Many Points of Me

by Caroline Gertler

  Dad. My chest aches. How I wish this were my drawing; I would frame him and put him on my wall and talk to him when I’m in a bad mood or sad or missing him. But it’s Theo’s. At least he lets me do the honors. He hands me the paper.

  I take a deep breath in and hold it, not wanting to let it out until I see. I’ll be shattered if there’s nothing there.

  I turn the paper over.

  And there, on the back—pencil points!

  I exhale, light-headed and tingly.

  I let Theo study the paper and try to keep my trembling thumbs from mistyping as I do a quick search on my phone for Man on the Moon, Dad’s asterism self-portrait. Holding the image of the painting next to the drawing, it’s clear the points on the drawing match up. This is it! A sketch for Man on the Moon!

  “See.” I show Theo.

  He looks from the pencil points on the back of the paper to the image of the painting on my phone, and back again. But he doesn’t say anything.

  I’m frustrated by how quiet he’s being. “What? Don’t you think I’m right?”

  “Yeah, I do. I mean, it’s incredible. This is, like, a serious discovery.”

  “So why don’t you sound more excited?”

  “Because . . .” He’s trying to find the words, and as I study the turmoil in his eyes, I figure it out.

  “You’re worried my mom’s going to take this away from you?” I ask.

  He nods.

  I know how he feels. Like how I wanted to keep G, age 10 for myself.

  But now, I realize, G, age 10 isn’t a drawing that’s meant only for me. Finding the points on the back, the points of me, the proof that Dad planned to paint me for the last asterism, is something the world should know about. I need to get the drawing back, and then somehow explain what I’ve discovered to Mom.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell Theo. “Dad gave it to you. It’s yours, and nothing’ll change that. Mom knows that, even if she wants to research it or use it for the exhibit or whatever. It only makes it more special, more important. So just keep it safe for now.”

  Theo places the drawing carefully back in his portfolio of special drawings.

  One thing that’s not hard to get is Evelyn Capstone’s e-mail address. Mom stays logged in to her e-mail on our home computer, so I just have to open an e-mail from Evelyn and copy the address.

  What is hard is deciding what to write. How to ask what I want to ask her. And convincing myself to hit Send even though I know the whole thing could backfire. She could forward the message to Mom, and then Theo and I would be totally busted. But I cross my fingers as I click the Send button.

  From: Georgia Rosenbloom

  To: Evelyn Capstone

  Date: Friday, Feb 15, 4:47 p.m.

  Subject: Meeting

  Dear Evelyn Capstone,

  It was nice to see you last weekend at the Met. I would like to ask you a big favor. Can I come to the office to talk to you? I’m working on a special project for my mother. It’s a surprise. So please don’t tell her about this message! Thanks!

  Yours truly,

  Georgia Rosenbloom

  From: Evelyn Capstone

  To: Georgia Rosenbloom

  Date: Friday, Feb 15, 4:55 p.m.

  Subject: re: Meeting

  Dear Georgia,

  I enjoyed seeing you, too, and would be more than pleased to meet with you. A surprise for Sally. How nice! I will keep it between us.

  My schedule is quite packed with the upcoming exhibit and judging NYC ART, but how would Thursday, February 21, at 4 p.m. suit you? A day we know your mom won’t be at the Met.

  Warmly,

  Evelyn Capstone

  Head Curator, Modern Art

  The Metropolitan Museum of Art

  My fingers, shaking with nerves, hover over the keyboard. I can’t believe it worked, and I’m reassured that Evelyn agreed to keep the meeting between us. Thursday is Mom’s teaching day, which means she’s usually too busy to check in with me.

  But February twenty-first is the day that Theo and I celebrate our birthdays together. The day between our birthdays. He’ll have to make up an excuse to Harriet why I’m not home to bake our cake with them. And Mrs. Velandry—I’ll have to tell her I can’t walk Olive that afternoon.

