Miss You, Mina Read online

  “Okay, everyone,” Ms. Roberts said, “if you look on the back wall by the art supply area, you’ll see some of your work on display. Mina’s is the collage. It’s quite colorful. Take a look when you get a chance. So tell me, Mina: Where are you from and who’s your favorite artist?”

  I adjusted the bandanna holding my locs back from my face. “Um, I’m from Greenwood, out in central New Jersey,” I managed to get out, though I felt like my tongue was about five times its normal size. “This is my first time at art camp. My favorite artist?” I pushed out a little more confidently. “Definitely Romare Bearden.”

  “Romeo who?” Paulette asked, all loud. Of course, she got lots of snickers with that one.

  “Romare Bearden,” I heard a voice from behind me say, enunciating each syllable. I whipped around to see who had come to my defense. It was Gabriella. “He’s a pretty awesome artist who specialized in collages. You should check him out sometime,” she added. She looked at me and mouthed, “You’re welcome.”

  I mouthed, “Thank you.” Maybe Gabriella could be a friend after all.

  “Well, I look forward to seeing more of your work, Mina,” Ms. Roberts said, smiling. She looked back at her paper. “Now, who’s next? We have a new camper from Connecticut…Lisa?”

  After a half hour of more introductions, reading through the assignment sheet, and a lesson on paint mixing, Ms. Roberts let us break for lunch. I was grateful, because in addition to being tied in a thousand nerve knots, my stomach had started to growl loud enough to draw attention. Blame it on Auntie Jill, who thought it was a good idea to serve natural oatmeal with raisins for breakfast. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I don’t do oatmeal; I just pushed it around in my bowl enough to make it look like I was enjoying it. Really, what I’d wanted was some pancakes or sausage with eggs.

  “Everybody’s going to Lombardi’s pizzeria just down the way,” Gabriella said as I swirled my paintbrushes in a plastic container full of water in the sink. “Toby and I were going to walk over together. Want to come?”

  Just as Gabriella made her pitch, Paulette strutted over to the art supply area, a few girls in tow. “I mean, I looked at it when we came in, but I didn’t see what the big deal was. And I still don’t,” she said, stopping right in front of the wall of student art. She didn’t call out any particular piece, but she was staring right at my collage as she spoke. “I remember doing something like this,” she said. And going for maximum dramatic effect, she added: “In my third grade art class!”

  Her friends all laughed as if they were in an orchestra and she was their conductor.

  Wow. Did she really just dis me like that in front of half the class? I wondered. Mortified, I bent over into the sink and and tried my best to look like I hadn’t heard what she said.

  “Anyway, come on, people!” Paulette continued, clapping her hands to call everyone’s attention away from the wall. “Lombardi’s awaits, and you know how grumpy I get if my special table isn’t there. Let’s move it out!”

  Gabriella looked at Paulette over her shoulder and shook her head. “Good grief,” she sighed, before turning back toward me. “Anyway, so you want to roll with us or what?”

  “Sure. Why not?” I said. “What’s that all about, anyway?” I added, nodding my head toward Paulette, who was heading for the door with at least five other girls following fast on her heels.

  “Ugh, don’t pay her any mind—save your brain cells for things that really matter,” a tall, wiry, blond guy said as he walked up to us. He extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Toby Sheppard.”

  “Hey,” I said, taking his hand into mine.

  “Toby, Mina. Mina, Toby,” Gabriella said. “I met Mina on the subway this morning.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, trying to shift my focus from Paulette to the conversation at hand. “What’s her deal, anyway?” I asked.

  “Who, Paulette?” Gabriella asked. “Well, long story short, she’s been here three summers in a row, and she’s won the competition the last two years, and let’s just say she’s not lying when she says she paints to win.”

  “Yeah, she doesn’t exactly play well with others,” Toby added while he inspected my collage. “Hey, this is really nice. I love how you used watercolor and ripped paper to make the ocean. Is this your first time here?”

  “Where, in Manhattan?” I asked, a little confused.

  Toby laughed and looked at Gabriella, and she, in turn, looked at me, then cocked her head to the side. “Wait, is this your first time in Manhattan?”

  “Well, not exactly,” I said, feeling my cheeks get hot. “We’ve driven through it before on our way to my aunt’s house.”

  I realized after I heard the words coming out of my mouth that what I just said was even worse than saying I’d never been to Manhattan before. Gabriella put me at ease, though.

  “Hey, that’s more than I can say for a few kids who live around my way—and we live in Brooklyn,” Gabriella chimed in.

  “Don’t sweat it. My first time was last year, when I came to this camp. It’s definitely a cool way to get to see the city,” Toby added. “Anyway, you hungry?”

  “I could eat,” I said, smiling.

  “Okay, well, let’s do it, then,” Toby said, rubbing his hands together. “Lombardi’s is the perfect introduction to Manhattan. Let’s be sure to get pepperoni on our pizza.”

  For the first time that entire day, I felt myself relax. Paulette made it crystal clear she didn’t intend to play nice. But I was happy that Gabriella and Toby did.

