I keep my head flat against the pillow because I still feel dizzy. “I guess not.”
He raises his brow. “You know, if someone is going to be mad at you just because you didn’t let them have their way, you’re better off without them.”
My breathing slows. The ice in my throat begins to thaw.
He watches me quietly, his breathing quick. It doesn’t matter that it’s dark—I can still see his jaw clench and his lips twitch. “Why did you call yourself a burden?”
I pinch my fingers together nervously, but I can’t find the words to explain myself.
“You’re the opposite of a burden.” He sighs. “I wouldn’t do something nice and have there be strings attached to it. Especially not with you.”
I nod. I feel like I should thank him for being so nice to me. But then I feel embarrassed that “nice” feels like such a foreign concept.
“I’ve never been around someone who”—he pauses—“reacts the way you do. You didn’t used to be like this.”
I know he isn’t finished talking, but I can’t stop myself. “Things were easier when we were kids. The scariest things we had to worry about were nightmares and horror films. It’s different now.”
He’s quiet. “What are you so afraid of?”
People. Uncle Max. The truth. Never really being loved. Disappointing everyone. Disappointing myself. Feeling guilty for the rest of my life.
“Not doing the right thing, I guess,” I say at last. “It always seems like the only way to keep everyone else happy is to do something that makes me unhappy. I don’t know how to grow out of that.”
“Maybe you don’t have to try so hard. Maybe you’ll grow out of it without noticing,” he says.
I tilt my face toward the ceiling. “Maybe,” is all I say.
“Can we make a deal?” he asks in the darkness. “I’ll try to be more patient with your anxiety, and you try not to overthink everything.”
“That’s fair,” I say.
“And about what I was saying before—about the way you react. Even though I find it frustrating, it’s still a million times better than not having you in my life.”
I don’t say anything, but I don’t need to. Jamie’s hand finds mine beneath the blanket. He curls his fingers over mine. It feels like holding my hand next to a campfire. Warm. Cozy. Peaceful. It’s how I think home should feel.
I don’t pull my hand away. I just fall asleep.
• • •
I dream we wake up, still holding hands.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jamie’s parents don’t look the way I remember them. His father, Brandon, had black hair the last time I saw him. I remember because I used to think he looked like Elvis Presley. Now his hair is full of salt and pepper, and he’s not as tall as I remember. Not even as tall as Jamie.
Jamie’s mother, Elouise, looks sort of the same, but narrower. It’s like someone squeezed all the extra water out of her, and now she’s small and thin and so tan.
She doesn’t greet me right away. She watches me the way you’d watch a stray animal you’ve never seen before. With distrust and hesitation. I wonder if she looks at all the girls Jamie brings home this way.
I wonder how many girls Jamie has ever brought home. And then I wish I hadn’t wondered it, because now I can’t get it out of my head.
“Gosh, you’ve sure grown up,” Brandon says with an earthy chuckle. His arms are around me before I even realize it. When he pulls away, his bottom lip is pulled back and his chin is dimpled. “I can’t believe this is the same girl who used to make clubhouses out of our couch cushions.”
Jamie smiles next to me and scratches his fingers at the back of his neck. “Okay, Dad, not so close, geez.”
Brandon lets go of me. “Well, it’s not like you came over to give your old man a hug.” He folds his arms around Jamie.
Elouise steps toward me. She walks like a dancer—graceful and balanced. “Hi, Kiko. It’s nice to see you.” We hug each other awkwardly—I don’t know whether to go right or left and I guess neither does she—and we pull away quickly.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” I say with as much appreciation as I can possibly find. Jamie didn’t tell them what happened at home—he just told them I was coming to look at colleges.
She eyes her husband like she’s scolding him. Brandon notices, but he keeps grinning anyway. “It’s no problem,” she says at last, turning on her heels. “You two must be hungry. Your dad made burgers.”
“Kiko’s a vegetarian,” Jamie says. “Sorry. I meant to tell you that on the phone.”
Elouise looks over her shoulder curiously. “Is she?” She looks at me for an extra second before disappearing into the kitchen.
When Brandon is out of earshot, I whisper to Jamie, “Are you sure it’s okay that I’m here?”
“Positive.” He picks up our bags. “I’ll show you the guest room.”
Something feels off. I don’t think Elouise is happy about me staying. But I don’t argue with Jamie. I just follow him.
Because at this point, where else would I go?
• • •
Elouise makes me a grilled cheese even though I tell her I don’t mind eating coleslaw and chips. This makes Brandon laugh, although I don’t know why. When we’re finished, Jamie and I clear the table and put all the leftovers away. His parents go off to watch TV, and we sit outside on the deck because it’s so warm and beautiful, and I can see the ocean from his backyard.
“You have a really nice house,” I tell him.
Jamie is typing away on his laptop. “I’ll tell my mom you said so. She designed it.”
“I don’t think your mom likes me very much,” I admit.
He looks up. I expect him to look surprised, but he isn’t. “No. She likes you just fine.”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
He grins. “Lying isn’t my thing, remember? Honestly, it’s not you.” He pauses. “Her and my dad are probably just fighting about something and they’re trying to hide it. Dad’s better at it, clearly.”
