Perfect Glass (A Young Adult Novel (sequel to Glass Girl)) (31 page)

“Um…,” I said.

But he beat me to the punch line. “Desserts.”

I glanced over my shoulder at him and smiled.

“Look at this place,” Tennyson said when we passed through the outskirts of town. “Are you sure you and Henry want to go here? Have you even seen Boulder?”

“Henry wants to major in Ag. There’s no better place for him and I’m happy as long as I get into this writing program.” The town looked okay to me—larger than Chapin, but still safe.

“Hey, you’re a brain, Quinn. Where are you going to school?” Tennyson focused her attention on the backseat. “You should come to Boulder with me.”

“I’m going home. I’m waiting to hear from Brown. I got early acceptance to the U of Rhode Island if Brown turns me down.” Quinn handed his phone to Tennyson and said, “This might interest you.”

“Dang,” she said. “I guess UDub doesn’t completely suck.” She held up the phone so I could see the picture of the rodeo team. “I want a ‘Ragtime Cowboy Joe.’ A ‘high-falutin’, rootin’, shootin’, son of a gun from Old Wyoming.’”

“Stop it now, Tennyson,” I said.

“Too bad Meg’s already got one of those sons of a gun,” Quinn said.

“Ha ha.” I followed my map into a parking lot for visitors next to Hoyt Hall, the building that housed the English Department. The four of us stopped talking and stared at the main door where students were standing in clumps. Even Tennyson sat up straight to get a better look. I think it hit us all that, in a few months, we would be those people.

Thanet leaned between the two front seats and punched me in the arm. “You’ve got fifteen minutes, Meg. Get a move on.”

“Okay,” I said. “This shouldn’t take long. What are you guys going to do?”

Tennyson looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “We’re going to find the saddle bronc rider from Iowa.”

“We are not,” Quinn argued. “We’re going to sit right there on that bench by the door and try to look quasi-cool.” He climbed out, stretched his legs, and opened the driver’s door, offering me a hand.

I stood, smoothed my skirt, and put on the blazer I’d brought. I hadn’t considered how much this outfit would make me look like a 1950s co-ed, especially when compared to the clothes worn by most of the students here.

Quinn watched my face and shook his head. “Nope. You look good. Stop worrying.” He reached over the console and pulled out my bag, took the keys out of my hand, and pushed me toward the door. “Room 208.”

“How’d you know?”

He grinned. “I looked it up on the way.”

“Go!” Thanet yelled. “Go and be awesome!”

I picked my way gingerly through the crowd and found the stairs leading to Dr. Matthews’s office. Her door stood open and she had her head in a book when I knocked.

“Yes?” she said, looking up at me. “Oh, are you Meg?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m a little early.”

She came around her desk, and I liked her immediately because she had the biggest smile and the best eyes. “No, no, I’ve been waiting for you. How was the drive?”

“Fine. Not too far.”

“Sit, sit,” she scooted two chairs together, looked at them, and pulled them apart a little and angled them a different way, mumbling something about the distance between furniture for comfortable conversation. “Okay, now, sit.”

I held my bag in my lap, hugging it tightly for comfort.

“What questions do you have, Meg?”

“Questions?”

“Yes. Like ‘What can you tell me that will make my decision easier?’ And ‘What sets this campus apart from XYZ campus I’m looking at?’”

Was she serious? “Okay. Yes. I’m wondering why I’m here, I guess.”

She jumped up from her chair and squeezed behind her desk again, opening and closing drawers until she found a letter, which she handed to me.

“This is why. I mean, we’re all hoping you’ll come here.” She leaned in like we were sharing a private moment. “I think you haven’t accepted UW yet because you’re waiting on scholarship info from your top schools and that’s understandable. But this—this letter—is why you’re sitting in my office today.”

I recognized Jo’s shaky, slanted cursive immediately. She’d handwritten a letter, using old-school formality with two address blocks and a Dear Madam or Sir.

I must have smiled because Dr. Matthews laughed. “We don’t see many like that anymore. Go on…read it.”

She turned to her laptop and started typing so I read Jo’s letter slowly.

Dear Madam or Sir:

My name is Jo Russell. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I paint.

This brings me to my reason for writing you today. As it is with all human beings, I will not live forever. In fact, I may not live much longer. I am old. Who really knows?

