Many Points of Me

by Caroline Gertler

  “Do you miss LA?” I ask.

  “I miss my friends. Chloe and Violet are great—and you, of course. But there’s nothing like the people you’ve grown up with. Like you and Teddy—so lucky to have each other.”

  She means Theo. But I don’t correct her. “Why’d your parents move here, anyway?”

  “Work. Why else? It didn’t occur to them that moving five kids from the only home they’d ever had to this cold, dark city might not be the best idea. But here we are.” She shrugs.

  I never would’ve guessed that she isn’t happy about living here. She always seems cheerful at school, like every day is the greatest day of her life.

  “It’s not so bad here. When it gets warmer, you’ll see.”

  “In LA today it’s seventy-five and sunny.” She flashes the weather app on her phone, which pings with a text. “My mom. Let me just tell her we’re here. She wanted to meet you.”

  Within a minute there’s a knock, and Harper opens the door to a woman holding a baby on her hip. She looks like an adult version of Harper, with darker brown skin and darker hair that hangs in glamorous styled waves. She’s even dressed stylish, in frayed jeans and a shirt with ruffles on the shoulders. She’d never be friends with my and Theo’s moms, with their pulled-back hair and glasses and boring clothes.

  “You must be Georgia Rosenbloom!” Mrs. Willis takes my hand in hers and squeezes, looking at me like she’s meeting someone famous. “I couldn’t believe it when Harper told me you two were in the same class. We’re such big fans of your father; you can’t even imagine. Did you see the painting? Charcoal on Green? Doesn’t it look great with those green chairs?” And with the greenness of Harper’s mom. I see that leaf green color all over her. Maybe that’s why she was drawn to the painting.

  “Mom!” Harper interrupts her.

  “Oops.” Harper’s mom pulls her hand away to cover a giggle. “I wasn’t supposed to say all that. But it’s true! I just can’t help myself.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble. I’m all too used to people telling me how much they love my dad when they don’t mean him; they mean his art.

  “It makes the art more meaningful when we have a personal connection to the artist,” she continues, while Harper plays peek-a-boo with her baby sister. “I bet you were even there watching while your dad painted it. Wasn’t his studio in your home?”

  I nod, like we’re talking about some other girl, some other artist. Not me, not my dad, not my home. “I was young when he was working on the Birds. I think he finished the last one when I was six or seven. But I sort of remember.” My cheeks flush.

  “Mom, please,” Harper says. “You’re totally embarrassing her!”

  “Sorry! We’re just so excited for the Met show. We’ll be sad to part with our paintings for it—they’re picking them up any day now.” She takes a quick glance at her watch.

  “My mom said you also have an asterism painting—Bird in the Tree?”

  “Oh, yes. That’s the best. Simply the best. So good that Harper’s dad wanted it all for himself. It’s in his office.”

  “And no one’s allowed in Dad’s office without permission,” Harper says, like she’s repeating a rule she’s heard one too many times.

  “Where’s his office?” I ask, imagining a midtown skyscraper. “Maybe I can see it there one day?”

  “Upstairs—his home office,” Harper says.

  “I give you permission, if you’d like to see it now?” Harper’s mom offers.

  But just then the intercom buzzes—the security guy announcing that Chloe and Violet are here.

  “Have your meeting. I’ll show you after.” Harper’s mom bounces the baby, making her gurgle on the way out.

  “Ugh, I’m so sorry,” Harper says after her mom closes the door. “I told her not to make a big deal about your dad or anything. All the time we lived in LA, my parents couldn’t care less if some celebrity sat down at the table next to us. They were cool. But they’re ridiculously starstruck around the art world. I mean, he was just your dad, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s complicated.” No matter what I tell myself about Hank Rosenbloom being just my dad, there’s always that other side of who he was. The part that’s harder to explain.

  Chloe and Violet saunter in, sweaty and smelly from soccer practice; they know where to put their backpacks and jackets, like they’re used to hanging out here. They chatter away about soccer. How Lexie hogs the ball, Ella is a useless goalie, and the coach picks on Violet for not trying harder.

