He’d carried that camera everywhere for a while, like it wasn’t easier to just snap a picture with his cell phone. “These ones, I can hold in my hands instantly,” he’d said when I told him as much. But gradually, he stopped bringing it places, and I hadn’t seen it in several months. That’s why the last string of pictures surprised me—him and Iris. Him and Iris on his quad, him and Iris at the beach. She made the wall. That was new too.
My hands started to sweat as I stared at those pictures. It was fine. It wasn’t too late. My plan was going to work. He’d chosen me the other day. He’d chosen me tonight. He’d choose me again.
But what if he didn’t? What if it was too late? I swung around and was almost to his door when Cooper said, “Abby?”
“Yes, what, huh?” I said, a little too loudly. I rushed to his bedside.
“I thought you left.”
“I didn’t leave. I’m here.”
“Good. I like it when you’re here.”
“Me too.”
“You’re my favorite,” he mumbled.
My shoulders relaxed. “I know. You’re mine too.”
TWENTY-NINE
I’d gotten to Cooper’s house at eight. It was now almost midnight—my curfew. He’d been in and out of sleep. We had several incoherent (on his part) conversations. I’d wet and rewet his rag tons of times. But now that his fever was gone and he was sleeping comfortably beside me, I could leave. An hour before, Amelia had come in and said good night. Everything was going to be fine. I needed to leave.
I lifted Cooper’s heavy arm from where it rested on my lap and got out of his bed. His phone sat on his nightstand. It was nearly dead—I’d heard it buzz its low-battery signal earlier. I plugged it into the charger so he’d have a way to text me if he woke up. Then I pulled out my phone and sent him a text.
Curfew. Had to go. Hope you feel better.
I lingered by the door. Why was I lingering? Why did I hope he’d wake up and beg me to stay? I needed to leave. So I left.
That night, I dreamed that I slept through the show. I woke the next morning in a panic before I remembered it was only Saturday. I still had a full day before I should’ve had a dream like that, but I was relieved it was only a nightmare.
I had two texts waiting for me on my phone. The first was from Lacey: You saw him last night. Avoid him like the plague today and tomorrow to counteract your weakness.
Yes, boss, I texted back.
The second was from Cooper: I heard I was a baby last night. Thanks for taking care of me.
So he didn’t remember? Is that what he was saying? I answered: You were. Does this mean you’re feeling better?
Much. Good enough for my quad and the dunes. You in?
Funny.
I thought you conquered that fear.
I faced it. Didn’t conquer it.
The next text that came through was from Lacey again: And don’t text him all day either.
I laughed and did just as she directed. I didn’t text him another word. He must’ve figured I was busy setting up for the show, because he didn’t text me another word either. I didn’t dwell on it (too much) because I was busy setting up for the show. I scrubbed so many baseboards and chair rails that day that my shoulders ached.
“Grandpa, I need a shoulder rub. But no deep tissue,” I said when I got home that night. I plopped myself on the floor in front of his chair.
“How else am I supposed to get the knots out then?”
Mom turned the computer to face me and I saw my dad’s smiling face on the screen. “Hey, kid! You made the show!”
“Yes! I did. You got my email?”
“I did. I answered back, but you’ve had a busy week, I hear.”
“So busy. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “Good luck. I’m sad I can’t make it.”
“Can’t make it, huh? Yeah, right. You’re going to surprise me, like those soldier dads I see on the internet all the time jumping out of boxes at football games or cakes at birthday parties, aren’t you?”
“They jump out of boxes at football games?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s very dramatic and there are lots of tears.”
Grandpa started rubbing my shoulder, and I sucked in a painful breath.
“No, kid, that’s not happening. I wish,” Dad said.
“That’s what they all say. They try to play it off. But I’m onto you. Just don’t jump out of any of my paintings or you’ll have to pay for them. I will work on my good crying face though.”
“Abby, I—”
“She’s kidding, Paul,” Mom said. “She knows you’re not coming.” She waved her hand at me behind the computer telling me to knock it off.
Grandpa, who was always quick to jump on board when he thought people were the most uncomfortable, said, “I hope you have a videographer set up for all this, Paul. Those kinds of videos get millions of views online.”
My mom sighed and turned the computer back toward her with an apologetic look on her face. “You know how they are,” she said. “They like to take things just beyond the funny point.”
“What?” I said indignant. “I thought we were just under maximum level of humor on that one.”
“Me too,” Grandpa agreed while digging into the knot on my neck. “I had at least two more rounds in that volley.”
“Nobody says rounds in a volley, Grandpa.”
“I do, so that’s not true.”
“Ouch. I said not deep tissue.”
He backed off a little. “Are you all ready for tomorrow?”
“Yes. I think so.” I was ready to show my art. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to kiss Cooper, but both were happening regardless of if I was ready or not. I just hoped he was.
THIRTY
I paced my station in Lacey’s heels. I hadn’t had time to shop for my own, and hers were definitely too small. They pinched my toes and rubbed at the side of my foot. But they did look good. What was it she had said about sacrifice?
