Inside, the crowd was equally fabulous. The women, even the older ones, were tanned and toned,
and a lot of them were wearing microminis. The men wore linen suits or expensive-looking shirt-
pant combinations that even someone as fashion impaired as the Princesses insist I am could tell
were extremely hip. The well-lit room buzzed, and the occasional pop of a flash camera only
added to the feeling that this was an important celebrity gathering.
The artist, whom I recognized from the postcard (apparently a self-portrait), was standing over in
one corner, surrounded by a mob of people. I headed for two of the paintings I hadn't seen from
the street. These were enormous landscapes, so rich and varied my eyes felt overwhelmed, and I
realized who Newman's work reminded me of--Chuck Close. I circled in front of one of the
paintings slowly, watching the swirls and lines seem to change color as I looked at them from
different angels. Painting was just so cool. How did people know how to do that, to put colors
and shapes next to each other in just the right pattern? I wondered if my mother could have
explained it to me, or if it was all intuitive, impossible to articulate.
I stepped back from the painting, looking around the room for Ms. Daniels. The truth was I
couldn't quite picture her in this crowd. Perhaps she transformed into super-hip, Manhattan-art-
scene woman as soon as
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school was out. I scrutinized a few of the microminied women more closely, ultimately
determining that the only way Ms. Daniels was in the room with me was if she'd chopped off her
long hair and dyed it platinum blond, cherry-red, or blue.
I figured I'd find her before I left; maybe she was one of those people who believed in arriving
fashionably late. Plus, I was starting to feel self-conscious standing in the corner looking around
the room for a familiar face. I turned back to look at a painting I'd been studying, but
unfortunately right then I did see a familiar face. Only it wasn't the familiar face I wanted to see.
It was someone else from my class whom Ms. Daniels must have invited.
Sam Wolff.
Ugh.
Sam was half turned away from me. He was wearing a sports jacket and a pair of charcoal
flannel pants, and he was talking to the artist, who said something that made Sam throw his head
back and laugh. I couldn't believe it. Why did my first New York opening have to include Sam
Wolff? And why did Sam have to be standing there, casually chatting with the artist like they
were best buddies? I could already see how he'd act when he saw I was at the opening, too. He'd
either A) totally ignore me or B) seek me out in order to say something condescending. God,
why was he such a jerk? It was enough to make me want to leave without even bothering to see
the rest of the paintings.
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I was about to zip up my jacket and head out, when I realized how stupid I was being. I mean, I
had just as much right to be here as he did. It wasn't like he owned the place. Who cared if he
was sucking up to the artist while I was standing alone in the corner? Ms. Daniels had invited
both of us. I'd look at the paintings, thank her for inviting me, and leave. There was no reason I even had to say hello to him.
Just as I was turning my back to where he was standing, Sam looked over in my direction. Great.
I saw him excuse himself, and he came toward me.
"So, you decided to brave the streets of Gotham." His cheeks were flushed, and he held a half-
empty wineglass in one hand. He touched the sleeve of my jacket. "Did you, in fact, bring the
football team with you?"
"Basketball," I corrected him, pulling my arm away from his hand. "I hate football."
"Oh, sorry," he said. "I didn't realize there was a difference."
This was too much. "You didn't realize there was a difference?" Crossing my arms, I gave a sarcastic laugh. "Oh, please. You think it makes you seem all 'intellectual' and 'artistic' to say,
'My goodness, there's a difference between football and basketball? How quaint.' But it doesn't
make you sound smart, it makes you sound like an idiot. Like a person who doesn't know there's
a difference between Picasso and Monet."
Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I
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couldn't believe how obnoxious I was being. I never talked this way to anyone. Not even my
stepmother.
"Wow, that's an impressive analogy," he said. "Football is to basketball as Picasso is to Monet."
A waiter passed by with a tray of wineglasses, and Sam took one and handed it to me.
I took it, but I didn't thank him. Just because Ms. Daniels happened to have invited the two of us
to the same opening didn't mean I had to be polite to him. I wished I could find her, though. It
was getting increasingly weird to be at a party without the person who invited me.
Sam poked my shoulder with his index finger. "So, what, if I don't care about the finer points of
basketball, you're not going to talk to me?"
I wanted to tell him not to poke me. I also wanted to tell him I wasn't going to talk to him even if
he did care about the finer points of basketball, but just as I opened my mouth to say those
things, Sam looked across the room at a man and a woman who were making a beeline in our
direction. "Oh, Jesus," he muttered. He took a swallow of wine and centered himself over his feet as if bracing for some sort of attack. For a second I thought I saw something in his face I'd never
seen before--something a little sad or maybe confused. And then, just as quickly as it had
appeared, it was gone.
"Darling," said the woman, swooping down on us. "I want you to meet Diego Martinez. Diego,
this is my
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son, Sam. He's an artist as well." She put her arm around Sam and air kissed his cheek.
This night was getting weirder and weirder. What was Sam's mom doing here?
"Nice to meet you," said Sam, holding out his hand for Diego to shake.
Diego was wearing a perfectly wrinkled black suit. "Charmed," he said. I didn't recognize his
name, but Diego Martinez's suit, along with his five-o'clock shadow, made him look exactly how
an artist should look.
"And this is?" Sam's mother was looking at me inquiringly. She had on a pale green silk tank top and black silk palazzo pants, and her chin-length dyed hair was way redder than mine.
"Lucy Norton, Maggie Tanner," said Sam. "Mom, Lucy."
Tanner. Her name was very familiar. Where had I heard it before?
"Of course. Lucy." She waved her arm around the room. "So, how do you like my little show?"
she asked.
Oh my god. Oh my god. OHMYGOD.
Suddenly I remembered where I'd seen the name Margaret Tanner.
"Oh, ah, it's great," I said. "It's really a great show."
This was her gallery. Which meant--
"Yes, Sam thought you'd enjoy it," she said. She took Diego by the arm. "And just wait until you see what this genius can do."
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Sam had invited me? Sam?!
"Of course," I said. "I, um, look forward to it."
Diego smiled, took Sam's mom's hand, and kissed each of the fingers, one at a time. The process