  I yawn, and even Harper seems bored by all the soccer talk. She calls the Valentine’s Day charity card meeting to order, and I take out my sketchbook. I’m grounded by the coolness of the plastic cover, the firmness of the cardboard back, the pencil in my hand.

  “Let’s brainstorm!” she says.

  We come up with four different designs. One is easy and graphic: Happy V-Day, written in bubble letters with doodles of flowers and hearts and candies. Another is funny: Principal Lewes as a cartoon cupid, with a speech bubble saying “Be Mine.” For the third, we decide on a boy and a girl drawn from the back view, holding hands.

  For the last design, Harper suggests the unicorn-mermaid creature I was drawing in art class.

  “You mean the mixed-up animal?” I ask.

  Chloe and Violet look at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. Which I kind of am, with them. The mixed-up animal doesn’t have a place in this room, where everything is what it seems; nothing is mixed up at all. Except for me.

  “Yeah, it was so pretty.” Harper gives an encouraging smile.

  I don’t want to disappoint Harper, but I can’t share my mixed-up animals. “I’m not sure that one works for Valentine’s Day. I’ll come up with something else. Something cuter, like a puppy or teddy bear holding a heart.” Or a bearded dragon. Krypto.

  A midnight swirl flashes disappointment across Harper’s face, but then she goes back to her usual cheerful marigold. “Great! Sounds like we’re all set.” She claps her hands together. “Georgia, can you have them all ready by the middle of next week?”

  “Sure.” I calculate in my head that each one will take a few hours to draw.

  “Next, let’s talk logistics.” Harper picks up her phone and reads out a list of tasks. “One: make copies of the cards on cardstock and buy envelopes—that’s for Chloe and Violet. Two: make posters to advertise the sale—you can do that, too, right, Georgia?” She enters my name next to that task without even waiting for me to agree.

  “Three: set prices and get school approval to set up a table to make sales—I can do that. We’ll all help with sales—and with distribution.”

  “Distribution?” I thought all I had to do was draw the designs.

  “Yeah. People will buy cards, write messages, put them in envelopes, and give them back to us to hand out in homeroom on Valentine’s Day. That’s the whole point.” Violet gives me a look like I’m totally missing something.

  “We’re going to dress up as cupids—it’ll be awesome!” Chloe says.

  I can feel Harper watching me, to see if I’m on board with dressing up in a silly costume. I shrug. Maybe it’ll make everyone forget about my van Gogh fiasco.

  Harper claps her hands again. “Okay, then, sounds like we have a plan!”

  I take that as a signal the meeting is over and put my sketchbook back in my bag to leave. But Chloe and Violet don’t seem like they’re going anywhere.

  “You’re not staying for dinner?” Harper asks me.

  If I hadn’t already packed my bag and stood up to go, I’d stay. But with Chloe’s and Violet’s hard eyes staring into me, making me question whether I even have a right to be here, I shake my head no.

  “Really? We ordered extra sushi for you. The best eel-avocado rolls.”

  Eel, ick. “Sorry,” I whisper, hoping this wasn’t my one chance.

  “Next time,” she says, sunny marigold with a genuine smile. Making me believe there will be a next time. “Let me text my mo
m that you’re leaving so she can show you that painting.”

  “A painting?” Chloe asks.

  “Yeah, we own some of Georgia’s dad’s art.”

  “Oh, cool.” But she’s not interested enough to ask to see it.

  Harper’s mom meets me at the door, this time baby-free, and it’s totally awkward saying quick goodbyes to the Mermaids and then walking off with her. It almost would’ve been less embarrassing to have changed my mind and stayed.

  “How’d the meeting go?” she asks.

  “Good.”

  “Harper’s got such a big heart,” she says as I follow her up the stairs to the top floor. “And she’s lucky to have you designing the cards. If you’re anywhere near as talented as your dad was . . .”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. She doesn’t finish her sentence; she doesn’t need to. She’s saying what everyone always thinks. At least she uses the past tense. Dad was.

