Late to the Party

by Kelly Quindlen

  I put on a playlist Ricky had shared with me, checked that the popcorn was secure one more time, and backed out of the driveway.

  * * *

  It was after nine thirty by the time I turned onto Lydia’s street. For a moment I wondered if I was being an idiot, if she would think I was stupid for showing up at her house this late, but a calm voice inside told me to keep going. I sent a single text after I parked.

  Can you come outside? I have something for you.

  Lydia opened the door as I was walking up the front steps. Her hair was wet and she wore a big T-shirt that almost covered her pajama shorts. My stomach swooped at the sight.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, grinning as she stepped onto the porch, her floral scent swirling all around me.

  I held out the popcorn. “You had a bad day.”

  Her eyes lit up, and she laughed like she couldn’t believe it. “You’re kidding. You got this for me?”

  “Straight from the movie theater. I thought it would help with studying.”

  She took the popcorn bucket and placed it on the porch by her bare feet. Then she wrapped me in the surest hug I’ve ever known.

  “Thanks,” she said softly, pulling away. “Can you come in for a minute?”

  “Don’t you have to study?”

  “I can take a break,” she said, and smiled.

  It was only the second time we’d been alone together, unless you counted the few stolen minutes we’d had in her bedroom. I got a better look at her room this time: It was small but homey, with dark wallpaper and a collection of mismatched lamps lighting the space. The overhead light wasn’t on; neither was the fan. There was a tennis racket in the corner, a vintage record player on the floor, and an old wooden desk overlooking a window. Her laptop sat open on the desk with a tumbler of water next to it.

  “Inspecting my room?” she asked, folding herself onto the bed with the popcorn at her belly.

  “I was too drunk to take it in last time. I like how cozy it is.” I dropped down into the desk chair, looking over at her. “Do you use the record player?”

  “Not really. It’s my brother Asher’s, but he gave it to me when he left for college. I keep forgetting about it, though. I’d make a horrible hipster.”

  “My parents had a record player in our old house. Once in a while they’d drink a bottle of wine and put it on, and then they’d just sit there with their eyes closed and listen for, like, half an hour.” I bit my lip, remembering. “That’s when I’d get my little flip pad and try to draw them.”

  Lydia laughed brightly. “You drew your parents when they weren’t looking? That was your way of being sneaky?”

  “I was self-conscious!” I laughed. “My parents were, like, the all-American couple, always socializing and hosting parties, and then they had me, and I just wanted to hide in corners and finger paint. They had no idea what to do with me.”

  Lydia had a tender smile on her face. “I bet you were cuter than you realize.”

  I ducked my head, laughing softly. “Maybe.”

  We melted into silence. Then Lydia said, “So … this midterm I got back today…”

  “Yeah?” I prompted.

  “I got a sixty-eight.”

  It was clear, from the way she said it, that she hadn’t told anyone else yet.

  I wasn’t sure what to say. Everything in me wanted to make her feel better, but all the responses in my head felt inadequate. Finally, I opened my mouth and asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  It was a stupid, cheesy question, but Lydia didn’t hold it against me; instead she nodded and let everything spill out.

  “I thought I’d studied pretty hard, and when I took it I thought I did okay, like a B-minus maybe, but when I got it back today I felt like someone had punched me. I don’t get why math is so impossible for me. My brothers and parents are so good at it, like they can add numbers in their heads so fast, but I’ve never been able to do that. My parents aren’t going to be mad if I tell them, but they’ll do this thing where they’ll look at me like—like they have to make a special exception because I’m just not smart. It’s a look of pity, and I hate it.”

  “You are smart, though—” I said bracingly.

  “Not at math, I’m not.”

  The distance between us was strained. I could feel the fibers of the chair beneath my legs, buzzing and itching. My muscles were asking to get up, even if my brain was lagging behind them.

  I made the decision before I could think about it a second longer, and moved to sit with her on the bed. She scooted to make room for me, but our knees touched the slightest bit, and when I breathed in I could smell her shampoo.

  “Do you wanna know something?” I said. “I think school is bullshit in a lot of ways. They have this standard idea of how we’re supposed to be, and they hold us to it even if it doesn’t fit. Like, this past year in Advanced Art, Mr. Erley had us create portfolios of our work, and I worked on mine like a lunatic, I mean, I even submitted three extra pieces, and I was so proud of everything I’d done. But then we had to do oral presentations about our portfolios, and I get really nervous talking in front of people, so my presentation wasn’t very good, and my final grade on the whole project ended up being an eighty-five. An eighty-five because I couldn’t explain my paintings to classmates who didn’t even care. Mr. Erley wrote all these complimentary things about the paintings themselves, but then he wrote a bunch of insults about my presentation, like ‘You need to practice making eye contact’ and ‘Try to smile sometimes!’ And it’s like, just because I was scared to present to my classmates, that doesn’t mean it should cancel out how good my art was.”

  Lydia’s eyes, so full of desperation a minute before, were now full of fire. “God, Mr. Erley is such an ass.”

