I Wish You All the Best(75)

“‘Ben-ish’?” I say. “Huh.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no, no.” I glance toward him, and then back to the painting. “I get it.” At least, I think I do.

“The one of the bird feels lonely,” Nathan keeps going. “Like you’ve got all this empty space, even though it’s this huge canvas.”

“You should critique art,” I say.

“Or maybe I’ll just critique you.” He winks.

“That might be your worst line yet.” But I can still feel my face getting a little hot, and I can’t hold his gaze for more than a few seconds.

I wait for him to keep going, to say something about his portrait, but I guess he’s already told me everything he needs to say about it. The bright colors, the angle. “Do you want to walk around?” I ask him.

“Yeah, why not?”

But the second we round the corner, my eyes find the front doors of the school. And the two people walking right through them.

“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath.

Mom and Dad are here.





“No. No, no, no, no.”

Nathan freezes. “What are they …”

I have to think fast. “Listen, please find Hannah and Thomas,” I say just low enough so that only Nathan will hear me. “Distract them, keep them away from my section, okay?”

“Got it.” Nathan nods and runs off, glancing down the aisles.

“Hi, honey, where is your friend going?” Mom asks.

“To get something to drink,” I murmur. “What are you two doing here?”

“Well, we were looking at your school’s website,” Mom says with a smile. “And we saw that there was an art show, and that your name was on the list of students!”

“So, we thought we’d stop by.” Dad folds up a flyer he was given at the door.

“Don’t y’all think you should’ve messaged me first? To see if I was okay with this?” I ask.

“Oh, honey, don’t be silly. We wanted to support you.” Mom bats at me with her hand.

“Now, where is your stuff? I’d love to see it.”

“I think you two should go.”

Dad scoffs. “So now we aren’t allowed to view our own child’s work? You used to talk about your art all the time, I thought you’d be excited!”

I catch the word use, no “sons” yet. Maybe they’re trying now? “Hannah’s here, and I didn’t invite you. I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Oh, stop, Ben.” Dad brushes past me. “We’ll take one quick look and then leave, okay? Maybe we’ll go out to dinner to celebrate.”

“Yeah, sure. Maybe.” I’ll say whatever I need to, as long as they leave as quickly as possible. I duck in front of Mom and lead them both toward my little section. “Here you go.”

“Oh goodness, these sure are something, Ben.”

I keep myself from asking exactly what kind of “something” they are. “Thank you.”

“You really painted these?” Dad asks, leaning in for a closer look. “I’m surprised; you’re more talented than I thought.”

Maybe if he’d actually bothered to look at any of the things I showed him back home he’d be less surprised. “Yep.” I glance around, hoping that Nathan’s found Hannah and Thomas.

“Oh, get in close, sweetie.” Mom pulls out her phone. “I want to take a picture!”

“Fine, then you guys really need to leave,” I say, standing beside the drip painting.

I hear Mom whisper, “I do wish you were wearing a different shirt.” But I choose to ignore her. No point in getting them riled up.

“Is that your friend?” Dad asks. “Nate?”

“Nathan,” I say. “And yes.”

“Looks just like him.” But it doesn’t sound like a compliment. I’m sure the pieces are coming together in his head. I painted a portrait of a boy, a boy I seem very close with. In his head it’s simple addition.

“Thank you,” I say, maybe just to spite him.

“Are you getting paid for these?” Dad asks.

“No, Dad.”

“Well, we should talk to someone about that.” He starts to look around, but I have to stop him.

“No, Dad, it’s okay. This is a student show. No one’s getting paid.”

Mom snaps a few photos with her phone. “Well, this was just fantastic. These really are amazing, Ben.”

“Okay, now please, leave.”

“Benjamin, there’s no need to be rude, we came all this way.” Dad wraps an arm around Mom’s waist.

“Guys, I’m begging you. Listen—”

“Ah-ah.” Dad lets out a low chuckle and eyes Mom, but she isn’t laughing. “Now who’s misgendering someone?”

Un-fucking-believable.

And he’s just going to keep laughing in my face.

“That was one of the things we found, when you use the wrong words for someone,” Mom explains.

“Well, then maybe you understand how it isn’t a fucking joke?” I say just loud enough so they can still hear me.