Jamie is not a starfish. Not even close.
• • •
I draw a very small fish swimming in the ocean and realizing it’s filled with planets and stars.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
When Mom tells me she’s kicked Uncle Max out of the house, I think she’s making fun of me.
“I’m serious, Kiko. I’m so mad at him.” She’s talking really fast, like she’s building up to an explosion.
“But . . . why?” Has she changed her mind? Is this her way of trying to get me to come back home?
“He’s been taking money from me.” Mom scoffs into the phone so loud I can practically hear the spit hit the speaker.
I try not to let my chest rise, but it’s really, really hard not to. “You caught him stealing?”
“I’ve been noticing money has gone missing from my purse for weeks, but at first I thought it was me being forgetful. But then I found all this stuff in Max’s room. New clothes, a new watch, a ton of cigarettes. He doesn’t have a job—there’s only one place he could get the money.” She spits again. “I can’t believe my own brother would be so horrible to me. After everything I’ve done for him. It makes me so sad.”
I lie back on the bed and drop my hand to my chest. It would have been nice if she’d just believed me the first time, but I guess this is better than nothing. At least he’s out of the house.
“Don’t you think so? Don’t you think it’s terrible?” She wants validation—an acknowledgment that she’s been wronged.
“Yeah, it sucks.” I pause. “Is he gone for good?”
“Oh, for sure. I will never forgive him for using me like this. I don’t even care if we never talk again.” I don’t know why, but she laughs.
I sit up irritably. This is the proverbial straw that broke the relationship between Mom and Uncle Max. Clothes and cigarettes. Not what happened when I was a kid. Not what happened a few weeks ago.
Mom’s listening for a reaction from me. She has to know what I’m thinking, right? She must know how infuriating this is for me.
“So,” she starts, “are you going to come home now? You don’t have to worry about your stuff going missing.”
“I’m doing pretty well out here,” I say truthfully. “I was thinking it might be good for me to stay. I might get into Brightwood.”
“This all seems really dramatic. I don’t understand why you just won’t come home.”
“I was never going to live at home forever,” I point out.
“Yeah, but Taro and Shoji don’t help with anything around here. They never take turns cooking or cleaning. I have to do everything by myself. It’s not easy, you know—to feel like you spend your whole life with people walking all over you. I want you to come home. I need someone to talk to.”
Oh my God, is there a compliment buried in there somewhere? “Are you trying to tell me you miss my cooking?” I ask. Or that you actually miss me? I think.
“I mean, it’s nice to have someone cook for you,” she says. I count the silence for five seconds. “You can send me pictures of your drawings, you know. I am interested.”
“I sent you pictures before, remember?” I feel like there are bugs crawling over me and I keep fidgeting to fight them off—tiny little anxious bugs that are trying to eat me alive.
“I was busy before,” she insists. “I had a lot on my mind with the whole money thing. But I promise I’ll look at them this time.”
I want to challenge her, or suggest she’s making it up, or point out how she’s never been interested in my entire life. But I don’t.
Because as a daughter who craves her mother’s love, I consider this a win.
• • •
I text Mom pictures of all my newest sketches as soon as I hang up the phone. I can’t help myself—I get hopeful and excited over the possibility of Mom thinking I’ve done well at something.
Five hours pass. I paint with Hiroshi. I get coffee with Jamie. I sketch on his parents’ balcony.
Mom never writes back.
Carrying two glasses of water, Jamie puts them on the glass coffee table and sits in the chair next to me.
“What are you drawing?” He’s wearing shorts and a white V-neck shirt. The sides of his dark hair sit just above his ears, but he’s pushed his bangs away from his eyes. It kind of reminds me of James Dean, which can only ever be a good thing.
“I’m practicing faces,” I reply, closing my book to hide the unfinished doodles. “Did you take any pictures today at the beach?”
He smiles. “I did. The weather was perfect for it—slightly overcast, but nice enough that there were actual people around to photograph.”
“Sorry I’ve been spending so much time with Hiroshi,” I say. “I hope it’s not rude, staying at your house and not really being around. I just want to finish this painting, and I don’t think I’ll ever get an opportunity like this for the rest of my life.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I’d do the same thing.” He rests his head back.
I pick up the glass of water and draw lines in the condensation.
Jamie stares at his knees. “Do you want to go somewhere tonight?”
The cold glass fights against my hands. “Go where?”
“To a party. Rei invited us.”
I didn’t know he and Rei were in touch. “When?”
“A little while ago. She texted me.”
They exchanged numbers? Did I miss something? Do they like each other?
My heart drops.
He taps his finger against the armrest. “I know you don’t like parties, so it’s not a big deal if you’d rather not go.”
Does that mean he wants to go alone? So he can see Rei alone? Would he rather I just stayed home? Does he like Rei? When did this happen?
I’m pretty sure I look like I’m going to throw up. “Oh. Right. Well, I can just work on my sketches. I don’t mind.”
There’s sadness in his eyes, except it’s almost like he was expecting it.
