17

MY PLAN FOR THIS ENTIRE SUNDAY IS TO PAINT UNTIL I DROP.

Things have quieted down ever so slightly over the last week. Heart-pounding robocalls aside, letting the pressure out of the steam cooker helped some.

So does the fact that April vacation week starts next Friday and everyone at school is focused on that instead of me. I guess my not frothing at the mouth, or bleeding from my ears, or doing anything else interesting to indicate I might be on the verge of imminently checking out of this world, means everyone can relax around me. Continuing to ask the kid on the organ transplant list if anything’s changed since the last time you asked must not be all that exciting when the answer remains, “Nope. Nothing at all.”

No news isn’t actually good news where my liver is concerned. My MELD score climbed a point again at my appointment last Friday, which puts it back to twenty-four, but I’ve been here before and had it recede, so I’m trying to remain optimistic.

As for the rest, well . . . avoid, distract, ignore. Stay strong.

Today, distraction gets top billing.

I step back to admire the first bits of lettering applied to the brick wall and soaking up the sun’s rays. Once done, my mural will span an entire side of a restaurant that’s currently under renovation and scheduled to open in early May.

“Pardon me, miss,” a voice behind me says. “I hate to disturb you, but I heard this weird rumor that President Obama once had a pet porcupine, and I was wondering if you might be able to confirm or deny?”

I push my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose and don’t bother hiding my grin as I turn to face Will.

“Well, if it isn’t my surrogate big brother. This is a surprise. I didn’t realize we had another unscheduled check-in today.”

Neither of us has reached out to the other since the night at the ropes course nearly two weeks ago, but that doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see him now.

He smiles. “Well, by definition unscheduled wouldn’t be on your calendar, now would it?” I stick my tongue out at him, but he ignores me and continues, “But that’s not what this is.”

I hadn’t thought it made sense to arrange another “playdate” for us, given the way the last one ended and how it essentially obliterated the ability to be Badass Amelia around him, but . . . maybe I jumped to conclusions? Because I’m feeling decidedly banter-y just at the sight of him.

“No? What is it, then? Wait, if my father sent you to make sure I’m not up on the ladder without a spotter, I will—”

Will holds out a hand. “Easy, Decks. This is . . . Here’s what this is. This is: it’s a beautiful spring day and I was in my dorm room messing around online and feeling crappy about not going outside to enjoy it, but also a little wrecked from staying up way too late last night, and then I saw something on Tumblr about Snoop Dogg considering a run at the presidency in 2020 and knew immediately who I wanted to laugh about it with.”

I hold up my hand. “Snoop Dogg cannot be our next president. We’re all in agreement on this, right?”

Will contemplates. “Three guesses what substance he’d legalize nationally with his first executive order. And think of the trivia potential.” He laughs when I roll my eyes. “Anyway. It felt like a sign that I should ditch the dorm, venture out into the sun, and track down this interesting person I know. So here I am. Well, after stopping at your house first and getting pointed here by your dad. He didn’t mention anything about a ladder, by the way, but he did give me this for you.”

Will holds out a bottle of sunscreen.

“Of course he did,” I say, accepting both it and his explanation with a smile.

“I got to your house just as he and your mom were taking off for the Sox game. How’d they score tickets to one of the first of the season?”

I squirt a dab of sunscreen on my fingertips and smooth it onto my cheeks as I answer him. “One of the store’s customers couldn’t use his, so he gave them to my parents.”

Will whistles. “For opening week? Sure hope that guy never has to pay full price for a box of nails again.”

“Pretty sure Mr. Ventresca has been getting hefty discounts since back when my gramps was alive.”

“Still,” Will murmurs.

He steps back and takes in my wall. “So, because you couldn’t join them, you painted an homage to the Green Monster?”

I groan. The paint color I chose for the background is a very similar deep green to the landmark wall behind the outfield at Fenway Park, but I hadn’t made the connection.

