Many Points of Me

by Caroline Gertler

I look back through the viewer, try to focus on another star, but can’t seem to find anything else. Rather than get frustrated again, I carefully disassemble the telescope, putting each piece into its section of the case.

  Just as I’m about to zip it closed, I feel something stuck in one of the pockets. A piece of paper. An instruction manual, maybe.

  No—a folded piece of paper. Thick, like it came from a sketchbook.

  I hold my breath as I unfold it. Maybe this is the evidence I need—an asterism sketch.

  I glance quickly at the image and then crumple it as tight as I can.

  It’s only one of our mixed-up animals. I remember making this one: Dad drew the giraffe head, Theo drew the hippo body, and I drew the human feet.

  But then I smile, remembering how it was one of those days when Theo couldn’t sit still, and he skipped around the room until it was his turn. How fast he sketched his part of the drawing and then told silly knock-knock jokes with Dad while I drew my part. How absurd I thought I was being, making the feet human. But, of course, Theo pointed out that humans are animals, too.

  I smooth the paper flat, and even though it’s still wrinkled, I put it in the folder in my desk drawer, along with all our other mixed-up animals.

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  Later that week in art class, Mr. B sets jars of fresh blue paint on the tables. I sink my brush into the liquid blue and enjoy the feeling of dabbing the paper, twirling the brush in circles.

  If I were Dad or Theo, the inspiration would start to flow. The act of swirling my brush around on the paper would bring me to that zone.

  But all I see on the paper are plain blue circles.

  Mr. B comes up behind me to peek at my work. “Interesting,” he says, though he sounds disappointed. “But where are you going with it? You need to feel the blue. Feel it in your hand, through the brush, onto the page. Make the expression of feeling visible in that color. What are you trying to show here?”

  “I’m not sure.” My voice cracks, and my hand loses its grip on the brush with every word Mr. B says—every way he tries to make me work harder, dig deeper.

  Hearing the wobble in my voice, he relaxes. “That’s okay, Georgia. Sometimes we don’t always know what our point is when we get started. It takes starting something, trying it, to figure out what you want to say. Speaking of which, any thoughts on NYC ART? Submission day isn’t until Monday.”

  I shake my head.

  Even if I did change my mind, I don’t have anything to show for it. The lunar dust portrait was a total bust, and the mixed-up animal drawing is too personal and probably wouldn’t qualify for the self-portrait theme. And my copy of Dad’s drawing with the asterism points on it is pretty much plagiarism.

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  Could he help if I explain that I found Dad’s drawing of me at age ten, and that I think it’s a sketch for the last asterism? That it means everything to me, and I want to prove what it is? That I care more about that than about making my own portrait?

  He stays a moment longer, to say something else. If only he could find the right thing.

  But he moves down the table to the next group of students.

  Over the weekend I feel trapped in my aloneness. Theo and I aren’t talking. Plus, he’s busy with musical rehearsals. I’m not enough of a Mermaid to ask Harper to hang out, and she hasn’t asked me. Harriet has another date with the economics professor and Mom’s working, so no one’s there for Saturday pizza-and-movie night. I take Olive for long walks in the park. She seems to get her voice back—outside, at least, barking at other dogs.

  From my room on Sunday afternoon, I see the light on in Theo’s room. Where I’d be working away, perfecting my NYC ART entry, if we weren’t in the first big fight of our lives. And if I wanted to enter.

  Boredom leads to art. Not to make a competition entry, just to play. And to make the self-portrait I have to do for class anyway. I pull out the third wood panel I bought for my lunar dust portrait idea. This time I think of the human feet from the mixed-up animal drawing I found in Dad’s telescope case. Why not draw my self-portrait as a disembodied body part—just my feet? My feet, walking on the moon. Taking steps in the lunar dust.

  Again, big fail. The lines of glue look nothing like feet, just blobs of glitter. I’m no better than a little kid doing finger paint and the glitter gets everywhere, under my fingernails and even in my eye when I forget and rub at it by mistake.