I remember how bad my parents used to fight right before they split up. They never tried to hide it in front of us.
Jamie might not see me as a burden, but maybe his mom does. My mom never let anyone come over toward the end of my parents’ divorce. The house was a constant war zone. Elouise might not want an outsider intruding on her private life either. I’ve got two weeks here—I need to make absolutely sure I don’t outstay my welcome.
“Hey, can I borrow your laptop when you’re done?” I ask.
Jamie spins the laptop toward me. “I’m done now.”
I look up art schools in the area, narrow it down to three, and tilt the screen back to Jamie.
He grins. “You’re not wasting time.”
“I’m growing ladyballs,” I say.
Jamie half chokes, half snorts. “What did you just say?”
My cheeks burn. “It sounds a lot better when Emery says it. Never mind.”
He laughs, and I look back at the screen.
Three schools that are still accepting late applications. Three schools with a good painting program. Three potential new dreams.
I study the applications, print out directions, and stay awake for hours after I’m in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is all really happening.
• • •
I ask Jamie to come with me because I get anxious going to new places. I know I need to be stronger, but . . . baby steps.
We visit the Glass Art Institution of Southern California first. It’s beautiful, inside and out. There’s curved windows and most of the building looks like boxes stacked on top of each other. The outside is all white, and the inside is like a futuristic space station. Gleaming, polished, and so modern. There are paintings and framed photographs all over the walls and glass boxes full of pottery and sculptures spread out all over the floor space.
I’m nervous to visit the art rooms in case we get in troubl
e for interrupting a class, but it turns out I didn’t need to be nervous at all. The entire side of the art building is glass—you can see everything that’s going on right from the sidewalk.
It’s pretty quiet inside. A few people in the pottery room, another person working on a stone sculpture on their own. The painting room is completely empty. I wonder if it’s always so quiet, or if it’s because it’s summer.
We visit Blue Phoenix next. It’s so busy we have to park across the street. The outside is cream and blue, and looks like a generic building. The reception room is full of artwork, but it isn’t as crisp and clean. It feels more like someone’s bedroom with every inch of wall space covered. I don’t mind it though—it makes me feel more comfortable. It makes me feel less nervous.
Their work spaces have the same feel. Even the half-finished projects left out on various easels make me feel calm. I might have a chance of getting into a school like this. They might accept someone like me—someone who can paint, but not quite well enough to get into Prism.
But it doesn’t feel right. Not like how Prism did the first time I saw their website.
When we step onto Brightwood’s campus, I don’t even feel like I’m in California. It’s green everywhere, and people are sitting under the trees sketching in the afternoon sun. The woman at the front desk is drinking her coffee and laughing with one of the students. The walls are olive green and full of the brightest artwork imaginable.
It’s a happy school. It makes me happy.
I tell myself I need to forget Prism. Comparing it to every other art school is never going to turn out well because Prism is the art school.
If I let Brightwood be Brightwood all on its own, I might actually like it.
“Can I help you?” the woman asks.
I step toward her meekly. “I’m just looking around. I was thinking about applying.”
“Very cool.” She smiles and slides a drawer open. “Here’s a map of the campus.” She passes me a sheet of paper. “Feel free to wander around. There aren’t many classes going on right now anyway. But if you see anyone working, we don’t mind at all if you watch from the windows; just please don’t interrupt them. Some of the professors here can be a little moody.” She wiggles her fingers in the air like she’s casting a spell and giggles.
“Thanks,” I say with a small smile.
When I turn to Jamie, he’s smiling too.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“Maybe” is all I say.
All of the rooms downstairs seem to be for pottery. The second floor is graphic design and photography. And the third floor is drawing and painting.
I look through one of the windows from the hallway and see five students surrounding a table full of objects—a jar of marbles, a horse-shaped piñata, a mannequin head with a neon-blue wig, and lots of other oddities. They’re all sketching furiously like they’re being timed. They probably are—I hate timed sketches. I never feel like I get to say what I want to say. Maybe because it takes me a long time to sort out my thoughts, even with art.
Some of the rooms are barren except for the drawings and corkboards all over the walls. Some of the rooms are full of desks and whiteboards. Some of the rooms are full of students.
All of the rooms are full of color. All of them feel like home.
Oh my God, maybe this is it. Maybe this is where I’m meant to study.
Maybe.
It’s easy to look around with Jamie beside me. I don’t feel like I’m going to get yelled at when he’s around. It’s like he’s protecting me from being so painfully out of place.
Jamie makes me feel safe, and right now I need him more than ever. A month ago, I’d never dreamed of driving across the country to look at colleges without even being invited. I don’t have the courage to step outside of my own element. And my element, quite obviously, is being alone and invisible.
I tell myself I need to thank him, when I’m not busy drooling into the windows and hyperventilating over the oil paintings and watercolors and canvases as big as my garage door.