“Totally unintentional and now I won’t be able to unsee that—thanks a lot!”

“You’re welcome,” he says, grinning. He gestures at the wall. “What’s this gonna look like when it’s done?”

“Better than it currently does!” I promise.

The building that will house the bistro is actually cute. It’s set back a bit from the street, which leaves room on the sidewalk for an outdoor seating area that, according to the renderings displayed in the front window, will have hanging fairy lights and the same bright red umbrellas that dot Parisian cafés. Inside, the design plans read “cozy chic.” It’s all perfectly adorable . . . except for the ugly, poorly paved abandoned parking lot abutting the place.

What the owners of this vacant lot are doing sitting on the cash potential of commercial space this close to Harvard Square is beyond me, but it’s none of my business. What is my business is stealing approaching patrons’ attention away from the half acre of littered asphalt and onto something more aesthetically pleasing.

“Do you have any sketches?” Will asks.

I pull out my phone and show him my design. The quote I’ve just started lettering is by Maya Angelou: We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike. Ringing it will be a riot of all different flowers, forming a colorful border.

“Wow, that’s really beautiful. Would I redeem myself for the Green Monster comment if I offered to help?” Will asks. “I mean, if you have any tasks an artistically challenged person couldn’t possibly screw up.”

The words are barely out before I’m striding to the ladder I left tucked behind the building. “How are you at spotting?” I call over my shoulder.

I’d be a fool to pass up this opportunity. I’d planned to stick to the quadrants I could reach from the ground today, then hit Sibby up tomorrow, assuming she’s not too sore from today’s derby bout and even knowing it might mean finally having The Talk about Prom with a Purpose. It hangs like a constant mist between us, though she hasn’t mentioned it once since we made uneasy peace about the whole Tufts thing at the disastrous practice last week. This would let me avoid that a bit longer.

Will is quick to respond, lending a hand as I situate the ladder against the wall. He waits for me to climb near the top, then steps both feet on the bottom rung to stabilize us and lifts the paint can.

“You might get some on you,” I warn, dipping my brush. “Is that okay?”

I peer down and watch him check to remind himself what he’s wearing. Ah, boys. So clueless when it comes to clothes. I could have told him without looking that he has on a plain black T-shirt with a small V-neck and faded khaki cargo shorts that are frayed and trail threads at the hem.

He shrugs. “No biggie. Hey, you never did confirm the Obama porcupine rumor, you know.”

“Did you make that up on your way over here?”

“Mayyyyybe.”

I flick the barely wet brush at him, spattering his arm with tiny droplets of yellow that stand out against his light brown skin. “He didn’t have a porcupine, but he did have an ape,” I tell him.

“He what?”

I dip my brush again and lightly trace the outline of a poppy flower. “Yup, when he was a kid in Indonesia. He named it Tata.”

“Oh, okay, but it was in Indonesia, not the White House. That makes it a little more understandable.”

I glance down at him and laugh. “Yeah, well, Calvin Coolidge had two pet raccoons and they did live at the White House. Rebecca and Riley. No! Reuben. Rebecca and Reuben. And Hoover’s son had two pet alligators.”

“Bet that kept the fence jumpers away.”

I grin. “There’s some debate about whether they lived on the grounds. FDR was so obsessed with his dog Fala he made him an honorary army private during World War Two.”

“By the way, how does it feel to be an unending fount of useless presidential trivia?”

I jerk my arm out, threatening to flick paint at him again. “It’s entertaining you, isn’t it? That makes it useful, thank you very much.”

I’ve spent the week feeling washed clean by the tears and in a slightly better place emotionally. But “slightly better” doesn’t compare to “light and effervescent,” which is how I feel right now, with my disease far—or at least farther—from my mind, my mural underway, and Will nearby to bat around insubstantial nothings with me and to make me laugh.

As if he received the directive, he calls up to me, “Maybe we can get Snoop Dogg a porcupine as an inauguration gift.”