He’s quiet for a long time.
“Neither did I,” he says.
There’s a window over his bed and I want to let the light in. He’s still in his clothes from last night and he’s all sweaty from crying.
“Have you eaten anything?”
“My mom made me breakfast.”
“It almost four. You need something.”
I head to the kitchen to make him a PB&J. On the way I pass the television and a case of his parents’ DVDs, arranged in alphabetical order. I choose one at random. Before entering his room again, I check my phone. Brad texted me a picture of a flier with my name listed directly below Lin Chin’s. Post to Insta ASAP, he’s instructed. I think of her beautiful cranes, so delicate. I once read an interview with her where she described learning how to fold origami from her friend’s mother. She said that they didn’t speak the same language, so they spoke through the paper and the folds and the figures they created.
Then I think of my paintings next to her pieces, and my stomach drops.
I knock on Mark’s doorframe and step into his room again. “I thought we could watch something,” I say, handing him his sandwich.
He’s sitting up now, running his hand through his bedhead.
“Your show,” he says. “I can’t believe I spaced. I need to get ready.”
“The reception doesn’t start until six thirty. We have time.”
“But we should leave by five, then.”
“I can be fashionably late.”
“So we should leave at six.”
“Or a little later.”
Then I start to say something.
I stop myself.
And then I say it anyway:
“Or we can skip it.”
As soon as I say it, relief washes over me. The relief is on Mark’s tear-wrecked face, too, plain as anything.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
“I can’t believe you would do that for me.”
His gratitude is too much to accept, so I tell him, “I’m not only doing this for you.” I have no business being in this show. How could I look Lin Chin in the eye and not die of embarrassment? How could I listen to Audra and Brad call my paintings quaint? How could I endure Lehna’s glares from across the room? It would be so much easier not to go, but now is not the time to list all the reasons, so I say, “Holy fuck that place is hideous. Those walls!”
“It’s a lot of pink.”
“Way too much pink. So it’s settled then. We can watch this movie.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Of course I’m sure. This movie stars Johnny Depp. You need to watch it to remind yourself that there are plenty of hot guys roaming the streets.”
He looks pained.
“Only when you’re ready for them,” I add. “For now, they are in hibernation.”
He smiles. I wasn’t sure he’d ever smile again.
I head to his computer.
“Oh no,” he says. “If we’re going to watch this movie, we are going to watch it. Not squint at some dinky laptop screen.”
So we go into the living room and watch on the giant flat screen as Johnny Depp’s character falls in love with a strange girl from a bigger place. The whole movie is about how he wants to be somewhere else. Part of a different family. Part of a different town. Part of a different life. It seems like the girl might save him.
Violet.
I need to tell her I’m not coming.
But I don’t even have her number. I could write her an email explaining, but I don’t know how I’d begin.
It’s past five now. Lehna is probably picking up June and Uma, checking her phone for my text accepting her ride or giving her a good reason why I’m passing it up. Instead she’s getting silence.
And then it’s six, and the movie is ending, and Mark and I are crying because it’s a beautiful thing, how people can come together. There are so many ways to let people down, not nearly as many to get it right.
“Kate,” he says, as the credits roll. “Explain this all to me. I mean, is this what you’re usually like? Or is something going on?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, but it’s just to buy time. I know what he means. The running away from every good thing. First from Violet and now from tonight.
“And I just realized,” he adds. “All the other seniors I know talk about college constantly. I know you’re going to UCLA, but only because you told my mother. You never talk about it, and you graduate in nine days.”
I close my eyes.
Violet.
“Hold on,” I say. “I just need to get my phone.”
I take my time walking down the hallway. You graduate in nine days. You graduate in nine days. I’m getting light-headed; my hands are trembling.
I unzip my backpack and sit down on Mark’s carpeted floor.
A text from Lehna: Is this some kind of publicity stunt? Because you are nowhere close to being famous enough to pull that off.
I type back: I need Violet’s number.
A moment later, my phone buzzes: Unbelievable.
I wait to see if a number will follow, but it doesn’t.
I don’t know what I’ll tell Mark when I get back to the living room. I could tell him the truth, I guess: that I worked hard on my paintings and sent in my portfolio. That I did so knowing that I wouldn’t get in, because the art program is competitive and my work wouldn’t stand out among the thousands of other applicants. But then I got the letter in the mail saying congratulations, and my parents cheered and my grandparents took us all out to dinner, and not a single time did anyone ask if this was what I really wanted.