Eventually we head for the door. We can’t stay here forever; otherwise I totally would. On our way out, the woman at the desk stops me, her hand waving in the air like she’s hailing a taxicab.
“Here,” she offers, handing me a small magazine. “There’s a list of all the local art events inside. There’s a student gallery coming up if you want to check it out.” She flashes a bright smile. “You never know. They could be your future peers.”
In the car, I flip through the pages. There are events happening almost every week throughout the summer, but the student gallery isn’t until August. I don’t know what my life will look like in August.
I turn another page. It’s an ad for a local art show with a white background and simple, black writing.
Hiroshi Matsumoto
Milk and Stardust Exhibit
Open to the public
June 27, 4:00 p.m.
At the bottom of the ad is a photograph of a man with his arms folded behind his back. His dark hair is pulled back behind his head, stretching the skin across his cheekbones. He’s wearing a loose white shirt and a half smile, like he’s in on a joke that nobody else seems to realize. Behind him is the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen.
A girl with black hair, small eyes, and her arms raised to the sky is bursting from the sea, and pale blue feathers sprout from every inch of her clothing. When I look closer, she has feathers growing from her hair, too, like a mythical creature from the ocean transforming into a bird.
It’s so beautiful I can hardly breathe.
“What is that?” Jamie asks from the driver’s seat.
I feel the air escape over my lips. “I have no idea. Something amazing.”
He’s grinning. “Well, when is it? Do you want to go?”
I bring my eyes to him and feel like feathers are bursting from my skin. “It’s in two days.” I want to go. I need to go. But not alone. I’d be too nervous to go to an event alone, where I don’t know a single person, in a city I’ve never been in before, without anyone to hide behind. “Will you go with me?”
Jamie doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course I will, Kiko.”
I press the magazine to my heart and close my eyes.
• • •
I draw a girl—no, a bird—no, a star splitting into a thousand pieces—and then I don’t draw anything at all, because all I want to do is close my eyes and dream of painting for the rest of my life.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Elouise trades a triangle of toast for her car keys and curls her fingers in the air. “I’m going to work. Put the dishwasher on when you’re finished?”
Jamie flips his thumb in the air and keeps chewing. “Mm-hmm.”
His mom smiles at him, then me, and then she’s not smiling at all—she just looks sad. She hurries out the door.
I scrape my fork against the scrambled eggs. I made breakfast for everyone, but Elouise only ate half a slice of toast. Maybe she hates my cooking. Maybe she doesn’t think making breakfast makes up for intruding into their family home for two weeks. Maybe she doesn’t want me here.
“It’s too early for that,” Jamie grumbles across from me. The skin beneath his eyes is puffy from too much sleep, and he’s wearing a blue and gray plaid shirt and jeans that fit him way too good. It’s unfair—jeans shouldn’t fit anyone that good.
I frown, but I’ve already forgotten his comment. I’m still thinking about the jeans.
“You’re thinking,” he says seriously. “Or . . . analyzing. Nothing is going on right now, you got that? Everything is cool.” He opens up his eyes like he’s trying to hypnotize me into believing him.
Laughing, I shake my head. “You don’t even know what I was thinking about. It could’ve been something good.”
“It wasn’t. You had that look in your eyes. Like a startled deer, or someone who’s just been given bad news.”
I pull my hands away from the table and
shove them into my lap. “I’m sorry. I’m worried your mom is mad I’m here.”
He sets his fork down. “She doesn’t mind you’re here. I told you that already.”
“I know you did.” I rub my lip with the back of my finger. “But she looks sad all the time. I feel like it’s because of me.”
“It’s not you.” Jamie shifts his jaw thoughtfully. “It’s my dad. They’re not getting along right now. It’s part of the reason I went to stay with my aunt and uncle again.” His eyes dart away and back again because his words have slipped through by mistake.
“Again?” I repeat.
Jamie has been back home before.
I never knew. Now I know it’s because he didn’t want me to.
“How many times have you been back to visit your aunt and uncle?”
He shifts forward and shakes his head. “A few, but it’s not what you think.”
Does he even know what I’m thinking? Do I even know what I’m thinking?
Jamie ran into me at a party by accident. If we hadn’t seen each other, I would never have known he was in town, and he would’ve never come to see me. We’re sitting here together because we bumped into each other and remembered we were friends.
Maybe he’s thinking he felt sorry for me. Maybe I’m thinking I don’t like what that means.
“I don’t want you to think I didn’t want to see you.” His eyes are like two shiny crystals. “It’s just . . . complicated.”
We watch each other like two people who used to know each other and now don’t know what to say.
Jamie opens his mouth, but my phone goes off next to me.
“It’s my mom.” Pushing myself to my feet, I grab my phone, pull my shaky gaze from Jamie, and walk toward the guest bedroom.
“Hello?” I close the door behind me.
“Umm, hi.” There’s an uncomfortably long silence. “How’s Cal-i-for-nia?” She drags out each syllable like she’s being completely sarcastic.
I breathe out of my nose. “It’s good. How did you know I was here?”
“You could have left a note or something. I had to find out from Taro.”
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