the other supports her back. Then she twists her long chestnut hair up into a messy bun. Like clockwork, freshly snipped layers fall out the sides and frame her face. “I want to surprise Rick with a great gift for our six-month anniversary. Not like a dumb shirt or video game.” She looks sad for a second, but then she brightens. “Could you help me think of something special?”
“Umm, sure,” I say. But I don’t have any ideas right this second, maybe because I myself have never had a boyfriend, an anniversary, or even a French kiss that didn’t occur during spin the bottle or taste like beer. Before junior year, Meg hadn’t either. We’d both been equal.
Meg’s purse buzzes on the floor. It lies just out of Meg’s reach, so I dig the cell out for her. At the bottom, I touch a chewed-up blue pen. My fingers cling to it like it’s magnetized. It’s almost like I can’t help but pick it up.
Meg flips open her phone and starts texting. While she does, I brush the crumbs off my napkin and start to draw. The pen fits in my hand so comfortably, like an extension of my fingers. I draw a lot in moments like this. It gives me something to concentrate on while life happens to everyone else.
There’s a tiny dip between Meg’s nose and upper lip, and it’s shaped like a perfect teardrop. I draw that pretty quickly, but it looks funny there, floating on the napkin. It needs more context. And since Meg is otherwise occupied — texting away with Rick, no doubt — I draw the flat lines of her lips. Then I add her nose and the sloping angles of her heart-shaped face. I don’t try to map the couple of dark freckles she has, because the pen is leaky and the napkin only too happy to soak up the extra ink.
As Meg appears on the napkin, it makes me excited. I mean, I’m relatively new at this — drawing for real. Not cartoon-style where eyeballs are round circles with big black dots inside and feet face outward at an impossible angle. It’s still surprising when I’m able to draw something that actually looks like what I want it to. Each time feels like a tiny miracle.
When I glance up from the napkin, Meg is staring at me. “Emily, are you drawing me?! Like, right now?”
I take a quick sip of my mocha and put the cup down so it blocks her view. “Sort of. Not really.”
Meg rises up out of her seat, trying to peek. “Yeah, right! You never show me any of your drawings. Come on! Let me see it.”
My first instinct is to crumple it up, because it’s just a quick sketch and not anything I’m even trying to make good. But I know I have to get better about showing my work to people, especially considering my art classes start tomorrow. So I hand it over, and pretend I’m not nervous about what she thinks.
Meg takes the napkin carefully, cradling it in her hands. “Wow,” she says slowly, like each letter is its own sentence.
“You like it?” I’m not trying to fish for compliments, but I want to make sure she’s being honest. Meg definitely prefers niceness to truthfulness, and when you know that about somebody, it’s practically impossible not to feel insecure, no matter what they tell you.
And then it hits me. Maybe I could draw a portrait for Meg to give to Rick for their anniversary! Nothing too colorful or big. Just a simple sketch done in pencil on a small sheet of heavy paper — the kind where you can see the spidery veins of the tree pulp. Then we could go pick out a nice frame to put the portrait in. It might seem like a girly gift for some guys, but not Rick. He’s got photos of Meg all over the place — in his wallet, tucked into the visor in his truck. He even keeps one underneath the insole of his baseball cleat for good luck.
But just as I’m about to share my idea, Meg’s head drops to the side and her bottom lip gets so pouty, it shows a rim of the slick pink inside.
“I would seriously rather get a nose job than a car this summer.”
My stomach muscles get tight, like they don’t want to do the work it’s going to take for another breath. “What?” I reach for my napkin.
But Meg won’t hand it back to me. She keeps staring down at it in her manicured hands, blinking a lot. “I just hate how fat the tip looks,” she says quietly, and scratches the drawing with her nail, as if she could shave the pen marks down.
“Here, let me fix it,” I stutter after a few awkward seconds. The thing is, Meg’s nose is kind of round. Not in an ugly way. In a Meg way.
The door opens and the air makes a suction sound as Rick steps into Starbucks. He’s wearing stiff gray coveralls, mud-caked Timberland work boots, and a red baseball cap embroidered with the name of his family business, WILEY LANDSCAPING. Rick is so tall and broad-shouldered that he blocks out most of the sun shining through the glass behind him.
Meg and I stare at each other in a moment of panic, my napkin drawing hanging in limbo between us. I absolutely don’t want Rick to see it, so I reach for it, but Meg snatches her hand back first.
Rick rests his hands on Meg’s bare shoulders and plants a kiss on the top of her head. She climbs onto her knees and hugs his torso. I watch her discreetly slide my drawing into the back pocket of her red terry cloth shorts.
I guess I should feel relief that it’s hidden. Only it’s kind of weird, how upset it makes me to see my drawing become a lumpy wad. She should have just given it back to me.
Rick smiles at me. “Hey, Emily. I like your flip-flops.”
“Hi,” I say back, and then shove my straw in my mouth. My flip-flops are the same old Havaianas that everyone in town wears. But Rick always finds some random thing like that to compliment me on. Meg says Rick’s afraid I don’t like him. Which isn’t true, exactly. He’s nice, nicer than a guy of his good looks should probably be. He’s just not that smart, especially compared to someone like Meg. But he understands how tight Meg and I are, close enough so that our names are always mushed together in conversations around school, like MegandEmily. He gets that I’m important, that I matter.
Rick stretches and yawns. His armpits are damp, but he doesn’t smell stinky. He wears the spicy smell of fresh-cut grass like a too-powerful cologne. “I thought you guys would be hanging out by the pool all day. I’ve just got to take one last trip to the greenhouse and then I can come over and swim.” Since Rick’s dad owns their landscaping business, he pretty much gets to set his own hours. Which is to say, he’s always around. “Do you guys want me to drop you off anywhere on my way?”
Meg turns to me. “Do you want a ride back home? Or we can walk. It’s just hot out and I’m kind of tired. But whatever you want, Emily. It’s your last summer afternoon.” She’s talking fast. Her light blue eyes sparkle. She still gets so excited about Rick driving us around, even though he’s probably given us over a million rides.
“Hey, that’s right!” Rick says. “Emily, are you dreading summer school or what? I was so happy when I passed my US History final so I wouldn’t have to go again this year and lose out on all the money I’d make working for my dad. But don’t worry. The classes are way easier than regular school.”
Even though I don’t want to get into it with Rick, I feel the need to defend myself. “It’s not summer school,” I tell him. “It’s a pre-college art program.” Rick looks at me blankly, like I’m speaking another language. “It’s at the Philadelphia College of Fine Art.” Still nothing. “I chose to go to it.”
Rick takes off his ball cap, runs his hand through his matted brown hair, and puts it back on again. Thinking. Then he chuckles in a friendly, quiet way. “Okay, that makes sense. I’ve never heard of anyone failing Art at Cherry Grove High.”
I don’t know why this annoys me so much, because Rick’s right. Ms. Kay’s Art class is an easy A. That’s why it’s so popular. That’s why I took it in the first place.
No one takes it seriously. In my class, all the boys ever drew were sports players or weird Alice in Wonderland-type drug stuff. Amy Waterman turned every project into a chance to practice her bubble letters. And the rest of the girls were obsessed with glitter pens and making origami roses for each