How to Be Brave (20 page)

“And smoggy,” I say. “I hear they can't even go outside some days because of the pollution.”

He responds in Greek:
“H zoe einai san ena agouri. O enas to troei kai throsizete, kai o allos to troei kai zorizete.”

“Dad. I have no idea what you're saying.”

“This is what I'm saying: Life is like a cucumber. One man eats it, and he is refreshed, while another man eats it, and he struggles.”

I guess this is what I get for complaining about snowfall in April. My entire life reduced to a cucumber seed and then subsequently uprooted and replanted five thousand miles away.

I don't know what other choice I have. The world closes in on me. Static fills my ears.

But finally, after a few empty moments, this is what I say: “I'll think about it.”

“Okay, then.”

We sit in silence, both of us staring out the window at the pedestrians huddled in their layers, slipping and sliding across the icy sidewalk.

He looks at me. “Now, you tell me some news.”

This is the perfect moment to tell him about my day, about Marquez and the gallery show and my future as a professional artist.

But I don't.

“I have homework.” I shrug. I can't sit here anymore thinking about things that are out of my control, thinking about how everything is just so fucking far out of my control. “Big chemistry test in two days.”

“Well then, you have work to do.” He stands up. He is about to turn around to go back to the register when he stops himself. He takes my chin in his hand and says this: “
Eisai to ithio yia to mamasou. Oraio.
”

I understand this perfectly.

You are the same as your mother.

Beautiful.

*   *   *

When I get home, I google Azusa, California. I imagine sand and surf and palm trees swaying in the gentle breeze, with movie stars jogging by.

Turns out that Azusa is a long, long way from the beach, and despite its romantic-sounding name, there's not much there. First of all, the name itself is stupid. They're not sure, but it might mean one of two things: everything from A to Z in the USA (ugh), or even worse, it might stem from an old Indian word meaning “skunk place.” It's known for its brewery. It had a drive-in theater that closed in 2001. An “A” is etched into the nearby mountain. And … that's it. Awesome.

I log off and check my phone, hoping maybe Daniel somehow got my number from Liss and texted me or something.

Nothing.

I have one thing left. My art.

I pull out my paints and dig in, working until 1:30
A.M.
, when I collapse on the bed.

I dream of protons and electrons and palm trees and cucumbers.

I dream in vivid color of new maps, new topographies.

I'm surfing on ice.

 

13

Daniel's desk is empty. It has been for over a week. He's been absent in all his classes. Word on the street is his father's sick, like really sick. I overheard a few kids in art class talking about him. Apparently, he lives here with his mom, but neither of his parents has a lot of money, and with his dad's chronic illness, it might mean they won't be able to afford college. He's been working double shifts at Baskin-Robbins to try to save as much as he can. But now he had to fly out to Oregon because his dad is having some kind of heart procedure. And I have no way of contacting him. I have no way of telling him that I've been there, that I know what he's going through.

At the end of class, Marquez hands me a stack of postcards—announcements for the gallery show. They're so official looking. On one side is this gorgeous piece that looks like an abstract cross section of human musculature. And on the other side is this:

Shikaakwa Art Gallery and Coffee House presents

Important Things

Works from Georgia Askeridis, Elsa Baines, Roberta Fernando,

and Elizabeth Revell revolve around the

themes of creation, mutation, and destruction

Contemporary art in all media

Opening Reception: Friday, May 20, 8:00–11:00
P.M.

Whether you succeed or not is irrelevant, there is no such thing.

Making your unknown known is the important thing
.

—Georgia O'Keeffe

There it is, my name, first in the list, with many thanks to the creator of alphabetical order.

Okay, enough glass-half-empty bullshit.

This is really happening.

I feel like calling someone, but the only person who comes to mind is my mom. Well, and Liss, of course.

I could give her a card, invite her. And tell her to bring Daniel, too.

Except that prom is that night.

Either way, I want her to know that I did it.

I completed #6.

She should know.

I think of Daniel's note. I pull out a Sharpie and write in the corner of one of the postcards: “#6. Check.”

I head to my locker for the first time in months. Liss is at her locker, talking to Avery. I open mine and pretend to shuffle my things around. I wait for them to finish up. After they leave, I run over and slide the card into the slots in her locker.

There.

A peace offering.

It's the most important thing I could do right now.

*   *   *

Dad is
very
excited about the show. Like, I'm kicking myself for not telling him about it last week. I haven't seen him this happy in a year, maybe.

“I will close the restaurant that night,” he announces.

“Dad, you can't close the restaurant. I mean, you've never closed the restaurant.”

“Eh, why not? We're going to close for good in a few months. What's another night?” He places his hand on my cheek. “Anyway,
koúkla mou,
there is no other place I would rather be.”

He plants a kiss on the top of my head. “You are
my
important thing.”

*   *   *

The next day, in the middle of chem lab, I get a text from Liss:
Congratulations
.

Huh. So, she's talking to me.

I tell Zittel I need to go to the bathroom, and when I get there, I duck into a stall and text back:
Thanks. You okay?

A minute later, I get:
Yes. Thanks. Hope ur good.

Okay.

I go for it:
Is everything okay with Daniel's dad? I heard the news. I hope he gets better. And I only wish the best for you guys.

There. I said it.

It's a start, I guess. An exchange of words. The first in four months.

Then nothing, for like six minutes.

I'm sitting on the cold porcelain sink in this cold, dank bathroom waiting for the response that could bring me back my best and only friend. Ninety-nine percent chance Zittel's going to ask if “everything came out okay.” I don't care. I'll stay here until the end of the period if it means a 1 percent chance of reconciling with Liss.

Then:
Not sure yet. It doesn't look good. Thanks though. Congratulations again. Bye.

