If you aren’t aware, I will tell you those are two qualities that turn ordinary people into great artists.
I suggest you let her into your program. She wants it badly and I’d bet all I own that she’ll be your star.
Now, I would like to name your university as the recipient for my collection of art. Not all of it. Not even half of it. Most of my art languishes in the drawing rooms of collectors who have more money than sense. But I saved back the best, the darlings I couldn’t part with for various reasons, and those will come to you.
Put them somewhere to be enjoyed by the students. Don’t put them behind glass or in some kind of gallery where the kids are afraid to go. Put them in the library. Or in the bathrooms. I don’t care. Just make them accessible. Maybe one of them will inspire someone.
It would be nice if you let Meg Kavanagh help you decide what to do with my paintings. She knows them as well as anyone, but she’d die if she knew I said that, so don’t mention it. Do what you want.
Cordially,
Jo Russell
I placed the letter back on Dr. Matthews’s desk and she stopped typing to watch me process what I’d read. Toward the end, Jo had few moments when she sounded as logical as that letter. Had she written it early on in our relationship? Or did she push through the muddy waters of her dementia to force these words out?
Whenever this moment happened, I knew what it meant. Jo had stuck her neck out for me, something I imagined her doing years ago for good friends. I had only scratched the surface of Jo Russell.
“What do you think?” Dr. Matthews settled back in her chair and curled her legs under her like a little girl.
“Her art,” I said. “I’ve seen the paintings she kept. There are hundreds of them and my mom said they’re her best work. Some of them are documents and family pictures that she painted over. It’s an unbelievable gift for your school.”
“I know,” she said, smiling. “We know. We’ve had a few meetings about this where we all sat around grinning about it. The head of our art department came to Wyoming because of Jo Russell.”
“I have to say something, though.”
“Say anything, Meg.”
I cleared my throat. “I haven’t been accepted. I’m still waiting. I want to go to school here.”
Dr. Matthews sat up quickly. “What?”
“I haven’t received anything from the admissions office. I don’t know if I’m in or not.” I felt like we were having two different conversations and it was making me hot all over. I shifted so I could pull my jacket off.
Dr. Matthews dug around in a drawer, yanking a folder out so quickly that papers scattered across her desk. “You were sent a letter weeks ago. You were accepted. We’ve been waiting for you to respond. Maybe it got lost or the address was wrong.”
I shook my head and tried to form a logical thought. Dr. Matthews seemed so flustered that I stayed quiet. She was comparing the address on the copy of my acceptance letter to another address she had. She looked up and her lips formed an O. “This address is wrong.”
I nodded and had to stop myself from screaming. The weeks I’d worried about this. The time I’d spent devising a new plan, looking for colleges close enough to Laramie so I could see Henry on the weekends. The Plan Bs I’d written in my journal.
“Then this letter from Ms. Russell…,” Dr. Matthews said. “We thought maybe you’d decided to go elsewhere and it meant you wouldn’t be involved in her art collection. I called you here today to convince you to come to this university.” She stood and slid from behind her desk, leaning on the front, nearly standing on my foot. “I know, with your transcript, you could get into bigger schools, but this is a great school and we want to offer you a work-study position with the Jo Russell collection. It’s a fine opportunity for a student in the creative writing program.”
“I’d already been accepted?” I asked. “It had nothing to do with Jo Russell?”
Dr. Matthews leaned back, snatched the offending letter from the file and held it out to me, date first. “This was written well before we heard from Jo’s estate.”
I stared at the letter, pinching my bottom lip between my thumb and finger, thinking.
“The university is offering you a small scholarship, but on top of that, I’m offering you this work-study position. It’s not a lot but it will cover some expenses that the scholarship doesn’t cover.” She sat back and smiled. “What do you think, Meg?”
My pulse raced because I was hearing everything I’d wanted. I had a place at the University of Wyoming. They wanted me. It had all been a clerical mistake. All the stomachaches and lost sleep were caused by an office clerk with fat fingers. I felt a little dizzy.
