Many Points of Me

by Caroline Gertler

  I bite the inside of my cheek and take a quick look around her bedroom, to see if the portfolio is on her desk or floor, somewhere in eyesight. But I don’t see it and don’t want to go digging.

  My stomach roils in disappointment with the feeling that I’m never going to find proof. I go back to my room and set G, age 10 on my desk. I wish she could talk to me, tell me what she knows. If only I’d glanced up from my book then, while Dad was drawing me, and asked him directly, “Are you going to paint me for the last asterism?” Then I’d know.

  I open to a fresh page in my sketchbook and begin copying G, age 10. It’s comforting, following Dad’s lines. Like when I was little and we went to the beach and I followed in the path made by his footsteps, my smaller feet fitting into his larger imprints in the sand.

  At first I copy his lines to get myself going. But as my drawing takes shape, I like how it’s turning out. It’s like Dad’s here with me, giving me a drawing lesson.

  I’m forgetting the sound of his voice. But now I hear it again, low and gravelly.

  “Learn how to control your pencil,” he’d say. “That’s the key to drawing well. Dark shadows give depth to your drawing. Don’t be afraid to deepen the shadows.”

  Deepen the shadows, deepen the shadows. . . .

  I repeat this like a mantra, until his voice becomes my voice. I shade and shade until the pencil point is worn down and needs to be sharpened.

  When I’m done, I’m exhausted, like I’ve been in a trance. The kind of zone Theo gets into, barely aware of time passing. I’m starving and needing a nap and buzzing with energy all at once.

  I look at the drawing again. It’s good. Really good—as a copy of Dad’s drawing. But nothing more than a copy.

  Then I take a silver paint pen and flip over the page. Without thinking about where Dad made the points on his drawing, I try it for myself. I make asterism points on the back of my copy.

  It feels right—that this is how Dad made his asterisms. But my points come out different: One point at the top of my head, another on the tip of my nose. One for each of my hands. One for my shoulder.

  That’s it. Five. I can’t even come up with ten. When I compare it to Dad’s version, I see that he chose some points the same and some different. Does that mean he saw me differently than I see myself?

  What would Dad say? What would he tell me? I listen for his voice, but I don’t hear anything.

  Just silence.

  And then the door opens and closes. Mom’s home.

  More footsteps follow and more voices. Theo and Harriet.

  Theo. One of the only people who could understand how important G, age 10 is. Make it real—that I might’ve found proof. But I’m not ready to share it.

  I slip the paper back into my drawer, as deep as it can go.

  “We’re home!” Mom calls out. “Time to eat!” The smell of fresh pizza makes my stomach rumble.

  Theo barely looks up at me when I enter the living room. There are paper plates and an open pizza box on the drafting table. He’s already halfway through a slice that he’s eating right next to a pile of Dad’s work. Oil drips from his pizza onto his plate, just inches away from what could be important papers.

  “Don’t you think we should clear more space?” I say.

  Theo puts down his pizza.

  Mom looks at me, surprised. She’s the one always telling me to be careful not to ruin anything.

  “It’s okay, Georgia.” She gives me a don’t-be-rude glare. “Here, have a slice.”

  “Is there any left? You started without me.”

  Mom and Harriet exchange a glance.

  “Sorry. I called for you to come eat. We’re starving.”

  “You could’ve waited.”

  Harriet steps in. “Give her a break, doll. I’ve never seen this woman work so hard! How about you choose the movie?”

  “I don’t want to watch a movie.” But as I bite into a slice of pizza and the food fills me, I realize I’m grumpy with hunger.

  “How about The Princess Bride?” Mom suggests.

  Even Theo shakes his head at that. “Indiana Jones?”

  But then it comes to me. The perfect movie for tonight. 2001: A Space Odyssey. It’ll help me imagine I’m floating up in space. Just where I want to be.

  Everyone agrees, and we settle into our usual movie-watching seats and I project myself into the space atmosphere, weightless, defying gravity. The silence and darkness all around.

  By the end Theo’s fallen asleep, his glasses askew on his nose and drool trailing down his chin, but he pops up as the credits roll.

