“Many of our students go on to exciting careers in the arts and entertainment industry.” Phyllis laughs. “I don’t mean to go around sounding like a talking billboard. I was just saying to Eva here that I think your work is astounding. Are you thinking of applying to schools right now?”
Jas crinkles her forehead and silently mouths, Go for it!
I want to tell her how much I’d love to go to art school next year, but I know I’m not ready yet. I need some more time to heal and sort my life out.
“I’m only a junior,” I say. “But I’m starting to look into schools.”
“Well,” Phyllis says, “I’d love for you to consider applying for our summer program. I’m more than happy to put in a good word for you.”
“That sounds amazing,” I gush. “I can definitely do that.”
It would be incredible to go to school with other teenagers who want to paint, not just random people at my high school who happen to take art for an elective. Plus, I wouldn’t have to go far away, so I could also go to my outpatient meetings and stay at home. Which means Mom and Dad would probably let me go.
“The application is due soon. Don’t forget!” Phyllis says before Eva whisks her away to another part of the gallery.
I see food being wheeled in. For some reason my whole family is still hanging around. Usually at least one of them is busy and has to take off before an event is over, but even Dad is still here.
An announcement booms over the chatter of the crowd. It’s Royce—he’s in the middle of the main room. “Hey, everyone. Many of you know the party hasn’t started yet, but if you don’t know, then stick around. We’re having a dance party in honor of you all, courtesy of my family, especially my dad, Congressman Blakely. So hang out, have some fun, and thank you, Mrs. Wynn, for allowing us to use the space.”
After he puts down the microphone, Royce comes over to me and leans in. “What do you think about the surprise?”
“Dad would turn this into a campaign event.” I laugh.
I’m not even mad. I’m just happy everyone I love is together.
“Oh no,” he says. “I just said that as an explanation. There’s a more important reason.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
He looks down at me and puts an arm around my shoulder. “You.”
I lean into him. “What do you mean me?”
“Dad wanted to do something special for you, but I couldn’t just go up there and embarrass you and say you’ve been ill. So, we thought we’d be a little sneakier about it. Gotta admit, it’s a big party. Everyone’s here.” He looks across the room to Jasmine.
She sees him and smiles, then waves at me and runs over.
“I’m so proud of you,” she says. “You’re becoming everything I knew you would, and in such a short time. What do you think the judges are going to say?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “All the other artists were so impressive. I feel good about everything. Being shown here made me feel like a real artist.”
Jasmine leans in. “You are a real artist. You always have been.”
Just then Isko goes flying past into the arms of all his friends.
“You see that?” Danilo says, sneaking up behind me and giving me a hug. “That kind of popularity will come crashing down as soon as they realize he’s just someone’s little brother someday.”
“Someone’s jealous,” Jasmine says.
Danilo smiles. “Only a little. I just never knew that many people. I still don’t.”
“Let me kiss this girl!” says Lola, walking up to me with her cane. I swear she doesn’t even need it. She practically dances across the room to give me a hug.
Jasmine’s mom and dad wave to me. Mr. de los Santos says, “Lola, don’t put your lips on that girl. She doesn’t want to wear your lipstick.”
“I saw a lot of boys who would wear my lipstick without even kissing me,” says Lola.
I start laughing as Lola kisses me, her bright red lipstick smearing across my cheek. “You become a big-time artist and I’ll model for you,” she says. “I like posing. I might even bring some boyfriends.”
“Lola,” Danilo says. “Why do you have to always be the center of attention?”
“I’m not!” Lola points with her cane to Isko, who’s dancing in the middle of a pack of his friends, everyone bouncing up and down, laughing.
“I don’t have a lot of energy,” I say, “but that’s not stopping me from going over there.” I see Sam nearby. He’s trying to give me space, but I want to be near him.
I walk over and grab his hand. “Come on, hot stuff.”
“Me?” he says. “I don’t know how to dance.”
“Either dance with me or Lola,” I say.
Lola Cherry smiles at Sam.
“Okay, let’s go,” Sam says. “But don’t get mad if I slow dance with her later.”
f o r t y - s i x
“Knowing how to be solitary is central to the art of loving. When we can be alone, we can be with others without using them as a means of escape.”
—bell hooks
I’m driving myself to the marina today. I got my license a week ago.
Mom and Dad bought me a Mini Cooper. It’s my favorite color, a light aquamarine blue. It feels good to drive. Now I finally can give my friends rides instead of having to beg to get picked up all the time.
I’m meeting Sam to say goodbye.
He’s leaving for Costa Rica to work at the surf camp for the rest of the summer.
In the seat next to me is a letter from CalArts that came in the mail. I haven’t opened the envelope yet. I wanted to wait until I was alone to open it.
Parking in the lot at Marina del Rey, I grab the letter and start walking to our bench. The weather is perfectly cool. Seagulls wander around on the sea rocks. Boats slip along the harbor way.
I start thinking about the future. Sam said he’s excited to be a senior. He can’t wait to get high school over with and go to college to study physics. Antonia wants to pursue singing after school. I told her we would always be friends, always be close, no matter how far across the world our dreams might take us from each other.
Therapy is still a constant. I mean, I’m a lot better, consistently improving. I love the new friends I’ve made, mostly girls who have faced similar things. It’s nice to know I’m not alone. I’m not unique. Everyone struggles with one thing or another.
The campaign is in full swing, but Mom and Dad decided that no matter what happens with the election, I’ll stay here for my senior year to keep working on my recovery. Dad’s barely leading in the polls. He teases me that it’s closer now because I’m literally not standing behind him. I told Dad I was grateful that he was keeping my illness out of the media. At the same time, I know one day I’ll want people to know that I struggled and overcame something that so many others are still in the middle of.
