Verify, Page 2

  Pity swims in her eyes, then vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared. She gives a no-nonsense shake of her head as she flips open the lid of one of her dozens of makeup compacts. “Lucky for you I have just the thing to fix you up.”

  There’s no fixing me. Even if I slept for a week, I would never look like Rose. Boring dishwater-blond hair, pale hazel eyes, and average height are not model material. “You don’t need to go to the trouble.”

  Rose grabs my arm as I try to sidestep her. “If you don’t want your teachers calling your father out of concern for your well-being or, worse yet, sending you down to the counselor, you’ll stand still and let me work.”

  “We’re going to be late.”

  “Not if you keep still and follow my instructions,” Rose says. “And if we don’t get to class in time for the second bell, a call from either one of my parents will get us out of trouble. Deal?”

  I sigh, knowing there really isn’t much of a choice. When Rose has her mind set on something, there is little chance of changing it. Besides, I don’t have the energy or the time to put up a fight. “Deal.”

  “Good. This won’t take long. Hold this.” She hands me the makeup kit, and I can tell from the colors that half of what she has with her has been brought specifically for me. Knowing that Rose has been worried enough to go out of her way to get these things ties my throat into a knot. Tears prick the backs of my eyes. The world blurs and I blink to chase it all away.

  “Stop moving,” Rose chastises. She dabs a sponge under my eyes and on several other spots on my face. I stare at a light green leaf on a tree in the distance and try to clear my mind and my heart the way I can with my tablet. Rose attacks my eyes with a pencil and eye shadow and actually growls at me when I try to move away before she puts the finishing touches on her design. Finally, she gives a satisfied smile and holds a mirror up to my face. “There is no denying that I’m a genius. My mother and Gloss editorials have taught me well.”

  She isn’t lying. My skin is no longer blotchy. The peach shadow she used on my lids is almost translucent, but somehow makes them appear less sleep deprived. I seem almost normal—as long as no one looks too hard. The anger and fatigue and distrust in my eyes cannot be smoothed away with powder and lip gloss. Those are beyond even my best friend’s ministrations.

  But when I look away from my image and see Rose’s grin, I can’t help but smile back. After so many years, all the changes in our lives, and the bitterness and hurt I have waded through, the thing I am most grateful for is Rose’s friendship. “Thanks,” I say, lifting my eyes to hers. “I owe you.”

  “Real friends don’t keep score.” Rose shoves the makeup case back into her bag. Once it’s stowed, she shrugs the bag onto her shoulder and we start walking. “So what happened this morning?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?” I wait for a red sports car to pass and cross the street with Rose beside me.

  “Meri, I yelled your name three times before you noticed me. That’s not like you.”

  I take a deep breath and say, “Dad asked about my submission to the City Art Program this morning. It’s the first time he’s brought it up since . . . before.” I walk faster, as if I can escape the ache that comes with the reminder of my mother’s death. “He was disappointed when I told him I didn’t finish my submission. I guess I thought in some way he would be relieved.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “He never goes in Mom’s studio. He took her award off the shelf in the living room. He can’t bring himself to look at her art or talk to anyone she used to work with. And whenever I start sketching or even talk about one of my assignments for art class he goes into another room.”

  The things that keep me going drive him to search for a way to forget. The award lives on the shelf next to my bedroom window. I draw for hours every day. A nicer daughter would give those things up to help him. Clearly, I’m not that nice.

  “Your father’s hurting,” Rose says quietly. “But he knows how important your art is. He’s not like my dad—determined to make everyone just like him. Your dad would never want you to give up something that makes you happy. Speaking of the City Art Program, I know you said your portfolio wasn’t finished, but—”

  “The submission deadline was two weeks ago.” I walk even faster as our school and the dozens of cars and buses navigating the street in front of the redbrick building come into sight. “It’s over, Rose.”

  Maybe I’d still get into one of the college art programs, but my chances of becoming a City Art Program designer now were low. And I had only myself to blame.

  “Nothing is ever over until you admit defeat. I talked to—”

  “Can you just drop it?” I ask. “Please? I haven’t had a chance to ask you about whether you convinced your dad to let you work at Gloss instead of at City Hall this summer.”

  “Did you see the new issue? Mom said she sent one to your account. She wanted to know if you have ideas for the logo redesign. She wants something more youthful and striking and thinks a younger designer’s point of view will help.” Rose shakes the smile off her face and settles back into a frown. “But no fair changing the subject. We can talk about me and my summer job later. After you—”

  The first bell rings, which cuts off whatever Rose was going to say because in order to make it to our class before the second bell sounds, we have to run. Side by side, we race across the street and down the sidewalk, dodging the other stragglers and the large outdoor screens that flank the front door entry like sentries. The one to the right is dedicated to a running display of times and dates for school- and student-appropriate city events. The other is set to local news, as are the two screens in the cafeteria. As Principal Velshi has said in every assembly, the only way we can be sure what we want to do when we go out into the world is to first understand what is happening in it.

  The truth, however, is that no one really cares what the chirpy anchor with the plastic-looking hair is saying about the stepped-up recycling effort as students shove their way to the front entrance. Assistant Principal Schmidt is near the door, shouting over the din for everyone to hurry up.

