Miss You, Mina

by Denene Millner

  “Don’t worry,” Auntie Jill said, pulling me close and cracking up at the funny look on my face. “I’ll eat the whitefish; you can have the bagels,” she said. “I even bought cream cheese.”

  I gave her another look.

  “No, it doesn’t have scallions in it,” she added, knowing instinctively that I was about to question which kind she’d purchased. The last time Auntie Jill served me a bagel with cream cheese, she spread the scallions on really thick. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a favorite.

  “Tell you what: I’ll go get our spread together and we can sit out on the stoop and catch up. Why don’t you go back upstairs and finish putting away your things—I’ll call you when everything is ready.”

  “Okay,” I said, bounding up the stairs.

  See? That’s why I love me some Auntie Jill: She just gets me. Even though she wasn’t going to be packing any ham sandwiches in my lunch for camp, she knew what I liked. Purple definitely tops the list. As does art. Math, too. Oh, and celebrity watching.

  Who doesn’t like to see famous people up close? Not that I ever have. Well, I did see Al Roker, the weather guy from the Today show, once at the beach on the Jersey shore. He was staying at the Akwaaba B&B for vacation with his family. My mom wouldn’t let me go say hi, though. Plus, Liza said he doesn’t count as a celebrity because he’s a weather guy—no different from Sam’s dad, Mack Macintosh, who’s the weatherman on the local cable station back in Greenwood. But Al Roker is on TV and anyone who’s on TV is famous in my book—even Sam’s dad. I didn’t feel like arguing with Liza over it, though.

  Anyway, my aunt was always telling me about the famous people who live and hang out and perform in Brooklyn. Maybe one of them would walk by while Auntie and I were sitting outside. I wondered if my celebrity crush, Corbin Bleu, ever visited Fort Greene. He lived in California, but Brooklyn would be a hip enough place for him to show his face, right? Maybe I’d see him here. Maybe I could get an autograph. Or a picture!

  I reached into my book bag and pulled out the Kodak EasyShare digital camera my parents got me for Christmas and slipped the handle of the tiny camera bag over my wrist. Then I picked up a purple pastel, and wrote Mina IS here! in big bubble letters all the way across the chalkboard wall, and finished it with striped stars and polka-dot flowers.

  I stood back and, arms folded, admired my work and smiled.

  Yeah, this summer was going to be the best ever!

  Chapter Two

  There were a million people rushing down the street that first morning—so many it made me woozy.

  There were moms with their kids, teenagers with their friends, and people with briefcases, some in suits, others dressed in casual summer gear—all of them moving like a wave headed toward the start of their day. I struggled to keep up with Auntie Jill, who was practically leaping down Fulton Street.

  “Pick it up, Mina,” she said easily while she breezed through the crowd headed toward the subway. I was way behind her, huffing like I was in the middle of a five-mile run. The new art-supplies box my mom gave me as a going-away present felt like I was carrying a plump ten-year-old down the street. “If we catch a number four train in the next few minutes, we just might make it to camp early enough for you to see the instructors’ artwork in the teachers’ gallery.”

  “Okay,” I said simply, because that was about all I could manage as I chased her down the subway stairs and into the cavernous underground station. It was hot down there and it kinda smelled; I was convinced the place was a lab for germ nastiness on the level of the mold experiment we did in science class just before summer break. I made a mental note: Don’t touch anything in the subway.

  Auntie Jill took one look at my face, shook her head, and cracked up. “You’ll get used to the subway quicker than you think,” she laughed as if she could read my mind. She handed me a small yellow card, then headed for a turnstile leading onto the platform. “Keep your MetroCard in a safe place, okay? You’re going to need it to get to all of the different places you and your class will be traveling for your art assignments.”

  I watched Auntie Jill swipe her card and push through the turnstile, and then I did the same, just as the train rushed into the station. We walked double time to the yellow line, my aunt holding on to my wrist as she squeezed past a couple of people. Standing to my right was a girl about my age, effortlessly hoisting an art-supplies box twice the size of mine to look at the oversize hot-pink watch on her left wrist. She caught me staring and smiled. I quickly turned my head toward the opening subway door and moved a little closer to my aunt, who was about to make her move onto the train.

