But as I dropped the dress over my head and felt the rich fabric slide smoothly down my body, I
wondered just how tacky such a delicious-feeling dress could be. And when I checked myself out
in the mirror, I didn't have to wonder. The answer was clear--not tacky at all.
The bodice was tight silk, straight across in front, low-cut in the back, and strapless like
Madison's. I'd expected the skirt to be poufy, just right for an extra in Gone with the Wind, but it hung almost straight down to the middle of my calves. It wasn't see-through, but you could just
make out the shape of my legs through the filmy, delicate fabric. My skin seemed to glow
against the dark blue silk. I couldn't believe it. I looked ... beautiful.
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When I stepped out of the dressing room and saw the expression on Jessica and Madison's faces,
I knew I'd been right about how I looked. I twirled around, just like Madison had.
"Lucy, you look amazing," said Madison. "I can't believe you found the perfect dress on the first try!"
"Who found the perfect dress?" corrected Jessica.
"Ladies, I'm going to the ball," I said.
I started to laugh, and so did Jessica and Madison. "You mean the prom," said Madison through her laughter.
I shook my head, still laughing, and didn't bother to correct her.
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Chapter Twenty-two
It wasn't until the end of the week that Jessica found a dress she liked, so we wound up spending
every second of spring break shopping. I'd kind of planned on using the vacation to do some
sketches for the landscape I was supposedly ready to start (now that the class, with the single
exception of me, had finished self-portraits, we'd moved on to landscapes). But how can you tell
your friend she's on her own after she helped you find the world's perfect prom dress? You can't.
Which is why, as soon as we were back at school, I not only spent every one of my free periods
in the studio frantically sketching my landscape and working on my self-portrait but also decided if I just cut math one little time--
"Done," I said.
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Sam, the only other person in the room, was sketching on the couch.
"Did you say something?" he asked.
I didn't turn around, too amazed by what had just happened to move. "I'm done," I repeated, my
voice flat. For the past two months, I'd been dreaming of this moment, fantasizing what it would
feel like to put the whole horrible, impossible, frustrating project behind me. I'd thought as soon
as I completed the final brushstroke I'd dance down the halls of Glen Lake, tipping my top hat at
passers by. I'm done! I'm done! But now that I'd actually finished, I didn't feel like celebrating at all. I just felt... nothing.
I could hear Sam applauding. "Can I see it?"
"Um ... Yeah, sure." The irony of his asking if he could see it was that even though I was
standing less than a foot away from my easel, I couldn't see what I'd painted. Shapes and colors
swirled around on the canvas in front of me, refusing to form themselves into a coherent image.
Was this my self-portrait, this series of meaningless blobs?
Sam came over beside me and studied the painting. He stared at it for a long time, not saying
anything, and I wondered what lies he'd use to assure me that my abstract mess wasn't an abstract
mess. "Lucy," he said finally, "it's incredible."
I wanted to ask him what he meant, how he could say that, what he thought he was looking at,
but I was afraid he'd think I was fishing for compliments. What do
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you mean, what do I mean? I just told you it's incredible.
And then, as if he could read my mind, Sam started to talk. "It's great how all the Lucy figures
are holding hands even though they're looking off in different directions." I looked from one
Lucy to the next as he talked, following his voice, watching his finger float above the canvas.
"And that one"--he pointed at the smallest Lucy-- "the way it's barely holding on to the one next to it." He nodded. "You can feel her trying to catch up. It's brilliant."
"Actually, that one's a mistake." I tried to laugh. "See, I started in the wrong place, so I couldn't get the hand right."
Without taking his eyes off the canvas, Sam shrugged. "So?" He bumped his shoulder into mine.
"It makes the painting, Lucy. Believe me."
He stayed there, leaning against me for another minute before going back to the couch. Even
after he walked away and left me staring at my canvas, I could still feel the soft cotton of his T-
shirt against my bare skin. And then, all at once, as if Sam had been speaking not words but
brushstrokes, I saw my painting, saw it just the way he had. And as the shifting maze of shape
and color solidified into forms, I realized that last Lucy didn't look like a mistake. It did make the painting better. Because of her, because she looked like she was running to catch up, the whole
line of Lucys seemed to be moving. Sam was right. It really was a brilliant mistake.
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I was so focused on my painting, I'd almost forgotten about Sam still being in the room with me,
when suddenly he said, "You know, I've been meaning to--"
Just then the door flew open. It was Madison and Jessica, and when they saw me, they high-
fived.
"Told you she'd be here," said Jessica.
"Hey, guys," I said. I was glad they'd shown up. Thanks to Sam I couldn't wait to show off my
painting. It was just how I'd imagined finishing it would feel.
"Hey, Sam," said Jessica.
"Hey, Jessica," said Sam. He and Madison nodded at each other.
"Okay," Madison said to me from the doorway, "you can cut math, but you can't cut lunch."
"Yeah," said Jessica, as her cell started ringing, "no starving artists allowed at prom." She dug around in her bag for her phone.
"Hello? Hang on." She turned to Madison. "My mom wants to know if your mom wants her to
do anything for the cocktail party at your house. Should she call her?"
"I thought they talked already," said Madison.
I turned back to Sam on the couch. "What were you going to say?"
"I've been meaning to ..." he stopped and shook his head. "I've been meaning to get going for the past half hour." He stood up. "But I really like your painting." He grabbed his bag off the floor.
"No, Mom, I said fifty," said Jessica. "Not fifteen."
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"Thanks," I said to Sam's back. "Your critique almost makes me feel like an artist."
As he pushed open the door of the studio, Sam turned around. "You are an artist," he said. Then he disappeared into the hall.
Jessica hung up the phone. "Okay, my mother is officially retarded." She turned to Madison. "I hope your mother is prepared to plan this cocktail party with an actual retarded person."
"Please," said Madison, "my mom's so retarded she makes your mom look like Einstein."
Jessica went over to where my bag and Connor's jacket were lying on the floor and picked them
up. "Lunch, madam?"