Bea was waiting at their usual spot — the bench outside the creative arts wing that got afternoon shade and was far enough from the cafeteria to avoid the chaos of underclassmen who hadn’t yet learned to eat without throwing things.
“I’m having a crisis,” Bea announced. She was surrounded by college brochures arranged in a semicircle on the bench like tarot cards. Rhodes Island School of Design. CalArts. SAIDPratt. Each one bristling with sticky notes in four different colors.
Stella sat down and reached for her lunch bag. “Which kind of crisis?”
“Existential. CalArts wants a portfolio that ‘demonstrates artistic evolution.’” Bea held up the brochure and pointed to the offending phrase. “How do I demonstrate evolution? I’m sixteen. I haven’t evolved. I’ve barely hatched.”
“You lived in Florence for a year.”
“Exactly. I peaked early. Where do you go after Florence? Cleveland?”
“Nothing against Cleveland.”
“Stella. Focus. How do I write about my artistic philosophy in five hundred words when it requires at minimum three thousand and a live interpretive dance?”
Stella unwrapped her sandwich — grilled cheese on focaccia, still warm from the Shack. Anna had started packing their lunches, which meant they ate better than anyone else in the building. Teachers gave them envious looks in the hallway. Bea’s sandwich sat untouched beside the brochure army, sacrificed to the college gods.
“Just write what you told me last week,” Stella said between bites. “About how art’s about seeing what’s already there.”
“That was profound in conversation. On paper it sounds like a fortune cookie.” Bea gathered the brochures into a pile and laid her forehead on top of them. “I’m going to live in the Shack forever. Mom can teach me to make focaccia. That’s a career.”
“You’d be terrible at it.”
“I’d be magnificent at eating it. That’s close enough.”
Stella watched a group of freshmen attempt to skateboard down the amphitheater steps. Two of them made it. The third went down in a spectacular cartwheel of limbs and backpack.
“Ten points for commitment,” Stella observed.
“Minus five for execution.” Bea pulled her own sandwich out and finally took a bite. “Oh, wow, this is good. How does Mom make bread this good? She burned toast last year.”
“Meg’s recipe. Anna just follows it now instead of improving it.”
“Growth.”
“Enormous growth.”
They ate in comfortable silence. A pigeon investigated Bea’s dropped sticky note with great seriousness and moved on.
“So,” Bea said, after a while. “The croissant girl. Third date?”
“Friday. Fish tacos on Coast Highway.”
“Fish tacos is a good sign. Low pressure. No one’s trying to impress anyone with fish tacos. Good for Tyler.” Bea picked at the edge of her sandwich. The pigeon had returned, apparently reconsidering the sticky note. “Does it feel weird though? Having someone new around?”
“She’s not really around yet. It’s only been two dates.”
“Still.” Bea set her sandwich down and looked at the brochure pile rather than at Stella. “I still think it would be weird. If it were my mom. Someone new just — in your house. In your life. Someone you didn’t choose.”
Stella looked at her. Bea’s expression was neutral in the specific way it got when something wasn’t neutral at all.
“It’s different when you’re the one who pushed him to do it,” Stella said. “I basically told him he had to.”
“I know. I just—” Bea picked up a brochure, put it back down. “I don’t think I’d handle it as well as you.”
“I haven’t had to handle anything yet. Ask me again in six months.”
“Sure.” Bea straightened the brochure pile with more attention than it needed. “She has the mug, right? World’s Okayest?”