I squeeze the glass of water in my hands and try to imagine the cold reaching the flush in my face. Jamie pulls out his phone and starts texting.
Staring at the still water, I ask, “What time are you leaving?”
He puts his phone down and frowns. “I’m not.”
“But I thought—”
“I’m not going to go to the party without you.”
“Why not?”
“I want to spend time with you. Don’t you know that I—” He stops himself and shakes his head. “Never mind. We can watch a movie or something.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but it doesn’t hide his frustration.
It makes me feel horribly guilty.
I make a decision. I’m going to do something for Jamie. I’m going to be the one giving up something for him. “Let’s go. I’ll be fine.”
He blinks. “Are you sure?”
“Mm-hmm. Positive.”
The anxious bugs start to envelop my skin, and once again I’m so nervous I feel like I’m about to pass out.
For Jamie, I try to ignore it.
• • •
Rei’s apartment is on the third floor. The living room looks like a dance studio, with a big open space, exposed brick walls, and metal overhead lighting. The kitchen is tucked away behind a row of counters to the right, and an L-shaped leather couch sits in front of a wide television on the left. One of Hiroshi’s paintings—squirrels having a tea party—hangs between the two back windows.
Rei waves us inside the room. She’s wearing a white dress and her hair is in a long braid.
“Wow,” Jamie says, looking around. “This place is awesome.”
She nods and makes a face. “Thanks. My parents bought it as a rental, but I get to keep one of the rooms for when I’m back here visiting.” She laughs. “I’m pretty sure it was Dad’s last-ditch attempt to get me to stay in California.”
I try to avoid the crowd nearby, but Rei practically ushers us toward them.
“Here
, I’ll introduce you to everyone. This is my part-time roommate, Aubrey. And that’s Troy, Liam, Monica. . . .” She lists off every person in the room, but I lose track after the first few names. I’m too busy trying not to make eye contact with people while giving off the illusion that I am.
Jamie smiles and shakes everyone’s hands. It’s so natural that it makes what I’m doing seem so much worse.
“So are you the one who has been painting with Rei’s dad? Man, you’re like the luckiest person alive,” a stocky boy with red curls says, his face swollen with awe.
WHAT I WANT TO SAY:
“It’s amazing. I can’t believe he’s actually taking time out of his day to help me. I’m learning so much. It’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”
WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY:
A string of incoherent, clustered syllables.
“What was that?” the boy asks again, his pudgy fingers locked around a can of soda.
Jamie’s eyes dip to the floor. It happens so fast that I’m sure he’s hoping I didn’t catch it, but I did. He’s embarrassed for me. Or of me. What’s the difference, really? Everyone else is watching me, waiting for me to speak. All I want is for someone to start talking about themselves—for someone to talk about anything except me.
“Are you an artist too?” Jamie asks the redhead.
“Oh yeah.” His shoulders settle, and his body relaxes. “I’m in illustration.” He tells Jamie about his classes and his dream job. My brain is too fuzzy to pay attention—I feel like Jamie has just saved my life.
The conversation shifts from school to mutual friends to inside jokes I’m not a part of—relief rushes over me. I can breathe again.
Rei asks if we want anything to drink—I say no, and Jamie asks for any kind of soda—and it somehow becomes just the two of us again.
“You doing okay?” he asks thoughtfully. When I nod, he adds, “You can uncross your arms, you know.”
My arms limp to my sides. I wish he wasn’t drawing attention to me—I wish he could ignore my awkwardness the way Emery used to. Pointing it out makes it so much worse.
He lowers his head. “You kind of look like you want to be anywhere but here.”
My back stiffens, and defense rushes through me. “I’m trying. Maybe give me a little credit? This isn’t easy.”
“I just wish you didn’t look so uncomfortable.”
“I was fine. Now I feel like I’m ruining your night.”
“Can you please not overthink this?”
“Can you please be a little more patient with something I have no control over?”
There’s fire between us. Our bodies are stiff; our words are so specific. I don’t know when the tension started—days ago, maybe—and it’s finally starting to bubble over. We stare at each other like we’re about to go to war, until both of us realize almost at the same time that neither of us wants to fight.
“Truce?” Jamie lifts his brow.
“Truce,” I repeat.
“Look.” Jamie puts his hand against my back—my skin buzzes—and he leads me in front of him. “Do you honestly think anyone here is at all bothered that you aren’t the most talkative person here?”
I look around. Everyone is either smiling, or talking, or drinking, but none of them are looking at me.
“I guess not,” I say quietly.
Jamie shifts so he’s in my line of sight. “Don’t think about everyone else. Don’t even think about you. Just relax. Pretend it’s just you and me.”
His hand locks around mine. I don’t know why I was ever wondering about him and Rei—he doesn’t hold Rei’s hand; he holds mine.
We spend the rest of the night in our own little world. Other people occasionally visit, but they don’t stay forever, because we are the creators. We make the rules. We are a team.
I honestly don’t know what I’d do without Jamie. I need him.
But as much as I like Jamie, as much as I might even love him, needing him is something else entirely. Needing him is scary.
Because needing him means losing him will hurt so much more.
