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Until Mom stepped into the doorway of the small curator’s office, putting her hands on her hips. “Maisie, this isn’t what I asked you to do.” She peered around for the box she’d left with me. “Did you finish folding up all the brochures?”
I reached down and tugged it out from under the desk, the folded flyers visible on top. “Yep.”
“Are you sure you folded them the right way?”
I wasn’t sure if there was another way to trifold a flyer, but I nodded. “I did it exactly how you showed me to.”
It’d actually been a project perfect for me. Jozie would’ve been the one to help hang posters and pick out where each art piece should go, but folding brochures was a lot like my origami, each little line a new geometric point.
Despite this, Mom had to double-check my work, and she sifted through the pamphlets with a sharp eye. “The exhibit starts tomorrow, so things need to be perfect.”
“Odd that these weren’t folded earlier.”
“The printer was delayed in dropping them off. Trust me, it shaved off a few years of my life when they were delivered unfolded.”
She probably wasn’t lying about that, since even in the snapshot of this moment, Mom lookedtired. Pinched lips and a slouched posture. Mom loved her job, but it was clear the Brentwood exhibit was more taxing than her previous ones. It made sense, given that this was one of the biggest displays with the most art pieces they’d put on yet. And especially since it was homecoming week, everyone was all Brentwood High crazy.
Her gaze dropped to what laid on her desk. “Do you have to be doing that right now?”
“My homework?”
“Why don’t you come help me set up some artwork?” she said, putting her hand on the back of the desk chair, angling me around. “Or come help your father finish some touchup painting for the sculpture room.”
“I’m not a worker,” I objected, rooting myself in the chair. I was totally okay with pitching in a little with the brochures, but the idea of doing either of those things made me frown. “Why can’t I just stay here?”
“You should do something other than coop up with your math sheets.” Without giving me a chance to respond, Mom swiped up the integrals worksheet, folding it in half and stepping away from the desk. “Come on, let’s find you something to do.”
“Mom,” I began, but she was already sauntering out of her office, leaving me and the brochures behind.
I slumped back in the desk chair, staring at the abstract canvas on the wall near the door. I still had my pencil, but the distraction I’d desperately needed had been abducted. Of course it had. Heaven forbid I cooped myself up withmath. If I’d been Jozie, working on a sketch, would Mom’s response have been different?
No doubt. She’d probably have offered to sharpen my pencils for me.
I wished we could’ve seen eye to eye. That even though I didn’t fit the Matthews mold, Mom accepted my passions. Maybe even a little bit, I wished Ididfit the mold.
With a sigh, I rose out of the desk chair to follow her out into the gallery, thinking, not for the first time, that it would’ve been nice if she’d understood.
It was Wednesday night that I got a phone call. I’d been in the middle of deciphering a Calculus II worksheet Mrs. Diego printed for me when the vibration shook my desk, the loudness in the previously silent room startling me. Mom was still at the gallery and Dad had gone to take her leftovers from dinner. With ten minutes until ten o’clock, I’d been finishing up this worksheet before going to bed early.
Until Connor called.
“Are you home?” His words came immediately, a rush to beat me before I could even sayhello.
“Why?” I asked, but put the pencil down, knowing my concentration had been shot. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’swrong, I, uh—I’m in your driveway.”
The words speared through me as sharp as an arrow. I was already moving when I demanded, “You’rewhat?”
And sure enough, when I parted my curtains, his SUV was parked in the driveway, lights off. I could just make out a figure sitting in the driver’s seat. “Can we talk? Are your parents home?”
The two questions should’ve been easy enough to comprehend, but I found myself reeling, as if he were speaking a different language. Connor Bray washere. And he wanted to…what?Come inside? I blinked hard, but the car didn’t disappear. “N-No, they’re not home, but—I mean—I guess you can come in.”
Connor Bray was here, and he wanted to talk, and I’d saidyes.
Frantically, I pushed my glasses up onto my forehead to scrub off the acne cream that I had on, yanking down my hair from its loose pony. I’d already changed into my pajamas, which of course had to be a nightgown with a snoozing owl on the front—it would’ve been perfect for PJ day—and I couldn’t find my robe anywhere. There was absolutely no way I was opening the door in my nightgown, but his knock echoed through the house, indicating that I had no time to change.
Gritting my teeth, I grabbed a throw blanket from my bed and wrapped around my shoulders, rushing to the door.