  Harper’s mom pushes open the door to what must be Mr. Willis’s home office, and for a second I worry that we’re interrupting him. But the room is empty and dark. She presses a button and the lights come on. You can’t miss it: there, on the wall above his desk, staring right at me—Bird in the Tree. The first asterism painting.

  I haven’t seen this painting since it left our apartment, when Dad sold it. The dark background almost looks midnight blue or deep gray in contrast to the light wood of the wall it hangs on. The stars glow bright and strong, just like I remember. Just like in Sally in the Stars, which I can see whenever I visit the Met, and Man on the Moon, at the Whitney.

  But it’s different, seeing an asterism hanging like this, in someone’s home. It’s unfair that Mr. Willis gets to be with this painting whenever he wants to. Though the way his desk is set up, he sits with his back to it. He probably doesn’t even look at it or think about it most of the time. Not like I would, if it was mine.

  Then I think, if Dad had painted me as the last asterism, that painting probably would’ve been sold, too. Maybe it’s better that he never made it, so I never had to think of myself hanging in someone else’s home or out in public, for the world to see. Or maybe Mom wouldn’t have sold it, like she’s held on to G in Blue all these years.

  Mrs. Willis interrupts my thoughts. “We’re passionate about his art. We wish we could buy another one.”

  “There aren’t many left,” I say.

  “I know, so sad, so tragic.” Now she seems to look at me for me—not just as the daughter of a famous artist. “You must miss him. I can’t even imagine.”

  “That’s okay.” I pinch myself for apologizing. I hate that my sadness makes people uncomfortable, and that I feel bad for it.

  “Oh, honey.” She pulls me into a hug that smells the same as Harper, lavender and jasmine. I try to relax into her, but she’s all bony, not like my soft and squishy mom. “Georgia, it’s so special to meet you, to have you as one of Harper’s best friends.”

  Everything she says washes over me, except for “best friends.” I hold on to those words, but I’m not so sure that I’d call Harper the same. When I think of a best friend, all I think of is Theo.

  “Do you want a moment alone with the painting? I bet you feel connected to your dad that way, right? By being with his art?”

  Somehow Mrs. Willis just seems to get it. But I shake my head no. I don’t know what I’d do alone with the painting besides think about how much I miss Dad—and how I wish I could take the painting off the wall to examine it, to see if he drew any sketch marks on the back of the canvas. Which isn’t going to happen.

  Out on the street in front of Harper’s house, it’s like I’ve just come from another planet. Harper’s world is not my real life.

  I have a sudden longing for my world. Which means being cozy at home this weekend with Mom, and Theo and his mom. People who knew Dad as a person, not only as his paintings. People who don’t wonder if I’m as talented as him or not. People who simply know me—us.

  Chapter

  Twelve

  The bus ride across town is crowded with commuters and schoolkids, their breath steaming up the windows. Smushed up in the door well, I don’t get a seat, but I manage to pull out my phone and text Theo to see if he’s home. As the bus winds through Central Park, he still hasn’t replied. Maybe he’s angrier at me than I realized. He said to come back to him when I was ready. I think I am. But maybe he’s not.

  By the time we get to my stop on Central Park West, an inky dusk has settled, broken up by the amber glow of the streetlamps. I push my way through the people rushing out of the subway station.

  Mrs. Velandry’s window is lit up, but she’s not watching the entrance. I can see her back as she leans over the kitchen stove, stirring a pot. The mouthwatering scent of sautéing garlic barely hides the pee smell in the vestibule.

  I slow down on Theo’s landing on my walk upstairs to listen for sounds in his apartment. All I hear is the noise of the TV.

  I would knock, but since he hasn’t texted back, I’m guessing he still doesn’t want to see me.

  I turn the key in my door. The lights are off. Mom’s out, but I don’t remember her telling me she had plans tonight.

  I should be excited that she’s not home so I can look at Dad’s drawing of her on the mantel, but right now I just want to lounge in front of the TV and watch a show that has nothing to do with art.