  There weren’t any seats on the train and because my hands were full with my art supplies and I wasn’t used to riding a subway, I forgot to brace myself for takeoff. And what do you know? As soon as the train pulled out of the station, I went flying into the girl with the hot-pink watch.

  “Omigod, I’m so sorry,” I told the girl, grappling for the silver pole and trying to catch my footing before I fell to the floor. I dropped my MetroCard at the feet of a man with sneakers the size of a small canoe. As I fumbled around on the floor trying to retrieve the card, I could feel practically every eye in the car trained on me. If I had the power to melt into a little puddle and drip out of the cracks of the heavy metal doors, I would have done it, for sure.

  “Um, yeah. The poles are a perfect way to keep that from happening again,” the girl said as she grabbed my elbow to help me up. She giggled, so I guessed she hadn’t meant it to be mean. I cringed. Nice! As if I’m not already embarrassed enough, I wanted to say. Instead, I mumbled, “Thanks.”

  “Here, let me take your art box, honey,” Auntie Jill said. “You okay?”

  “Uh, yeah, I’m okay,” I said, running my fingers over my neon-green miniskirt, swiping at imaginary dirt and trying really hard not to look like a total dork in front of all of New York City.

  “Nice art box,” the girl said as she moved her hand on the pole to make room for mine. “I saw one just like it at Pearl when my mom took me to buy mine. You an artist?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t really know what to say back, or even if she expected me to speak to her. And what in the world was “Pearl”? I sure wasn’t about to ask her, though, because the girl said it like I was supposed to already know. I settled on a weak “Kinda.”

  “Actually, my niece is quite talented and well on her way to becoming an artist,” Auntie Jill chimed in. She clearly couldn’t help herself from bragging about me. Embarrassed, I fought back a groan. “I see you have an art box, too—are you an artist?” she asked the girl.

  “I want to be.” The girl smiled warmly. “I’m actually on my way to the SoHo Children’s Art Program. Today’s my first day.”

  “Really? What a coincidence! I’m an instructor there, and my niece Mina is going to be in the camp, too,” Auntie Jill said excitedly. “What’s your name?”

  “Gabriella,” she said, rolling the “r” in her name and giving a little wave.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Gabriella. You look really familiar to me for some reason,” Auntie said, tilting her head to the side. I took a closer look at the girl, too; she had an olive complexion and long, brown hair pulled into a curly mass at the top of her head.

  “Aren’t you one of the art teachers at Brooklyn Tech?” Gabriella asked.

  “Yes—yes, I am,” Auntie Jill said, squinting her eyes as if that was going to help her recognize the girl. “Forgive me, but you don’t look old enough for Brooklyn Tech.”

  “No, no—I don’t go to Tech. But my brother does. He’s in the science program and takes some of the art classes. I think I’ve seen you at a few of the art shows there?”

  “Oh! Who’s your brother?” Auntie Jill asked, the excitement in her voice rising.

  “Kent Diaz. He’s in the eleventh grade.”

  “Oh! I know Kent! He wants to be an architect, right?”

  “Right,” Gabriella said, smiling.


  “Small world,” Auntie Jill said. “See, Mina?” she added, turning toward me. “You’re not even at the camp yet and you’ve made a new friend.”

  I gripped the pole a little tighter and tossed a halfhearted grin in the girl’s direction, then focused my attention on the Sam and Liza my girls had scribbled on my lucky purple Converse. I’d designed my sneakers on the Converse website all by myself. The funky green stripe up the heel and the starry lavender and neon-pink laces I found at Target made them look superspecial. I was wearing them when I got the A on my math final, and when I applied for the summer art camp, which had only fifteen openings, but from what Auntie Jill said, hundreds of applications, so it was safe for me to assume that my sneakers were lucky. Sam and Liza got ahold of them just before we all left for summer vacation and signed their names on the sides with special sparkly white marker, reminding me the entire time they were scribbling not to forget them while I was at my “fancy art camp.”