  Breathing hard, Rose pushes her way forward. I’m about to follow when a bus pulls away from the curb. Out of the corner of my eye I catch the flash of red lights. I turn, thinking the light must be from one of the announcement screens, but it’s not. The flashing is coming from atop a police car in the distance. I stop walking as men in charcoal-gray suits shove a struggling person with magenta-and-black-streaked hair toward an open police car door. One of the suits backhands the man he’s escorting across the cheek. I flinch and hold my breath as I keep watching. The suit yells and points toward the street. He’s too far away from me to make out what he said, but several navy-blue-uniformed officers nod and race toward some bushes near the edge of the street.

  “Meri, come on!” Rose tugs on my arm, and I start moving again toward the front entrance. I glance back in time to see the suited men shove the cuffed, shouting perpetrator into the police car and slam the door. Just before I step into the school, a uniformed officer pulls something out of a bush.

  As I race down the hall trying to beat the next bell, I picture the scene from across the street and the item the officer waved in triumph at the suits.

  It wasn’t something anyone used anymore.

  Obsolete, but not illegal.

  So why, I wonder as the bell rings just as I am sliding into my seat, did the police arrest someone over a piece of paper?

  Two

  My father once told me that when I was little I would stare at an object for hours. My head cocked to one side. My hazel eyes wide and focused. Never moving or saying a word. He said it was the way that I studied the world that made him realize I was going to be a visual artist, just like my mother. It was as if I was compelled to learn everything about the color and shape of a thing in order to understand it and myself.

  I am staring out the window of my math class now at the scragg
ly bush far in the distance where hours ago the policeman found that paper. There is no sign of the flashing lights or men in suits. Just a sparrow sitting on a rusty-brown branch and sunlight shining on the forest-green leaves.

  But still I focus out the window, looking for—I’m not sure what. No matter how I try to think about something else, I can’t erase the image of the man with magenta-streaked hair being struck by the officer before being shoved into the police car from my thoughts. Had that white page the officer dug out of the tree truly been the cause of the violence and the arrest?

  It didn’t seem possible. Few people can afford the environmental tax that is charged to anyone who purchases anything made with paper. And even if they can pay the price, most would never bother. There was no reason to. Tablets are just as easy to write on and writing on paper is not only extravagant and unnecessary, it’s selfish. It means you don’t care about fresh air and the environment. My dad was proud that his parents were some of the first to recycle all paper in their house. Mom’s insistence on using canvases was always a sore spot between them, even though the canvases were made of linen, not pulp. He thought it would reflect badly on our entire family if anyone learned we created that kind of waste.

  “Five minutes,” Mr. Greene announces. “Some of you might want to think about paying attention to the review in front of you instead of what you intend to do with your summer vacation. These are just like the questions you are going to have on tomorrow’s final exam.”

  I look at Mr. Greene, who meets my eyes with a nod. He mouths, “You can do it,” and points down at the tablet sitting on my desk. I clutch my stylus tight, and I force my eyes to focus on the problems displayed in black and white on the screen.

  If I expect my father to pull himself together and focus at work, I should be able to do it, too.

  My teachers for the most part have been understanding of my situation, but I am not the greatest student on my best day. Unlike Rose, I have to really study if I want to get good grades. As it stands now, I have to do well on my finals or, concealer or not, people will start wondering if something is wrong.

  I scribble numbers. I list whatever information I can come up with on the proofs that I am not sure how to solve, while wishing that I had taken Rose up on her offer to study with me last night. She is seated near the door, and by the way she is toying with her stylus I can tell she has already completed the work. Not a surprise. Ever since first grade, Rose has caught on to assignments faster than me, probably because she just does the work and doesn’t insist on understanding what practical use the information has. I’m annoying that way.

  Somehow, I manage to come up with answers for all the questions by the time Mr. Greene says, “Time is up. Now let’s go over the questions one by one. If we do this right, you should be ready to ace your final exam.”

  A bunch of guys behind me groan, and Mr. Greene laughs.

  “Think of it this way,” he says, pushing up his green-wire-rimmed glasses. “The sooner tomorrow’s test is over the sooner your summer can begin.”

  There are several high fives and calls to cancel the final exam as Mr. Greene quickly talks through the review test. He is going through the last problem for the third time as the bell rings. Everyone grabs their stuff and scrambles for the door. Over the chatter and sound of scraping chairs and desks, he shouts a reminder to get a good night’s rest. Rose raises her eyebrow at me from where she waits near the exit, pausing there so we can walk together to our next classes. I grab my bag off the back of my seat and glance out the window one last time.

  A guy in a black hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans, and black high-top sneakers is strolling down the sidewalk toward the bush I’ve been staring at. He slows for a second and I wonder if maybe he sees something the police missed. But he keeps walking.

  “How did you do on the review?” Rose asks as we navigate the noisy hallway.

  “Fine,” I say. “A few things were wrong, but I understand enough to pass tomorrow’s test.” Which might not be good enough for Rose but is perfectly fine for me.

