Picture Us In The Light(34)

But anyway, so Sandra had made it clear what she thought of me, and someone’s opinion of you isn’t the kind of thing you can exactly confront someone over or defend yourself against, especially when that would mean bringing too many things you’d rather keep hidden out into the open; it’s just that every time from then on when you see them (which in my case was kind of a lot) you know that they think you have no principles, which, cool. Especially because loyalty matters a lot to me. I’d still do Ethan any favor he asked, and it’s been twelve years. But as far as Sandra was concerned I was someone else completely, and I’d always resented her for it.

I told myself that, anyway, because it let me off the hook. But maybe it was always more that I couldn’t ever quite face her. Maybe it was just that she was a witness to a part of myself I’d rather bury. That’s probably why I let things stay that way—I was always afraid she’d expose me, even if just to myself.



I was hanging out in the library after school waiting for Harry to get done with a lab group meeting one day after school last year, right in the middle of the ASB elections, when Sandra came and slid into the chair next to me. I was drawing (I was forever working on my RISD portfolio; I probably slept five hours a night all year) and I looked up. She said, “Hey.”

I probably couldn’t quite hide my surprise. “Uh—hey?”

“Could you sound less excited to talk to me? That would really make my day.”

“I wasn’t—” I pretended to clear my throat. It was probably no use pretending. “What’s up?”

“I have a proposition for you.” She leaned forward. “Who are you drawing?”

“No one. Just doodling.”

“Regina said you’re just applying to art schools.”

I put my pen down. “Yeah. Ideally just one, actually.”

“Oh, gross, you’re doing early decision? If I only applied to one school I literally don’t think I’d be able to get out of bed in the morning. Just thinking about that kind of pressure makes me want to die. It’s like colleges were like, wait, how can we possibly determine your self-worth in a way that’s even more stressful and even more degrading than it already is? Boom: early decision.”

I smiled in spite of myself. The truth is that I missed her—all along I’d missed her. I was just too much of an ass to do anything about it, too much of a coward to make a first move. “So you’re applying more than one place, I take it. You know where?”

“Everywhere. Like literally everywhere. I have no chance.” She laughed a little, not like she actually found it funny. The sad thing was, it was possibly true. Sandra worked hard, but she wasn’t someone everything came easily to, not a Harry or a Regina, and her parents refused to forgive her for it. She’d probably get into the lower UCs. Irvine might be a stretch. “But I’m avoiding thinking about it. Anyway, I’ll save you the suspense. I wanted to talk to you about the float.”

“Oh, right.” It was homecoming season, and Sandra was in charge of our class float. Sandra loved floats. She’d spearheaded the efforts every year since we were freshmen, one reason I’d always avoided it. The theme that year was Around the World, which I knew because a side effect of Sandra being in charge meant Regina spent a disproportionate amount of time talking about homecoming, and for a few weeks we all had to pretend we cared about our preternaturally ungifted football team. (Should’ve made homecoming during a badminton game. At least then we might’ve won.) “What about it?”

“I want you to design it.”

“You want what now?”

“Design it. I think we have a really good shot at winning this year instead of the seniors. Their float last year sucked—remember their sixties theme and it was, like, three girls in poodle skirts? That whole class is super mediocre. So if you design it and we build it, there’s no way anything they come up with will—”

“Who’s going to build it? You know there’s probably like ten people in each class who even care about winning, right?”

“But I count as twice as many people at least. Hence, our win. You’ll help, right? I’m wearing you down?”

I was never going to say no to her. I mean, she was offering me a chance to literally stick my art on a wagon and parade it in front of hundreds (okay, dozens) of people. Of course I was going to say yes.

The three years since we’d talked had given me a while to pretend she was someone she wasn’t—someone it didn’t matter if I lost, I guess. But I understood: this was a peace offering, after I’d proven I didn’t deserve one. I said, “Yeah, whatever you need.” I should’ve said more.

“Perfect. Draw something and give me plans by Friday.” She’d picked up her purse and turned to go when I said, “Can I ask you something?”

She turned back around. “Maybe.”

“Why—This is going to come out badly. But how come you’re running for president instead of vice president again?”

She looked evenly at me. I thought she wouldn’t answer. After a while she said, “Does Harry think I’m a bitch? I asked him if he cared before I decided to run.”

“Nah, he doesn’t think that.” It was news to me that she’d asked him. What was he going to say—No, don’t run? Yo, I actually need this to feel good about myself? “I was just wondering, that’s all. Forget it.”