She’d sent me a text earlier, and I smiled remembering it now.
Good luck. Remember: your lips will change hearts.
The doors hadn’t been opened to the public yet, but they would be soon. I pulled out my phone to look at the time. Six forty-five. Fifteen minutes. I’d told Cooper to wait until eight though, so hopefully he remembered that. It would be better for my mom. I sent him off a quick text just to make sure. Because of my strict charge to avoid him, I hadn’t gone over the schedule with him since a week ago at milk shakes, with Iris listening in.
A low-grade headache pressed at the back of my skull and up into my temples. I hoped it stayed mild.
The other stations around me each had three or four people arranging and rearranging paintings and placards. I twisted my hands around each other, then smoothed my dress again. My mom had helped me put my hair up in a loose twist with strategic pieces left down around my face.
My paintings hung on the wall behind me like a backdrop. I adjusted one of the placards: The Tree of Life. Which was obviously the tree painting. I’d named all my paintings that week. The one of Cooper on the dunes I’d named Fearless. The spotlight from the stage I called New Perspective. The fish-spa fish I’d decided to call Distorted. And finally, the sunrise. For some reason that painting represented all the new things I had tried over the past several weeks with Cooper. A coming to life. That painting was my favorite, mostly because that morning had been my favorite, sitting there and taking it in. So I named the sunrise The Heart List.
I was excited for people to see the paintings. I was especially excited for my mom to see the theater one. It was like a premonition of tonight. She’d finally get to see me in the spotlight.
Mr. Wallace was making the final rounds. He was visiting each artist, asking them if there was anything else they needed. I knew the drill. I just hadn’t been on this side of the drill before. When he reached me, he squeezed my hand. He looked a little more put together tonight. He had on a dark suit that
wasn’t quite as big as usual. His gray hair had been cut recently, giving him a more polished look.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Excited.”
His eyes flitted over my paintings. “Good luck,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“You should put your phone away. Try to be as professional as possible.”
“Yes, I was planning on it. Thanks.” I tucked it back into my purse and set my purse on the chair behind a screen I’d set up for my mom. I’d found the pretty painted screen in the back room and thought it would be a perfect place to escape if she needed a breather.
The doors opened seconds later, and then there were people. There were people walking around the museum looking at paintings. Looking at my paintings. I hoped I could keep my excited feet on the ground.
A familiar face came into my view.
“Elliot!” I said. I hadn’t seen him since the party and hadn’t texted him since talking to Tree Man.
“I didn’t realize you were an artist featured here tonight,” he said.
“I wasn’t sure if it was actually happening either.”
“You look great.”
“Thanks.” I stepped aside, because he was trying to peer around me to look at my paintings.
“These are amazing, Abby.”
“Thank you.” I followed him as he stepped in front of each one. “Have you ever entered your sculptures in a show like this?”
“No. I haven’t. I should.” He stood in front of the sunrise now. “I like what you did with color here. Cold to warm.”
It was nice talking to someone my age who understood the nuances in art.
“Have you had a lot of people come by?” he asked.
“I’ve had a few that seemed interested. Lots of lookers.”
Speaking of lookers, a well-dressed older couple came alongside Elliot to look at the sunrise piece. Some patrons were the silent type, and it was nerve-racking not hearing what they thought of my art—good or bad.
“It’s amazing, right?” Elliot asked the man who was closest to him.
“Is it abstract or realism?” the man asked.
“It’s abstract meets realism.”
The man grunted a little, like he wasn’t into twists on classic forms. Then they moved on.
“He’s stupid,” Elliot whispered.
“It’s fine. Art is subjective, that’s what makes it great,” I said. “We each get to love or hate something on our own terms.”
“Well said.”
I turned away from my paintings to face the room again. My feet were killing me. “You haven’t seen my family or Cooper around, have you?”
“Around here?”
I smiled. “No, at the McDonald’s up the street. Of course around here.”
“I haven’t. You want me to go make a loop and see if I can find them?” He pointed to the second level, where the other half of the displays were set up.
“No. That’s okay.” They’d come find me once they were here.
“I’m going to finish my round then. Check out the other artists.”
“Of course. Go. Tell me your favorite when you’re done so I can look at it later.”
“But art is subjective, Abby. You’ll have to pick your own favorite.” He winked at me.
I gave him a shove to help him on his way, and he smiled at me over his shoulder. Then I went back to waiting. After three more groups of people came by my display, I couldn’t help myself, I snuck out my phone and slipped behind the screen.
My phone said it was already eight thirty. Only an hour and a half left of the show. There were three missed calls, all from our home number. None from Cooper. I texted him again: Where are you?! My mom and grandpa are waiting!
I pulled up the Find Your Friend app and tried to locate him, but it said inaccessible. It only said that when his phone was powered off or out of battery.
I quickly dialed the home number. Grandpa picked up after the second ring.
“Where is Cooper?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I was calling you to find out.”