“You’ve earned this, Meg. We’re not really into grandstanding in this department. Your scores, your grades, the video—those are the merits that made you a great candidate. It was unanimous before Jo Russell flew onto the radar.”
“Do I need to sign something?”
Dr. Matthews smiled and pushed a letter my way. And a fancy pen.
We talked another half an hour about the extra classes I’d need because I’d be part of a graduate workshop. She also explained the university’s plan for Jo’s artwork, asking my opinion on every detail.
When we finished, I floated down the hall and back outside to my waiting friends, who had found ways to entertain themselves. Quinn was chatting up a girl in a seriously low-cut sweater while Thanet and Tennyson stood five feet away laughing at everything he said. Quinn noticed me first, said goodbye to Delta Delta Delta, and jogged my way.
“Wait!” He raised his phone and took a bunch of pictures of me as I walked toward him. “You’re going to want these someday.” He smiled and pocketed his phone. “How’d it go?”
I nodded, still in shock. “Apparently I’m in. I’m a Cowboy.”
“A cowboy?”
“A UDub Cowboy. Go Pokes.”
He leaned his head back and howled like a wolf, making Thanet join in. Tennyson hugged me and said it was time to celebrate.
“Hold onto your hats, kids, we’re going to see how rowdy Meg can get,” Tennyson yelled.
“I don’t know, T, I probably should get back.”
“Yeah, you probably should, Nancy Neuter. All the more reason to stay in Laramie a few more hours. We need to find the coolest place to be on a Monday afternoon.” She turned in a circle, scanning the area for something. Finally, she jogged over to some guys playing Frisbee.
“Hey, guys,” she said, all syrupy sweet. “My friend, Meg, right over there in the uptight clothes, just found out she got accepted here. We want to take her somewhere to celebrate. Know any good places open right now?”
“My dorm room,” a guy with tall hair said.
“That’s cute,” Tennyson said. “Really original, too.” She turned to walk away when a girl who’d been listening said, “I know a place.”
I half expected the girl to yell at Tennyson for talking to her boyfriend. Tennyson, beautiful and overly aggressive, usually brought out the worst in jealous girls.
“My brother’s band practices at a dive on Monday afternoons across from campus,” the girl said. “Nobody will be there, but the owner will let you in and serve you even if you’re underage.” She wore old style combat boots and black tights with a long, pink wool coat.
“What’s the name of the place?” Tennyson asked.
“Doc’s. It’s across from the main entrance to campus.” She reached in her bag for her cell phone. “I’ll call my brother to let him know you’re coming.”
“Wait,” Quinn called. “What’s the band’s name?”
“The Brilliant Virus,” she said.
“Folk? Rock? Alt? Electric?” Quinn cocked his chin at her, daring her to dismiss him. I sensed a little interest on his part. And the girl gave Quinn her full attention because here was a guy who obviously knew his stuff.
“Alternative. Sort of early Flaming Lips.” She smiled and turned her attention to her pho
ne.
“That’ll do.” A slow grin spread on Quinn’s face.
Tennyson slugged him on the shoulder and said, “Come on, lover boy.”
He rubbed his shoulder, smiled at the quirky girl, and climbed into the Jeep.
On the way over, I caught Tennyson’s eye and said, “I don’t drink. You know that.”
“I know. You can watch us and listen to the band. You’re driving anyway.”
“I don’t drink, either,” Quinn called from the back. “It makes me barf.”
“I can’t drink,” Thanet said, rolling his eyes. “Obviously.”
“I drink,” Tennyson said. “I’ll celebrate for Meg. You guys can sit there and talk philosophy and listen to the band.”
Mac, the owner, opened the bar door for us. He looked like a washed-up rodeo star. He winced a little with each step he took and had a scowl that never left his face. But he’d been expecting us and he offered to make lunch for five dollars each. Two of the guys in the band, tattooed and awesomely, insanely cool, jumped off the tiny stage and walked over to meet us.
