Danny sipped his drink. “Fancy, as promised. What’s it called?”
“A Death in the Afternoon,” I said.
He laughed. “Sounds like one of Hiromi’s sculptures. Or an Agatha Christie novel.”
“Silly boy,” Hiromi said. “It’s Ernest Hemingway.”
“Hewrote mysteries?”
“It’s about bullfighting,” Crystal said. “The matador did it.”
“So the bull dies in the afternoon?” Danny asked, staring at his drink.
“Yes, the bull is doomed.” Miyeon toasted. “Because some writers can’t resist an obvious metaphor.”
“It’s not a metaphor,” I said. “It’s about killing bulls.”
They all looked at me.
I tried again. “The book is nonfiction.”
“Which can still use metaphors,” Crystal said carefully.
Another pause. I’d said something that went against the ethos of the group.
I tried again: “Justkidding. Bullfighting is always a metaphor. Like, ‘The matador’s true weapon isn’t the sword, but the cape that hides it.’ ”
Miyeon frowned. “Hemingway?”
“It’s something my grandma says.”
Another awkward moment, then Hiromi blurted out a laugh. “Jessica has the best family! Was your grandma that woman in the red dress?”
“Oxblood,” I said.
“The perfect color!” Danny exclaimed. “For a bullfight, I mean.”
“Yes, we got it.” Crystal turned to me. “Where did you two meet again?”
“That’s our secret,” Hiromi said, putting a protective arm around me.
The conversation flew on from there, faster than anything in Uncle Wolfie’s class, more specific, more elliptical. The five of them had helpedinstall each other’s shows, had worked as assistants together, had shared apartments and internships and tubes of paint. They teased each other mercilessly, finished each other’s jokes.
I tried to ease my way in, to prove myself as witty and cynical as they were. But it was like when legacy kids talked shop around other students at Helshire, darting and obtuse. And here, I was the ordinary.
I wondered how Sebastian would have charmed them.
When I was quiet for a stretch, Hiromi took my hand. She didn’t want me to drift away. I grinned at her and finally put a lemon drop in my mouth.
Zest and honey, citric acid, the bitter edge of rind. The tiny sphere’s equator, splay from the mold, sharp against my tongue. Another memory—Peter had painted a tree that hot summer to look like Uncle Max. Arrows, knives, and axes had chipped away that face.
When I opened my eyes again, Hiromi was smiling at me.
“Should we maybe…look at the art?”
Everyone agreed. We split into pairs, Hiromi with me.
“What do you think?” she asked.
