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voice flat. For the past two months, I'd been dreaming of this moment, fantasizing what it would
feel like to put the whole horrible, impossible, frustrating project behind me. I'd thought as soon
as I completed the final brushstroke I'd dance down the halls of Glen Lake, tipping my top hat at
passers by. I'm done! I'm done! But now that I'd actually finished, I didn't feel like celebrating at all. I just felt... nothing.
I could hear Sam applauding. "Can I see it?"
"Um ... Yeah, sure." The irony of his asking if he could see it was that even though I was
standing less than a foot away from my easel, I couldn't see what I'd painted. Shapes and colors
swirled around on the canvas in front of me, refusing to form themselves into a coherent image.
Was this my self-portrait, this series of meaningless blobs?
Sam came over beside me and studied the painting. He stared at it for a long time, not saying
anything, and I wondered what lies he'd use to assure me that my abstract mess wasn't an abstract
mess. "Lucy," he said finally, "it's incredible."
I wanted to ask him what he meant, how he could say that, what he thought he was looking at,
but I was afraid he'd think I was fishing for compliments. What do
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you mean, what do I mean? I just told you it's incredible.
And then, as if he could read my mind, Sam started to talk. "It's great how all the Lucy figures
are holding hands even though they're looking off in different directions." I looked from one
Lucy to the next as he talked, following his voice, watching his finger float above the canvas.
"And that one"--he pointed at the smallest Lucy-- "the way it's barely holding on to the one next to it." He nodded. "You can feel her trying to catch up. It's brilliant."
"Actually, that one's a mistake." I tried to laugh. "See, I started in the wrong place, so I couldn't get the hand right."
Without taking his eyes off the canvas, Sam shrugged. "So?" He bumped his shoulder into mine.
"It makes the painting, Lucy. Believe me."
He stayed there, leaning against me for another minute before going back to the couch. Even
after he walked away and left me staring at my canvas, I could still feel the soft cotton of his T-
shirt against my bare skin. And then, all at once, as if Sam had been speaking not words but
brushstrokes, I saw my painting, saw it just the way he had. And as the shifting maze of shape
and color solidified into forms, I realized that last Lucy didn't look like a mistake. It did make the painting better. Because of her, because she looked like she was ru
line of Lucys seemed to be moving. Sam was right. It really was a brilliant mistake.
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I was so focused on my painting, I'd almost forgotten about Sam still being in the room with me,
when suddenly he said, "You know, I've been meaning to--"
Just then the door flew open. It was Madison and Jessica, and when they saw me, they high-
fived.
"Told you she'd be here," said Jessica.
"Hey, guys," I said. I was glad they'd shown up. Thanks to Sam I couldn't wait to show off my
painting. It was just how I'd imagined finishing it would feel.
"Hey, Sam," said Jessica.
"Hey, Jessica," said Sam. He and Madison nodded at each other.
"Okay," Madison said to me from the doorway, "you can cut math, but you can't cut lunch."
"Yeah," said Jessica, as her cell started ringing, "no starving artists allowed at prom." She dug around in her bag for her phone.
"Hello? Hang on." She turned to Madison. "My mom wants to know if your mom wants her to
do anything for the cocktail party at your house. Should she call her?"
"I thought they talked already," said Madison.
I turned back to Sam on the couch. "What were you going to say?"
"I've been meaning to ..." he stopped and shook his head. "I've been meaning to get going for the past half hour." He stood up. "But I really like your painting." He grabbed his bag off the floor.
"No, Mom, I said fifty," said Jessica. "Not fifteen."
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"Thanks," I said to Sam's back. "Your critique almost makes me feel like an artist."
As he pushed open the door of the studio, Sam turned around. "You are an artist," he said. Then he disappeared into the hall.
Jessica hung up the phone. "Okay, my mother is officially retarded." She turned to Madison. "I hope your mother is prepared to plan this cocktail party with an actual retarded person."
"Please," said Madison, "my mom's so retarded she makes your mom look like Einstein."
Jessica went over to where my bag and Co
up. "Lunch, madam?"
"Sure," I said, reluctantly stepping away from my painting. "I could eat."
"Good," said Jessica. "Because we have an official prom update for you."
"What?"
"Which homecoming queen has reunited with her million-year-old boyfriend and is therefore
bagging the Glen Lake prom?"
"No way!" I said.
Madison nodded. "Totally," she said.
As Jessica came over to where I was standing she glanced at my easel. "Wow, I like your
painting." She-- pointed at the biggest of the Lucy figures. "Is that you?" When I nodded, she smiled. "It totally looks like you."
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Madison came over to see what we were looking at. "Ohmygod! Did you paint this?" asked
Madison, looking from me to the painting. "It's amazing."
"Yeah," I said. "It's the self-portrait I was telling you about."
"Oh!" Madison exclaimed. "That's you!" she pointed at one of the smallest of the Lucy figures.
"Wait," said Jessica. "I thought that one was you."
Madison looked where Jessica was pointing. "Hey," she said. "That is you."
Jessica turned to me. "How come there are so many of you?"
"It's kind of how--"
"Is it like clones?" asked Madison.
"Well, not exactly. It's more--" Why had this seemed so much easier when I was talking to Sam?
"It's really cool," said Jessica. "You're mondo talented. Now--" She took me by the arm and steered me away from the easel. "We must discuss Kathryn's skanky boyfriend and post-prom
Hamptons clothing options."
"As in, what do we need to shop for," Madison explained, following us.
"So, come along, Prom Queen," said Jessica, as she pulled open the studio door. "Your loyal court attends you."
As we walked along the hall, I linked my arms through theirs. Maybe Jessica and Madison didn't
get all the nuances of my painting that Sam did. But I was still glad they were my friends.
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Chapter Twenty-three
A few hours later, as I stood in front of the open freezer debating the nutritional benefits of
chicken nuggets versus sorbet as an after-school snack, my cell rang. It was my dad.
"Hey," I said. I looked at the wall clock. "It's Friday. Aren't you supposed to be on a plane right now?"
"Hi, Goose. I'm still in San Francisco," he said. "We're fogged in."