  “Time to get you to bed, sleepyhead.” Harriet ruffles his hair.

  Usually this is when Theo and I beg to hang out just a little longer. For me to say good night to Krypto, or for him to come look at my latest art projects in my room. Or, when Dad was here, to go out on the balcony and look at the stars.

  But not tonight. Tonight I have nothing to show Theo. He wouldn’t care about the Valentine’s Day cards, and I don’t have any art to show him. He knows I don’t love Krypto like he does, and Dad’s telescope is packed away, the key to the balcony is missing, and no one’s looked at the stars in forever.

  Still, I kind of wish someone would stop Theo and Harriet from leaving. I walk them to the front door to be polite, but I’m also hoping that someone will speak up. But no one says anything. We wave good night without a word.

  Even after the door closes behind them, even when I hear their footsteps walk down the stairs and their front door open, I could still call after them. Run to the edge of the stairs, and say, “Wait! Just one thing!”

  But I don’t.

  I lose that moment—the moment that I could pull Theo back in.

  I let him go.

  It turns into a weekend of letting go: First Theo. Then Royal.

  Sunday mornings are a far cry from how they were when the New York Times wrote that profile of Dad’s Sunday routine. And this particular Sunday goes down as one of the worst days of my life.

  I don’t know what the other worst day would be: not the day Mom and Dad told me he was sick, because I didn’t understand what cancer meant that day. Not the day he actually died, because on that day it didn’t feel real. Maybe one of the worst days was in the weeks after his funeral, when I came home from school wanting to show him a drawing I’d been working on in art class. But he was gone, and so was his art, and it fully hit me that he wasn’t there and never would be again.

  On this Sunday we have to say good-bye to Royal. Mom and I go with Mrs. Velandry to the Westside Veterinarian, which is one block from our building. Mrs. Velandry hunches up and shuffles on the walk—I wonder how she managed it by herself yesterday.

  The receptionist buzzes us in and gives one of those tight, sorry smiles that I remember from the nurses at Dad’s hospital.

  Mrs. Velandry clutches my shoulder, digging her fingers in until I want to wiggle away. But I stay by her. Mom supports her with one hand on her back and the other under her elbow. We follow the nurse into an examination room, Mrs. Velandry between us.

  It smells like a mix of antiseptic wipes and berry-scented dog shampoo. The vet, with a paper mask over her mouth, carries in Royal. I want to tear that mask from her face, to see her expression as she whispers softly in his ear. He’s so still, maybe we’ve already lost him. But once he’s in Mrs. Velandry’s arms and hears the sound of her voice, his eyes slit open.

  “He hasn’t eaten. He’s refusing water,” the vet says, lifting her mask. “We can try to treat, but once they stop eating and drinking, it usually doesn’t help. And the other option . . .”

  I don’t want to hear anymore. I cover my ears as Mom and Mrs. Velandry ask the vet questions and cuddle Royal, telling him what a good dog he is. Even Mom, who’s holding back her sneezes.

  My whole body is frozen stiff and shuddering at the same time. Next it’s my turn to hold him. To stroke his velvety soft ears, inhale his potato-chip salty dog scent, f
eel his sweet little heartbeat and nose, which is dry in a way it shouldn’t be. I’m afraid—to hold him, to touch him. But I know I have to. This is my last chance, and if I don’t, I’ll regret it forever.

  “I love you,” I whisper in his ear, and I imagine he nuzzles me back in return, even though he’s barely able to lift his head.

  And then it’s time.

  Mom and I wait for Mrs. Velandry in the reception area, to let her say her final goodbye in private.

  As we leave the vet’s, I’m disturbingly weightless, floating free from gravity, spinning out of orbit.

  Chapter

  Sixteen

  At lunch on Monday, I sit at the cafeteria table with Harper, Chloe, and Violet—the orbit into which I’ve been pulled. Being in their orbit helps me forget about everything else. Dad, Theo, Royal.

  I take out my folder of card designs to show them.

  “Oh, they look fabulous!” Harper waves her fingers in the air like she’s spreading magic fairy dust. “I love it!”