  “Sure,” I said easily. And with that, the three of us headed out the door, down the elevator, and out into the bustling, energy-filled street, the warm sun lighting our way.

  Chapter Three

  I didn’t want to come off like a total newbie in front of the entire class, but when we got to the corner of 82nd Street and Museum Mile, I practically melted into the sidewalk.

  The Metropolitan Museum of Art was a big mass of awesome. I literally had to resist bolting up the steps that stretched up and into the museum. In fact, the only thing that kept me from doing that was all of the activity outside the museum: There were artists selling their sketches, vendors serving hot dogs, and people from all corners of the earth speaking different languages as they, too, took in the scene.

  “Pretty cool, huh?” Gabriella said, clearly seeing the stars in my eyes.

  “Yeah, it’s nice,” I said, trying to play down my excitement.

  “Wait until you see what’s inside,” she said as we made it up the stairs. “I overheard Ms. Roberts saying that if we have time, we might get to see the Temple of Dendur. It’s bananas!”

  “Please,” Paulette chimed as she walked lazily past Gabriella and me. “It’s okay and all, but after you see it for, like, the billionth time, it’s not all that deep. Now, the Frick museum? That’s the place to be.”

  Gabriella looked at me and rolled her eyes. I looked straight ahead and kept my mouth closed. I’d promised myself I’d stay out of Paulette’s mini-drama, and I meant to stick to that. Besides, I was too excited to get inside the Met. We didn’t have anything like this back home, and after a while, you can only look at the County Historical Museum so many times before it’s a total snore. I was hoping, too, that I’d be able to sneak around and learn a bit about Georgia O’Keeffe, Claude Monet, and some of the other artists Ms. Roberts had been talking about back in class earlier that morning.

  “Okay, everyone, right this way,” Ms. Roberts called out to the group as we made our way through the doors. “So, as I explained, we’re here for a guided tour of the new Picasso exhibit, and we’re going to check out a few of the museum’s staples in the Impressionist wing. We’ll also stop in to see the Temple of Dendur if we have time. But before we leave, I want you all to pick your favorite Picasso portrait, and then sketch it as if it’s your own self-portrait. Time is limited, so let’s hurry. Be sure to stick with me and the museum guides at all times, and when in doubt, look for the red
camp T-shirts; this will help all of us get back to SoHo safely.”

  The grand hallway was like something out of a movie. We followed a businesslike museum guide up a sweeping flight of stairs into a quiet, large, looping hall where dozens of Picassos hung like bold splashes of color across the walls. A couple of us students—me included—squealed at the sight. Truth was, I’d never imagined that I’d see a Picasso up close.

  “So, friends, you already know that Picasso was an incredible Spanish painter and sculptor who was one of the most prominent artists of the twentieth century…” the guide began.

  “Oh, good grief—who wants to stand here and listen to a lecture? Blah blah blah—I want to see the paintings already,” Paulette said not so quietly. She grabbed Mariska’s hand and slunk off to the other side of the room, boldly walking past Ms. Roberts. A few more of the campers followed behind them, leaving only a handful of us standing there, politely listening to the guide. She was boring. But really, was that any excuse to be rude?

  “Well, it looks like we’re losing a few of the class members,” the guide said, after droning on for a little while longer. “How about we go ahead and take a look at some of the pieces and talk as we walk along?”

  “Good idea,” Gabriella whispered.

  We inched along the walls, admiring a collection of paintings from Picasso’s Blue Period, and through another room that showed a bunch of paintings that looked like they’d been painted, cut into tiny squares, and then glued back together again.

  “These are my favorites!” Paulette announced loudly, bullying her way through a crowd of gray-haired ladies wearing identical blue shirts to stand directly in front of one of the larger paintings. Following her lead, the guide called all of us over.

  “So, who can tell me what period these paintings fall into for Picasso? Anyone?” the guide asked. Her eyes pored over the sea of red T-shirts standing before her and landed on…me. “What’s your name, young lady?”

  I looked behind me. Nope, no one there. “Uh, me?” I asked, pointing at my own chest.

  “Yes,” she said. “Your name?”

  I heard a few giggles to the left and right of me. “I’m Mina.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Picasso was known for changing his style, and through the years he had several different periods of works. We just came out of the collection from his Blue Period, and we started with the Rose Period. Which is this?”

  I froze. The guide stood there staring at me, like I was some Picasso expert who walked around spitting out Picasso facts. I had no clue what the answer was. Someone—I think maybe Paulette—started humming the theme to the game show Jeopardy—a ditty that made practically the entire room fall into hysterics. I think even one of the little old ladies was giggling.

  “Um, the beige period?” I mumbled. Hey, a couple of the pictures had a lot of beige in them, and seeing as the other two periods were named after colors, I figured I’d give it a shot.

  Paulette led the laugh parade. “Did she just say ‘the beige period’?” she asked, clutching her stomach for added effect. “Wow. Just…wow.”

  Then she took two dramatic steps back from the display and jabbed her finger up toward the top of the wall. My eyes followed the tip of her finger to a sign that said in bright, bold red letters: PICASSO AND THE CUBIST MOVEMENT.

