How to Be Brave(48)

“Sorry, sir,” I respond. “Can’t today. Have an appointment.”

But Marquez caught Daniel’s silent directive, so he responds accordingly, “Ah. A hot date with Mr. Antell?” Oh. God. No. Don’t be a smart-ass now, Marquez. “Well, that can wait.” He glances at Daniel and then back at me. “This can’t.”

I look at Daniel and shrug, and he shakes his head.

“Wait for me?” I mouth back to him.

He nods in response.

Everyone around me is laughing and whispering and oohing and aahing like they’re nine years old.

Fuuuuuck.

One more month.

Twenty-nine more days.

Just Get Through It, Georgia.

You’re almost out of here.

*

Everyone packs up and leaves, and like last time, Marquez leads me out the door toward a bench, except this time it’s even colder than it was in December. I wrap my scarf around my mouth, but it doesn’t really help. My nostrils are freezing. My cheeks are freezing. My eyeballs are freezing.

Marquez is just wearing a sweater, though.

“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to get pneumonia or something?” I ask.

“Cold like this is good for the blood,” he says, shaking his head. “Keeps us alive.”

Okay, crazy guy.

We sit there, watching the students scuttle away. Marquez stares off into space, not saying anything.

My butt is starting to freeze now, too, and all I can think is that I wish I had a longer coat. That, and I wish I were at Ellie’s. Or then again, maybe not. I don’t know anymore. Ugh. What does Marquez want?

“So … you wanted to talk to me?”

Marquez turns to me. “You’re right. I did.” He smiles. “I never had children.”

…

“I sometimes wish I did.”

…

“I’m not going to say that if I could have had a child, she would have been like you, because that’s a strange thing to say—”

…

“But I will say this: She would have painted like you. She would have drawn like you. She would have had your hands.”

Oh.

“My sister owns this little coffee shop, over on the West Side, near the Ukrainian Village. She also hosts little gallery shows every month. I showed her your work.”

Oh.

“It’s kind of short notice, but she’d like to include you in a show coming up in May. You’d be showing with a couple of other artists. College students whose work is at a professional level. I think you should start thinking of yourself as a professional, too. You’re still raw, as you should be, but you’re good. But that means you’ll have to create more pieces. They want a bunch to pick from, and then they choose that night which ones to show.”

I’m absolutely, utterly speechless.

I’ve got nothing.

No words. No vowels. No consonants.

Nothing.

I’m a dissolved liquid.

I’m vapor.

“There’s one problem,” Marquez says. “The show opening is the same night as prom, so you wouldn’t be able to go.”

“Oh…” The words come out. “Like I could give a shit about that.”

And Marquez busts out in a hysterical fit of coughs and laughter. “And she definitely would have had the same sass as you.”

He shakes my hand and releases me into the afternoon.

I’ve got to get to Ellie’s.

Hopefully, I’m not too late.

*

I run down the street as fast as I can over the slippery slush piles. A little bell rings when I open the door to announce my entrance into an empty sandwich shop. Daniel’s not here. Whatever he had to say to me wasn’t important enough for him to wait ten minutes.

Damn.

“Are you the girl they call Georgia?” a voice calls from behind the register. A nerdy little guy, only slightly younger than me, gives me a big old grin.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“You have been summoned here to meet with a certain Daniel A.?”

“Indeed I have,” I say, playing along.

“Well, he had to dash, unfortunately. But he directed me to deliver this to you.” Nerdy Guy reaches in his apron pocket and pulls out a note. Another little folded paper. I take it from his hand. “Mission accomplished. I can now go back to inspecting the fryer basket. Ah, the demands of the lowly employed.”

“I can relate,” I offer, and then I say, “Thanks for this.”

“Anytime, my princess!”

I head outside and open the note:

Sorry. Couldn’t stay. Emergency. Rain check?


That’s it. No e-mail. No phone number. No inkling of a hint.

Another rain check. We all know how the last one worked out.

Like it matters.

He’s with Liss now.

He’s got her, and apparently, all of a sudden, I’ve got my art.

I’ll take what I can get.

*

I can’t wait to tell Dad about the show. I take the warm, rattling train down to the restaurant. I stare out the window and imagine sitting across from him in the booth, telling him my news, his smile wide on his face. I bet he’ll say something in Greek, something I won’t understand, but I won’t need to understand it to know that he’s proud. I’ll be his kaló korítsi, his good girl, again.