Quinn spoke their language—all mystery and inside jokes, scarred souls and statement shirts. It was a beautiful moment for him—in his element and completely happy.
When they started playing, he leaned over and whispered in my ear. “See that guitar?”
I nodded.
“That’s a 1969 Martin D28. Hear me when I say if I had to choose between a beautiful girl and that guitar, I’d choose the guitar. Natch.” He took a huge gulp of water, clearly affected.
“Naturally,” I whispered. “It could be why you’re still single.”
He smiled at me and then started beating out a drum cadence on the table that matched the one the band’s drummer played. Tennyson was on her third beer and had loosened up enough to start dancing like a hipster in front of the stage. Quinn watched her, but seemed bored by it.
“I’m really glad you got what you wanted today,” he said.
“Yeah, so am I. I’m profoundly relieved, I think.”
He leaned forward. “Hey, even after I go back to Rhode Island and you move on to a nice life with Whitmire, can I still email you if I have, like, theology questions? Or just need to talk to somebody who thinks like I do?”
“You can email me anytime, but if your questions get too deep, I’ll have to forward them to someone else.” I fake punched him in the arm. “You and I probably have some of the same questions, Quinn.”
He stretched his lanky legs out in front of him and watched the band setting up for another set. The guy who’d been playing the guitar that made Quinn drool raised it up and said, “You wanna play something, man?”
Quinn cocked his chin at the guy and stood up, probably trying not to appear too eager. He bounded up on the stage, took the guitar and started playing a simple melody over and over, completely absorbed in the moment.
The afternoon passed like that. The band played for three hours. We laughed and ate sandwiches on stale bread and chips out of a bag we passed around. Tennyson stopped at three beers because I think she realized the value of sober conversation at times like this.
I’d wanted a senior moment, a day that felt like the beginning of goodbye, and they gave that to me.
On the way home, Tennyson slept in the back. Quinn lounged next to her reading a book about Keats’ letters I’d picked up at the bookstore the day before. In the passenger seat, Thanet reached for the back of my headrest, a familiar gesture I’d missed. He and I hadn’t spent much time together since he fell for Abby and I’d needed him. Besides Henry, Thanet knew me better than anyone in Chapin.
“The University of Wyoming,” he said, smiling.
I glanced over at him. “I know. And you—The University of Chicago. You’re going to love being back there.”
“Yeah, but I’ll miss you and Henry. You have to promise you’ll road-trip it to visit.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
He looked toward the backseat and then leaned toward me. “I know I put you in a weird situation with Quinn,” he said. “I really like Abby, but I felt like I needed you around to make me legitimate to her. I was afraid she wouldn’t see through this.” He waved his hand in an exaggerated game show host motion over his legs.
“She never saw anything but your heart, Thanet. You never needed me.”
He closed his eyes to say he didn’t believe me. “What’s going on with Henry?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…he’s not himself. He just sounds weird in emails now. I’m worried about him.”
I kept my eyes on the road and swallowed the question I wanted to ask. Asking how often he emails Thanet would give away the fact that he hadn’t emailed me much lately.
“He’s devastated about Quiet Waters and I think he feels like he should’ve been able to stop the government from taking the kids.” I said out loud what I’d been saying to myself for weeks. “He’s putting it all on himself. And with Kate losing the baby and Henry being so far from his family…I just think he’s dealing with a lot.”
“What are you doing to make that easier?” I felt Thanet looking at me with those thoughtful eyes of his. His question seemed like the most important, most convicting question I’d ever heard. What was I doing to make this easier?
“Not enough,” I admitted. “I wish I could say one thing to him that would give him what he needs to finish up and come home. And feel good about what he’s done there, so he could stop feeling guilty.”
“If there’s anyone on earth who could speak to Henry that way, it’s you,” Thanet murmured.
