She swipes something on her phone. “Your project. The yearbook thing. I haven’t seen you since you barreled out of lunch on Saturday.”
I walk back to her, puzzled. Of course she hasn’t seen me since Saturday. That is the entire point of our living arrangement. We barely see each other at all. It’s not sulking; it’scourtesy.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “I’ve been…” The word catches in my mouth, a bubble of laughter I swallow down. “Busy.”
Understatement of the century.
“Well, that’s good. And you know, art school isn’t the be-all, end-all. I switched my major from fine arts to architecture my first year in college and never looked back. It’s so much better to be practical than conceptual, yes? I think you’re like that too.”
The topic of art school gives me momentary mental whiplash. That’s right—two days ago, all I could think about was Paris. It’s crazy how much has changed since then. And yet…
Better to be practical than conceptual.
Mom’s words tug on my skin uncomfortably. Suddenly I’m back on Castro Street, talking to Mr.Wong and internally divvying every personality trait there is between me and Cam. And I’m doing it again right now with Mom.I’mthe practical one.He’sthe conceptual one.
Being practical is a good thing, I want to say. Practical people get things done. We don’t drag shovels around and poke under trees dreamily. We make connections, solve clues, godeep-sea internet diving when we don’t get answers handed straight to us. But I know my mother well enough to recognize when a jab is carefully hidden in a compliment. I’m not conceptual enough for art school—that’s what she’s really saying.
“So you weren’t good enough for art school either,” I say. I’m trying to turn the pointed thing she’s aimed at me around on her again. But she just laughs.
“Naturally. I’m an architect, not an artist.”
I pause. I don’t understand why Mom has to see everything as some kind of hierarchy. Why some forms of art have to be better than others. But right now, in this moment, my mind catches on one specific word:
“Architect.”
I can picture Gabriel whispering the word “architecture” at me outside the library. As if anything, everything, might be a clue to help solve this riddle. I come closer to Mom’s chair.
“Do you happen to know anything about the buildings on Treasure Island?”
Mom looks up from her phone. “Why are you asking?”
I shrug. “My yearbook thing.”
“Oh.” She takes a final sip of the wine and purses her lips, thoughtful. “No, I don’t know about the buildings. I know the island was built during the beginning of the Moderne style. Not my taste, of course, personally. Leans too brutalist for San Francisco, even with the occasional rounded corner. San Francisco is a city of ornament. It’s too fine for that kind of look.”
“The island was a military base at some point,” I say, remembering.
She peers at me. “Any building can be pretty,” she says seriously. “Even ones that house weapons.”
I sigh and shake my head. “Okay. Thanks for that. Good night.”
“Wait,” she calls.
I pop my head back into the living room. “Yeah?”
“You’re not still applying to Paris, are you?”
I pause. Mom swallows, nervous, like even the idea of her daughter submitting a subpar application would be the most horrendously embarrassing thing to happen to her. Or maybe she’s just already imagining the scenario where I get rejected from art school and give her further confirmation that our family line just doesn’t have what it takes to be proper artists.
“I might be,” I say.
“Are you using what you showed me?” she asks carefully.
I picture Harvey’s flyer hiding in the background of the yearbook dedication page.
“Parts of it,” I say, smiling. Then I bound into my room before I have to see her suffer any further secondhand embarrassment.
As expected, Saturday takes ages to get to. Tuesday and Thursday are especially rough, knowing the history center is open across town. Throughout those days, I catch myself daydreaming about cutting class and jetting off to the main library, before remembering that I am now working with a team andit would be super rude to go off by myself, and also, I have never cut class in my entire life.