  “You’re smart, Lydia. I bet you do fine with math when you’re not worrying about it, like with all those checks you have to manage when you’re waitressing, but even if you’re just flat-out not good at math, I think that’s okay and you shouldn’t feel ashamed of it. You’re good at a million other things, like Manhunt and goofy pranks and making people feel like they matter to you.”

  Lydia looked straight at me; it was the longest we’d ever held eye contact. “Where did you come from?” she asked, shaking her head. “It feels like you should’ve been here the whole time.”

  I could feel myself blushing, and I dropped my gaze to my hands in my lap. “I’m new to the scene.”

  “Oh yeah?” she laughed. “What scene?”

  “The teenage scene.”

  She smiled at me in a gentle way, the way you can only smile at someone when you’ve really started to know them and don’t have to worry about looking happy all the time. “‘The scene,’” she repeated, laughing again. “Only you.”

  We were quiet again. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was almost ten. My parents would be wondering where I was.

  “I should let you get back to studying,” I said.

  “It doesn’t seem as important now,” she sighed, scooting off the bed, “but yeah, I guess I should keep trying.”

  She walked me to the front door and said goodbye. I had just stepped off the porch when she called my name.

  “Codi?”

  I spun around. “Yeah?”

  “I think it’s time for you to paint my portrait.”

  For a moment I couldn’t speak. I thought about Ricky telling me to seize the opportunity. Maritza’s wise words about the universe rewarding your effort. JaKory’s battle of the infinite and intimate.

  “I think you’re right,” I said boldly.

  I smiled, and she smiled, and the whole way home I was on fire.

  13

  I went back to Lydia’s house on Thursday, right after we finished our morning shifts. It was my first time being there in the daylight, and I took in the details I hadn’t noticed before: the earthy, charming gray color; the navy rocking chairs on the porch; the wind chimes hanging over the front steps. Lydia
met me in her driveway, jumping out of her car with her hair swept up in a ponytail and that big, bright smile on her face.

  “Ah, the artiste!” she said, pulling me in for a hug. She was still dressed in her work polo, but this time it was a sea-green shade that made her eyes pop.

  I laughed and let go of her. “Not an artiste. Just an amateur.”

  “Psh,” she said, handing me an iced coffee she’d brought from the restaurant. “You make art, and it’s beautiful. Try and tell me that doesn’t count.”

  We went around to the backyard, where Lydia pointed to a small tree house nestled between the trees. It looked hand built, with mismatched planks and faded, peeling paint on the sides. There was no ladder, but there was a path of crooked two-by-fours scaling up the trunk to the entrance.

  “You said to pick a place that makes me feel like myself,” Lydia said, glancing sideways at me. She seemed almost self-conscious, like maybe this wasn’t what I’d meant.

  I grinned. “This’ll be perfect.”

  She climbed up the ladder first, and I followed a beat behind, trying not to stare at the freckles on her thighs. My canvas workbag brushed against my side, and the moment I got to the top, she pulled it off my shoulder.

  “What do you think?” she asked, gesturing around the closed interior.

  It was a tight fit, obviously meant for little kids. We stood close together, crouching slightly, our heads practically grazing the roof.

  “Definitely an intimate setting,” I said without thinking.

  She laughed and stretched her foot behind her, almost like a nervous tic. “Do you need anything else? I’m gonna fix my hair and change into something that doesn’t smell like grease.” She paused, her eyes twinkling. “Even though you like that smell.”

  “Shut up,” I laughed, rolling my eyes. “Go make yourself look presentable.”

  “Are you saying I don’t look presentable now?”

  I laughed as she scaled down the trunk. Within a minute I’d gotten myself set up, a beautiful blank page and my vibrant set of watercolors in front of me. Now I just had to get in the right headspace.

  “Okay,” Lydia said, huffing as she reappeared at the hole in the tree house floor, “which shirt do you like better?” She held out two options.

  I squinted at them. “Which one do you wear when you wanna feel … um…”

  “Hot?” she laughed.

  A faint blush tinged my cheeks. “I was gonna say … like the you that you wanna be every day.”

  She poked her tongue out, examining them. “I guess this one.” She smoothed her hand over a simple turquoise tank top.

  “Great. Let’s do it.”

  There was a pause as she hovered awkwardly, and at first I wasn’t sure why. Then I realized she needed to change into the shirt.

  “Oh,” I said, turning my head away. “Yeah, um … yeah.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a loud, fast laugh.

  I kept my head tilted down, acutely aware of her tugging the shirt off in my peripheral vision. What did it mean that I had offered to look away, and that she’d expected me to? I mean, this was happening after we’d skinny-dipped together. It was broad daylight, sure, but still—this didn’t seem like a standard interchange between two friends. I couldn’t imagine Lydia and Natalie turning away from each other for something as simple as a shirt change.

  “Okay,” she said. I looked up as she was pulling her hair out of the shirt collar. “How’s it look?”

  My stomach was swooping and whirling all over the place. The truth was she looked simply and naturally beautiful, but I didn’t know how to tell her that, so I panicked and tried for something low-key instead.

  “Dope.”

  She raised her eyebrows at me, and I mentally slapped myself.

