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28
DEXTER
Idirect the ensembles, I accompany the soloists, and I fail at keeping my eyes off Joey Harker. When Ghibli comes in and sets up his instrumentalists, I make my way slowly through the gallery, try to stay out of the way.
And to watch Joey Harker.
Mostly to watch Joey Harker.
In what is now and forever will be my favorite sweater.
She’s incredible.
But she looks so pale. I wonder if she’s feeling okay. I hate that I was responsible for hurting her, and I feel stupid walking over there and asking her if she’s recovered.
I may have gotten things rolling today, but she’s definitely in charge. The kids on the committee are doing what they planned to do, but as they check and double check with her, they’re soaking up her confidence.
I watch students and adults walk through the makeshift gallery spaces, speaking to artists and asking questions. Kids are handing out business cards, and a few adults are cornering Joey to ask her about buying pieces.
This is in every way different than a choral concert. My students are secondary to what this event is really for. And I love it. Maybe there was a moment (maybe there were a few months) where I hoped that the music would steal the show, but I get it now. This is about the visual art. The music is background. Spotlight, maybe.
On my next circuit around the room, I find Joey alone. “Can I get you a chair or a snack or something?” I ask her.
She’s glaring at me. “I’m fine,” she spits out, and then she hugs herself. I wonder if she’s cold in my clothes.
A weird little movie plays in my head, of her wearing a progression of my shirts and sweaters and jackets. I have never wanted to hold that sweater quite as much as I want to right now.
“I know I’m not supposed to say sorry anymore,” I begin, but she puts up her hand.
“Go away, please,” she whisper-hisses to me. I want to argue, but how do I argue with that? I turn and walk toward the refreshment area, where tables are bedecked with charcuterie boards which are themselves works of art. The tags beside them notify patrons what’s available on each.
Ginger Rogers stands beside a table with a tiny plate in her hand. Since she was unusually nice to me earlier, I decide to return the favor.
“What’s good?” I ask, avoiding looking at her by reading the tags.
“Oh, all of it. I understand that we have the east coast’s finest array of gluten-free breads and dairy free cheeses,” she says.
“I’m glad,” I say, biting back the attitude I’d usually give her. It feels strange to be so careful. I pick up a rice cracker and a scoop of hummus. “Do you think Joey’s okay?”
Her only response is a single exhale that might be a laugh if she tried harder.
“Is that a no?” Now I dare to look at her. She is so good at shooting lasers at me with her eyes. She could win physics awards for it. But she’s not glaring at me now.
“I think she’s okay for now,” she says. “Thanks for helping her out earlier.”
“You did all the hard parts,” I say. “I just whacked her in the face and probably broke her nose.”
Ginger puts her plate down. “It was an accident,” she says. “Could have happened to anyone.”
“Anyone who crashed into her face with their head,” I say, putting my fingers to my forehead. I wish there was a bruise there, or even a tender spot. How could I have damaged her so dramatically when I didn’t even get a bump?
Ginger shrugs. “She’s delicate.”
I snort. “She’s tough as they come.”
“People can be both,” Ginger says, and she turns to walk away. I want to stop her, but that was the least combative conversation we have ever had, and I don’t want to make her angry.
I walk another loop through the exhibit, eyes on Joey whenever I can watch her without being too obvious.
