How to Be Brave (19 page)

I actually enjoy my time alone in my room, immersed in my own projects, learning new techniques off YouTube. It's the only time I enjoy being alone.

I was wait-listed by the University of Illinois Urbana–Champaign, but I'm getting comfortable with the thought of staying at home, working at the restaurant, and going to city college. I've been spending a lot of time with my dad. Well, at least in the same room as my dad. We don't talk much. Not that there's much to say. I spend afternoons at the front of the restaurant, studying my chem homework (I think I can, I think I can), sketching, and working the register while my dad preps and cleans and cooks. I know he likes having me there, and I know he can use the help.

In return, he gives me enough money to pay for my classes at the Soul Power Yoga studio, of all places. Ironically, it's the one thing from the list I've kept with. I've become somewhat addicted to the place, going to tribal yoga and the other basic yoga classes. It's about the only time, other than when I'm painting, that my brain is not replaying that night with Gregg. It's about the only time I can breathe.

I push open the door. The outside air suffocates me with its chill, but the air inside these hallways is worse. I've stopped using my locker since the location smack-dab between Daniel and Liss is the worst kind of asphyxiation imaginable. I head straight to history. I take a seat in the front row, pull out my notebook, and start copying the agenda from the board.

I'm a good girl now.

Just like my father wanted.

*   *   *

Daniel's standing at Zittel's door when I get there for second-period chemistry. He's leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed and hair mussed, looking all
GQ
-ish, and I'm so mad at myself for fucking it up with him. Liss deserves him. And I mean that in the best possible way. They're both good people, and beautiful, too. They make a pretty couple.

I just about bolt. I could hide in the bathroom for a few minutes, tell Zittel I'm having lady issues to shut him up about me being tardy—but then Daniel looks me in the eye and smiles, his signature smile, warm and kind.

“Georgia! Finally. I found you. Here.” He hands me a folded sheet of paper. “I can never catch you in Marquez's class. You always disappear right when the bell rings. Meet me at Ellie's after school, okay? We need to talk.”

I open my mouth to say something, but I'm choking on the toxic air of Zittel's ammonia solution seeping out from the classroom, mixed with a healthy dose of absolute shock.

“See you later,” he says.

And then he bolts.

I stumble to my desk and open the paper.

Three words:

She misses you.

What is he doing? Meet him at Ellie's? Is it just going to be him? Or will Liss be there, too? Why is he getting involved?

I haven't learned much from Zittel, but I do know this: Never mix certain chemicals, like ammonia with bleach, because the subsequent vapors could knock you dead.

I miss Liss, too, but I don't know if it's worth it—the two of us in the same room at the same time. And with Daniel in the mix as well.

We might very well need emergency assistance.

*   *   *

I avoid making eye contact with Daniel, but I can feel him staring at me over Marquez's balding head. Now that it's nearing the end of the year, Marquez has pretty much stopped teaching and he lets us do whatever we want, as long as we're there and turn in a set amount of pieces every two weeks, and as long as we keep sketching.

I try to focus on my Sharpies—black and gold and red—on this rhythmic, patterned piece that requires my very careful attention. It's too hard, though. My hand is shaking. I have too many questions in my head. Fifty-two minutes until Ellie's.

I put aside my project and pull out my chem book. Zittel told us today that if we get a C on the rest of our tests, we can get a C in the class. The next big one is two days away. I guess a bunch of us are failing. Big surprise, considering the man can't teach to save his life. Here's hoping he curves the scores.

I open to the homework. This is what it says:

Practice Questions:
Write the balanced equations for the following reactions.

1. Na + H
2
O → NaOH + H
2

2. C
2
H
6
+ O
2
→ CO
2
+ H
2
O

3. Ammonium nitrate decomposes to yield dinitrogen monoxide and water.

4. Ammonia reacts with oxygen gas to form nitrogen monoxide and water.

5. How many grams of ammonia, NH
3
, can be made from 250 grams of N
2
(g)?

And on, and on, and on.

It's a fucking foreign language.

But hell, it gets my mind off Daniel for a bit. I'm moving letters and carrying numbers and determining some kind of solution, even though I have no idea if the solutions are correct. Zittel said we had to at least try, so that's what I'm doing.

I look up at the clock. Five minutes left.

I can't help glancing at Daniel, who feels my gaze. He looks up from his project, gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and mouths, “Ellie's!”

Hollow. Pit. In. Stomach. Growing.

“Miss Askeridis,” Marquez yells across the room. “May I speak with you after class?”

Ugh. Now what.

I look back over at Daniel, who is shaking his head. “Not today,” he mouths.

“Sorry, sir,” I respond. “Can't today. Have an appointment.”

But Marquez caught Daniel's silent directive, so he responds accordingly, “Ah. A hot date with Mr. Antell?”
Oh. God. No. Don't be a smart-ass now, Marquez.
“Well, that can wait.” He glances at Daniel and then back at me. “This can't.”

I look at Daniel and shrug, and he shakes his head.

“Wait for me?” I mouth back to him.

He nods in response.

Everyone around me is laughing and whispering and oohing and aahing like they're nine years old.

Fuuuuuck.

One more month.

Twenty-nine more days.

Just Get Through It, Georgia.

You're almost out of here.

*   *   *

Everyone packs up and leaves, and like last time, Marquez leads me out the door toward a bench, except this time it's even colder than it was in December. I wrap my scarf around my mouth, but it doesn't really help. My nostrils are freezing. My cheeks are freezing. My eyeballs are freezing.

Marquez is just wearing a sweater, though.

“Aren't you afraid you're going to get pneumonia or something?” I ask.

“Cold like this is good for the blood,” he says, shaking his head. “Keeps us alive.”

