Free How to Be Brave by E. Katherine Kottaras Page B

The movement and light. It’s extraordinary. You too, Georgia. Then, you’ll understand me.”
    I wanted to understand her, so I took it seriously. I was only nine, but I walked slowly through the exhibit, examining each painting carefully, trying to see what my mom saw. Maybe I was just too young to have any major revelations, but I did recognize that her own art was clearly influenced by him, all shapes and form and color. She didn’t believe in representing real life in her professional work. She was good at it. I mean, she was constantly drawing what was right in front of her. It was kind of an obsession. Our apartment is still littered with tiny sketches of half-eaten apples on napkins and wilting daffodils on crumpled receipts and the mailman’s wrinkled face on ripped envelopes. But when it came down to putting oil on canvas, to finalizing her ideas as large permanent pieces, she preferred the abstract. She especially loved painting the female form, but it was always slightly unrecognizable, exaggerated, distorted. She was searching for ideas, she said—and she often quoted Mullican when she said it—for “ideas that went beyond what one saw, beyond form.” She was always worried about form.
    I raise my hand. “When can we tell you who we want to write about?”
    Marquez nods, impressed. “You know already?”
    â€œWell, yeah.”
    â€œWay to go, Miss Askeridis. Getting ahead of the bunch. Making up for lost time, making up for the”—he pauses to scan his attendance book—“count them, seven absences in eight weeks!”
    Dude, why is he picking on me today? Sometimes his sarcasm is funny, and then suddenly, it’s not. It’s fucking annoying, to say the least.
    I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of a response, so I just flip the page of my sketchbook and start drawing some random lines. “Never mind,” I mumble.
    â€œYou can tell me after class,” Marquez says more seriously, retreating a bit on the satire. He seems to feel bad. Well, good, then. He should. I’m a good student. What does he care if I cut a few classes? It’s senior year. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?
    Marquez changes the subject by turning down the lights and pulling up a PowerPoint on value and proportion, and most everyone spaces out. Through the flashing light of the changing slides, I look over at Daniel, who’s taking notes.
    Siiigh. He’s just so cute.
    I think about my list.
    #13. Ask him out.
    And even worse, #14. Kiss him.
    How the hell am I going to do either?
    I really haven’t made much progress with my list. I tried to do a handstand in the park, but I was high and Liss and Evelyn were laughing and I almost hurt myself trying—I landed on my elbow and nearly twisted my shoulder. I also asked my dad if he could teach me how to flambé, and he said, “Sure, koúkla, this weekend, okay?” and then he was too busy at the restaurant, and we never did do it.
    I could try again for #13. I mean, we bonded over Poe and pi and terminal diseases.
    I could just walk up to him after class, next to our neighboring lockers, before he leaves for lunch, and ask him out.
    It shouldn’t be so hard.
    It’s just a question.
    â€œHey, do you want to catch a movie this weekend?”
    Or, “Hey, do you want to get some ice cream this weekend?”
    Or, “Hey, how about we go bowling this weekend?”
    (Bowling? Ice cream? Really, Georgia? What are you, twelve?)
    I’m too busy imagining all the possibilities of where we could go this weekend to realize that I’m still staring at Daniel, and that now he’s staring back at me. Let me repeat: He’s staring back at me. Shit, shit, shit.
    I look away, and then I look back, and he smiles. At me.
    So I smile back, and I wave. And he waves back.
    Siiigh.
    Marquez throws the lights on and tells us to get to work. I gather my