  I don’t want to push it by asking Evelyn for another time. She said she’s busy, and meeting with me must be a huge favor for her. So I write back: “Yes.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-Two

  I’m counting down until Thursday when I can meet with Evelyn and get the drawing back. But first there’s celebrating my birthday on Monday at Wollman Rink with Theo and the Mermaids.

  Theo and I take the bus down Central Park West and walk through the park together. He wants to keep talking about Dad and the asterisms and what I’m going to say in my meeting with Evelyn. But the part of me that wishes I’d kept this all to myself also wants to be alone. For him to stop talking like it’s a Theo-Dare adventure and not my real-life problem. For him to know that even though I’ve made him a part of this, things are far from back to normal.

  I tune him out and focus on the snow that still covers the rocks in the park, how it reminds me of a painting by Agnes Martin. A strip of white snow, followed by a strip of gray rock, and above it, the light blue and pink and yellow strips of the sky. I concentrate on those strips of color.

  Music blasts through the speakers at the rink, and skaters gather around tables sipping hot chocolate as the Zamboni smooths the ice. We pick up our skate rentals and sit on the benches to put them on. The frayed edges of the laces get caught on the metal hooks.

  Harper giggles about how she’s never been skating before. She asks Theo to lace her skates for her.

  “Ow!” he cries as she accidentally jabs his thigh with her blade, but she just keeps laughing. He looks up at her and smiles. He’s feeling the warmth of her sun. I wonder if maybe he’s getting a crush back on her. His copper color is shining brighter than ever.

  Chloe and Violet can skate. I used to see them at our annual lower school skating party. But now they act helpless and pretend they need Theo to hold them up and help them on to the ice.

  So I’m left to myself. The pinch of sharp blades on the rubber matting of the floor on our way over to the rink entrance reminds me of skating with Dad, my first time, in kindergarten. At the skating party. Not all the parents joined in, but Dad did. He held my hand tightly as we looped around and around the ice. And he was the most fun father out there.

  Now I step out to join the crowd, feeling like a speck in the universe. Ice-skating in the middle of Central Park, skyscrapers towering overhead, fills me with awe.

  Harper skids out of control, and Chloe and Violet’s true skating skills shine through as they glide to her aid. We all link arms and do a few loops together, holding up Harper, coaching her. Theo takes off by himself, lapping us.

  “This is exhausting.” Harper pants, and grabs on to the side wall for a rest.

  We stop for a minute and rest with her.

  Theo skates toward us, smiling. I want him to end up by my side, like it used to be. But he goes to Harper, who’s holding out her hands for him.

  “I need your help, Theo,” she says.

  He links his arms in hers, not even looking at me, and steadies her.

  I have the urge to go fast, to make myself dizzy.

  “Let’s try to spin!” I say to Chloe and Violet.

  “Yeah!” Violet says.

  The three of us take off toward the center of the ice. We throw ourselves into trying to spin, the edges of our skates carving the ice. We’re spiraling away from the center, like planets breaking free of their orbit.

  Then it happens. I trip and fall. A strong, definite thud onto my backside.

  People around us stop and I hear laughter.

  Pain shoots from my bottom up to my neck.

  “You okay?” Chloe and Violet come to my side. I try to get up but keep slipping; I can’t find my grip on the ice.


  “Here.” Theo reaches a hand to me. His hands grasp mine and pull me up.

  The pain is still there, but it dulls as Theo steadies me.

  “Thanks,” I say. Theo-Dare, there to save me when I need it. He skates me over to the ramp. I can’t get my balance with my pants soaked through to my underwear.

  He’s about to leave me there, to skate back to Harper and the Mermaids on the other side.

  But I hold his hand tight.

  It just doesn’t feel right, being distant from him. I never really apologized for being mean, and he owes me a real apology for taking Dad’s drawing. We’re both wrong. I want it to be better. I miss him. Us.

  “I’m sorry, Theo. Really, truly sorry. I mean it this time. You’ve always been the best friend to me. And I haven’t been the same to you. I’m sorry.”

  The burning, prickling of tears that I’ve learned to hold back for the past two years threatens to burst.

  And once I let myself, I can’t stop. Huge, heaving sobs wrack my body. People around us are looking. For all I know, even the Mermaids are watching.