• • •
I draw a girl in love with a snowman at the beginning of spring.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
When Hiroshi gets a call about one of his paintings, I slip away to give him some privacy and find an empty chair in the back corner of the café. Akane sees me and brings a vanilla latte over without me asking.
“It’s on the house,” she says, falling into the chair across from me. “So my dad isn’t getting on your nerves yet?” She smiles. “He can be a little intense sometimes when he’s talking about art.”
“Not at all,” I say. “He’s awesome. I can’t believe he’s letting me hang out with him.”
She laughs. “Trust me, I think you’re the one doing him the favor. You’re like the adopted daughter he always wanted.”
I look away, embarrassed.
She doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s good for him, having people around. I don’t know how he’ll cope once Rei and I are both in school again.” She plays with the tips of her hair like she’s checking them for split ends. She’s comfortable around me, and even though I’ve known her only a little while, I’m comfortable around her, too.
Maybe it’s because I don’t feel so different when I’m around her. When I look at her, I don’t see someone living in a different world. I see someone living in my world—our world. Maybe it’s because she looks like she could be my family, and that makes her feel like family.
Is that why Mom and I don’t understand each other? Because we don’t look like each other? Maybe when Mom looks at me, she sees someone from a different world too.
I wish she had made room for me. I wish she had tried to fit me in, even if I didn’t match the rest of her house.
Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do? Try? Or is it supposed to come naturally? And if it doesn’t, what does that mean?
I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to know.
“Do you have any siblings?” Akane asks casually, her words breaking apart my thoughts.
“Two brothers,” I say. “And two half sisters, but they’re only a few months old.”
She nods in the same slow-motion, peaceful way Hiroshi does. “Are you guys close?”
“Yeah.” I pause. “I mean, no.” I pause again. “I mean, we used to be, when we were little. I think. To be honest, I’m not sure anymore.” Is it possible to be really close and still feel like complete strangers?
“Sounds complicated.”
“I guess it is.” I shrug. I don’t think of my brothers in terms of close or not close—we just are. We were raised by the same parents, rejected by the same mother, abandoned by the same father—even if he did have a good reason. Even if it was my fault.
I suppose if I had to think about it, my brothers know more about me than anyone else does. Even more than Emery or Jamie.
But I’m not sure if knowing about feelings and experiences is the same thing as being close.
Being close feels like it requires more effort.
Akane brushes her hair out of her eyes, and I notice a small tattoo on her wrist. She catches me looking at it and waves her hand. “Oh no. It’s not real. Mom would kill me. It’s just pen.”
“What is it?”
She holds her wrist toward me. “It’s the sun goddess, Amaterasu. My dad drew it for me on a napkin years ago. There’s a whole story about her hiding in a cave and turning the world dark. It’s kind of an analogy for depression, I guess.”
I look back at her in surprise. “Sorry,” I say, unsure if I’ve opened a door I’m not supposed to.
She shakes her head, pulling her hand away. “It’s fine. I’m not embarrassed or anything. I mean, why should I be? You wouldn’t be embarrassed if you were diabetic, would you? Or if you had a heart condition?” She smiles and shrugs matter-of-factly.
I wish I could see things the way she does, like it’s okay to be different. Like it�
�s normal to be weird or nervous or anxious or sad. I wish I could tell people when I’m uncomfortable, and just shrug afterward like it doesn’t matter.
Akane is braver than I am, and maybe it’s because she has Hiroshi. And Mayumi. And Rei. Maybe that’s been the secret ingredient all along—family. Love. Acceptance. Self-confidence. Seeing the beauty in who she is and where she comes from.
Maybe that’s what I’m missing.
“How did the sun goddess overcome it?” I ask.
Akane runs her finger over the fake tattoo. “Well, they trick her into coming out, and when she sees her reflection she’s overcome by how beautiful she is, and then she’s happy again.” She laughs. “But I like to think of her seeing her own beauty as her seeing her own strength. That maybe she needed a little bit of help at first, but the ultimate power lay inside her, you know?”
I nod. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah,” she muses. “My dad’s pretty cool, even if he is intense.”
The door opens, and a customer approaches the counter.
Akane stands up and taps at the table. “Gotta get back to work. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
But I don’t need anything else. I feel like I have the world, and even though Prism isn’t in it, Hiroshi is. His family is. His art is. He’s filling a void I never knew was there, with his stories and his family and his paintings and the kindness he never seems to run out of.
And somehow, right now, that feels more important than art school.
• • •
I draw a girl breaking apart the sun until one star becomes a hundred stars, because she wants to cover the world in beauty.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Jamie makes a playlist of Billie Holiday and The Velvet Underground—one of my favorites and one of his favorites. He sits at his desk, editing his most recent photographs. I sit on his bed, sketching different kinds of dresses.
A few months ago, if someone had told me I’d be sitting on Jamie Merrick’s bed listening to a mash-up of our favorite music together, I would have laughed until my lungs exploded.
As long as nobody was watching, of course.
But things are different now. I’ve since found out dreams really can come true.
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