Late to the Party - Kelly Quindlen Page 0,9

he said enticingly. “You could do some painting.”

I laughed. He knew how to hook me. “I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

* * *

The Chattahoochee River was the most underrated thing about Atlanta. It wound through the northwest side of the city’s perimeter, long and sprawling and glistening. No one really talked about it, but we drove past it all the time, even when crossing the interstate. It was like an open secret, something we forgot was there.

Our favorite coffee shop was right on the banks of the Chattahoochee, in a quiet little haven nestled behind the highway. The shop itself was in a huge, multistory cabin, and the grounds stretched out along the river, carefully landscaped with close-cropped grass that extended to the nettle-strewn tree line. You could walk along the river rocks or sit in one of the Adirondack chairs overlooking the water, listening to the steady rush of the river sweeping past. Usually, when my friends and I came here, we’d take our backpacks and stay for hours. Maritza would spread a blanket and practice yoga, JaKory would sit at a picnic table and lose himself in a book, and I’d sit across from him, painting the brightest colors I could find.

Our usual table was still damp from the rain. I brushed off my side without caring too much while JaKory methodically dabbed every part of his bench with a napkin. By the time he was finished, I had already dug my sketchbook and watercolors out of my bag. There was a patch of vibrant marigolds by the water that I was excited to paint.

We were quiet at first, but it wasn’t strained—more like a gentle blanket. I could sense we were about to have a heart-to-heart. JaKory and I were good at those. We may have tried to save face with Maritza sometimes, but with each other, we always said exactly what we were feeling.

“Did you feel horrible yesterday, too?” JaKory asked.

I looked up from the colors I was mixing. “The worst I’ve felt in a long time.”

JaKory was silent. Then he screwed up his mouth and said, “I went home and wrote a poem about it.”

I smiled wryly. “’Course you did.”

“There was one line I really liked. ‘My youth is infinite but my fears are intimate.’”

I mixed my orange and yellow paints. Such bursts of color, such vibrant promises, like the infinite youth JaKory spoke of. And yet those intimate fears loomed larger.

“I’m scared, too,” I admitted. “Scared of … I don’t even know what.”

“I’m so pissed at myself,” JaKory whispered. “I always knew I was different … black, nerdy, queer … but that’s not why I’m missing out. It’s because I’m standing in my own way. I know it.”

I wilted. JaKory was speaking the same truth I felt in my bones. Did Maritza feel that way, too? Were all three of us stuck in a co-dependent friendship because it was easier than facing our individual inertia?

“What are we supposed to do?” I asked quietly.

JaKory held my eyes. “Maritza has a plan. She’s on her way to meet us so we can talk about it.”

I stared at him. “What do you mean, ‘a plan’? I thought this was just you and me hanging out. You know I don’t feel like talking to her after how she acted last night. Didn’t you hear what she said to me? He definitely doesn’t need your help.”

“She didn’t mean it.”

“You know she did.”

“We’re family, Codi. Families fight and make up.”

“So you invited her without telling me?”

He looked past me. “Here she comes. Just listen and keep an open mind, okay?”

I spun around, caught off guard by this whole setup. Why was JaKory prepping me for a hangout with Maritza? Why did I feel like I was being ambushed?

Maritza approached cautiously, watching the ground like she might trip any second, even though she was the most graceful of the three of us. She sat next to JaKory and placed a large croissant on the table like a peace offering.

“How’s it going?” she asked, looking directly at me.

“Fine,” I said, not meeting her eyes. JaKory eyed the croissant, but I ignored it and went back to my painting.

“How was the dance camp meeting?” JaKory asked, clearly trying to break the tension.

Maritza was on our school’s varsity dance team, and this summer she would be working as an assistant teacher at the middle school dance camp. It was a highly selective position that only a handful of dancers had been chosen for,