  “Yeah, these are cool.” Chloe looks at me with new respect.

  “I love them!” Violet echoes.

  “We’re so lucky to have you, Georgia,” Harper says. “You can’t even imagine. I did this last year in LA, and we didn’t have any artists in our grade half as talented as you are. We raised three hundred dollars last year. Let’s get to work to beat it this year!”

  Violet studies the card design with the girl and boy holding hands. She holds it up, like she’s trying to figure something out. “Hey, is this supposed to be you,” she points at me, “and Theo?”

  “Me and Theo?” I say it with all the disgust I can muster.

  “Oooh, Georgia, are you and Theo in luh-ooove?” Harper teases in a singsong voice. She leans in to make kissy faces at me. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “No!” I shout, shooing her away. “Theo’s just, like, my best friend—and not even anymore.”

  “Not what?” a boy’s voice asks from behind us.

  Theo. I’ve never burned with embarrassment around Theo before, but now my cheeks are on fire. I don’t know how much he overheard.

  “See, look,” Chloe says. “She does like him! Her face is all red!”

  The girls laugh, and Theo stares at the ground, fidgeting with his fingers.

  “Join us, Theo,” Harper says, pulling him onto half of her chair. He plunks down awkwardly; she slings her arm around him.

  Theo’s turn to flush. He lets his hair hang over his glasses to try to hide.

  “Oh, Harps, you’re so weird!” Violet says.

  Then Harper lets it all loose in a chicken dance, totally unselfconscious as the whole cafeteria watches her, clapping and laughing—with her. If it was anyone else, they’d be getting laughed at.

  She stops, hands on her thighs, and takes in a deep breath as if she’s tired herself out. “Okay, people, the fun is over. My burger is getting cold.”

  She elbows Theo out of her seat, and he’s left chairless. He gives me an angry look as he flicks his hair off his face and walks away, back to his own table. Our table.

  I should get up, pull Theo over to the side, and apologize. Tell him about Royal. But I’m glued to my chair. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t hear me, anyway.

  The Mermaids continue to plan the card sale. Valentine’s Day is a week and a half away.

  “Can we get Theo to help?” Harper asks. “It’d be good to have a boy, too, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t we want a cooler boy, like Alex or Luca?” Chloe asks.

  “Theo’s cool,” Harper says. “He’s an undiscovered gem. Just like Georgia.”

  I go red again. The idea of me and Theo as “undiscovered” is kind of humiliating, but also makes me feel chosen. Special. Only I’m not so sure that Theo’s as excited to be discovered as I am.

  In fact, I know he’s not. After lunch he waits for me at the door to the cafeteria. “I need to talk to you—in private.”

  “Uh-oh, someone looks like she’s in trouble,” Chloe says. Harper gives me a kind smile.

  “Better go fix things.” Violet bumps my shoulder.

  The Mermaids link arms and leave me there.

  The fastest way to end the conversation is to start by apologizing.

  “Look, Theo, I’m sorry.” I begin on our way to our next classes. I try to figure out how to tell him about Royal, how hard everything’s been, but he crosses his arms tighter over his chest and interrupts before I can say more.

  “That’s not a real apology. You don’t mean it.”

  “Theo—I—”

  “I don’t even know who you are these days, G. Do you mean it—I’m not your best friend?”

  Like a fish gasping for air, I open my mouth—to say something, anything, to defend myself.

  But Theo goes on. “Fine. It’s news to me. I can’t make you be my best friend. But it’s okay. It’s not like you’re so great to hang out with anyway. You can’t keep using what happened as an excuse to treat people however you want.”

  His words are worse than a punch in the gut.

  I find it in me to stay steady and calm. Like Fareed said, Be the peace. “Maybe you see it as an excuse, but what happened makes me who I am.” No point in telling him now about Royal—he’ll just accuse me of using it as another excuse. I pick up my pace and leave him behind.

  If anyone should understand what happened, it’s Theo. He was there for it. For all of it.

  What happened is that my world as I knew it ended. What happened is that I became known as the girl whose father died. What happened is that everything broke apart. I became a flat shell of myself, like a cut-paper silhouette.

