Part 17 (2/2)

194.

”This is amazing,” I reply. ”Making exactly what I want, how I want it.”

”And it's relaxing, too,” Helena adds.

”Yes, not exactly retail therapy, but therapeutic all the same.” It's true -- working with my hands like this, designing, being creative feels invigorating, liberating somehow.

”So, what's up with you and Damian?” Helena asks.

”What do you mean?” I can feel the heat of a blush coloring my cheeks. I can't ever seem to not show how I feel. It's becoming pretty annoying.

”What do you mean?” Helena repeats, mocking me with a grin. ”Come on. I know you like him, and you've been spending a lot of time together. So, what's going on?”

”Nothing is going on,” I stammer, my cheeks growing hotter.

”But you do like him, right?”

It feels like all the air in my lungs is spiraling out of me in this bubbling rush, and suddenly, talking like this feels good.

”Yes, I like him!” I shout, louder than I intended. ”Satisfied?”

”Yes!” Helena yelps gleefully. ”I knew it! So, what are we going to do about it?” Her conspiratorial we makes my insides feel even fizzier.

”I don't know. I don't think there's anything I can do. He was my brother's best friend. He was in the car with Nate when he died. It's a little weird, isn't it? I'm sure Damian, let alone everyone else in this tiny town, would think so -- 195.

would think I'm totally creepy for even considering liking him that way.”

”I think you're looking at this all wrong,” Helena begins. ”I mean, the fact that Damian was Nate's best friend means that he and you share this special bond, this closeness and connection that he can't have with anyone else. Except, maybe, your parents.”

”Who hate him,” I break in.

”Right. Well, anyway, what I was saying is that you need to look at this tie between the two of you as a good thing.”

I pause and let Helena's words sink in. Maybe she has a point. What if I've been so freaked out by the idea of the very thing that has actually brought Damian and me together:1 ”So what do I do?” I ask her.

Her brow crinkles up as she contemplates my question. ”This I need to think on,” she tells me. ”But we'll come up with a plan.” She pauses. ”Hey, whatever happened with the London thing?”

”Oh,” I say, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. ”I sent off the application. I should hear in the next couple of weeks.”

”Your mom finally gave in, huh?” she asks, smiling. ”See, I told you! It always works out in the end.”

Yeah right, I think. But I nod in pretend agreement and force a grin to my face.

By the time I have to leave, we have gorged ourselves on chocolate chip cookies, and Helena has a new pair of 196.

feather-and-beaded earrings. I leave with a leather cuff bracelet with the purple stone and some sh.e.l.ls st.i.tched around it and a somewhat hopeful feeling. Helena and I have agreed to meet at the diner tomorrow afternoon to talk about the art show. I'm supposed to call Damian when I get home and ask him to come, too. Helena says that when she sees us together, she'll be able to get a better read on the situation and come up with a strategy. We'll see. The whole idea of, well, any of this makes my stomach turn cartwheels and kick like an angry gymnast.

As I reach my house, I meet the mailman at the foot of the driveway. Accepting the small bundle of letters, I thank him, and walk my bike into the garage. I'm thumbing through the envelopes, mostly bills for my parents and junk mail, when I see a yellow envelope poking up from the bottom of the stack. There's a strange blue stamp with a lady in profile on it.

”What's this?” I mutter aloud.

I slide the envelope to the top and my heart skips a whole lot of beats when I see my name printed on it. And a London, United Kingdom, return address. It feels as though a whole garden of b.u.t.terflies has been released into my gut. Could it be from the art school? Already? It's early. Hungrily, I tear open the envelope and pull out the small sheaf of papers tucked inside.

The letter begins: 197.

Dear Ms. Bradley, We are pleased to offer you a place in the King's School of Art Summer Program.

Oh my gosh. I got in. I freaking got in! I fall back against my dad's Volkswagen. I can't believe it. I can't believe they thought my drawings were good enough and let me in. My eyes fall down across the rest of the letter. And the engines on the jet I was about to fly to the moon, to London, to wherever, flicker and die as I read the last line: Kindly include the enclosed permission form signed by a parent or legal guardian with requisite registration materials.

Crash-landing. A signed permission form. How am I supposed to achieve that? It would take nothing less than sheer magic. I wonder if Ms. Calico could sign it for me. No, the note says it must be signed by a parent or legal guardian. Suddenly, I feel like a deflated balloon. The registration forms are due back by March 15. That leaves me about two months to figure this one out. I fold up the letter and place it back inside the envelope, and when I get upstairs to my bedroom, I place the envelope at the bottom of my backpack.

”Rest safely,” I whisper. ”I'll figure out how to get to London. Promise.”

198.

Helena and I are seated on one side of the red Formica table, across from Damian, He's twisting a straw wrapper around his finger, over and over, and not looking at either of us. I'll admit it, I took care this afternoon as I got ready to come to the diner. I put cream in my hair to flatten the frizzy flya ways, I brushed it until it was glossy and smooth. I dabbed some lip gloss onto my lips and I chose my favorite blue jeans and the ocean blue sweater with the delicate navy embroidery around the neck. I wanted to look good. Here we are, though, and Damian won't even make eye contact. Very glad I went to all that effort.

”So, I thought we should figure out how we're going to pull off this art show party, how to get permission to enter Nate's stuff, and how to advertise it,” Helena begins brightly.

Damian is silent, sullen.

”Well, I was thinking you could ask Ms. Calico, Helena,” I say, ”and I'll ask Mrs. Brown.” The princ.i.p.al of LGHS is infamous for saying no to student-organized activities, and she was certainly no fan of my brother's. I'm going to have to figure out a way to appeal to her soft side. If she has one.

”That sounds like a good plan,” Helena replies, looking uncertainly at Damian. Still he says nothing. ”So, Damian, what do you think?”

”I don't know,” he grumbles. ”Do whatever you want.”

”Well, I would love to know what you think,” Helena continues, c.o.c.king her head like a bird examining a juicy-looking 199.

worm. ”I mean, you worked with Nate, and besides, your paintings will be such an important part of the show, you should have a voice in this.”

Damian looks up and squints, as though he's trying to see inside of Helena. Then he looks at me. ”Okay,” he starts slowly. ”I was thinking that maybe we could ask Ms. Calico if we could do it on February eighth.”

”The anniversary,” I say softly. Damian nods and looks at me, his gray eyes piercing. I return his nod. ”That's it. I'll ask first thing tomorrow.”

”Wait, the anniversary of what?” Helena asks, confused.

”Of the day Nate died,” I tell her gently.

”Oh ... I'm sorry,” she mumbles.

”No, it's fine,” I rea.s.sure her.

”Great. Then we'll just have to make posters calling for submissions and advertising the date.”

Damian and I both start at Helena's words. ”Call for submissions?” I ask.

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