  “I mean, pretty,” I said quickly. “Really pretty.”

  She seated herself on the floor across from me, her legs crisscross-applesauce style, her hands splayed back to lean on. There was a pocket of silence where neither one of us spoke as I shifted my paper and studied her, and she watched me carefully in return.

  “Shit,” she said finally. “This really is like Titanic.”

  “Should we call Natalie to come distract you?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “But you’ll have to keep me calm somehow.”

  “You’ll have to keep me calm.”

  “Okay,” she laughed. “Let me think about it.”

  We faded into silence again, and for a while I was able to focus on painting. It was a strange feeling, being so acutely aware of her body and yet feeling detached enough to lose myself in the painting at the same time.

  “Can I look at my phone?” Lydia asked, her voice quiet and breathy like she didn’t want to disturb me. “I have an idea.”

  “For a second. I’m about to start on your eyes.”

  It felt like a naked, intimate thing to say. I smiled at her apologetically, and she bit her lip shyly.

  A minute later, she broke the silence again. “All right, I found something,” she said, glancing up from her phone. “Questions you ask to know someone better.”

  I paused my painting. “The artiste has to answer questions right now?”

  “Yes. If I’m going to be vulnerable, you’re going to be, too.”

  I snorted. “This is vulnerable for me.”

  “Too bad.”

  She took me through a list of questions. Most of them were easy, like What’s the story of the day you were born? (“It was Saint Patrick’s Day,” I said, “that’s why I’m such a party animal.”) Some of them were fun to entertain, like If you had your own space shuttle, where would you go? (“Pluto,” Lydia said decisively. “I’d apologize for the whole you’re-not-a-planet-anymore fiasco.”)

  Then we got to a question that required a more thoughtful answer.

  “‘As you walk along the beach on a quiet, breezy day,’” Lydia read, “‘you come upon a glass bottle that has washed ashore. Inside, you find a message you’ve been waiting for. What does it say?’”

  She looked up at me. I paused with my paintbrush hovering over the canvas.

  “That’s a cheesy question,” I said.

  She raised her eyebrows, unrelenting. “But do you have an answer?”

  I tried to think about it, but I was hyperaware of her watching me. I looked at her, and she looked back, and then we both looked away, laughing.

  “Okay,” I said, “give me a second.”

  The question settled into me as I focused on painting her eyes. She could obviously tell I’d gotten to them, because she looked directly at me, her eyes bare and bright and steady. It felt more intimate than I’d realized it would—far more intimate than looking into Maritza’s or JaKory’s eyes, or Ricky’s, or even my parents’ and brother’s eyes; there was something intense but vulnerable about the way she was looking at me, like she wanted to be seen and hidden away at the same time, and the longer I held eye contact with her, the more I felt the same way.

  I swallowed, forgetting about my paintbrush. “I have an answer.”

  “Yeah?” she whispered.

  “Well, two answers. A fun one and a serious one.”

  She smiled like she’d expected nothing less. “What’s the fun one?”

  “The message would be from a fabulously rich old lady, and she would invite me to her mansion on the French Riviera for a dinner party with a bunch of famous artists.”

  “I like that. Why does the lady know all these artists?”

  “She’s just one of those crazy rich people who have lots of talented friends.”

  “Yeah, and no one even knows where all her money came from.”

  “Exactly.”

  A beat passed, and Lydia asked, “Could I hear your serious one?”

  I took a breath. I wanted to tell her—to invite her into my scared, insecure, vulnerable self—but it was terrifying as hell. I didn’t even know if I could be this honest with Maritza and JaKory.

  Her eyes w
ere still on me, searching me, and there was no expectation in them—only wonder.

  “Okay,” I said. “The message would be from—well, I don’t really know, but it would be from someone like God, someone who really knows what they’re talking about—and it would say—” I paused. I took another breath. “It would say, There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re doing just fine.”

  Silence. I sat there across from her, buffered by the canvas, my face searing with heat, my heart sprinting with panic.

  Then Lydia spoke.

  “It would be the truth.”

  She wasn’t patronizing or dismissing me. Her voice was clear, and steady, and gentle.

  I exhaled. “Could I hear your answer?”

  She was quiet, but then she said, “It would be from my gram, who died last year.” Her voice wobbled, and she swallowed hard. “And she would say, There’s nothing to be scared of.”

  I was quiet, giving her the moment she needed. Then I asked, “Lydia? What are you scared of?”

  She didn’t reply right away, and I worried I’d overstepped.

  But then she said, in a strained voice, “Going to college. Failing. Not being brave enough. Everything.”

  I breathed in. A million responses flashed through my brain, but I settled on the one that felt the truest.

  “I think saying what you’re afraid of makes you brave.”

  We looked at each other for a long, burning second. I watched her breathe, her chest rising and falling.

  “Codi?”

  “Lydia?”

  She bit her lip, a secret grin on her face. “What’s your favorite color?”

  I laughed unexpectedly. “That’s what you want to follow up with?”

  “Yes.”

  I smiled, my hands in my lap now, all thought of the painting abandoned. “It changes all the time. Right now it’s violet.”