  The only thing that seems right is Dad’s drawing, G, age 10. I reach into my desk and pull it out.

  The drawing has imprinted itself on my brain. I’ve memorized every line, every curve. I could draw it without even looking.

  I take out a fresh piece of paper.

  But my hand doesn’t want to cooperate. My pencil marks are stiff and lifeless on the page.

  I draw my face over and over until it looks like a hollow mask of me. Nothing to do with me, at all.

  I once read about a guy who draws in his sleep. An artist-sleepwalker. When he’s awake, he can’t even draw a straight line. But in his sleep, in the middle of the night, he makes art that sells for thousands of dollars. Maybe that could happen to me if I stop trying.

  Or maybe I’m losing my ability to draw altogether. That thought freaks me out, but it’s also freeing. Like if I can’t draw anymore, no one will expect me to be an artist. No one will care if I’m never as good as Dad.

  The afternoon passes, and something changes with the light outside. I glance out my window and notice Theo’s room is dark. He’s turned his light off. I wonder where he’s going. I could run out of my apartment to try to bump into him accidentally on purpose. But I don’t.

  Seconds later there’s a knock on my door.

  “What, Mom?” I don’t even try to hide my irritation. I thought she was working at the Met all day.

  The door opens a crack.

  “It’s me.”

  Theo. The only person who knows he can walk right in, that we keep our front door unlocked when we’re home.

  “Oh, hey.” I shove Dad’s drawing onto a messy pile of papers on my desk. I don’t want him to see it.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Nothing, really. Just playing. I had this idea, but it’s kind of awful.” I hold out the lunar dust panels for him to see.

  He tries to look thoughtful, but I see right through to the negative judgment on his face. His lips are twisted funny, like he’s had a spoonful of fish oil. I let out a giggle.

  “They suck, don’t they?” I say.

  He moves his mouth like he’s trying to find something nice to say, but he can’t. “Yeah, kind of sucky.”

  It’s totally mean and totally true, and breaks the ice between us. We both laugh. An uneasy, not quite us laugh. But still, a laugh. Better than silence.

  “They’re more than sucky, they’re horrific! Terrifying. Disturbingly, devastatingly horrid!” I say in a strong Super G voice.

  Now we burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. Real, true, old-school Theo and Georgia giggles.

  Maybe we can get over the past couple of weeks and just go back to being us.

  “Can I show you my entry?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  He places a manila folder on my desk and opens it.

  I catch a glimpse of a beautifully painted Theo-Dare panel before he snatches it back.

  “I’m finished, and I don’t have time to make any changes. So hold the criticisms, please. Too late for that.”

  “Theo, let me see! I’m sure it’s great.”

  He turns the paper to show me the image. “I would’ve liked your input earlier, but . . .”

  “But, what, Theo? This is amazing! I have nothing to say except congratulations.”

  And I mean it. The panel is more than just his typical sketch of Theo-Dare in action. He’s drawn himself in pencil, as usual, but he’s also finished it by going over the lines in black marker and coloring it with gouac
he. Theo-Dare looks into the distance, one hand raised to his forehead as if shielding his eyes from the sun, the other hand pointing. The speech bubble reads, “If I can reach it, I can do it. . . .”

  Theo beams with pride as I take it in. He knows he did it. He’s so going to get into NYC ART.

  “I love how the thought bubble doesn’t tell you the whole story, but makes you wonder what’s going on.”

  “Yeah, I wanted it to be open to interpretation. Like the viewer can imagine their own story into it.”

  “Totally.” And as usual, talking to Theo about art gets my own wheels spinning. “Maybe I was thinking too literally for mine.”

  “Hey, what about this one?” Theo points to my desk, at the pile where I shoved G, age 10 in the corner. “This one looks good.”

  “Oh, that’s nothing. Just me doodling away.” I take the pile of papers and put them into my desk drawer, where I should’ve hidden Dad’s drawing to begin with.

  “Do you want me to help you?” Theo asks softly. “We could work on something now, get your entry ready for tomorrow?”