And that's it.

When I open the door to the chem lab, Zittel looks at me and asks, in front of everyone, “Did you fall in?”

Well, I took the risk and tried my chances, and regardless of the actual statistical outcome, I most definitely lost.

*   *   *

I spend every day after school working on my stuff. I have to bring it all to school three days before the show so that Marquez can drive it over to the gallery, where his sister is going to work on putting it up.

I've stopped sleeping, both because I'm hungry to create more pieces and because I'm a nervous wreck. I'm just too excited for the show.

Everyone else at school is too excited for prom. All I hear all week is “prom this” and “prom that” and “Oh, my dress is so freaking awesome” and “Oh, I still gotta rent my tux” and on and on and on. All I can think is, I still have three more pieces to finish. I like mine better.

On the big day, half the senior class is absent, particularly the girls. Liss is among the absent ones. I imagine her at some beauty salon getting all dolled up, her normally wild hair being shellacked and coiffed with gel and spray. I imagine her in sequins and high heels. I imagine her next to Daniel in a black tux, their arms intertwined, posing for the school photographer, her hip jutting out, her chin slightly tilted. Ugh. It's just such a pretty image, the two of them together.

I walk into the mostly empty art room (just me and three other losers), and Marquez smiles at me. “Big night tonight!” I'm surprised he doesn't comment on the fact that on the one day I'm allowed to cut class, I actually show up. But I can see that he's not in a sarcastic mood today. He's genuinely excited for me.

I nod and head to my desk. I really have nothing to do. I'm too nervous to do anything. I have one more test left in chemistry next week (I got a C+ on my last exam! Woot woot!), and with ten days left before the end of the year, Marquez has abandoned any hint of a lesson plan for a few weeks. I think about leaving. Maybe going home and taking a nap.

Then, Daniel walks in. It's his first day back in weeks. I haven't heard any news about his dad, but from the dark circles under his eyes, I can see that he's been through hell.

He sees me and smiles. He heads in my direction, pulls up an empty chair, and sits down next to me. “I was hoping you'd be here.”

The familiar hollowness at the core of my being immediately returns.

“First of all, congratulations on your big show tonight.”

“Thanks. But is your dad okay?”

“Oh, well.” He stops. “Yes. And no. He had an issue with his heart and needed a valve repair.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. My mom had heart problems, too.…”

“Yeah? It's rough, right? I mean, he's just really tired all the time.”

“It gets better,” I say. I don't say,
And then it gets worse
. I've already said it once. I don't need to say it again.

And maybe it will be different for them.

He nods. He knows what I mean. “He's okay now, but his only hope is a kidney transplant. He's on a list.”
So was my mom.
“The good thing is I think it's been a real wake-up call for him. I mean, mostly.”
Not like my mom.
“I stayed for a while to help him settle in at home. I came back for the last few weeks—prom and graduation and all that—and then I'm going back for the summer.”

“He'll be happy to have you there.”

“Yeah, so, look…” Daniel shifts in his chair. “I'm sorry about that day at Ellie's. Did that guy give you my message?”

“He did.”

“Good. I was waiting when I got the text from my aunt about my dad. I was on a plane that night and I didn't know your number.”

“I figured as much.”

“Here's the thing. I think you guys should make up. Like I wrote in that note, she misses you. She talks about you all the time. We'll be at the movies or whatever, and she'll say something like ‘Georgia would love this.'”

I do that, too.

“She doesn't even hear herself sometimes.” He smiles. “She's stubborn. You know that.”

“Well, I messed up pretty bad. I never even wanted to do that with Gregg.” I can feel my face redden.

I wanted to do that with you.

“You couldn't help it. Whatever that girl Evelyn gave us was some fucked-up shit. I'm glad she's out of this school. And honestly, I don't really get why Liss is holding this over your head so much. I get it. It was a crazy night.”

You get it. You actually understand.

“Anyway, I didn't mean to wait this long to tell you, but I just wanted to let you know. And I think you should talk to her.”

“I gave her the card about my show. She texted back. We had about the shortest conversation ever. And then that was it.”

“You were
texting
?” He shakes his head. “That's not a conversation. Texting is about as effective as delivering the mail via pigeons. There's only so much you can communicate. You guys need to talk in person.”

“Yeah, you're right.” I shrug. “I'm willing to, but I don't think she is.”

“Let me talk to her. I can be pretty convincing when I want to be.” And he winks.

And he's so damn cute.

He's with Liss now. Let it go, Georgia.

“Okay,” I say. “Well, thanks.”

“Have a great show tonight.” He stands up. “Mr. Marquez, I was never here.”

Marquez looks at the ceiling and then under the desk. “Who said that?”

Daniel throws his bag over his shoulder.

“Hope your dad's feeling better,” Marquez calls out as Daniel heads toward the door.

Daniel nods and says, “Thanks.” Then he turns and waves. And he's gone.

Marquez looks at me. “You want to go, too?”

I think about it for a second and then decide to stay. I have the big show tonight, a glimmer of promise that I'll talk to my best friend, and a near-empty, quiet classroom with nothing to do but draw. For once, I'm comfortable right where I am.

*   *   *

The Shikaakwa Art Gallery and Coffee House is so übercool, I can hardly stand it. It's small and the air is thick with the heavy scent of espresso and more espresso. Right when I walk in, someone dressed like a superhip penguin offers me some miniature empanadas, but my stomach is in too many knots to eat anything. If my dad's arm weren't wound around mine holding me up, I might have already collapsed on the floor, my knees are so shaky from this crazy night.

My dad accepts an empanada in his free hand and takes a bite. “Mmmm. These are very good. I should suggest something like this to Vassilis when I get there.”

“Dad, I think they have empanadas in California.”