Okay, crazy guy.

We sit there, watching the students scuttle away. Marquez stares off into space, not saying anything.

My butt is starting to freeze now, too, and all I can think is that I wish I had a longer coat. That, and I wish I were at Ellie's. Or then again, maybe not. I don't know anymore. Ugh. What does Marquez want?

“So … you wanted to talk to me?”

Marquez turns to me. “You're right. I did.” He smiles. “I never had children.”

 …

“I sometimes wish I did.”

 …

“I'm not going to say that if I could have had a child, she would have been like you, because that's a strange thing to say—”

 …

“But I will say this: She would have painted like you. She would have drawn like you. She would have had your hands.”

Oh.

“My sister owns this little coffee shop, over on the West Side, near the Ukrainian Village. She also hosts little gallery shows every month. I showed her your work.”

Oh.

“It's kind of short notice, but she'd like to include you in a show coming up in May. You'd be showing with a couple of other artists. College students whose work is at a professional level. I think you should start thinking of yourself as a professional, too. You're still raw, as you should be, but you're good. But that means you'll have to create more pieces. They want a bunch to pick from, and then they choose that night which ones to show.”

I'm absolutely, utterly speechless.

I've got nothing.

No words. No vowels. No consonants.

Nothing.

I'm a dissolved liquid.

I'm vapor.

“There's one problem,” Marquez says. “The show opening is the same night as prom, so you wouldn't be able to go.”

“Oh…” The words come out. “Like I could give a shit about that.”

And Marquez busts out in a hysterical fit of coughs and laughter. “And she definitely would have had the same sass as you.”

He shakes my hand and releases me into the afternoon.

I've got to get to Ellie's.

Hopefully, I'm not too late.

*   *   *

I run down the street as fast as I can over the slippery slush piles. A little bell rings when I open the door to announce my entrance into an empty sandwich shop. Daniel's not here. Whatever he had to say to me wasn't important enough for him to wait ten minutes.

Damn.

“Are you the girl they call Georgia?” a voice calls from behind the register. A nerdy little guy, only slightly younger than me, gives me a big old grin.

“Yeah, that's me.”

“You have been summoned here to meet with a certain Daniel A.?”

“Indeed I have,” I say, playing along.

“Well, he had to dash, unfortunately. But he directed me to deliver this to you.” Nerdy Guy reaches in his apron pocket and pulls out a note. Another little folded paper. I take it from his hand. “Mission accomplished. I can now go back to inspecting the fryer basket. Ah, the demands of the lowly employed.”

“I can relate,” I offer, and then I say, “Thanks for this.”

“Anytime, my princess!”

I head outside and open the note:

Sorry. Couldn't stay. Emergency. Rain check?

That's it. No e-mail. No phone number. No inkling of a hint.

Another rain check. We all know how the last one worked out.

Like it matters.

He's with Liss now.

He's got her, and apparently, all of a sudden, I've got my art.

I'll take what I can get.

*   *   *

I can't wait to tell Dad about the show. I take the warm, rattling train down to the restaurant. I stare out the window and imagine sitting across from him in the booth, telling him my news, his smile wide on his face. I bet he'll say something in Greek, something I won't understand, but I won't need to understand it to know that he's proud. I'll be his
kaló
korítsi,
his good girl, again.

But when I get there, Dad is in the middle of a meeting with some guy in a suit.

They're huddled in a booth, very official-looking papers spread out before them. I slide into a booth two down from them. I take out my sketchbook but am distracted by trying to figure out what the meeting is about.

It basically goes something like this: The Suit punches numbers into a very expensive laptop, then writes a number on a Post-it note and says something to my dad. My dad then peers over his reading glasses at the number. He shakes his head. It doesn't look good. They repeat this process a few more times, until finally my dad and the Suit stand up and shake hands. The meeting is over.

Dad sees me and waves.

He walks the Suit to the door and they shake hands one more time.

He comes over and sits down. “Georgia. I am glad you are here. We need to talk.” He takes a deep breath and then says this: “I have to close the restaurant.”

Close the restaurant? What is he talking about?

“That was Craig McIntire, our accountant. The news is not good. We finally are not making any profit at all. It's been a very long time coming, but now I know for sure.”

“Wait. What? Can't we change up the place like Mom wanted?” I don't understand. He's just giving up so easily. “New booths? Coat of paint? Menu?”

He shakes his head. “No money for that.”

“What about a loan? Like small business or whatever? We could save it. I'll be done with school in a few months. I could help.” I can't just let him give up this place that's been more of a home to me than our home. I swallow back tears, but I'm invigorated by Marquez's faith in me. I could help redecorate the place. Make it superhip. Maybe make it an artists' mecca. We could have coffee and scones and live music and shows, maybe like the one I'll be showing at in a few weeks.

“I already took out a loan a few years ago. Can't do it again. Nothing to show for it.”

Oh.

“Well, what, then? What will you do?”

“Remember your uncle Vassilis in California? You met him. He wants me to come there. He has a catering business in a city called Azusa, and he wants to expand. He needs my help.”

“California?”

He nods.

He's leaving Chicago for California? After thirty years in this city, he's deciding to leave
now
?

“I want you to come, of course. You could go to college out there. They have many good schools. You could even get a job with Vassilis to help pay your way.”

I blink back tears, trying hard not to cry in front of my dad, trying hard to imagine this alternate future, one that is far away from the Midwest, far from the skyscrapers and tornado warnings and winter-tainted springs. Quite honestly, I don't know what I want. I mean, this is what I want, right? I'm sick of being here, but then again, I never thought I'd actually leave.

“The sun is shining there now,” Dad says. “It is seventy-three degrees today.”