  Theo’s offer to help and the word entry shut down any spark of inspiration. “I meant it when I said I don’t want to enter.”

  “I just—I guess I understand. But I really don’t. Remember how we used to go with your dad to see the exhibition every year? And we’d talk about what it’d be like when it was our turn? When we finally got to enter and have our first real show?” He looks so hopeful, like he can’t believe I don’t want what he wants. “I can’t imagine getting in and you not being in it with me. And think of all we could do with those thousand-dollar checks. We could take an art class together at the Met this summer! How could you not want to, G?”

  The blood roils in me as Theo talks. Like one of those volcano experiments with baking soda and vinegar bubbling over—all the anger and confusion and upset and everything I’ve lost. But I bite my cheek and clench the tears in my eyes.

  And then he says the one thing that crosses the line.

  “Your dad would want you to, G. I know he would.”

  It all erupts out of me in this moment.

  “How do you know what my dad would want?”

  “I’m just guessing.”

  “You don’t know! Because you weren’t actually his child! Even though you wish you were! He was my dad, not yours!”

  You’d think that’d make Theo get up and leave. I’ve said the most hurtful thing I could think of. He just stands there looking upset. But not as upset as he should be.

  “Go!” I scream. “Leave!”

  Theo doesn’t budge.

  So I go.

  I storm out of my room into the kitchen.

  I stare at that framed article on the wall about our Sunday routine—the old Sunday routine.

  I can’t read the words because my eyes are blurry and wet. But I don’t want to cry. I haven’t cried in so long, and I’m not starting now. My body heaves with misery, with holding it all in.

  Theo comes up and gives me a pat on my shoulder, but I elbow him away. “Just leave!”

  Too many minutes pass before I hear the door close and he’s gone.

  Monday is submission day. It comes and goes with no fanfare for me. But not for Theo, who’s on his way to getting into his first real art competition. It makes me feel even more distant from him, that he’s doing this big thing without me.

  I don’t even know if he’s angry at me or thinks I’m pathetic or what. I guess we’re back to not talking, after the way I yelled at him.

  In science Dr. Anders asks, “What would happen if the sun disappeared?”

  We’re supposed to be horrified, but right now, the idea of something catastrophic sounds good to me.

  “Would there be utter darkness, chaos, immediate destruction? Or could we go on living somehow?”

  “Chaos!” Luca yells out.

  “No more sunbathing,” Chloe says.

  Everyone laughs.

  “The good news,” Dr. Anders says, “is that the stars would still shine, and electricity would continue to work as long as power lasted. The one thing that would end immediately is photosynthesis, and most small plants would die within days.

  “Even worse, the temperature of the Earth would drop one hundred fifty degrees Fahrenheit by the end of the first year. The oceans would freeze over, transforming Earth into an ice world. Most living things would die.

  “Earth would keep moving, however. And eventually, if it doesn’t collide with any other large bodies in space and explode”—we all groan at that—“it could get drawn into the orbit of another star. Any of the hundred billion stars to choose from.”

  Dr. Anders makes it sound easy—like the earth could just switch orbits. Our sun explodes—whoops!—go find a new star to be the sun.

  I get it—how it feels to be the Earth, to lose your sun. Like Dad was my sun that disappeared, and I’ve been drifting ever since—until I got pulled into the orbit of Valentine’s Day cards and cupid costumes. An orbit I’m still not so sure I belong in, but which I don’t know how I’d leave, even if I wanted to.

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  The week leading up to Valentine’s Day, the Mermaids set up a table in the school lobby during lunch periods for us to sell cards for two dollars each. Everyone loves the designs, and there’s a steady crowd of kids around us handing over bills, writing messages, and addressing envelopes.

  Except for Theo. He approaches the table with disdain and studies the card designs like an art critic. I wait for his opinion, even though it makes no difference what he thinks. Sales are going better than expected and we already had to print extras.

  “You going to buy one?” Harper flashes her biggest smile.