What I do know is I have recently met a remarkable girl who wants to learn to write at your school. I believe art is best learned by living, but apparently you need a degree these days.

This girl, Meg Kavanagh, is impressive. I haven’t seen her write a single thing the whole time I’ve known her. That shouldn’t disturb you, though. What I have seen is that her heart is bigger than the world and that she stands her ground when things are hard. Even when most people would leave.

If you aren’t aware, I will tell you those are two qualities that turn ordinary people into great artists.

I suggest you let her into your program. She wants it badly and I’d bet all I own that she’ll be your star.

Now, I would like to name your university as the recipient for my collection of art. Not all of it. Not even half of it. Most of my art languishes in the drawing rooms of collectors who have more money than sense. But I saved back the best, the darlings I couldn’t part with for various reasons, and those will come to you.

Put them somewhere to be enjoyed by the students. Don’t put them behind glass or in some kind of gallery where the kids are afraid to go. Put them in the library. Or in the bathrooms. I don’t care. Just make them accessible. Maybe one of them will inspire someone.

It would be nice if you let Meg Kavanagh help you decide what to do with my paintings. She knows them as well as anyone, but she’d die if she knew I said that, so don’t mention it. Do what you want.

Cordially,

Jo Russell

I placed the letter back on Dr. Matthews’s desk and she stopped typing to watch me process what I’d read. Toward the end, Jo had few moments when she sounded as logical as that letter. Had she written it early on in our relationship? Or did she push through the muddy waters of her dementia to force these words out?

Whenever this moment happened, I knew what it meant. Jo had stuck her neck out for me, something I imagined her doing years ago for good friends. I had only scratched the surface of Jo Russell.

“What do you think?” Dr. Matthews settled back in her chair and curled her legs under her like a little girl.

“Her art,” I said. “I’ve seen the paintings she kept. There are hundreds of them and my mom said they’re her best work. Some of them are documents and family pictures that she painted over. It’s an unbelievable gift for your school.”

“I know,” she said, smiling. “We know. We’ve had a few meetings about this where we all sat around grinning about it. The head of our art department came to Wyoming because of Jo Russell.”

“I have to say something, though.”

“Say anything, Meg.”

I cleared my throat. “I haven’t been accepted. I’m still waiting. I want to go to school here.”

Dr. Matthews sat up quickly. “What?”

“I haven’t received anything from the admissions office. I don’t know if I’m in or not.” I felt like we were having two different conversations and it was making me hot all over. I shifted so I could pull my jacket off.

Dr. Matthews dug around in a drawer, yanking a folder out so quickly that papers scattered across her desk. “You were sent a letter weeks ago. You were accepted. We’ve been waiting for you to respond. Maybe it got lost or the address was wrong.”

I shook my head and tried to form a logical thought. Dr. Matthews seemed so flustered that I stayed quiet. She was comparing the address on the copy of my acceptance letter to another address she had. She looked up and her lips formed an O. “This address is wrong.”

I nodded and had to stop myself from screaming. The weeks I’d worried about this. The time I’d spent devising a new plan, looking for colleges close enough to Laramie so I could see Henry on the weekends. The Plan Bs I’d written in my journal.

“Then this letter from Ms. Russell…,” Dr. Matthews said. “We thought maybe you’d decided to go elsewhere and it meant you wouldn’t be involved in her art collection. I called you here today to convince you to come to this university.” She stood and slid from behind her desk, leaning on the front, nearly standing on my foot. “I know, with your transcript, you could get into bigger schools, but this is a great school and we want to offer you a work-study position with the Jo Russell collection. It’s a fine opportunity for a student in the creative writing program.”

“I’d already been accepted?” I asked. “It had nothing to do with Jo Russell?”

Dr. Matthews leaned back, snatched the offending letter from the file and held it out to me, date first. “This was written well before we heard from Jo’s estate.”

I stared at the letter, pinching my bottom lip between my thumb and finger, thinking.

“The university is offering you a small scholarship, but on top of that, I’m offering you this work-study position. It’s not a lot but it will cover some expenses that the scholarship doesn’t cover.” She sat back and smiled. “What do you think, Meg?”