  But as for Gabriella? I wasn’t sure if she’d be real friend material. Suddenly, I missed Liza and Sam more than ever.

  The subway conductor warbled some message over the loudspeaker and then the train screeched to a halt. This time, I held on tight to the pole until the doors opened at a station named City Hall. There, Auntie Jill, Gabriella, and I transferred to the number six train, and then got out for good at the Spring Street station.

  With Auntie on my right and Gabriella on my left, we made our way up the concrete steps, headed out of the dungeon darkness up toward the light. As my foot hit the top step, a miracle unfolded before me: Manhattan at rush hour.

  It was a complete attack of the senses—the smell of coffee competing with the fumes of the taxis that were darting up the streets at top speed and nearly scraping the curbs to pick up stylish passengers. It was so loud—so much noise! People yelling into their cell phones, feet stomping, horns blaring—everyone moving in this massive synchronized dance.

  I looked for all the bright lights and neon signs and huge billboards that were in Times Square, but there were none here. Instead, there were vintage shops and art galleries and delis with a cornucopia of fruit in the window, and all these stylish stores. There were equally stylish people who stalked the sidewalks like top models on a runway, with their high-heeled shoes and their crisp jeans. There were people with tattoos and funky hair and leather jackets, even though it was already eighty degrees outside. If I weren’t so fascinated by the sights, I might have been a little scared. But SoHo was beautiful, with its cobblestoned streets like a red carpet to the coolest, chicest neighborhood on the planet. Fort Greene, I decided right then, would be a fine place for my first apartment, but when I moved up and got rich and famous, I was going to come straight to SoHo. This place had Grown-up Mina written all over it. Well, except for the tattoos and spiky hair.

  It wasn’t Greenwood; that’s for sure.

  “Okay, everyone, come on in and put your art supplies next to an easel, then cop a squat here on the rug—we’re going to go ahead and dive right in,” Ms. Roberts said as she ushered us into the huge sixth-floor loft.

  Fifteen easels stood at attention on the far end of the room, each facing ceiling-to-floor windows overlooking Broadway. A colorful, oversize rug spread lazily across the wooden floor.

  I tried hard not to seem like I was all pressed about which easel I’d set my stuff next to. But I really wanted one in the middle—not in the front, because who needs all that attention, and not in the back because you can only see the buildings and the busy street below if you’re peeking around somebody’s canvas and head. Just as I figured out which easel I wanted and took two steps toward it, another girl ran-walked past me and plopped her oversize sky blue art tote right in front of it. Her tote said PAULETTE in bold, dark blue letters. She tossed me a half smile and an eye roll, and then beckoned another girl—a tall, thin, redhead whose name tag read MARISKA—over to the easel next to her.

  I shifted awkwardly to avoid the stampede, and ended up standing in front of an easel in the back. All I could see was the back of Paulette’s blond head. Gabriella sauntered up and dropped her art box at the foot of the easel to my right.

  “Nice view, huh?” she whispered.

  I shrugged. I missed Auntie Jill already. She was upstairs, teaching a class of sixteen-year-olds. Everyone in my classroom looked to be about my age.

  “So, I’d like to go over with you all of the wonderful projects we’ll be studying this camp session,” Ms. Roberts began, beckoning us back over to the rug. “We’ve got some exciting things lined up and I just know you art lovers are going to have a fantastic time.”

  Paulette, trailed by Mariska and another girl named Stephanie, tumbled onto the rug, laughing easily and gabbing as if they didn’t have a care in the world or any interest in what Ms. Roberts had to say.

  “Okay, simmer down,” she said as the last of us plopped down. Her assistant passed out sheets of paper to us students; our instructor waited until the room was absolutely quiet before she began again. “We have six weeks to complete four major pieces. The goal is for each of you to get some insight into the works of some great artists, and then we’ll take you out all across this magnificent city to help you get inspired as you create your own masterpieces.”

