Free The Last Forever by Deb Caletti

expressions. Millicent held her hand out to shake mine when Elijah introduced us, same as he had, and now she is biting the end of her brush. She does have long blond hair and blue eyes and tiny, perfect features, and green shoes with little embroidered flowers, which means she has the money for green shoes with little embroidered flowers. She’s wearing a blue skirt and a redT-shirt, and none of this sounds like it goes together, but it does. I never know how people manage to create those don’t-go-together outfits that actually do go together. When I try it, I look like I’ve been in a Marshalls dressing room during an explosion.
    I laugh a little too loudly in a shameless move to get Elijah’s attention. The plan is, they’ll notice what a great time we—me and Henry and them, of course—could all have together. But they don’t even look up. It’s starting to remind me of those horrible paint-your-own-pottery birthday parties you think are going to be fun until everybody suddenly acts like they’re creating the Sistine Ceiling.
    Elijah is wearing white pants—bold move in painting class; let’s give him that—a bright blue T-shirt and leather sandals, and a watch, which is actually kind of cool, because no one wears watches anymore. His blond hair is gelled artfully to one side, and those model cheekbones he has look like a pair of perfect sand dunes rising from a magazine desert. They both belong in a perfume ad. And here’s another thing. Elijah’s not painting the wildflowers in the jar. It’s something else. Something new. I can’t quite tell what yet, because right now it’s only a sketch. There are pencil marks and white paint, along with some yellow he’s laying down.
    “Max told us he didn’t want to go to sleep because it’s boring ,” Nathan says. “He obviously doesn’t remember his dreams. Last night, I was in a parade in a mall with Paul McCartney and Snoop Dogg right before a tornado hit.” I like him rightoff. He has a rumpled-bed look—old Levi’s, T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, shaggy brown hair. He’s slipped off his shoes, so his bare feet are on the canvas drape below him. He’s pals with Margaret, the old lady with the sweet blue eyes and fluffy hair; they drove in together and sit next to each other. Nathan helped her find a place for her purse and gave her a hand taking off her sweater.
    “Dreaming is lovely,” says Cora Lee, who is about a million years old. Her voice sounds like fluttering leaves. Her hand is shaking so hard, she has to hold it with the other one to keep it still. Yet I can see from where I sit that her painting is precise, and each purple petal looks like a purple petal. She’s even put a chip in the neck of the jar exactly where one really is.
    “My Eugene used to sleep like the devil,” Margaret says. “A freight train could barrel through the room and he wouldn’t stir.”
    “That’s how Jim is,” Joe Nevins says. “Even when we were kids.” He’s got a plaid short-sleeve shirt stretched over a round stomach.
    Then everyone is silent again. Jenny walks around and murmurs advice. She points her old finger and says, “Good” or “Balance” or “Fullness” or “Notice how . . .” as I sneak glances at Millicent’s manicure, the kind where the nails are white at the tips, same as candy corn. It has a name, but I can’t remember it. My manicure knowledge is on the slim side.
    Wait. French.
    “French?” Elijah says.
    Did I speak out loud? Tell me I didn’t speak out loud. Jenny has placed me next to Elijah, which is so helpful, because that allows him to see the extent of my artistic talent that much better.
    I think fast. Thinking fast is not something I’m great at. “The flowers,” I say. I am such an idiot.
    “Provençal,” Margaret says. “Giverny.”
    “ Majolica Jar with Wild Flowers , Van Gogh,” Nathan says. “French, absolutely.”
    I want to kiss them both. I think I love these people.
    “Purple is the