it’s because I envy Sierra and Sage, but in the hours I’ve thought about going to the Web site and seeing if I have a sibling match, I keep picturing finding a twin. Perhaps there’s a brother living in California who has mottled blue eyes and loves licorice as much as I do. Or a girl like me who can’t hit a ball to save her life but who has made money by sketching houses for holiday cards, as I once did.
“Are you going to sit and admire the scenery or actually earn your keep?” Sid oozes into the room with Jamaica Haas, a high-profile artist who has a studio in New York but uses Downtown when she’s at her country cottage on the Connecticut shore one town away from Cutler. Despite the articles written about her in
Art Scene
and
Modern Works
, she’s always been down-to-earth and nice to me.
“I was just taking a break.” I reach over to a nearby bucket of water, fish out a large sponge, and begin wiping down the table so it gleams.
“If you keep scrubbing like that, your arms will fall off and Sid will be forced to sell them in the art show.” Jamaica winks at me, and I smile. “You’re Jenny, right?”
I nod and ignore Sid, who clearly wants me to evaporate so he can get back to schmoozing. “Yes. Jenny Fitzgerald. We met once before.”
Jamaica fluffs out her dark funky bob. She looks like the human equivalent of a Scottish terrier—small and lively, with bright eyes and hair that sticks up. “You’re the one who paints lots of circles.”
“Yeah, I guess I just like them.” I never thought that I had an artistic identity, but I love knowing that Jamaica thinks so.
“I guess I just like them.” Sid Sleethly mimics me.
Obviously, he is not the Devil—he is the Devil’s five-year-old son.
Jamaica takes the sponge from my hand and goes to the concrete wall. With a giant swooping motion, she makes a huge circle, then roughs the edges. “Well, I think you’re onto something. Circles.” She tilts her head and gazes at me like she knows something I don’t. “I assume you’ll have work at the art show?”
I look at Sid for confirmation of this, but he doesn’t budge. “I’m hoping to.”
“Well, I look forward to seeing it. Circles. Connection. Good stuff.”
Blush tinges my cheeks as she and Sid head over to one of the couches. Her words stay with me minutes later when I sneak off to my own canvas and use a pencil to outline my ideas. But I stand there for hours, and when I leave to pick up the twins from Camp Cedar, the canvas is still bright white and stark.
“Ohmygodyouwillikeneverbelievethis.” Sierra talks so fast when she’s excited that I have to decipher each word. Sage, on the other hand, responds to excitement on slo-mo, so she stands by the car with her mouth hanging open.
Sierra clutches Sage’s arm. Their skin is the exact same tone; they are connected like paper dolls with seamless limbs.
“What’s going on?” I get out of the car and scan the parking lot for Tate. I have that big crush feeling where I’m half-wishing he’ll notice me again and half-hoping he won’t. In this case it doesn’t appear to matter what I wish, because everywhere I look, there is no Tate.
Sierra is bouncing up and down in her leotard while Sage stays grounded. “Checkitoutohmygodohmygod! We qualified!”
“Qualified for what?” Maybe she means for some eighth-grade team or some after-school program. “Are you taking an advanced class or something? Throw your bags in the back.”
Sierra and Sage stop clutching each other long enough to, for once, clutch my arm. “We both qualified for the Dance Project. It’s this amazing recital featuring—”
“I know,” I interrupt, not thinking for a second that maybe I should let them continue to share their news. “I read about it in the paper. An urban dance troupe that tours the United States. Very cool!” Really, I am psyched for them. It’s a big deal, especially for girls their age. So why do I feel
“Are you going to sit and admire the scenery or actually earn your keep?” Sid oozes into the room with Jamaica Haas, a high-profile artist who has a studio in New York but uses Downtown when she’s at her country cottage on the Connecticut shore one town away from Cutler. Despite the articles written about her in
Art Scene
and
Modern Works
, she’s always been down-to-earth and nice to me.
“I was just taking a break.” I reach over to a nearby bucket of water, fish out a large sponge, and begin wiping down the table so it gleams.
“If you keep scrubbing like that, your arms will fall off and Sid will be forced to sell them in the art show.” Jamaica winks at me, and I smile. “You’re Jenny, right?”
I nod and ignore Sid, who clearly wants me to evaporate so he can get back to schmoozing. “Yes. Jenny Fitzgerald. We met once before.”
Jamaica fluffs out her dark funky bob. She looks like the human equivalent of a Scottish terrier—small and lively, with bright eyes and hair that sticks up. “You’re the one who paints lots of circles.”
“Yeah, I guess I just like them.” I never thought that I had an artistic identity, but I love knowing that Jamaica thinks so.
“I guess I just like them.” Sid Sleethly mimics me.
Obviously, he is not the Devil—he is the Devil’s five-year-old son.
Jamaica takes the sponge from my hand and goes to the concrete wall. With a giant swooping motion, she makes a huge circle, then roughs the edges. “Well, I think you’re onto something. Circles.” She tilts her head and gazes at me like she knows something I don’t. “I assume you’ll have work at the art show?”
I look at Sid for confirmation of this, but he doesn’t budge. “I’m hoping to.”
“Well, I look forward to seeing it. Circles. Connection. Good stuff.”
Blush tinges my cheeks as she and Sid head over to one of the couches. Her words stay with me minutes later when I sneak off to my own canvas and use a pencil to outline my ideas. But I stand there for hours, and when I leave to pick up the twins from Camp Cedar, the canvas is still bright white and stark.
“Ohmygodyouwillikeneverbelievethis.” Sierra talks so fast when she’s excited that I have to decipher each word. Sage, on the other hand, responds to excitement on slo-mo, so she stands by the car with her mouth hanging open.
Sierra clutches Sage’s arm. Their skin is the exact same tone; they are connected like paper dolls with seamless limbs.
“What’s going on?” I get out of the car and scan the parking lot for Tate. I have that big crush feeling where I’m half-wishing he’ll notice me again and half-hoping he won’t. In this case it doesn’t appear to matter what I wish, because everywhere I look, there is no Tate.
Sierra is bouncing up and down in her leotard while Sage stays grounded. “Checkitoutohmygodohmygod! We qualified!”
“Qualified for what?” Maybe she means for some eighth-grade team or some after-school program. “Are you taking an advanced class or something? Throw your bags in the back.”
Sierra and Sage stop clutching each other long enough to, for once, clutch my arm. “We both qualified for the Dance Project. It’s this amazing recital featuring—”
“I know,” I interrupt, not thinking for a second that maybe I should let them continue to share their news. “I read about it in the paper. An urban dance troupe that tours the United States. Very cool!” Really, I am psyched for them. It’s a big deal, especially for girls their age. So why do I feel
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