  At least with Harper, who wasn’t here then, what happened doesn’t hang over us all the time like a storm cloud, ready to burst and drench us at any moment. With her, everything isn’t about Dad and his art. With her, I can feel almost normal.

  That afternoon Mrs. Velandry is waiting for me at the window. We wave hello, and she has her door unlocked by the time I enter the lobby. I still can’t get used to the quiet. Olive’s not barking—it’s like she’s lost her voice. She thumps her tail, raises her eyes at me from her bed in the corner.

  “Thank you for all your support this weekend,” Mrs. Velandry says, pulling me into a hug. “That card you drew—it made me smile. And you and your mom being there with us yesterday . . .”

  She starts to sob. “Olive is so sad. Maybe you want to walk her sometimes, to lift her spirits?”

  I’m not sure I can ever make myself care for Olive like I did for Royal, but she looks up at me with hopeful eyes, and I think maybe I can.

  “I could walk her most days after school,” I offer. “Four p.m.?”

  “That would be great, Georgia. We’d both appreciate it. And before I forget.” She reaches into her pocket for something. “This is ready for you.”

  She hands me a tiny brown envelope with something hard and flat inside.

  Right. The key. To our balcony. I can’t remember exactly why I wanted it in the first place. But maybe, somehow, it’ll feel good. To be out there again. To look through Dad’s telescope and see things how he did.

  “Remember, you promised: no nonsense. Give this to your mom.”

  “Sure.” I cross my fingers behind my back and run straight up to my apartment.

  On the first try, I think it must be the wrong key. The lock is so tight that it takes a few nudges before I can turn it. There’s a pop of air when I push open the balcony door.

  The wind is stronger up here, six floors above the street. I look out over the roofs of the brownstones across from us. Central Park spreads below like a blanket of brownness, the trees still bare, grass faded dull.

  Then I look back in through the windows to our apartment. The glare of the afternoon sunlight means I have to press my face up against the glass to see anything. From the outside, the living room—Dad’s studio—looks cozy and warm. Dad’s paintings against the walls, the trestle where his paint s
upplies are stored, make it seem like he’s just stepped out for an errand and he’ll be home any minute. I want to stay out here forever, to keep that feeling. But I don’t know how much time I have before Mom comes home.

  I go inside to get the telescope. I take out the stand and the large scope and the lens from the case and try my best to remember how Dad set it all up. Finally assembled, the telescope’s almost as tall as me. I struggle to lift it onto the balcony.

  There’s one major problem: it’s still daylight. Of course, I can’t see the stars now. But I don’t want to take the whole thing apart and put it back in the case and try to set it up at night. I’d risk waking Mom.

  So I drag the telescope against the brick wall, just to the left of the balcony door, where Mom wouldn’t see it from inside the apartment. I relock the door and fold up the case and stuff it behind the sofa. And hope that Mom doesn’t notice what I’ve done before I have the chance to go back out there tonight.

  I force myself to stay awake until I hear Mom snoring in her room. I throw my puffy coat over my pajamas and slip my bare feet into snow boots before unlocking the balcony door and stepping outside into the clear night.

  The crisp, cool air brings me back to those nights with Dad. And Theo—but I don’t want to think about him. Not now.

  I put my right eye up to the lens. Nothing but darkness. I turn the knob to focus. Still nothing. All a blur. I re-angle the telescope and turn the knob slowly all the way in one direction, and then the other. More nothing. I can’t get it to focus. Not the way Dad could, with just a few light touches and adjustments.

  A surge of frustration rushes through me and I want to kick the stupid stand over, to shatter the lens, to stomp on that useless piece of metal.

  Instead I take a few deep breaths and try again. Slower this time. Until there’s a sudden, sharp focus, and I’m actually seeing stars! I have no idea what star, or planet, I’m seeing. But it’s something. That bright glow pulses at me, like it’s Dad, winking down from the heavens. I pull my face away and close my eyes, slowly, deeply breathing in the quiet night air. I can feel him next to me, like he used to be.