29

LIQUOR LICENSE DELAY OR NOT, IF I’M GOING TO HAVE TIME TO design and paint a whole new mural in a matter of weeks—even without allowing for the possibility of health-related distractions—I can’t afford to wait for the official greenlight before getting started on concepts.

Except I slam straight into a hard reality: it can be, er, challenging to design a piece of art that tells the world, “Hello, this is me!” when you’ve recently determined you might not have the most decent handle on which parts of you are authentically you.

My art teacher Miss Leekley’s wispy voice is in my ear. “Isn’t that what the process of making the art is for, to reveal to yourself who you truly are? Let the blank page whisper to you.”

Yeah, Miss Leekley can suck it.

“If I could just find a starting place,” I moan to Alex and Sibby on Sunday afternoon, as we polish off slices of pizza bigger than our heads. As soon as Sibby learned a side trip to Santarpio’s was included, she wasted no time volunteering to come along while I dropped off Alex at the airport.

Well, pizza and the fact that we have a lot of lost time to make up for after a whole week apart.

“Whatever direction you decide to go in, it should have a llama in it,” Sibby says.

“What?”

Alex crams his crust into his left cheek and speaks out of the right side of his mouth. “She’s got a point. Llamas are super trendy right now. People will eat it up.”

“You should eat it up.” I point at his chipmunk cheek and the crumbs escaping it. “I’m not sure I’m going for super trendy, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

Sibby grins conspiratorially at my brother. “There are always owls.”

“So last year,” he says.

I appraise them, then steal the last slice of pepperoni without the slightest twinge of guilt. “Quite the comedy duo you two make.”

Sibby wipes her mouth with a napkin before balling it up and stuffing it into her empty cup. “Does it need to be some huge statement piece? I mean, it’s your first attempt at going rogue—can’t that be achievement enough?”

Alex nods. “She has a point. This doesn’t have to be your masterpiece. You wouldn’t even want it to be, because who wants to peak at eighteen?”

People who might not see nineteen? I nearly say aloud.

But why am I not saying that out loud? my brain chides. You told yourself you wanted to be more open about facing this reality, so why are you still shoving the thoughts aside, refusing to give them air?

I draw in a deep breath, then fling the sentence into the world.

“Don’t say things like that!” Sibby points at me, eyes wide. “I refuse to let that happen.”

Alex merely drops his eyes to the table and stares hard at his empty plate.

I rub my neck. “Obviously, I don’t want it to either, but it’s part of my reality right now. And I think . . . I think it has to be in the design, if it’s going to be personal. That would be the expectation.”

Alex stands and gathers our trash. “Screw that, Li. You don’t owe anyone anything,” he says, before leaving to throw it out.

Sibby stands too. “For what it’s worth, I agree with him. I’ll be right back—I gotta change my tampon.”

I remain at the table and consider what Alex said. He might be right: I don’t owe anyone. I owe me, though. I can’t see any way to put my own voice on this piece right now, at this moment in my life, and have the design be all bunny rabbits and sparkly rainbows. Or llamas. (I’ll keep that last bit from Sibby, though.)

But that doesn’t mean I have the first clue how to start, or that I have faith I’ll figure it out before the mural’s deadline.

What do I have to offer on the topic of death?

The thing is, when somebody lives to be a hundred, people say things like, “Oh, she was blessed with a long life,” or “She achieved so much in her time on Earth.” Even making it to that age is considered an accomplishment.

But when someone’s really sick at eighteen, no one says that. They say, “Well, if anything tragic happens to her, it must have been for a reason; she must have been sent here to teach us some lesson.”

The alternative is that life is cruel and random and pointless and who the hell wants to accept that?

But I don’t have anything to teach anyone; I’m just as confused as everyone else.

Maybe more so.

I am one giant fucking I Don’t Know. My dad would be so proud.

Alex is back. “We need to head out. The line for security’s always a nightmare on Sunday nights. I don’t want to cut it too close.”

“Fat chance of that. We’re, like, what? Three minutes from the airport?” Sibby says, reappearing as well.

Alex snickers. “That reminds me—you ready for Jeff Linehan’s latest?”

Sibby and I start for the exit, Alex on our heels, as he says, “Did you ever wonder why slim chance and fat chance mean the same thing?”

Sibby halts mid-step. She brings her fist to her forehead and explodes it.

Alex laughs and ducks out the door I’m holding for us. “Each one is worse than the last. What was last night’s, Lia? Something about invisible ink.”

“Oh, I’ve heard him ask that one before,” Sibby answers, before I can. “Did you ever wonder how you’d know if your invisible ink pen ran out of ink?”

They both groan, but my pulse starts racing as I remember something I read about last month.

“Can I borrow your phone, T-rex? Mine’s at five percent.”

“Does that mean I’m driving?” he asks.

I trade him the keys for his cell and open his browser as I slide into the back seat and stretch out, completely distracted by my search.

“Uh, I guess I’ll take shotgun then,” Sibby says, amused.

Her words barely register, because I’ve found the article I wanted and am reading through it closely while ideas tumble over each other in my mind. They’re both staring at me when I look up a minute later. Alex hasn’t even started the car.

“What just happened here?” Sibby asks, waving her hand to indicate my entire head.

“A stroke of genius,” I answer, half my brain still on my idea. “It would take a freaking miracle to pull off, though.”

“I believe in miracles!” Sibby proclaims. She elbows Alex when he doesn’t agree fast enough for her liking.

“What she said!” he offers, rubbing his side. “Do all Australians have such pointy elbows?”

Sibby buckles her seat belt. “I don’t know. Should we call Hugh Jackman and ask about his?”

“Well, he’s Wolverine so his sharp parts are on his—”

“You guys, seriously,” I interrupt. “Would you want to help me?”

Sibby and Alex exchange looks.

“What does she think we’ve been trying to do all this time?” Sibby asks him, one hand over her mouth and speaking in a stage whisper.

Alex’s shrug is exaggerated for effect. “Hiding right here in plain sight.”

Hiding in plain sight. The universe winks at me again, another sign I’m on exactly the right track with this idea.