Late to the Party - Kelly Quindlen Page 0,61

going to be mad if I tell them, but they’ll do this thing where they’ll look at me like—like they have to make a special exception because I’m just not smart. It’s a look of pity, and I hate it.”

“You are smart, though—” I said bracingly.

“Not at math, I’m not.”

The distance between us was strained. I could feel the fibers of the chair beneath my legs, buzzing and itching. My muscles were asking to get up, even if my brain was lagging behind them.

I made the decision before I could think about it a second longer, and moved to sit with her on the bed. She scooted to make room for me, but our knees touched the slightest bit, and when I breathed in I could smell her shampoo.

“Do you wanna know something?” I said. “I think school is bullshit in a lot of ways. They have this standard idea of how we’re supposed to be, and they hold us to it even if it doesn’t fit. Like, this past year in Advanced Art, Mr. Erley had us create portfolios of our work, and I worked on mine like a lunatic, I mean, I even submitted three extra pieces, and I was so proud of everything I’d done. But then we had to do oral presentations about our portfolios, and I get really nervous talking in front of people, so my presentation wasn’t very good, and my final grade on the whole project ended up being an eighty-five. An eighty-five because I couldn’t explain my paintings to classmates who didn’t even care. Mr. Erley wrote all these complimentary things about the paintings themselves, but then he wrote a bunch of insults about my presentation, like ‘You need to practice making eye contact’ and ‘Try to smile sometimes!’ And it’s like, just because I was scared to present to my classmates, that doesn’t mean it should cancel out how good my art was.”

Lydia’s eyes, so full of desperation a minute before, were now full of fire. “God, Mr. Erley is such an ass.”

“You’re smart, Lydia. I bet you do fine with math when you’re not worrying about it, like with all those checks you have to manage when you’re waitressing, but even if you’re just flat-out not good at math, I think that’s okay and you shouldn’t feel ashamed of it. You’re good at a million other things, like Manhunt and goofy pranks and making people feel like they matter to you.”

Lydia looked straight at me; it was the longest we’d ever held eye contact. “Where did you come from?” she asked, shaking her head. “It feels like you should’ve been here the whole time.”

I could feel myself blushing, and I dropped my gaze to my hands in my lap. “I’m new to the scene.”

“Oh yeah?” she laughed. “What scene?”

“The teenage scene.”

She smiled at me in a gentle way, the way you can only smile at someone when you’ve really started to know them and don’t have to worry about looking happy all the time. “‘The scene,’” she repeated, laughing again. “Only you.”

We were quiet again. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was almost ten. My parents would be wondering where I was.

“I should let you get back to studying,” I said.

“It doesn’t seem as important now,” she sighed, scooting off the bed, “but yeah, I guess I should keep trying.”

She walked me to the front door and said goodbye. I had just stepped off the porch when she called my name.

“Codi?”

I spun around. “Yeah?”

“I think it’s time for you to paint my portrait.”

For a moment I couldn’t speak. I thought about Ricky telling me to seize the opportunity. Maritza’s wise words about the universe rewarding your effort. JaKory’s battle of the infinite and intimate.

“I think you’re right,” I said boldly.

I smiled, and she smiled, and the whole way home I was on fire.

13

I went back to Lydia’s house on Thursday, right after we finished our morning shifts. It was my first time being there in the daylight, and I took in the details I hadn’t noticed before: the earthy, charming gray color; the navy rocking chairs on the porch; the wind chimes hanging over the front steps. Lydia met me in her driveway, jumping out of her car with her hair swept up in a ponytail and that big, bright smile on her face.

“Ah, the artiste!” she said, pulling me in for a hug. She was still dressed in her work polo, but this time it was

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