a seventeen-year-old.
I didn’t do it on purpose.
Finn gazes at that one for a little while without saying anything, then closes the sketchbook and holds it out. “Please don’t make me say they suck.”
I snatch it away from him. “Is that how you keep your promises?”
“It’s either break a promise or lie. Which is more dishonorable?”
I glare at him.
“Fine.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “The one of Hilary—that wasn’t as good as the others.”
“That’s better. A tiny scrap of honesty.”
“But that’s all I’m saying. Unless I’m allowed to compliment you.”
I shake my head.
He taps the sketchbook. “Seriously, Anna, I think any art school is going to want you, whether you include one of these or not. You’re really talented.”
I feel a kind of warm glow in my face and chest. “Thanks.”
“I mean it.” There’s a pause. He and I are just sitting there, looking at each other. And then he leans back suddenly. “Text,” he says, and pulls out his phone. I’m so close to him right now, I can read what’s on the screen.
Lily wants you to come visit as soon as we get home.
I can also read Finn’s response, which he quickly punches in:
I’ll drive back to the hospital tonight if your dad will let me.
I stare at the seat in front of me and start thinking about how, one night before my parents got divorced, I woke up to the sound of my mother going downstairs at two in the morning. I could hear her pacing around down there, so I came down to see what was wrong, and she said, “Your father’s not home, and he’s not answering his phone.” I asked her if she was worried that he’d been in an accident, and she snarled, “Terrified. Because if that son of a bitch cripples himself, I’ll be stuck taking care of him for the rest of my life, like Ethan Frome’s wife.” I didn’t know who Ethan Frome was, and I didn’t want to think too much about the point she was making, but when I was older, I figured it all out: Mom was already thinking about leaving him and knew that her conscience and the world’s opinion wouldn’t let her walk away if Dad got badly injured. (He was fine, by the way—just on a work trip. There had been a breakdown in communication between the two of them. There was always a breakdown in communication.)
If my mother—who ultimately had no problem walking out on her husband and kids—felt that an injury changes everything, forces you to be loyal and present, that means Finn must be feeling completely committed to Lily after last night. Maybe he was feeling that way, anyway (but was he? He had seemed so fed up with her last night before the accident—even before this trip, come to think of it), but now their attachment is written in stone.
I move over in my seat, shifting away from him. I rest my head against the window, close my eyes, and pretend I’m going back to sleep.
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twenty
I get dropped off with Lucy at her house. Neither of us wants to be alone—we’re still pretty shaken up. And I know her parents will make me feel more like I’ve come home than my own father will. Sure enough, they give us both warm, reassuring hugs, ask lots of concerned questions about Lily, and insist on plying us with tons of food. I realize I’m starving—we haven’t eaten since the night before, and now that all of Hilary’s texts are reassuring, I don’t feel sick to my stomach anymore.
We go up to Lucy’s room to do homework but make the mistake of working on her bed, and at some point we both drift off to sleep.
By the time I wake up, it’s dark outside, and I have some new texts. I sit up to look at them.
Meet up somewhere? We’re heading to the South Stage but could change plans.
I text Wade back.
Sorry—we left. A friend had an accident.
He texts me back instantly.
Wait—was she the one who hit her head? Everyone’s talking about that.
Yeah. She’s still in the hospital. But prob ok.
Wow. Talk when we get back?
definitely.
I also have a text from Hilary.
If nothing changes, we can bring Lil home tomorrow. You know a guy named James Baskille?
He go to our school?
no, St. Francis. Anyway, he’s here too—alcohol poisoning.
he okay?
they pumped his stomach. Lily says she’s glad she’s not the only stupid one.
Lucy rolls over and sees me looking at my phone. “That Hil?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s Lily?”
“Making jokes—seems like a good sign.”
Lucy curls into a ball. “It all feels unreal, doesn’t it? Maybe we just fell asleep here after school on Friday and dreamed the rest.”
“Would you ever dream that part where Connor wanted to make out with you?”
“Ew, no. Even my worst nightmares are classier than that.”
I stretch out my legs. “It all happened. But it could have been so much worse.”
“I know,” Lucy says. “I keep thinking about if she had hit her neck wrong—”
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t think about that.” We’re both silent for a second, then I say, “Something smells good. I think your mom’s cooking dinner.”
We go down to investigate. She’s making chicken breasts with some kind of apricot sauce and some incredible rice thing with pine nuts. I love Lucy’s mom.
Lucy drives me home after dinner. Dad’s not there. I check the garage, and his car is gone. Well, it is Saturday night. He’s probably gone out for dinner with friends. I go up to my room and work on an English essay.