Dad even made me put a campaign bumper sticker on the car. VOTE FOR THE FUTURE. VOTE BLAKELY. So embarrassing to have your name plastered on your own car. Whatever. I don’t mind. I’m loving my family again—the way I’m supposed to.
Mom’s a lot better. I can see her being herself again. She even takes time off from the campaign to work on her own projects. I told her I want to help with her literacy campaign again soon. It’s not like my goofy brothers are around enough. Not with Royce applying for jobs and Mason off on an important firm assignment overseas.
Our bench at the marina is empty. I sit down.
I look at the ocean again, watch a few more boats, then turn my attention back to the letter. I turn it over and think how it’s just a piece of paper. Just words.
When I tear it open, I’m sort of shocked.
CalArts doesn’t want me to attend the summer program.
Why not? I hold my breath. I have to tell myself to breath
e. That’s why I’m here. I have to keep myself under control, under the breath of the ocean and sky.
Finally, I turn my eyes back to the letter, read further.
What’s this?
They want me to enter their regular program? Now?
They want to know if they can help me get my high school diploma early. They said they would help me earn high school credits through summer programs, that if everything worked out, I could enter their visual arts program within a few months.
Their exact words about my paintings:
Your work displays deft skill, maturity of subject and superior quality compared to other students of your age. We are confident that you will benefit from the mentoring and instruction that you would receive through our school and excellent academic programs in addition to exposure to outlets in the industry.
If you decide to decline the offer this year, CalArts still invites you to attend the prestigious California Summer School for the Arts.
The letter goes on to explain details about the registration. My head goes back and I inhale the ocean air. I kind of always thought I would move to New York, but I love Los Angeles too. It’s a big part of who I am. I can’t stop smiling. I’m happy I proved to myself that I could follow dreams and succeed. For a long time I didn’t think I could. I guess that gemstone has been in me longer than I thought.
At the same time, I’m not sure that I’m ready. I still have so much recovering to do, so much to work on to find a healthy balance for my life.
I see Sam walking down the path so I tuck the letter into my purse and wave.
I’m not ready to tell him about the acceptance yet.
I just want today to be about us.
“What are you smiling about?” he asks as he sits down next to me.
“Nothing.” I smile. “Just happy to see you.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Me too. Me too.”
I see another boat. It’s my turn to dream. “I like that one,” I say. “It has a perfect sail. I’m going to pilot it all the way to Hawaii. We can take shifts. Or we can just take our time and rest in the open sea.”
“And race dolphins,” he says. “Or keep sailing all the way around the world.”
We’ve gotten pretty close this last month. I wouldn’t call it dating. I’m enjoying living in the moment with him. We haven’t really gotten physical yet—I’m still trying to figure out how to be comfortable in my body—but spending so much time with him is teaching me how to be more emotionally vulnerable, how to trust others with my pain.
“I have a surprise for you,” Sam says.
“What?” I nudge him with my shoulder. “Another one?”
He pops up from the bench and grabs my hand. “There’s a guy my parents know who has a sailboat docked here,” he says. “He told me I could borrow it. What do you say? Want to sail? It’ll be like old times.”
“I don’t think I remember how to do anything!” I say, but he’s pulling me behind him as he bounds toward the dock.
We stop at a small wooden sailboat that’s about thirty feet long and has yellow and white striped sails. Sam helps me step onto the boat and gives me a few directions to help ready the sails. After a few minutes, Sam turns on the motor and guides the boat out of the dock. We get a little way away from the harbor before the wind begins to pick up.
“Raise the sails!” Sam shouts.
I loosen the tension on the rope until Sam tells me to secure it. The boat runs with the wind. We pick up speed fast, slicing through the blue waves.
“Want to steer?” Sam asks. “It’s easy. Remember that the boat turns the opposite direction you move the tiller. If you want to go right, move the tiller to the left.”
He steps aside and sits next to me while I steer the boat.
It’s exhilarating. The wind blows my hair back. The cool air and sunshine cradle my skin. I don’t feel caged or punished by my body. I feel alive in it. I feel perfectly free.
“Where is this going?” Sam asks, and I know he isn’t talking about the boat. “What do you want for us? Where is this going?”
“What’s wrong with this?” I say. “It’s our place. Always has been.”
I grab his hand and squeeze while moving the tiller with my other.
Looking out at the sea, I reflect on the past year. I’ve spent so much time obsessing on my own imperfections that I haven’t been able to love the people who have always truly cared for me. I lean my head on Sam’s shoulder, thinking about our future. I don’t feel completely well yet, but I know I’m getting better. I’m sure that I’ll feel capable of romantically loving someone again. I want to date him, but I still need some time.
There’s someone I have to learn how to love first.
Me.
* * * * *
a u t h o r ’ s n o t e
This book is dedicated to those who are very dear to me who have suffered in the way Liv Blakely suffered. Thank you for sharing your stories with me. I hope I honored them well. All my gratitude for helping make the manuscript as strong as it could be. All mistakes and flaws in the telling are my own.
A few notes on the art in the novel.
LeFeber’s fictional installation near the end was partially inspired by two different modern art pieces:
Sun Yuan and Peng Yu’s Angel
Laura Belém’s The Temple of a Thousand Bells
The LACMA installation described in the book is Chris Burden’s Urban Light, one of my favorite works of art.
The concepts for Liv’s paintings were entirely made up, although there is a long history of bird-human hybrids/ transformations in art.
a c k n o w l e d g m e n t s
So many thanks to all the wonderful people in my book life (and real life!), especially my genius editor, Natashya Wilson, my agent and consigliere, Richard Abate, and the awesome Rachel Kim at 3Arts and my fabulous publicity and marketing peeps, Bryn Collier, Shara Alexander and Siena Koncsol at Harlequin. Thank you to my family and my family of friends. Love to all my readers.
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