The satellite radio faded back in as we crested a hill and the background noise in the car went from road noise to melodic and sad. Like the soundtrack to my soul.
“You know he called me the other night,” Thanet said. “I didn’t mention it because he told me not to.”
I didn’t look at Thanet. I couldn’t because he would see the hurt on my face.
“He loves you,” Thanet said. “He’s hurting and it’s not just the Quinn thing. It’s being away from you and wondering if you’re hurting, too. Or if you’re having too much fun to hurt. What he really needed was to laugh, though. So we laughed…until he cried.”
That undid me. I looked at Thanet with so many questions on my lips. He just shook his head. “One word from you. That’s really all he needs.”
THIRTY-FOUR
henry
“Watch me, Raf! I need you to follow my lead.”
The cradles for the load-bearing beam groaned a little when we placed the beam. I forced my side in with a hammer and watched as he repeated my moves exactly. A couple of shims later, and we had a safe wall. I jumped off my ladder, grabbed a water bottle and sat on the concrete floor to rest for a minute.
The time had flown. I’d slept during the heat of the day, gathered supplies, and started working at dusk. After dark had completely overtaken the place each night, the air would shift, and Raf would be there. He’d soundlessly pick up the tools I’d placed out for him and get to work.
The roof only took Raf and me a few nights of hard labor. After that we moved to window and door replacement. Next came siding replacement and, finally, gutters and other finishing touches. By the time we finished the exterior, the building, even in the dark of night, shone like a new penny. It was a beauty, truly.
We moved inside to make sense of the plumbing nightmare. After several nights, we got it. We held dominion over the guts of that building and crossed our fingers as we did a test flush. After one worked, Raf flushed a toilet ten or twenty times in a row without a single problem.
We turned on every faucet and shower in the place, letting them run through the colors from dark brown to tan to sickly yellow to beautiful—clear, cold, and perfect. Raf sat down and drank a big glass full. I still avoided Nica tap water on principle, although by now my intestines were probably tough enough to handle it.
The best part of pulling graveyard shifts with Raf was t
he conversation. I’d learned which subjects made him uncomfortable. But I’d also figured out the keys to opening doors with him. I knew what made him talk and talk he did.
“Mi madre came from money,” he said one night. “So much money. I heard her sisters inherited it all and made sure we didn’t get a dime. Cause I’m el hijo ilegítimo.” He used a falsetto and a heavy Nica accent to sound like a mean Managuan woman.
I chuckled. “What happened?”
“She hated the money. Hated her parents. They died when I was little or I’d be with them now.” He laughed a little and stopped working while he captured a memory. “I only met mi abuela once when she grabbed me and ran into a church. She told the priest to baptize me, but he wouldn’t because my mother wasn’t there. My mom moved us deep into el barrio after that and I never saw my grandmother again.”
Why had I spent all those months talking at Raf but never listening to him? Now that I’d listened to the kid, heard his heart, I was astounded at his strength. I had a second chance with him. Not a chance to get him back or arrange his future, but a chance to get to know him.
In so many ways, it was a more powerful, meaningful thing than his custody arrangement. It was a relationship.
Plumbing work transitioned easily into rewiring the building, with me crawling through the rafters, dropping wires to Raf, and testing connections. This work had to be done right and Raf hung onto every word I said about it. He loved the technical aspect of making a building hot, making it come alive so it could be inhabited. So while we Thomas Edison’d the place, I pictured his future all laid out and wrapped up in red and blue wires.
After the high of electrical work, we looked at our list and realized how short it had become. I wanted to find a way to stretch things out because once the last room was painted, Raf would disappear. How could I lose him all over again, especially now that I considered him a friend? So we became drywall perfectionists, ceiling tile gods, and cabinetry masters. We polished every piece of hardware before we placed it. We argued over where each ceiling fan belonged, and the angle of every canned light.
Perfect Glass (A Young Adult Novel (sequel to Glass Girl)) Page 25