Louisa laughed nervously. She wasn’t sure if Simone was being serious or sarcastic.
“I mean it,” Simone said, still paging through Louisa’s drawings. “Medical school is trade school, so is law school.”
“But that’s graduate school, it’s different,” Nora said. Sometimes she thought Simone picked on Louisa a little.
“True,” Simone said, agreeably. “But if you love art and you want to draw or paint, why wouldn’t you go to a place where you can get better doing the thing you love?”
“Some of the schools we’ve looked at have excellent art programs,” Louisa said.
“How many have you looked at?”
“Fourteen,” Nora said.
Simone burst out laughing. “You’ve looked at fourteen colleges already?”
“It’s fun. We like it,” Louisa said. She knew she sounded defensive, and in truth she’d be happy to never look at another college again. “It’s good to be able to compare, so we know which ones are the right fit.”
Simone shook her head and snorted a little. “Wow. You all are seriously drinking the admissions Kool-Aid.” She plucked one of the drawings from the pile and handed it to Louisa; it was one of her favorites, a soft pastel of the front of the museum at dusk. She’d done it quickly and kept the rendering loose; the museum looked more like a mountain than a building, and the street beneath with its streaming cars resembled a rushing river of movement and color. “This is really beautiful,” Simone said, sounding more sincere than Louisa had ever heard her. “I know exactly what it is, it’s realistic in that way, but it’s also kind of abstract.” She turned the page vertically. “Look, it even works from this angle—the perspective, I mean.” Louisa was surprised and pleased to see she was right. Simone handed the drawing back to Louisa. “This is tight. Frame it. You should do more like that one. And you should really look at Pratt and Parsons. RISD, too. I’ll think of some more places for your list.”
LOUISA CHECKED HER WATCH. It was late and she had to find Simone and Nora who always seemed to lose track of time. They’d agreed to meet in the Hall of Pacific Peoples, which appeared to be empty except for a French family gathered around the fiberglass replica of an Easter Island head that loomed over one end of the room. As Louisa approached, they asked her to take their picture with one of their phones and thanked her profusely when she showed them a shot where everyone was smiling, eyes open. She decided to take a quick look at the Margaret Mead display, which she loved. As she headed toward the glass cases, she passed by a small dark corridor and then backed up, embarrassed, because she’d interrupted a couple in an intimate embrace, only to register before she turned around that one of the couple was wearing red Swedish perforated clogs just like hers. And Nora’s.
Louisa felt her neck and face become feverish. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t move. Nora was leaning against the wall and her shirt was unbuttoned to the waist. Simone’s hands were moving under the shirt. Nora’s eyes were closed, her arms limp at her sides. Louisa could see Simone’s hand moving up toward Nora’s white utilitarian bra. “Please,” Louisa heard Nora say and then watched as Simone’s thumb stroked Nora’s nipple through the worn cotton. Both women groaned. Louisa turned and ran.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Corporal Vinnie Massaro knew that the kids who came into his father’s pizza place called him Robocop. Whatever. One of these days he was going to reach out and grab one of them with the claw at the end of his terrifyingly complicated prosthetic arm, probably the chubby redhead; he’d wipe the smirk off that kid’s face. Maybe he’d grab him with his good arm, his flesh-and-blood arm, and let the kid dangle a few inches off the ground while he stroked his fat, freckled cheek with one steel finger, making him cry and beg for mercy, apologizing through heaving sobs. Vinnie could see the bubbles of snot now.
Stop.
Rewind.
This was not the type of imaginary scenario Vinnie was supposed to indulge, it was not positive or affirming, it was not how he’d been instructed to manage his anger. Stop and rewind was one of the techniques he was supposed to employ, according to his anger therapist, who shouldn’t be confused with his physical therapist or his prosthetic therapist or the occupational therapist who had been