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were best buddies? I could already see how he'd act when he saw I was at the opening, too. He'd
either A) totally ignore me or B) seek me out in order to say something condescending. God,
why was he such a jerk? It was enough to make me want to leave without even bothering to see
the rest of the paintings.
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I was about to zip up my jacket and head out, when I realized how stupid I was being. I mean, I
had just as much right to be here as he did. It wasn't like he owned the place. Who cared if he
was sucking up to the artist while I was standing alone in the corner? Ms. Daniels had invited
both of us. I'd look at the paintings, thank her for inviting me, and leave. There was no reason I even had to say hello to him.
Just as I was turning my back to where he was standing, Sam looked over in my direction. Great.
I saw him excuse himself, and he came toward me.
"So, you decided to brave the streets of Gotham." His cheeks were flushed, and he held a half-
empty wineglass in one hand. He touched the sleeve of my jacket. "Did you, in fact, bring the
football team with you?"
"Basketball," I corrected him, pulling my arm away from his hand. "I hate football."
"Oh, sorry," he said. "I didn't realize there was a difference."
This was too much. "You didn't realize there was a difference?" Crossing my arms, I gave a sarcastic laugh. "Oh, please. You think it makes you seem all 'intellectual' and 'artistic' to say,
'My goodness, there's a difference between football and basketball? How quaint.' But it doesn't
make you sound smart, it makes you sound like an idiot. Like a person who doesn't know there's
a difference between Picasso and Monet."
Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I
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couldn't believe how obnoxious I was being. I never talked this way to anyone. Not even my
stepmother.
"Wow, that's an impressive analogy," he said. "Football is to basketball as Picasso is to Monet."
A waiter passed by with a tray of wineglasses, and Sam took one and handed it to me.
I took it, but I didn't thank him. Just because Ms. Daniels happened to have invited the two of us
to the same opening didn't mean I had to be polite to him. I wished I could find her, though. It
was getting increasingly weird to be at a party without the person who invited me.
Sam poked my shoulder with his index finger. "So, what, if I don't care about the finer points of
basketball, you're not going to talk to me?"
I wanted to tell him not to poke me. I also wanted to tell him I wasn't going to talk to him even if
he did care about the finer points of basketball, but just as I opened my mouth to say those
things, Sam looked across the room at a man and a woman who were making a beeline in our
direction. "Oh, Jesus," he muttered. He took a swallow of wine and centered himself over his feet as if bracing for some sort of attack. For a second I thought I saw something in his face I'd never
seen before--something a little sad or maybe confused. And then, just as quickly as it had
appeared, it was gone.
"Darling," said the woman, swooping down on us. "I want you to meet Diego Martinez. Diego,
this is my
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son, Sam. He's an artist as well." She put her arm around Sam and air kissed his cheek.
This night was getting weirder and weirder. What was Sam's mom doing here?
"Nice to meet you," said Sam, holding out his hand for Diego to shake.
Diego was wearing a perfectly wrinkled black suit. "Charmed," he said. I didn't recognize his
name, but Diego Martinez's suit, along with his five-o'clock shadow, made him look exactly how
an artist should look.
"And this is?" Sam's mother was looking at me inquiringly. She had on a pale green silk tank top and black silk palazzo pants, and her chin-length dyed hair was way redder than mine.
"Lucy Norton, Maggie Ta
Ta
"Of course. Lucy." She waved her arm around the room. "So, how do you like my little show?"
she asked.
Oh my god. Oh my god. OHMYGOD.
Suddenly I remembered where I'd seen the name Margaret Ta
"Oh, ah, it's great," I said. "It's really a great show."
This was her gallery. Which meant--
"Yes, Sam thought you'd enjoy it," she said. She took Diego by the arm. "And just wait until you see what this genius can do."
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Sam had invited me? Sam?!
"Of course," I said. "I, um, look forward to it."
Diego smiled, took Sam's mom's hand, and kissed each of the fingers, one at a time. The process
seemed to take forever. "With Maggie at my side, I am unstoppable," he said finally. "Have you ever seen a more beautiful gallery owner in your life?"
Apparently this was a rhetorical question because Sam's mom just said, "Darling," and beamed at
us before giving a little wave. "Well, we're off. Enjoy."
"Thanks," I said. I watched them walk a few steps before Sam's mom was embraced by a tall
man with a goatee. I heard her say, "Darling!"
"You know what?" Sam asked, looking not at me but at a spot just over my shoulder.
I shook my head. "What?"
"I need to get some air."
I wasn't sure if he meant for me to follow, but I did.
"Thanks for inviting me," I said, wincing inwardly at the memory of how rude I'd been to him
earlier. We were sitting outside on a bench a few feet from the reflecting pool. Sam hadn't said
anything since we'd gotten outside, and my sentence came out awkward and rehearsed, which
made sense, considering I'd experimented with several variations of it in my head before uttering
it.
"Yeah, sure," he said, but he sounded distracted, like he hadn't really heard what I'd said.
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I figured I might as well get the whole thing over with all at once. "I, um, didn't realize you'd put the card on my locker," I said. "I thought Ms. Daniels invited me."
Sam stood up and walked over to the reflecting pool. "Oh." He said. He leaped up onto the stone
wall that ran around the pool and started walking along it. "Disappointed?"
"What?"
"I said, are you disappointed?"
Now I was confused. "About what?"
"That I'm the one who invited you?"
"No. Why would I be disappointed?"
He was walking totally naturally, even though the stone lip he was balanced on was only a
couple of inches wide. "I don't know. Why would you assume Ms. Daniels was the one who had
invited you? Why wouldn't you think it could be me?"
"Ah, maybe because every time I try to talk to you, you look at me like you wish I'd get hit by a
car," I answered.
"Come on," he said, from the other side of the pool. "Or a bus."
"Please. I'm not that bad. It's just... embarrassing when someone comments on your painting."
I thought about explaining the difference between a comment and a compliment, but from the
way he was suddenly looking down, I could tell just talking about
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my talking about his artwork was making him uncomfortable.
"How did you know which one was my locker?" I asked.