  Theo wraps his arms around me and lets me rest my face on his shoulder, patting my back, shushing in my ear.

  We go inside and sit at a table in the corner, with my back to the world. I don’t even notice the pain where I fell. It feels like hours before I’m all cried out.

  Theo hands me tissues and looks at me like he’s never seen me before.

  In a way, he hasn’t.

  It’s like I’ve been hiding since Dad died. I’m not who I was before. I’ve been turning into someone else. And Theo and I—we’re both just figuring out who that person is.

  Who we are.

  Theo hands me a hot chocolate with whipped cream. It warms my throat down into my belly and calms me.

  “I should say sorry, too,” he says, cleaning his glasses, which have filled with steam. “And not just for what I did with the drawing. For what I said—about you getting over what happened.”

  I nod. His apology makes me want to cry even more.

  “It’s just hard. I never even knew my dad. There’re so many nights I can’t sleep, wondering who he was. I mean, all I really know is he had red hair.” We laugh at that. “And Hank was like a dad to me, too.” He holds up his hand to quiet me, as I’m about to interrupt again and tell him how different it is.

  I let him continue.

  “I know, G, I know he wasn’t really my dad, and that I don’t have the same right to him like you do. But at least you knew your dad, and that he loved you. That’s the worst thing—my dad didn’t love me enough to stick around. Your dad never wanted to leave. He would’ve given anything to watch you grow up. He would’ve given up his art for that.”

  This hits me like a punch in the gut. “How do you know that?”

  “He told me. One of the last times I saw him. That’s what he said. You’re right, G. Life was more important to him than art. And our friendship—that’s more important to me than a stupid contest.”

  At that, the tears start flowing again. Now, we’re both crying.

  And I realize that Theo hurts, too. It’s like I think of Dad’s death as something that happened only to me. I don’t think about how it affected everyone close to me, too. It wasn’t my job at the time—Dr. Markham told me that—to worry about how anyone else was feeling. But now, maybe it’s time to start.

  Theo and I hug, and we grow stronger, feeling the sadness together.

  “There you are. You two lovebirds okay?” Harper’s voice brings us back to the present. We pull apart.

  She looks hurt, like she thinks she’s interrupted a romantic moment between us.

  “Yeah, totally fine,” I say. “Right, Theo?” We look at each other with a shyness we’ve never had before.

  He smiles back. I don’t even care what Harper thinks my relationship is with Theo, because all that matters is that we’re getting back to being us. Not us the way we used to be, but a new us.

  “Car’s picking us up to go back to my house for dinner in fifteen minutes,” Harper says, checking her phone. “A few more loops?”

  Back out on the ice, I nod at Theo that it’s okay if he wants to skate with Harper, that I’m not jealous and they can be friends—or more, if they want—too.

  But the last loop, I want for us. “A birthday spin?” I say, gliding up alongside them and grabbing Theo’s arm.

  And we’re off.

  I’m glad we go to Harper’s house after skating, just so Theo gets a chance to see all the amazing art, too.

  “Is this a museum?” he whispers in my ear. “Rothko? Seriously?”

  I want to show him Dad’s Bird painting Charcoal on Green hanging on the landing. But in its place, there’s a poster. “The paintings went over to the Met,” Mrs. Willis explains.

  Harper’s parents serve us gourmet burgers and homemade potato chips, followed by a sugar-free, dairy-free, gluten-free carrot cake that her mom bought at a bakery. The green flower decorations on top look professional.

  It’s no pizza and homemade cake full of butter and sugar, which is what Theo and I always have. “We’ll still do our usual, right?” I say to him when we have a quiet moment away from the Mermaids.

  He nods.

  A Harper-hosted birthday is fun, but it doesn’t seem like the party is really for me. More for her, which makes me feel empty inside, not filled.

  And when I get home and Dad’s paintings, G in Blue, Glimpse of Light, and Figure in the Dark, are gone again—which I should’ve realized, after seeing the Willises’ painting was down—I feel even emptier.