My pulse raced because I was hearing everything I’d wanted. I had a place at the University of Wyoming. They wanted me. It had all been a clerical mistake. All the stomachaches and lost sleep were caused by an office clerk with fat fingers. I felt a little dizzy.

“You’ve earned this, Meg. We’re not really into grandstanding in this department. Your scores, your grades, the video—those are the merits that made you a great candidate. It was unanimous before Jo Russell flew onto the radar.”

“Do I need to sign something?”

Dr. Matthews smiled and pushed a letter my way. And a fancy pen.

We talked another half an hour about the extra classes I’d need because I’d be part of a graduate workshop. She also explained the university’s plan for Jo’s artwork, asking my opinion on every detail.

When we finished, I floated down the hall and back outside to my waiting friends, who had found ways to entertain themselves. Quinn was chatting up a girl in a seriously low-cut sweater while Thanet and Tennyson stood five feet away laughing at everything he said. Quinn noticed me first, said goodbye to Delta Delta Delta, and jogged my way.

“Wait!” He raised his phone and took a bunch of pictures of me as I walked toward him. “You’re going to want these someday.” He smiled and pocketed his phone. “How’d it go?”

I nodded, still in shock. “Apparently I’m in. I’m a Cowboy.”

“A
cowboy
?”

“A UDub Cowboy. Go Pokes.”

He leaned his head back and howled like a wolf, making Thanet join in. Tennyson hugged me and said it was time to celebrate.

“Hold onto your hats, kids, we’re going to see how rowdy Meg can get,” Tennyson yelled.

“I don’t know, T, I probably should get back.”

“Yeah, you probably should, Nancy Neuter. All the more reason to stay in Laramie a few more hours. We need to find the coolest place to be on a Monday afternoon.” She turned in a circle, scanning the area for something. Finally, she jogged over to some guys playing Frisbee.

“Hey, guys,” she said, all syrupy sweet. “My friend, Meg, right over there in the uptight clothes, just found out she got accepted here. We want to take her somewhere to celebrate. Know any good places open right now?”

“My dorm room,” a guy with tall hair said.

“That’s cute,” Tennyson said. “Really original, too.” She turned to walk away when a girl who’d been listening said, “I know a place.”

I half expected the girl to yell at Tennyson for talking to her boyfriend. Tennyson, beautiful and overly aggressive, usually brought out the worst in jealous girls.

“My brother’s band practices at a dive on Monday afternoons across from campus,” the girl said. “Nobody will be there, but the owner will let you in and serve you even if you’re underage.” She wore old style combat boots and black tights with a long, pink wool coat.

“What’s the name of the place?” Tennyson asked.

“Doc’s. It’s across from the main entrance to campus.” She reached in her bag for her cell phone. “I’ll call my brother to let him know you’re coming.”

“Wait,” Quinn called. “What’s the band’s name?”

“The Brilliant Virus,” she said.

“Folk? Rock? Alt? Electric?” Quinn cocked his chin at her, daring her to dismiss him. I sensed a little interest on his part. And the girl gave Quinn her full attention because here was a guy who obviously knew his stuff.

“Alternative. Sort of early Flaming Lips.” She smiled and turned her attention to her phone.

“That’ll do.” A slow grin spread on Quinn’s face.

Tennyson slugged him on the shoulder and said, “Come on, lover boy.”

He rubbed his shoulder, smiled at the quirky girl, and climbed into the Jeep.

On the way over, I caught Tennyson’s eye and said, “I don’t drink. You know that.”

“I know. You can watch us and listen to the band. You’re driving anyway.”

“I don’t drink, either,” Quinn called from the back. “It makes me barf.”

“I can’t drink,” Thanet said, rolling his eyes. “Obviously.”

“I drink,” Tennyson said. “I’ll celebrate for Meg. You guys can sit there and talk philosophy and listen to the band.”

Mac, the owner, opened the bar door for us. He looked like a washed-up rodeo star. He winced a little with each step he took and had a scowl that never left his face. But he’d been expecting us and he offered to make lunch for five dollars each. Two of the guys in the band, tattooed and awesomely, insanely cool, jumped off the tiny stage and walked over to meet us.

Quinn spoke their language—all mystery and inside jokes, scarred souls and statement shirts. It was a beautiful moment for him—in his element and completely happy.