I’m surprised at how happy I am to hear the garage door open a couple of hours later. Normally I’m fine being home by myself, but I’m still feeling freaked out and sad, and I actually want to know someone else is in the house. I fly down the stairs and into the kitchen just as he comes in from the garage.
Laughing. And talking to Ginny Clay, who’s all dressed up in a tight, blue, shiny dress and spiky high heels. Her hair is down tonight, and she’s not wearing the glasses. She looks pretty. And a little trashy.
Okay, I might be editorializing with that.
My father spots me and comes to an abrupt halt in the doorway. “Anna? What
are you doing home? I thought you were supposed to be gone until tomorrow.”
“One of my friends got hurt and ended up in the ER, so we came home early.”
“Oh my god,” Ginny says, clutching her hand to her chest. “Who got hurt?”
“Lily Diamond.”
“The pretty little Asian one? The twin? Is she okay? What happened?”
“She dove into a pool that was shallower than she realized and got a concussion.” It sounds so innocent the way I describe it. “It was really scary at first, because she lost consciousness. But she’s doing better. She’s still in the hospital, though, so the rest of us came home.”
“Her poor parents,” Ginny says.
Okay—my turn to ask some questions. “So, um . . . what are you two up to?”
“We just had dinner.” Ginny glances over at my father. “I can’t even remember how we ended up making plans—”
“You called me,” Dad says. “This afternoon.”
“And then you said you were all alone for the entire weekend.” She smiles at him. She’s wearing bright red lipstick—must have just reapplied it in the car, because it looks fresh and glossy. “I took pity on you.”
“Ha,” Dad says without any actual mirth. “We had an amazing dinner,” he tells me. “At Jocasta. They had this swordfish special that was unbelievable. There was a crust made out of tapenade and bread crumbs—it wasn’t like anything I’ve had before. All salty and crisp . . . I couldn’t get Ginny to try it, though.”
“I had quinoa,” she says. “Which was delicious.”
“Quinoa,” my father says, shaking his head. “Glorified animal feed.”
“It was delicious,” she says again.
“And now here you are,” I say. “Continuing the fun?”
Dad clears his throat uncomfortably. “I happened to mention the Hockney lithograph in my office. Ginny hadn’t seen it, so . . .”
“You sure it isn’t an etching?” I say sweetly.
They both pretend they didn’t hear that. “So now that we’re here, let’s make our way into the office,” Dad says to Ginny.
“Yes, and then I should probably go. It’s getting late, and I don’t want to impose.”
There’s a pause, which Dad should probably fill with “The night is still young” or something of that sort, but doesn’t.
“You kids do whatever you want,” I say, flapping my hand airily. “I’m going to bed.”
Back in my room, I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t been home. Dad would probably have poured them both a drink. They would have sat somewhere in this big, empty house sipping wine or whiskey and talking about . . . what? I’m not sure. Dad would have talked about work or food or wine or something that interests him, and Ginny would have nodded and listened and licked her red lips.
Sometimes I forget that Dad’s a man. He’s dated women but never in any way that’s affected my life. He usually goes out somewhere with them and doesn’t bring them back to our house. So I never think about whether he has the kind of dates that lead to sex. It’s not something you want to think about your father, anyway. But Dad’s handsome and in good shape—and let’s not forget that he makes a decent income, because I’m guessing Ginny hasn’t—and even though he’s not the most introspective or sensitive guy in the world, he has decent social skills. He can be gallant. He’s not a Neanderthal. Or a loser. He’s just . . .
Self-centered. Conceited. Distracted. Obsessed with food and exercise.
I wouldn’t want to go out with someone like him. Not in a million years. I’ve never once in my life thought, Gee, I wish I could find a boy who’s just like my dad. Pretty much the opposite. But Ginny Clay seems to like him. Maybe it’s a tougher dating world out there for annoying young women than I realized. Maybe Dad’s an easy target, and she wants a sugar daddy. Or maybe she really likes him.
That last possibility makes me sit up straight. Right there on my bed in my red footsie pajamas. (Lucy gave them to me last Christmas—she has a matching pair.)
Could Ginny actually like Dad?
Could he actually like her?
Because that might change the way I look at the whole thing.
I mean, if Ginny’s just some kind of desperate gold digger who figures she’ll get a bunch of expensive (vegetarian) meals and maybe some jewelry out of Dad—or even, if all goes well, a lifetime of alimony—I definitely don’t want her around.
But what if she’s just a girl who likes a guy? I may question her taste—and his too, if he likes her back—but do I have the right to condemn her for it?
Not really. No more than Wally’s parents had a right to order Molly out of their house. People should love whoever they want to love.