  “Why don’t we get together after school and study?” Rose offers, waving to one of her brother’s friends. “Mom is working at home today, but she won’t mind if you come over.” Mrs. Webster can focus even when Rose and I are at our silliest. Rose’s dad cares less about fun and far more about the rules. I never see Rose when she runs out of excuses and finally has to spend a weekend at his place.

  When I hesitate answering, she smiles and adds, “Isaac will probably be around, too.”

  Which I know Rose thinks is a selling point. With his good looks and slightly crooked and adorable smile, Rose’s older brother, Isaac, is the reason almost every girl we pass in the hallways would jump at the chance to hang out at Rose’s house. Maybe it’s the fact that everyone else has a crush on him that makes it hard to think of him romantically. Or maybe it’s knowing how hard it would be to keep his attention that makes me not want to bother. I’ve tried to tell Rose that I’m not interested in dating Isaac, but somehow I always pick the wrong words and make it seem as if I might be. I guess there is no good way to tell your best friend that her brother is just too obvious a choice without sounding stupid.

  So, instead of that truth, I tell another. “I’m in charge of making dinner tonight.”

  “Well, I can always come to your house,” she says. “It’s been forever since I’ve seen your dad.”

  That’s a streak that I am determined to continue.

  “I could even help,” Rose offers in an overly cheerful tone that raises warning bells in my head. It’s the one that she used after she convinced me to sneak away from our Girl Scouts campout when we were ten and she didn’t want me to realize that she’d gotten us lost in the woods. “It would be great to—”

  “What’s going on?” I stop in the middle of the hallway. Someone bumps into me from behind and yells as they shove their way around me, but I don’t care.

  “We’re blocking the hallway,” Rose says as a guy brushes past and flips us off.

  “I’ll move if you tell me what you’re up to. Because this isn’t about studying.”

  Rose blows a strand of hair off her face and sighs. “It’s nothing terrible,” she says. “There’s just something I have to talk to you about and not when there are a bunch of people around.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I’m fine. Honest.” Her eyes meet mine. “It’s actually a good thing, but I really have to talk to you about it today.”

  We go down another hallway, which is starting to empty out, and reach the doorway to my last class of the day. One that I am in no danger of failing—Advanced Studio Drawing.

  “I’ll meet you at the picnic benches after last bell,” I agree. “We can figure out the rest then.”

  “Great! See you there.” Rose bolts down the hall and I head into class wondering what plan my friend is hatching.

  Mrs. Rudoren tells us that we can use the class period to work on our final project—a still life of a bowl of bananas, oranges, and apples. Really exciting stuff. I call up my work that I finished days ago so I can turn to it if Mrs. Rudoren comes by. Then I call up the file of my mother’s unfinished work, careful to tilt the screen so no one can see the abstract image. I start drawing and, again, nothing feels right. So I clear the screen and re-create my work from this morning. My mind wanders to the would-be criminal with magenta- and-black-streaked hair. Then to the man in the gray suit and buckled black boots—his hand raised, ready to strike—while lights flash atop the police car next to the deep forest-green bush.

  After school, I wait for Rose sitting on the scarred, faded wooden top of the picnic table. I balance my tablet on my legs and continue the work I started in art class. Laughter and shouts ripple the air as people head to buses or down the sidewalks toward home. The public screen behind me chirps about the storms that will be coming our way. I spot Isaac with a group of friends standing under a tree. He grins in my direction and all his
friends turn to look at me. I wave, then stare down at my tablet, waiting for the buses to move.

  While I wait, I draw the sidewalk and the grass. I add shadows and some patches of sunlight and am starting to draw the boy I saw out the window of my math class—the one who stood in the same spot where the magenta-haired man was arrested—when I hear Rose call my name.

  “Sorry, Meri. I got held up. What are you working on?” Rose leans forward and I pull the screen up against my chest.

  “Nothing all that great.”

  I don’t think Rose saw the arrest this morning, and for some reason I don’t want to mention it. So I change the subject to something else. “I’m starting to think there’s no point in trying to complete my mother’s painting. It’s too late. No matter how much sleep I lose or how much I try, I know that I’m never going to understand what she was trying to create.”

  “Maybe you’re trying too hard to do it on your own,” Rose says, climbing up to sit next to me.

  “Dad doesn’t know what she was working on, either.” He knows what I know—that in the last six months before she died, almost every night after dinner, she spent hours in her studio or taking walks alone. She told us that she had been inspired by some project she was involved in. Only none of the drawings or photographs we found on her tablet or the projects the other designers talked about her working on resembled anything like the completed abstracts or half-finished painting. “He told me there was no point in trying to figure it out.”

  Better to keep your focus on what is in front of you instead of trying to see things that aren’t there, was his advice.

  Rose shakes her head at her brother, who steps toward us. He makes a face at Rose before he turns away. “Sometimes,” she says, “the best way to get to know someone is to walk a mile in their shoes. If you were part of the City Art Program . . .”

  “We talked about that this morning,” I say. “The deadline for portfolio submissions passed. I didn’t send anything in. It’s over. I’ve moved on.”