I follow them inside to where Shelbie and her cool city-dwelling friends sprawl across the sofas and rugs, laughing and drinking and looking fabulous. All these kids, gay and straight and everything in between—they look at us and wave and say hello and I would like to stop and get to know some of them, but Lehna heads to the study, where the computer screen saver glows, shifting family snapshots, and says, “We have to look something up real quick. We’ll be right back.”
And then, even though I am right behind her, she says, “Let’s go, Kate.”
I’m about to ask why it’s so annoying to her; it’s my name, after all. And it’s not like I’ve decided that I want to be called something totally random. It’s just another form of Katherine, one I think might suit me better. But I don’t even need to ask her because I already know the answer. When you’re friends with someone for such a long time, it’s easy to feel like she belongs to you, like the version of the person you became friends with is the only real version. If she hated peas when she was a kid then she will always hate peas, and if she starts to eat them and declares them delicious, really she is deluding herself, masking her hatred of them, trying to pretend that she’s someone she’s not.
But the thing is, I never chose to be called Katie. As far as I know, that’s what my parents called me the moment I popped out and I never even thought of the other possibilities until recently, when I started to feel like something was a little bit off every time someone said my name. And as I stand here in this dim room while Lehna looks up the names and descriptions of San Francisco art galleries I can’t help thinking about how that applies to a lot of my friends, too. I didn’t choose to be friends with Lehna. Not really. I kind of just fell into it the way you fall into things when you’re a kid in a new school and the first person who pays attention to you feels like such a gift, such an overwhelming relief. You are not alone. You have a friend. And it’s only later—maybe even years later—that you stop and wonder, Why this person? Why her?
Lehna rattles off the names of galleries, but I can see from the images on the screen that my paintings wouldn’t belong in any of them.
“This is such a bad idea,” I say. “If she brings it up I’ll just tell her that you misunderstood me or something. I’ll tell her that I want to have a show one day.”
“It isn’t enough,” Lehna says. She turns in her swivel chair and looks at me. “You want this, right?”
“Yes,” I say. “I want this.”
And I can see how much Lehna wants it to work out between Violet and me, too. There must be some compromise we can reach, some in between. I lean over the computer and type: hair salon art gallery san francisco.
“Let’s start out a little more realistically, okay?”
I find a trendy salon in Hayes Valley that features a new artist’s work every month.
“Your stuff is way better than that,” Lehna says, even though the work that they are featuring this month is actually really nice. Delicate line drawings with splashes of color. Mostly portraits, some botanicals. She clicks through some other links until she finds a list of San Francisco’s best new galleries.
“Look through this,” she says. “Choose one.”
“Fine,” I say, even though I know it’s a terrible idea. Because what Lehna is telling me is that I’m not enough for Violet yet. I need to be better, and I know that I can be, even if I have to fake it for a little while. “But I don’t have a show lined up yet,” I tell Lehna. “It’s still preliminary.”
“Let’s just say they went crazy when they saw your portfolio. It’s only a matter of time.” She reaches into her pocket for her phone and when she looks back up at me she’s smiling.
“Violet’s on her way,” she says. “Maybe you could, like, reapply?”
“Yeah, okay.”
I stand up and I find myself hot and dizzy, saying, “I think my lipstick’s in the car,” even though it’s not.
We head out of the study and into the crowd that has already multiplied in the few minutes we spent back there. None of the faces are ones that I recognize, and they are now too absorbed in one another to acknowledge us. Lehna at least looks like she belongs with her nose ring and her hair in its ponytail to show off the patch on one side that she keeps buzzed short. June and Uma are nowhere to be found. They’ve probably snuck off to a bedroom.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Lehna, and she nods and walks into the kitchen.
I step around the kids on the rugs and out the door, past my car, and up to the corner, telling myself that I’ll just walk around the block. I need a few minutes by myself because I suddenly feel stupid and small and like there’s no way I could be worthy of this girl I’m about to meet.
But I reach the end of the block and I keep walking, up through Dolores Park, into the throngs of celebrating people. They’re a happy riptide and I’m letting myself get carried out, deeper and deeper into the sea of them, further from the moment I’ve been awaiting for so long.
Out here feels worlds away from Shelbie’s living room. A bunch of teenagers sitting around looking cool is nothing like the thrumming swarm on the street. Here everything is electric and happy. Even the toughest-looking women, leaning against storefronts with expressions of practiced unapproachability, soften when I smile at them. Even the most aloof-looking boys seem sweet.