  I looked down at the list and felt a rush of excitement. We were going to visit a bunch of places I’d seen only in movies, never in person. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Rockefeller Center. The world-famous toy store FAO Schwarz. They’d mentioned in the camp brochure that we’d get to draw some of New York’s most famous landmarks. But I hadn’t expected that in a matter of a few weeks I’d be able to see all the places I’d spent a lifetime craving to visit. Yes! I wanted to shout out loud. But I knew better.

  “We’ve seen some terrific work come out of this camp, and every year at the end of the session, we have a big art show featuring one piece each of you create based on what you’ve learned,” our instructor continued. “Your pieces will be evaluated by an esteemed panel of local artists and art teachers who will help me decide which of all of the work created here during this session is worthy of being featured on the cover of the SoHo Children’s Art Program’s Fall catalog. That means that one of you will leave this summer’s camp a published artist. How exciting is that?”

  A buzz raced through the room.

  “So, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together traipsing all over Manhattan over the next few weeks. Why don’t we get to know one another? I’d like each of you to introduce yourselves, tell me who your favorite artist is, and what kind of art you most enjoy creating. I’ll start with myself: I’m Jada Roberts, a fine arts professor at New York University where I’ve been teaching for the past eight years. I’m the head instructor for the grades seven through nine group here at the SoHo Children’s Art Program, where I’ve worked for three summers now. My favorite artist is Monet, and I’m sure you’ll learn more about why as we complete our program. He is quite the inspiration. Now, who are you?” she asked, peering out over the rug at the sea of heads before her. Most everyone looked at one another, too afraid to be the first to speak up.

  Except Paulette, who dove right in.

  “Well, I’m Paulette, but you already knew that!” she said with a giggle.

  “Absolutely! How could I forget the winning artist of last year’s competition?” Ms. Roberts boomed. “Everybody, Paulette’s piece was featured on the programs for this past school year. I had the distinct pleasure of seeing her watercolor of Rockefeller Center on literally thousands of magazines. Those magazines went out to NYU students all across the country. It was quite beautiful. So, Paulette, I know you’re a huge Monet fan as well. Has that changed since last summer?”

  “Oh, I’m still in love with Monet, but that’s so last year for me. This year, I’m totally feeling Van Gogh. He’s all dark and mysterious and unpredictable and this year is all about being original,” Paulette insisted, slouching back and exchanging knowing glances with her friends, who
looked like they had to practically sit on their hands to keep themselves from applauding. “And I’ve only gotten better since last year, so you’re going to see even greater things from me this summer.”

  Wow. Well, she’s not shy, huh? I thought to myself. Or humble.

  “For those of you who don’t know me,” she added, “I’m in the eighth grade at Arts and Sciences School here in Manhattan, and this is my third year at Camp SoHo. And, oh yeah, I paint to win. Just so you know.”

  “Thank you, Paulette,” Ms. Roberts said. “You’ll be happy to know that you have some pretty stiff competition this year. We’ve got some strong new talent,” she added, grabbing a piece of paper off the lectern and peering at it over her glasses. “Who is…Let’s see…Wilhelmina Chestnut?”

  Uh, am I having an out-of-body experience, or did the teacher just call my whole name out loud? I thought. The only person who ever does that is my mother, and that’s only when she’s mad and I’m in big trouble.

  “Wilhelmina?”

  “That’s me,” I squeaked. Literally squeaked. Totally embarrassing. I cleared my throat quickly, hoping nobody caught it, but judging by Paulette’s smirk, I might as well have squeaked into a bullhorn. This time, much louder, I said, “Everybody calls me Mina. That’s my, um, nickname.”

  Paulette and her buddies giggled. I forced myself to keep facing forward, but I could feel my cheeks getting hot. I wished Ms. Roberts would go on ahead and say what she had to say and then call on someone else.

  “Oh, okay, Mina,” Ms. Roberts said. “Well, I’ll tell you this much: I’m really excited to see your work. Your aunt tells me you’re quite gifted.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I blurted because I really didn’t know what else to say. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mariska mouth the word “ma’am,” which earned a few more giggles from the girls surrounding her. All except for Paulette, who was busy picking imaginary lint from her T-shirt and acting like she couldn’t hear a thing, though it was very clear she was clinging to the instructor’s every word.