give. So he skipped town instead. He moved to New Mexico, claiming he wanted to paint the desert, and that was it. The end. No more dad.”
Nate put his arms around me and pulled me into a hug. “It isn’t your fault that your parents got divorced.”
That’s what people always said: Don’t blame the kids for the grown-ups’ problems. But it was hard to believe. Thinking about my dad always made me feel like I was tumbling off the edge of a cliff. Even though I wanted to change the subject or start calculating exponents in my head, I also wanted Nate to know me — I wanted him to know this. “The worst thing is that he’s dyslexic too.”
“Your dad’s dyslexic?”
“Yeah. He dropped out of school in eighth grade. His reading skills are even worse than mine. He’s just charismatic and creative enough that nobody cares. Everyone loves him, even when he’s plastered. He just didn’t want to love me.”
Nate stroked my hair and whispered something in a language I didn’t understand. I focused on his even breathing until my head stopped spinning.
He took my hand. “Come on. We need a change in scenery.”
I grabbed my coat and followed Nate to his car. “Where are we going?”
“To the beach.”
“That’s like seventy-five miles away.”
“Am I so boring you can’t stand ninety minutes in the car with me?”
“It’s raining.”
“It’s always raining in Oregon. But it’s okay. Skin is waterproof.”
When Nate and I showed up at lunch the following Wednesday, half a dozen art books were spread out across the table. We had an art history exam that afternoon, so everyone was busy studying. I was far more nervous about the exam than I wanted to admit. I knew the paintings — spelling the artists’ names on the exam was going to be the hard part.
“Who painted Dance at Le Moulin de la Galette ?” Haroon flipped through a stack of flash cards.
“Pierre-Auguste Renoir,” I said. Renoir, I recited mentally. R-E-N-O-I-R. I better not be expected to spell his first name.
Nate pulled his own textbook out of his bag and started flipping through the images. “I’ve been wondering, Sam, why are you taking art history anyway?”
“Why not? It’s an interesting class.”
“No.” Nate polished his apple on his shirt. “I mean, why are you studying art history and not art?”
My chest tightened, and breathing became difficult. I hadn’t sworn him to secrecy about my dad or anything, but I’d sort of thought that went without saying. “I’m not an artist.”
Lissa set her turkey sandwich down. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Sam’s dad.”
NO! He did not just say that.
“He’s a super famous artist. His name’s actually mentioned in our textbook.”
I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. I wanted to kill Nate.
“Are you serious?” Miles flipped to the index in the back of his book. “What page?”
“Page six-forty-seven,” said Mr. Helpful. “In the chapter on modern impressionists.”
Graham turned to the page in question. “Your dad’s Randolph Wilson? I went to a show of his work up in Seattle a couple years ago. It was amazing. Why didn’t you tell us?”
I stood up and tossed my uneaten lunch into the nearest trash can. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to talk about it.”
Chapter 13
5 31,441; 1,594,323; 4,782,969… Lissa found me in the girls’ bathroom. It was the one place Nate wouldn’t come looking for me. 129,140,163; 387,420,489; 10,460,353,203… She hoisted herself up onto the counter and sat in the sink. The position was so bizarre, and potentially wet, that I couldn’t help but start laughing.
“So,” she started. “Nate’s just proven that all boys are idiots. Let me guess, your dad has a Y chromosome and is therefore also an idiot.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“I’m not going to lie to you. I’m a curious person, and now that I know your dad’s semi-famous, I’m going to Google him the second I get
Nate put his arms around me and pulled me into a hug. “It isn’t your fault that your parents got divorced.”
That’s what people always said: Don’t blame the kids for the grown-ups’ problems. But it was hard to believe. Thinking about my dad always made me feel like I was tumbling off the edge of a cliff. Even though I wanted to change the subject or start calculating exponents in my head, I also wanted Nate to know me — I wanted him to know this. “The worst thing is that he’s dyslexic too.”
“Your dad’s dyslexic?”
“Yeah. He dropped out of school in eighth grade. His reading skills are even worse than mine. He’s just charismatic and creative enough that nobody cares. Everyone loves him, even when he’s plastered. He just didn’t want to love me.”
Nate stroked my hair and whispered something in a language I didn’t understand. I focused on his even breathing until my head stopped spinning.
He took my hand. “Come on. We need a change in scenery.”
I grabbed my coat and followed Nate to his car. “Where are we going?”
“To the beach.”
“That’s like seventy-five miles away.”
“Am I so boring you can’t stand ninety minutes in the car with me?”
“It’s raining.”
“It’s always raining in Oregon. But it’s okay. Skin is waterproof.”
When Nate and I showed up at lunch the following Wednesday, half a dozen art books were spread out across the table. We had an art history exam that afternoon, so everyone was busy studying. I was far more nervous about the exam than I wanted to admit. I knew the paintings — spelling the artists’ names on the exam was going to be the hard part.
“Who painted Dance at Le Moulin de la Galette ?” Haroon flipped through a stack of flash cards.
“Pierre-Auguste Renoir,” I said. Renoir, I recited mentally. R-E-N-O-I-R. I better not be expected to spell his first name.
Nate pulled his own textbook out of his bag and started flipping through the images. “I’ve been wondering, Sam, why are you taking art history anyway?”
“Why not? It’s an interesting class.”
“No.” Nate polished his apple on his shirt. “I mean, why are you studying art history and not art?”
My chest tightened, and breathing became difficult. I hadn’t sworn him to secrecy about my dad or anything, but I’d sort of thought that went without saying. “I’m not an artist.”
Lissa set her turkey sandwich down. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Sam’s dad.”
NO! He did not just say that.
“He’s a super famous artist. His name’s actually mentioned in our textbook.”
I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. I wanted to kill Nate.
“Are you serious?” Miles flipped to the index in the back of his book. “What page?”
“Page six-forty-seven,” said Mr. Helpful. “In the chapter on modern impressionists.”
Graham turned to the page in question. “Your dad’s Randolph Wilson? I went to a show of his work up in Seattle a couple years ago. It was amazing. Why didn’t you tell us?”
I stood up and tossed my uneaten lunch into the nearest trash can. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to talk about it.”
Chapter 13
5 31,441; 1,594,323; 4,782,969… Lissa found me in the girls’ bathroom. It was the one place Nate wouldn’t come looking for me. 129,140,163; 387,420,489; 10,460,353,203… She hoisted herself up onto the counter and sat in the sink. The position was so bizarre, and potentially wet, that I couldn’t help but start laughing.
“So,” she started. “Nate’s just proven that all boys are idiots. Let me guess, your dad has a Y chromosome and is therefore also an idiot.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“I’m not going to lie to you. I’m a curious person, and now that I know your dad’s semi-famous, I’m going to Google him the second I get
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