Even if they’re both annoying.
Especially if they’re both annoying. Because then they’re lucky to have found each other.
I figure I’ll keep my eyes on ol’ Ginny. If she’s faking all this interest in my father just to squeeze some cash out of him, I’ll make life difficult for her. But if I think she and Dad actually like each other, I’ll leave them alone. They’re adults.
I feel virtuous and evolved and at peace . . . for an entire three minutes, right until I hear a Ginny-giggle float upstairs and kind of want to vomit.
Honestly? I can’t stand her.
I put the pillow over my head and block out her voice. No one ever said it was easy to be open-minded.
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twenty-one
Word travels quickly. Every kid at school on Monday wants to know the details about what happened to Lily.
“What have you been telling people?” Phoebe asks me as we walk into Spanish together on Monday morning.
“Just that she miscalculated the depth of the pool. You?”
“Same. But people keep asking me if she was drunk or stoned or on Ecstasy or anything. I’ve just been shrugging and changing the subject, but by not saying no, I feel like I’m kind of saying yes.”
“I know,” I say as we both settle down wearily at desks next to each other. “Same thing here.”
I’m happy to see Hilary in line at the cafeteria, especially since she looks a thousand times better than she did the last time I saw her. I ask her how Lily’s doing, and she says, “Much better now that she’s at home,” but then asks me to wait for more details until we’re all gathered at the table, so she doesn’t have to keep repeating the same information.
By the time we’ve both gotten our food, Lucy and Finn and Oscar are already eating at our usual table. I sit down next to Oscar, which puts me across from Finn. Our eyes meet, and while the others are talking, I ask him quietly how he’s doing.
“Okay.” He looks exhausted.
“You sleeping?”
He shakes his head and says in a low voice, “Every time I close my eyes, I see her diving again. It’s like those nightmares where you try to stop something from happening and can’t—except this really happened.”
“But it’s all okay now.”
“Doesn’t make that image go away.”
Phoebe and Eric join us at the table, and I turn to Hilary. “Now can we ask you all our questions?”
She takes a sip of Diet Coke. “Fire away.”
“When will Lily be able to come back?” Lucy asks.
“The doctors say one more week of rest.”
“And she’s fine?” asks Finn.
“I think so.” She hesitates. “Except . . . It’s really weird, guys. She can’t remember much about that night. And she has these dizzy spells when she can’t even stand up. And she gets these bad headaches. And sometimes she uses the wrong word—like just this morning, she said something about my suitcase when she meant backpack. It freaks my mother—she’s convinced Lily’s brain damaged. But the doctors keep saying all this is pretty normal after a concussion, and she should get bett
er.”
“Oh god,” says Finn. I look at him. His face is white.
“The doctors say it’s normal,” I remind him.
“Right,” he says tonelessly.
“Is she going crazy having to stay at home?” Phoebe asks Hilary. “I can’t picture Lily sitting still for two minutes, let alone a week.”
“Okay, that’s the other weird thing.” Hilary opens up her sandwich and starts scraping the mayonnaise off the bread. “She’s been really quiet since the accident. And calm.”
“Calm?” Phoebe repeats. “You sure you brought Lily home and not someone else?”
“It’s definitely her,” Hilary says. “Once she was feeling better, she made friends with everyone in the hospital—the nurses, the doctors, those bedpan guys—oh, and especially that kid they brought in with alcohol poisoning.”
“Oh, right, you mentioned him,” I say. “How’s he doing?”
“He left late last night, right around the same time we did. He and Lily totally bonded while they were in the hospital. They’re constantly texting each other.”
“Aw, that’s kind of sweet,” Oscar says. “Fellow sufferers.”
“Fellow idiots.”
“That’s harsh,” says Lucy.
“Sorry,” Hilary says. “But you know what I mean. I’m glad Lily’s going to be okay, but if she hadn’t been, it would have been her own fault.”
It’s kind of a relief to hear Hilary sounding like her old self—if she can dig into Lily again, then she can’t be too worried anymore.
I touch Finn’s arm as we’re all walking out of the cafeteria, and he stops and turns to look at me. “Hilary’s not scared anymore,” I say. “You don’t have to be either.”
“I’m working on it. I’ll feel better when I actually see her.”
“We all will.” I’m turning away when he says my name. I turn back.
“I just . . .” He stops. He runs his fingers through his hair and shifts from one foot to the other. Then he says, “I just want to say . . . You’ve been kind of amazing, Anna. After Lily got hurt, you were the only one who knew what we should do. We were all panicking, and you—”
The Last Best Kiss Page 20
