I smile. “Your advice sounds like something Libby would say.”
“Who’s Libby?” Maude asks, parking her bike behind us.
I turn around, startled. “Um . . . my best friend.”
“You have friends besides us?” Maude raises her brows.
The heat rises to my face. She has a genuine talent for stating the obvious. “I did. Libby died.”
“I’m sorry, dear.” June puts her hand on my shoulder. “Losing a loved one is difficult.”
Maude slides off her seat and bends her knees to look me in the eye. “Is that why you’re hiding in the basement?”
“Who says I’m hiding?”
“June showed me the mock-up of your graphic novel,” Maude says. “It amazed me, honey. Why aren’t you working in the art department?”
“I . . . uh . . . am . . .”
“Hiding?” Maude turns to June for confirmation, and she nods her head.
They have a point. Why didn’t I interview for the art position? They were both open at Burton & Baker when I first applied.
“Honestly? I was afraid. At the time, I didn’t consider myself an artist.”
“Why did you think that?” June asks.
I pinch my eyes, and a memory of Libby in our senior year of high school floats to the surface.
***
Libby lifts the paint cans from her trunk. “This will be the best senior gift.”
On the last day of school, seniors paint their parking spot and “gift” it to a rising senior.
“Who gets your spot?” I ask Libby.
“Seneka Davis.”
“The dancer?”
“Yeah. I’m going to paint a dramaticSwan Lakescene.”
I nod. “Very apropos.”
Libby mixes her paint. “Who did you get?” she asks.
“Jamal Kingston.”
“Whoa. Pressure. You got the real deal, a published artist.”
I shove her. “Thanks a bunch, Libby.” Random House purchased Jamal’s charcoal illustrations for a new children’s series they publish.
“Relax.” She holds her hands above her head in surrender. “Why didn’t you use your graphic art for your admission portfolio? Any art school would have accepted you with those pieces.”
I say nothing and wet my brushes.
“I can’t believe you trusted Jack’s opinion over mine.” Libby frowns and pours blue paint on the concrete.