"You think?" I asked, feeling better already.

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"Totally," said Madison. "He's probably way too busy praying to the porcelain god to remember to call."

"Maybe you're right," I said.

"No maybe about it," she said.

As I crossed the cafeteria to buy my sandwich, I felt about a million times happier than I had five

minutes ago, though I had to admit my good mood wasn't exactly born of altruism. I mean,

Jessica had just convinced me that my boyfriend was physically unable to lift a telephone.

Shouldn't I have been overwhelmed with sympathy and concern?

But instead of being sad for him, I felt glad for me. Because everyone knows it's better to have a

boyfriend who feels too sick to call than one who just doesn't feel like calling at all.

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Chapter Twenty

After school I went to the studio. The idea I'd gotten looking at The Dancers yesterday had

stayed with me, and the longer I worked on my sketch, the stronger my feeling grew that this

idea might go the distance. I barely took my eyes off the page all afternoon, and the one time I

did, I made eye contact with Ms. Daniels, who'd looked up at that exact second.

"You look pretty intent there," she said, gesturing to my sketch pad. "I've been taking that as a good sign."

"Here's hoping," I said.

"Want to show me what you've got?"

I looked down at what I'd been drawing. "Yeah, sure," I said, not feeling sure at all. I unfolded my legs and went over to her desk, where she looked up at me expectantly.

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I pressed my notebook to my chest. "I'm afraid you're going to hate it," I said. "Do you hate it?"

she asked. "No."

"Do you like it?" I nodded.

"Well, why would I hate it if you like it?"

"Because you hated all the other ones."

She laughed. "First of all, I didn't hate them. I said I didn't think they were going to yield a self-portrait that was very interesting. And second of all, if you'd defended any one of them for even

a second, I would have let you convince me."

I couldn't believe what she was saying. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. You just never seemed particularly excited about any of the drawings you showed

me."

"I guess," I said, and even though I sounded hesitant, I knew what she'd said was true. All the

other ideas I'd considered had been born of desperation, not inspiration.

"Now," she said, holding out her hand. "Let's see what you've got for me."

Silently, I handed over my sketch. Ms. Daniels looked it up and down, not saying anything. Then

she took my pencil from me.

Uh-oh, here it comes.

"See how there are three figures here and none here? You could move this one up just a little,

and it might be

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more balanced. Then you'd have less empty space here," she pointed at the left side of the page,

which was almost entirely blank, "and more here." Did this mean ...

"Wait, are you saying I can ... that it's, you know, okay?"

She looked up at me. "Do you think it's okay?"

I looked at the figures I'd drawn, a line of Lucys holding hands, each just a little bit different

from the others and looking off in a slightly different direction. The way they were

simultaneously connected and yet isolated, each looking at something different, but looking at it

the same way, expressed something about who I am that I didn't think I'd be able to put into

words. I hoped Ms. Daniels wouldn't ask me to explain it.

"I really like it," I said.

"I thought so," she said. "And I, for one, think it's worthy of you. So why don't you start painting tomorrow?"

"Seriously?"

Ms. Daniels smiled. "Seriously." Right then Sam came over to stand on the far side of the desk.

"Sorry, am I interrupting something?" he asked.

"We're done," I said, flipping my sketchbook closed. Even as I said the words, I didn't quite

believe them.

"Well then, if it's okay with you," he said to

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Ms. Daniels, "I'll take that painting home now."

Ms. Daniels made a sad face. "I guess I can't keep it forever." She looked over at the wall, and I realized they were talking about the painting of the tree that I liked so much. "But--and I'm not

just saying this to hold on to it for one more day--I don't think you can carry it by yourself, and

I've got a meeting in about..." She looked at the clock. "... Three minutes. So if you want to hang out until five-thirty I can do it. Or we could wait until tomorrow."

"Can I help?"

They both turned to look at me.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" asked Ms. Daniels. "It's not heavy, it's just cumbersome."

"Really, you don't have to," said Sam. "I can bring it home another time."

"No," I said. "I'd like to." It was the least I could do considering how he'd invited me to my first and only New York gallery opening. Besides--it would be fun to hang out with Sam. "Just tell

me what to do."

I couldn't see how the enormous painting we were carrying had a snowball's chance in hell of

fitting into the backseat of Sam's car--a gorgeous, yellow VW bug that dated back to the days of

Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin--without getting completely scratched up. Luckily I didn't voice

my doubts, since with just a little pulling and pushing, the canvas slid easily into the

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minuscule space; there was even room for us to sit in the front with our seats more or less

upright.

"That was incredible," I said, shaking my head with awe as we pulled out of the parking lot. "I won't lie to you--when I first saw the proportions of the objects in question, I had some

concerns."

"Oh, ye of little faith," said Sam. He stopped the car and turned to me. "Wait. Where am I taking you?"

"Home, I guess." I gave him my address.

"I'm sure I'll be able to recognize it," he said, driving on. "It's the one with the turret room accessible only by ponytail, right?"

"Well, yes and no. There is a secret tunnel that runs under the moat to the basement where I'm locked up at night, but it's guarded by a fairly aggressive dragon."

"Of course," said Sam. "I would have been disappointed with anything less." Without taking his eyes of the road, Sam fished around the pocket of his car door for a CD, found it, and popped it

in. Subterranean Homesick Blues filled the car as Sam reached across me and opened the glove

compartment. I thought he was looking for a different CD, but he took out a box of Raisinets.

"Chocolate?" he asked, holding the box between his knees as he opened it one-handed.

"Sure," I said, and he shook some into my hand.

"So, how's it going? I see your stepmother has yet to hire a local woodsman to take you into the

forest and kill you."

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"Well, she tried," I said, throwing a few Raisinets into my mouth. "But it's really hard to get good help nowadays. You'd be amazed how much trouble she's having just finding a local

woodsman."

"These things take time," acknowledged Sam. We drove along in silence until finally I couldn't