  “Um, no thanks.” Theo puts the cards back on the table.

  “C’mon, you’re not going to send one to me?” She makes a sad face.

  Theo cannot be falling for this corniness, but he blushes and shakes his head.

  “How about for Georgia?” she asks.

  He looks at me like he’s forgotten who I am. “Maybe tomorrow. I didn’t bring any money today.”

  “Here, choose one on me!” Harper says.

  I can tell Theo doesn’t want one, but forced to choose, he takes the one with the girl and the boy. Chloe and Violet snicker, but Harper keeps a straight face.

  As he walks away, the Mermaids huddle together and chatter about what just happened and who Theo’s going to send his card to.

  But I keep my eyes on Theo.

  Just before he turns the corner, he rips the card in half and throws the pieces into the garbage.

  By Thursday morning, Valentine’s Day, Harper proudly announces we’ve made three hundred seventy-five dollars, beating her goal for this year.

  “Congratulations, ladies!” Harper waves around the envelope stuffed with cash. “We’re the best team.”

  I’ve never been part of a team before. It feels good. It even feels like no big deal to put on the ridiculous cupid costumes she bought for us to wear to deliver the cards: red leotards with sparkly tutus, sparkly white wigs, and plastic bows and arrows.

  I never thought I’d see the day that I’d be dressed up with the Mermaids, part of their scheme. But under Harper’s direction, it works.

  We carry tote bags full of cards into each homeroom. I hold the tote while Chloe and Violet pull out the envelopes, and Harper reads the names out loud, and we all take turns prancing around to hand out the envelopes.

  After I relax into it, I start to enjoy myself. Dressed up as a cupid, I’m no longer quiet, boring, artist Georgia. I’m cute and fun and pretty, too. Someone who everybody else watches. Like I’m truly one of the Mermaids.

  Until I see Theo. Glaring at me from his seat in homeroom. Like he knows this is not who I really am.

  So I flip my hair and give a little finger wave as I prance by him to deliver a card.

  Theo only gets one card. I wonder who it’s from. Not me—I didn’t se
nd him one. And he didn’t send me one, either. I get three cards, one from each of the Mermaids.

  “That was awesome!” Violet says as we gather together, back in our regular clothes, after school. I’m breathless over how well the card deliveries went. But part of me also wonders what’s next—what I have to look forward to now that this is over.

  Harper has an idea ready. “High fives all around!” She waves the money envelope, fat with cash from the card sales. “Happy Valentine’s Day, ladies! Let’s celebrate! Shooting Star?”

  The girls jump up and down in agreement.

  Harper stuffs the money envelope into her backpack. A few loose dollars fall to the floor.

  Violet traps them under her foot and leans down to pick them up, missing a dollar.

  “Here.” I bend down to get it and hand it to her.

  “Oh, thanks.” She takes it from me like it’s a used tissue, as if that one extra dollar doesn’t matter. She shoves the bills into her pocket, not bothering to put them into the envelope with the rest of the cash.

  I’m light and loose, walking out on the street with the Mermaids, the bright sun giving a cheerful energy even though it’s still super cold.

  But being in the coffee shop with Harper, Chloe, and Violet is not as fun as it looked from the outside.

  Just the opposite. I feel like I need to say something interesting, because they’re totally bored and restless, refreshing the feeds on their phones every five seconds. Violet exclaims about a picture someone I don’t know posted and starts texting, which makes Chloe’s and Harper’s phones ping at the same time.

  My phone is quiet as usual, and I can’t think of anything on it that would get their attention, so I come up with something to say, instead: “Would you rather . . . eat a horse or a rabbit?” Pinching myself for such a ridiculous question.

  “Ew!” squeals Violet. “Rabbit, for sure. Isn’t that, like, venison?”

  “I think deer is venison,” I say, grateful that she’s running with it and not looking at me like I’m the weirdest person in the world.

  “But in France they eat horse, don’t they?” Chloe says.

  “Hey, I used to ride horses!” Harper protests. “Count me in for rabbit.”