How to Be Brave(52)

*

The Shikaakwa Art Gallery and Coffee House is so übercool, I can hardly stand it. It’s small and the air is thick with the heavy scent of espresso and more espresso. Right when I walk in, someone dressed like a superhip penguin offers me some miniature empanadas, but my stomach is in too many knots to eat anything. If my dad’s arm weren’t wound around mine holding me up, I might have already collapsed on the floor, my knees are so shaky from this crazy night.

My dad accepts an empanada in his free hand and takes a bite. “Mmmm. These are very good. I should suggest something like this to Vassilis when I get there.”

“Dad, I think they have empanadas in California.”

“But these have kalamata olives inside.” He holds it up for me to see. “It is very fancy.”

The room is packed full with all these artsy people, and while I know they’re all here to support Marquez’s sister and the other artists (there’s a lot of squealing and hugging and pointing at artwork that is not my own), I don’t care. Because there they are, my seven paintings, hanging on the walls right next to theirs. I’m an artist.

My dad seems just as nervous as me, he’s holding on so tight. “I called Maria. She wanted to come, but the kids are all sick. She was so very proud to hear your news.”

Marquez isn’t here yet, but I recognize his sister immediately. She’s short like him and has the same feisty eyes. She comes running up to me and gives me a big hug. “You must be Georgia! So happy to meet you. I am Carissa.” She rolls her r’s like Dad. “Did you see all of your beautiful work?”

“I did,” I say mid-hug. “This is amazing. Thank you so much.”

“It’s what I do. Give a place to new artists so they can share their voice. It’s my service to the world. Now, go, see your work—” And she scampers away to give someone else a hug.

My dad and I wander around the studio, spending time looking at all of the art. I love the other artists’ work. All three of them are students at the local college, and I just can’t believe I’m here with them. This is so much better than prom.

After making our rounds, we find a corner table. My dad orders a double shot of espresso and sips it slowly. “This is like being in Athena at the kafeneion,” he says. “Except that no one is smoking.”

Marquez arrives and shakes my dad’s hand, and my dad beams with pride. Carissa periodically sends a few people our way. They tell me how much they like my work. It’s really crazy, all of this. Toward the end of the night, Carissa skips over to whisper that a few people actually want to buy my stuff. They want it for their homes. They want to put my art on their walls.

Unbelievable.

And then something even more unbelievable happens.

Liss and Daniel walk through the door.

And behind them, Avery and Chloe, of all people, with their arms around their dates.

They’re dressed up for prom, Liss in a nonsequined lime-green eyelet dress with her hair redder and wilder and wispier than ever, and Daniel in a gray suit and vest. Avery and Chloe look a little more traditional, in black sequins and pumps, but it’s the weirdest thing. They’re not at prom. They’re here instead.

They’re here. For me.

I run to the door. Liss sees me and opens her arms.

And we hug.

It’s just that easy.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be at prom?”

“We were. It was lame,” Liss says. Daniel and Avery and Chloe nod. “Terrible music. Awful food. And the ever-predictable dry humping and such. I thought Q-tip was going to have to turn on the ceiling sprinklers just to get them to separate.”

God, I missed her.

“I’m so sorry, Liss,” I whisper. “I f*cked up so bad.”

She looks at Daniel, and then Avery and Chloe, who give me a wave and then wander off into the crowd to leave us alone.

“Yeah,” she says. “You did.” I look at her, my closest friend. No, it’s more than that—she’s the only other human being on earth who understands me to the core, the one who sees me for me, the one who knows me well enough to say she’s had enough of my shit. “But it wasn’t entirely your fault. Gregg’s the real f*ckup. And Evelyn with that shit she gave you.” She takes me by the shoulders, right near my neck, and says, “But don’t you ever do anything like that again.”

She forgives me. Hallelujah, holy shit, she forgives me.

“Cross my heart and stick a needle in my eye.”

“Don’t do that! You need your eyes for your artwork,” Liss says. “Now, give me the grand tour. I want to see it all.”

I show her the paintings: the one of my father, his face etched with the topography of the Peloponnesus, his skin lines revealing the mountains of the Demeter and Artemis; the one of my mother, her face a simple labyrinth where the beginning meets the end; and the one of Liss, her face as a map of the bus and train routes, the 22 and the 36, the Red Line and Brown Line, of everywhere we’ve been. There are others, too, of imagined maps, with empty faces inside. These are for sale. The first three are not.

“Georgia, these are simply … extraordinary—”

And then she squeezes me and whispers into my ear, “Number six was the most important one.”