A Million Miles Away(25)

Someone must have opened a window. She turned to look.

The air came from the art wing. Kelsey had only been to this section of the school once, for Michelle’s junior art show, but she could barely remember it. On impulse, she went back up the stairs.

Four classrooms bordered the small gallery. Inside, two short pedestals holding student sculptures stood in the center: one, a hand made out of clay; the other, a ceramic vase. The walls were lined with portraits in dark pencil, and Kelsey recognized some of the students. Most of them had eraser marks streaked across their faces, noses off-center, hands twisted into too many lines. Michelle had done this assignment, too, back when she had her mermaid hair.

In the corner, Kelsey found it. Unlike the others, it was framed, with a plaque, and it was perfect. Michelle had drawn herself curled up on her side of the porch, sitting on a chair, looking out onto the yard. Sun shone on her face. Tiny hairs, lines that could almost be mistaken for stray pencil, lifted in a light breeze.

A loud creak sounded from across the gallery, and Kelsey jumped.

A teacher, her head full of gray curls, was opening another window.

“Sorry!” she called. “The smell of paint leaks out of Mr. Henry’s room and it gives me a headache.”

A door labeled MRS. WALLACE was propped open, revealing an empty classroom.

The name was familiar. Mrs. Wallace had been Michelle’s AP Art History teacher. Can’t go to the game, Kelsey could remember her saying. Have a paper for Wallace.

“Mrs. Wallace?” Kelsey asked, tearing her eyes from Michelle’s portrait.

Mrs. Wallace paused. “Yes.” Then she squinted, and walked closer. “Miss Maxfield,” she said, a smile of recognition growing on her face.

“The other one,” Kelsey said.

“I know,” Mrs. Wallace said, glancing down. “I was at Michelle’s service.”

They were both quiet for a moment, side by side, and their gazes fell on Michelle’s drawing.

“How is your family?” Mrs. Wallace asked.

“They’re all right.”

“Really?”

Silence. Visions of her father, leaking tears as he did the dishes. Her mother in her corner, listening to Carmen, the opera, on repeat.

“We’ve all lost it,” Kelsey let out. She looked at Mrs. Wallace and shrugged. “To be honest.”

Mrs. Wallace put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t blame you.”

Mrs. Wallace hadn’t told her to get to class and Kelsey didn’t want to leave just yet. “Did you know my sister pretty well?”

“She was one of my favorite students. A wonderful girl. A little manic, at times, but brilliant. She knew who she wanted to be.”

“Yes!” Kelsey paused, thinking. “And for me, well—” she continued. “It’s like, I had my opposite my whole life.” Kelsey gestured at the portrait. “So I knew exactly who I was. I knew who I was because I knew who I wasn’t. And now she’s gone.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” Mrs. Wallace said. “But I will say, Kelsey, that as for who you are, you’ve got a whole, long life to figure that out.”

That’s what Davis had said, too. And Gillian. And everyone else. But the truth was, in some very messed-up way, speaking for Michelle, if only for a few minutes, had made her feel less hollow. The only time she felt like moving forward was last night, with Peter, who needed Michelle as much as she did. Yes, she wanted to tell them, I have plenty of time, but Michelle’s time has already run out.

And that wasn’t fair.

Mrs. Wallace looked at her watch. “I better start preparing for next period.”

“I want to take your class,” Kelsey said suddenly.

Mrs. Wallace’s forehead wrinkled. “Which class?”

She couldn’t have Michelle, but she could still get to know her better. She could do what she never bothered to do when Michelle was alive. She could find out what made her tick. “Your Art History class.”

“That’s an Advanced Placement class,” Mrs. Wallace said, then gave a pitying laugh. “You missed the first half! We’re already on French Impressionism. I don’t think you’ll be able to catch up, Kelsey. This is for students serious about art history. It won’t be fun for you.”

“Please.” She found her eyes.

Mrs. Wallace sighed, shaking her head. “You’d have to switch your schedule around.…”

“Let me try. I can do it. Really, I would like to know more about…” Michelle’s portrait next to her, in the corner of her eye, hair lifting. The soup can. Ian’s directions. The print on the wall. “Warhol. Will we study Andy Warhol, for example?”

“Mmm.” Mrs. Wallace narrowed her eyes, thinking. The teacher turned and walked away toward her classroom. Kelsey’s heart sank.

Then Mrs. Wallace called behind her, sighing. “All right. Sort it out with the counselors.”

“I will!” Kelsey called back, and fought the urge to do a little dance.

“Okay, then,” Mrs. Wallace said as she closed the door. “I’ll see you at sixth period.”



POSTMARK 1/6, RECEIVED 1/13





Dear M—Forgot to send you this postcard from the Brussels Airport, so I’m sending it now. I was about to write something else but a huge rat just scurried through the computer room and scared the shit out of me. And I’m wearing flip-flops. My dad always told me flip-flops were the worst kind of shoes because they leave you unprepared. I always told him to screw off and wondered what on earth I would need to be prepared for but now I have rat residue on my foot. You live and you learn. I’m changing into my boots, though their more accurate name is portable ovens. Oh well. Give yourself an awkward sweaty hug for me.—P