  Wednesday is my actual birthday. February twentieth. I’m twelve years old, but I don’t feel any different than I did the day before. Except that I’m one year further away from losing Dad.

  Mom has an oversized chocolate cupcake with rainbow confetti sprinkles for me, topped with a one candle and a two candle, for dessert that night. But we’re saving the real celebration for the next day, February twenty-first, with Theo and Harriet. Like always.

  Except this year, I’m not going to be able to help make the cake. My meeting with Evelyn at the Met is more important than any birthday celebration. If I accomplish my mission of getting G, age 10 home, safe and sound, without having to tell Mom about the whole thing—that would be the best birthday present ever.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Three

  Theo and I do our usual walk home together after school on Thursday, but nothing is as usual, because we have a Theo-Dare–designed plan to get my drawing back.

  Theo’ll tell his mom that I promised Mrs. Velandry that I’d walk Olive, and that I don’t mind taking a break from the baking this year. And I’ll tell Mrs. Velandry that I can’t walk Olive, because I’m baking a cake. It’s not like Mrs. Velandry or Harriet will check in with each other and catch me out. Then, at the Met, I’ll have to convince Evelyn to give me back my entry.

  Entry in hand, I’ll go straight home and slip the drawing into a pile on the table before Mom gets back from work. We’ll have our birthday dinner and cake. And some time in the next few days, I’ll offer to help Mom look through the piles, and we can “find” the drawing. Simple as that.

  “I can’t lie to Mrs. Velandry’s face,” I tell Theo when we turn onto our block. “Can I just write a note instead?”

  “Hmm, that’s not a bad idea, actually. Avoids the risk of you breaking down and telling her everything.”

  But when we approach our building, Mrs. Velandry is watching for us, as always. She holds Olive in her arms like a baby and waves Olive’s front paw hello at me. I feel guilty disappointing them.

  “That’s okay,” Mrs. Velandry says when I tell her I can’t walk Olive because it’s Theo’s and my birthday celebration (which isn’t exactly a lie).

  “Will you come up and celebrate with us tonight?” I ask her.

  “I’ll try,” she says. “But you know how I am about going out!”

  “It’s hardly going out,�
�� Theo scoffs from where he’s waiting for me on the building stairs, after Mrs. Velandry has relocked her door.

  Hardly going out compared to what I’m about do. “Wait—I can’t just go back out the main door now. Mrs. Velandry will see me leave.”

  Theo thinks quick. “The basement,” he says. “Use the building service entrance.”

  Ugh. I do not like going down to our basement, where the laundry room is, alone, and if I’ve ever gone out the service entrance, it’s with Theo.

  “Here, I’ll go with you,” he offers, sensing my hesitation.

  We walk down the stairs to the basement, crossing fingers that no one will be doing laundry, that there won’t be any mice or cockroaches. The basement, empty and dark, smells of damp and detergent. Theo switches on his phone’s flashlight to guide us through the winding hallways. We get to the square window of natural light on the service door and walk up the steps that lead to it. Theo pushes through and holds the door open for me.

  A blast of fresh air hits me as I step out onto the street, around the corner from the main entrance of our building. Out of Mrs. Velandry’s sight. “I wish you’d come with me!” I can’t help but say.

  I know Theo wishes he could, too. “That would be too suspicious. But here, take this.” He takes his lucky eraser, the paint palette–shaped one, out of his pocket and presses it into my hand. It’s reassuring when I wrap my fingers around it.

  “Wish me luck.” We do our double fist-bump handshake.

  I can’t waste time and wait for the bus—it’s 3:40 p.m. and my 4 p.m. meeting is fast approaching—so I hail a taxi, using my allowance to pay for it to take me across town to the Met.

  When I get out of the taxi on Fifth Avenue, my instinct is to hunch and bend my head against the frigid wind, but I throw my shoulders back and lift my chin. I’m not a scared child going to meet with her mom’s boss; I have business to do, and I’m going to accomplish my goal. I have to. The other choice is telling Mom what I did with Dad’s drawing. And risk getting Theo disqualified from NYC ART.