“Is it abstract or realism?” the man asked.
“It’s abstract meets realism.”
The man grunted a little, like he wasn’t into twists on classic forms. Then they moved on.
“He’s stupid,” Elliot whispered.
“It’s fine. Art is subjective, that’s what makes it great,” I said. “We each get to love or hate something on our own terms.”
“Well said.”
I turned away from my paintings to face the room again. My feet were killing me. “You haven’t seen my family or Cooper around, have you?”
“Around here?”
I smiled. “No, at the McDonald’s up the street. Of course around here.”
“I haven’t. You want me to go make a loop and see if I can find them?” He pointed to the second level, where the other half of the displays were set up.
“No. That’s okay.” They’d come find me once they were here.
“I’m going to finish my round then. Check out the other artists.”
“Of course. Go. Tell me your favorite when you’re done so I can look at it later.”
“But art is subjective, Abby. You’ll have to pick your own favorite.” He winked at me.
I gave him a shove to help him on his way, and he smiled at me over his shoulder. Then I went back to waiting. After three more groups of people came by my display, I couldn’t help myself, I snuck out my phone and slipped behind the screen.
My phone said it was already eight thirty. Only an hour and a half left of the show. There were three missed calls, all from our home number. None from Cooper. I texted him again: Where are you?! My mom and grandpa are waiting!
I pulled up the Find Your Friend app and tried to locate him, but it said inaccessible. It only said that when his phone was powered off or out of battery.
I quickly dialed the home number. Grandpa picked up after the second ring.
“Where is Cooper?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I was calling you to find out.”
“He hasn’t been here,” Grandpa said.
“How is Mom?”
“She’s okay, but she does much better when things go like she meticulously rehearsed them in her head.”
“I know. Cooper was sick Friday night. Yesterday morning he said he was feeling better, but I haven’t talked to him since then. I wonder if he took a turn for the worse.”
I felt a presence to my left and looked up to see Mr. Wallace. I let out a short yelp of surprise. “I have to go,” I said to Grandpa. “Can you try to call Cooper?”
“I’ll try.”
“Come even if he doesn’t.”
“Without Cooper we have no car. You have it.”
I had forgotten that minor detail. “A cab?”
Grandpa gave an ironic laugh. “You think your mother would get in a cab?”
“No.”
“Either way, Abby, have fun tonight. Don’t pin all your success on your mom.”
I hung up because Mr. Wallace was still there, still staring.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “My mom was supposed to come, and my friend, and I was getting worried. . . .” I trailed off when I realized he didn’t care about my excuses. “I’m sorry.”
“Please try not to show your age tonight, Abby. This isn’t a show about parents seeing their kids’ artwork.”
Ouch. I nodded and stepped out from behind the screen. There was nobody at my station, but I went to stand by my paintings anyway.
Another half hour went by. At least that was my guess. I couldn’t be certain without my phone. My excitement from before was melting to disappointment, and my head started to ache even more. I saw Elliot across the way, and I waved him over.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“What time is it?”
He looked at a smart watch on his wrist. “Five after nine.”
“There’s less than an hour left. Cooper was supposed to get my mom. I have the car. Will you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Text Cooper for me.” I had a feeling his phone wasn’t on, but maybe it was just the Find Your Friend app that wasn’t working. Or my phone was being weird. Or . . . something.
“What’s his number?”
I recited it to him.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Say, Abby is looking for you. Where are you? She said that if you’re not sick, she’s going to break into the nearest science facility, steal their deadliest virus, and release it in your bedroom.”
Elliot raised his eyebrows at me. I watched him type—Abby wants to know where you are—into his phone.
“That works too,” I said.
We both stared at his phone, waiting for a reply. When nothing happened, I sighed.
“Excuse me,” a voice from behind us said. “Are these your paintings?” I turned to see the woman looking at Elliot.
“No,” he said at the same time as I said, “No, they’re mine. Here, let me show them to you.” As I walked her to the nearest one, out of the corner of my eye I caught Mr. Wallace staring in my direction. Had he seen that whole exchange? My grandpa was right, I needed to stop thinking about it and let tonight be about my paintings and not about a breakthrough for my mom . . . or Cooper and me. As I let both of those ideas slip to the floor, my heart followed suit.
THIRTY-ONE
As soon as the woman moved on to another artist, Mr. Wallace was at my side again. Elliot must’ve moved on as well, because he was nowhere to be seen.
“Abby, I’m disappointed,” Mr. Wallace said. “Your father assured me you would be mature.”
“My father? You know my father?”
“He emailed me. Didn’t he tell you? I thought that’s why you brought your paintings by last week.”
“He . . . emailed you? That’s why you picked me?”
“He said one of the paintings you were displaying was already sold, so it would be financially smart of the museum to allow an opportunity for the others to be seen. I meant to tell you earlier that you should put a Sold sticker next to the placard of the one that is sold.”
My dad had lied to get me into the show tonight? My paintings hadn’t earned their own way in?
“You have a patron.” Mr. Wallace nodded behind me, then left me standing there with that new information swirling around in my head and trying to drain out my eyes. I sniffed back the tears and joined the older gentleman looking at the painting of Cooper on the sand dunes. The painting looked so juvenile now. Nobody else at the show tonight had a quad on their canvases.
“My grandson would love this,” the man said.
I nodded numbly. “It’s my friend. He rides.”
“So does my grandson. How much?”
He was the first person to ask me my prices and I became tongue-tied. This man was buying this for a kid. My eyes slid to the fish painting next to it. My paintings—loved only by children. Maybe they were immature. I suddenly felt embarrassed. Like I was selling stuffed animals while everyone else was selling live exotic ones. Like I was the only amateur in a room full of professionals. Maybe Mr. Wallace really had been protecting me by telling me no. I wasn’t ready. My paintings weren’t ready.
“Young lady?” the man asked, sympathy in his voice. “Are you okay?”
“Um. Yes. I . . . uh . . . I’m not sure how much I should sell that for.” I had researched and priced my paintings before the show, but now those prices seemed too high.