“He hasn’t been here,” Grandpa said.
“How is Mom?”
“She’s okay, but she does much better when things go like she meticulously rehearsed them in her head.”
“I know. Cooper was sick Friday night. Yesterday morning he said he was feeling better, but I haven’t talked to him since then. I wonder if he took a turn for the worse.”
I felt a presence to my left and looked up to see Mr. Wallace. I let out a short yelp of surprise. “I have to go,” I said to Grandpa. “Can you try to call Cooper?”
“I’ll try.”
“Come even if he doesn’t.”
“Without Cooper we have no car. You have it.”
I had forgotten that minor detail. “A cab?”
Grandpa gave an ironic laugh. “You think your mother would get in a cab?”
“No.”
“Either way, Abby, have fun tonight. Don’t pin all your success on your mom.”
I hung up because Mr. Wallace was still there, still staring.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “My mom was supposed to come, and my friend, and I was getting worried. . . .” I trailed off when I realized he didn’t care about my excuses. “I’m sorry.”
“Please try not to show your age tonight, Abby. This isn’t a show about parents seeing their kids’ artwork.”
Ouch. I nodded and stepped out from behind the screen. There was nobody at my station, but I went to stand by my paintings anyway.
Another half hour went by. At least that was my guess. I couldn’t be certain without my phone. My excitement from before was melting to disappointment, and my head started to ache even more. I saw Elliot across the way, and I waved him over.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“What time is it?”
He looked at a smart watch on his wrist. “Five after nine.”
“There’s less than an hour left. Cooper was supposed to get my mom. I have the car. Will you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Text Cooper for me.” I had a feeling his phone wasn’t on, but maybe it was just the Find Your Friend app that wasn’t working. Or my phone was being weird. Or . . . something.
“What’s his number?”
I recited it to him.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Say, Abby is looking for you. Where are you? She said that if you’re not sick, she’s going to break into the nearest science facility, steal their deadliest virus, and release it in your bedroom.”
Elliot raised his eyebrows at me. I watched him type—Abby wants to know where you are—into his phone.
“That works too,” I said.
We both stared at his phone, waiting for a reply. When nothing happened, I sighed.
“Excuse me,” a voice from behind us said. “Are these your paintings?” I turned to see the woman looking at Elliot.
“No,” he said at the same time as I said, “No, they’re mine. Here, let me show them to you.” As I walked her to the nearest one, out of the corner of my eye I caught Mr. Wallace staring in my direction. Had he seen that whole exchange? My grandpa was right, I needed to stop thinking about it and let tonight be about my paintings and not about a breakthrough for my mom . . . or Cooper and me. As I let both of those ideas slip to the floor, my heart followed suit.
THIRTY-ONE
As soon as the woman moved on to another artist, Mr. Wallace was at my side again. Elliot must’ve moved on as well, because he was nowhere to be seen.
“Abby, I’m disappointed,” Mr. Wallace said. “Your father assured me you would be mature.”
“My father? You know my father?”
“He emailed me. Didn’t he tell you? I thought that’s why you brought your paintings by last week.”
“He . . . emailed you? That’s why you picked me?”
“He said one of the paintings you were displayi
ng was already sold, so it would be financially smart of the museum to allow an opportunity for the others to be seen. I meant to tell you earlier that you should put a Sold sticker next to the placard of the one that is sold.”
My dad had lied to get me into the show tonight? My paintings hadn’t earned their own way in?
“You have a patron.” Mr. Wallace nodded behind me, then left me standing there with that new information swirling around in my head and trying to drain out my eyes. I sniffed back the tears and joined the older gentleman looking at the painting of Cooper on the sand dunes. The painting looked so juvenile now. Nobody else at the show tonight had a quad on their canvases.
“My grandson would love this,” the man said.
I nodded numbly. “It’s my friend. He rides.”
“So does my grandson. How much?”
He was the first person to ask me my prices and I became tongue-tied. This man was buying this for a kid. My eyes slid to the fish painting next to it. My paintings—loved only by children. Maybe they were immature. I suddenly felt embarrassed. Like I was selling stuffed animals while everyone else was selling live exotic ones. Like I was the only amateur in a room full of professionals. Maybe Mr. Wallace really had been protecting me by telling me no. I wasn’t ready. My paintings weren’t ready.
“Young lady?” the man asked, sympathy in his voice. “Are you okay?”
“Um. Yes. I . . . uh . . . I’m not sure how much I should sell that for.” I had researched and priced my paintings before the show, but now those prices seemed too high.
“Should I make you an offer?”
I turned to face him fully. I could do this. He wanted this painting, I was going to sell it to him. Just as I opened my mouth to speak, my eyes collided with a pin on the lapel of his suit coat—a US flag alongside an army one.
He knew my dad. My dad had sent him here. If my dad had been willing to lie to Mr. Wallace to get me in the show, I had no doubt he talked some of his friends into coming to support me. He probably even told them he’d buy a painting for them. Anger coursed through me.