Late to the Party - Kelly Quindlen Page 0,27

“I want to grow,” I said slowly. “I want to become a braver, more outgoing person. I want to scare myself, you know? I’m tired of being the quiet artist type.”

Ricky blinked, considering me. “What’s wrong with being an artist?”

I shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, I love painting. I love my creative side; I’m grateful for it. But I also don’t want that to be the only way that I … you know … engage with the world.”

Ricky frowned. “What do Maritza and JaKory think about this?”

I jammed my straw up and down in the coffee. “I haven’t talked to them about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because they … they could never believe that I would be anything more than who I am right now.”

Ricky fell quiet, watching me. “Shouldn’t your friends see your potential more than anyone?”

I hesitated, trying to decide whether I wanted to have this conversation. I’d never spoken of Maritza and JaKory’s shortcomings to anyone, especially not another person our age, but I’d also never had anyone else I could confide in.

I took a deep breath and made up my mind.

“Look, do you know what my favorite thing to paint is?”

“What?” Ricky asked.

“Portraits. I love painting people, trying to capture those little details that make them who they are. Chicken pox scars, or a certain way they move their eyebrows, whatever. I used to paint Maritza’s and JaKory’s portraits every year when we were in middle school.”

“That’s really sweet—”

“But a few months ago, we found the very first portraits I painted of them, and they were totally wrong. Maritza and JaKory thought it was hilarious, but I was embarrassed.”

Ricky frowned. “But how old were you when you painted those?”

“Twelve, but that’s not the point. It wasn’t the technical skill that was embarrassing, it was my perception. I painted them like they were perfect. I didn’t capture any of their flaws. But you know what I found later that night? I found a self-portrait I’d done around the same time, and I had painted myself with so many flaws. The longer I looked at it, the better I remembered how I felt that day, when I was looking in the mirror and painting what I saw. I felt like shit.”

I paused, taking another breath. Ricky watched me heavily.

“I never even told Maritza and JaKory about it. And now I just keep thinking, like, what kind of twelve-year-old knows herself so poorly, or has such low self-esteem, that she glorifies her friends in her artwork but can’t even really see herself? And I think maybe that—that I’m still doing that.” I took a deep breath. “I’ve been holding on to Maritza and JaKory so tightly, like they’re all I could ever have, when deep down I really want the space to try something new, to make new friends, to meet a girl who sees a side of me they’ll never see.”

Ricky looked steadfastly at me. “Damn,” he said quietly. “That’s a lot to keep bottled up.”

I looked away from him, self-conscious. “It’s all hitting me recently. I feel so torn about it. I love Maritza and JaKory, but I also feel this … this…”

“Resentment?”

“Yeah,” I said, like it was the most shameful thing I could imagine.

Ricky reached across the table and squeezed my wrist. “I think that’s okay, Codi. Sounds normal to me.”

I snorted humorlessly. “You said it feels like you’ve known your friends since kindergarten.”

His expression changed; he looked solemn and thoughtful. “I do feel like that,” he said, “but there are still things I need to work through with them. Fears and insecurities I have around them.”

I waited for him to continue, but he said nothing else. I let the silence grow around us.

“Ricky?”

“Yeah?”

I breathed in, knowing my question was risky. “Do your friends … do they know about Tucker?”

He looked at the ground. I didn’t know him well enough to say for sure, but he almost looked embarrassed.

“No,” he said.

I nodded. I knew not to press the issue.

“Do Maritza and JaKory know about me?” he asked. He didn’t bother hiding the apprehension in his voice.

“No. They don’t even know we hang out.”

“At all?”

“At all.”

He searched my expression. “Trying to keep something for yourself?”

“Yeah,” I said apologetically.

He nodded. “I get that. I mean, I keep certain things for myself, too.”

I knew he was talking about Tucker, and I took that as his way of telling me not to press him about it any more.

We slipped into silence, taking long drags from our coffee. Then Ricky looked over at me.

“For