  My phone pings with a voicemail. Mom: “I’m so sorry, I got caught up at the Met. It’s going to be a long weekend here. I’ll be home late tonight, so warm up some food, or maybe you can go to Theo’s, or ask Mrs. Velandry for something. Love you.”

  I text Theo again. Home. Where are you?

  Ten more minutes. Still no reply.

  I’m sure Harper never finds herself alone in an empty house. At least she’d always have a sibling there. Or security.

  Theo’s bedroom light is on across the airshaft. He never leaves his light on when he’s not home.

  I try calling his cell phone, but it goes straight to voice mail.

  He’s there, ignoring me. This is getting ridiculous. So I call his landline.

  His mom, Harriet, picks up. “Hi, Georgie. Everything okay, sweetheart?” It’s so good to hear Harriet’s voice. “You just calling to check in?”

  “Is Theo there?”

  “He’s been in his room all afternoon. Let me see what he’s up to.” She sets down the phone, which muffles her voice as she calls for Theo once, then twice.

  Harriet’s voice again: “He says he’s not feeling well. I’m sorry. You want to come by here anyway, have something to eat with me?”

  I wish I could say yes, but if I do, the tears will come out.

  So I grunt out a “no, thanks” and hang up.

  Theo and I have never been in a fight like this before. Sure, we’ve squabbled, like siblings, maybe. We argue about silly things, like who left a special marker uncapped and let it dry out or what game to play. But then we get over it. We’ve never ignored each other like this.

  There are a million other things I could do right now. I could get started on my homework for the weekend. I could read. I could paint. But all I can think about is Theo not talking to me and how to fix it.

  I could text him a big fat “SORRY!!!!” And he could flash his bedroom light three times to show me that it’s okay. And then I could tell him about the last asterism sketch. And we could look together at his drawing of Dad and the drawing of Mom to see if they also have asterism points. Because keeping it to myself is really making my chest ache.

  But another part of me is not at all sorry. Not sorry for telling the truth. The truth that just because art is the biggest thing in everyone else’s life, doesn’t have to mean it’s my life. The truth that I don’t even feel like an artist anymore.

  The truth doesn’t always make other people happy. Sometimes, it hurts them.

  And there’s one truth I need to discover—the truth about what Dad meant to paint for the last asterism. The truth that he meant
it to be me.

  I go back to the living room. Gently, I take the framed drawing of Mom down from the mantel again. I wipe the dust on the glass with the corner of my T-shirt. The lines of this drawing are softer, more detailed, than in the one of me at age ten. Dad was earlier in his career at this point—his work was just taking off, Mom says. He hadn’t found his style yet.

  I put the frame facedown on the table. The metal latch on the black velvet backing is stiff, and I’m nervous it’s going to snap and break. But I’m able to pry it loose. I lift the backing off the frame. There’s a piece of cardboard between the backing and the paper. I remove that, too.

  But what I’m hoping to find—it’s not there.

  No sketch, no points of an asterism on the back of this drawing. Nothing. Just a plain old piece of paper.

  I resist the urge to throw the whole thing on the floor, let the glass shatter to pieces. How could I think that it’d be so easy to prove that G, age 10 is a sketch for the last asterism? If it was that obvious, if Dad had drawn an asterism sketch here, wouldn’t Mom know about it already?

  I fix the frame back up and place it on the mantel. Now when I see Mom’s eyes staring out at me from that drawing, I don’t feel the love she had when she was looking at Dad, like I used to. Instead, I feel frustration and distance. And I’m not sure where else to look for proof. There are still piles of Dad’s drawings on the table, but I’m beginning to think it’d be like finding a needle in a haystack to find anything that matters.

  There’s nothing good to eat in our fridge, just some raw carrots and string cheese. In the freezer there’s a frozen chicken-and-bean burrito. I stick it in the microwave, even though I’m not in the mood. I’d make myself eat eel in a heartbeat if it meant being with the Mermaids instead of here, alone.