  “It’s called Cubism,” Paulette snarled.

  I felt my cheeks burn. Embarrassing.

  “Yes, very good. It’s called Cubism,” the guide continued without missing a beat.

  “Don’t even sweat it,” Toby whispered in my ear.

  “For real,” Gabriella whispered. “What counts is what you’re going to do on your sketch pad. Did you see something you liked? I’m all over that one over there—the one where the lady has two eyes on the wrong side of her nose. I think I’ll name it ‘Paulette.’”

  I was in no laughing mood. “Maybe I’ll just stick to this one,” I managed.

  “Well, you know, if you’re into it, make it happen,” Gabriella said. “Easy breezy.”

  Determined to put Paulette out of my head, I flipped to a clean piece of paper in my sketch pad and reached into my purse for my pencil. Then I looked up at Picasso’s painting again. It really was beautiful; it was a stack of squares in different sizes, arranged to look like a woman. Some of the squares were beige and different shades of brown; some were gray and some were even black, with a little green in them. The more I leaned into the picture and looked at the details more closely, the cooler it became. In fact, I thought it looked more like a collage.

  Inspired again, I found a seat on a bench opposite the painting and stared at it some more. No, a pencil wasn’t going to do. I needed glue. I tore into my purse and fumbled past my raspberry lemonade smoothie lip balm, a half-eaten pack of grape Now and Laters, a hair tie I use to keep my locs tied back while I paint, my wallet, and a pack of fine-tipped Sharpies (minus the forest green one, which I still think my little sister stole, seeing as it’s her favorite color and it was the color of the word Mommy she’d written in bubble letters on the homemade birthday card she’d made for my mom. She’s such a little thief!). Ah, there it was: a glue stick.

  I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the map and flyers the guide gave us before we started our tour, and slowly started ripping them to pieces. Once I had a sufficient pile, I picked up my pencil, studied the painting again, and, in my mind, imagined the woman with chocolate brown skin and flowing locs, and a hot-pink dress instead of a beige one. Yeah, I could make her real cute, I decided.

  Just as I picked up my pencil to draw the outlines of what would be my version of Picasso’s painting, Paulette plopped down next to me on the bench. She, too, flipped to a clean page and then waved her pencil in the air like it was a wand and she was about to do a magic trick. I tried not to look in her direction, but she wasn’t having it.

  “Funny,” she said, leaning close enough for me to smell the sour lemonade lip gloss she’d slathered on her lips after sketching a portrait across the hall. “I didn’t think you’d pick this one, seeing as you didn’t even know what it was.”

  My tongue was tied into too many knots to come up with a snappy comeback. So I just kept working, trying my best to act like I wasn’t paying her any mind. But that just made her lean in closer.

  Paulette looked around to see who was watching, and then she asked in a low voice, “No offense, but why are you here, anyway?”

  I snuck a quick look at her and then buried my eyes back onto my sketch pad. “It’s a camp trip,” I mumbled. “The whole class is here.”

  “No, I mean why are you here—in New York, at this camp?” Paulette said, this time turning her body toward mine.

  Silence.

  “I mean, maybe it’s just me, but you don’t seem to really know all that much about art, so…it seems kinda weird that you’re going to an art camp,” Paulette continued as she scratched her pencil across her sketch pad.

  More silence.

  “Don’t get me wrong: It’s cute and all that you do the little glue-and-paper thing,” she said, nodding her head toward me as I nervously glued a piece of torn museum map to the squares I’d drawn on the paper. “But really, outside of, like, a third grade art class, are we calling that art these days?”

  This time, a lump in my throat, and the beginnings of tears.

  Maybe she was right.

  “I’m just saying…” Paulette was about to continue, but Ms. Roberts cut her off.

  “Wow, look at you two!” she said, completely oblivious to the torture Paulette was laying on me. “This is pretty good stuff. See how art works? Here you are, Paulette, taking a classical approach, and Mina! You’re taking it up a notch with the collage. You know, contemporary artists like Bearden studied Picasso and picked up a thing or two from his Cubist work. Very perceptive. But Mina, I don’t want you to get stuck in this Romare rut. I appreciate that you love to collage, but you have to be able to stretch a bit more,” she said, swiping m
y work with her eyes.

  “Thank you, Ms. Roberts!” Paulette said enthusiastically as if she wasn’t just cutting me with that same tongue two seconds ago. “This was a great trip—better than last year, even.”

  Somehow, I managed a half smile, but I didn’t look up.

  With my head bent down, neither Paulette nor Ms. Roberts could see the tear sliding down my cheek.

  Chapter Four

  “Okay, you’ve changed your skirt three times, and your hair looks supercute just the way it is,” Gabriella whined as she checked her watch. Again. “While you’re standing there frowning in the mirror, everybody is at The Spot, eating up all the red velvet cupcakes!”

  “So you’re saying that stuffing a red velvet cupcake down your throat is more important than how I look when we go to get them?” I asked as I pulled a pair of lavender-and-white polka-dot leggings under my jean miniskirt.

  “Don’t twist my words, Mina!” Gabriella laughed. “I’m just saying that you look great and it’s time for us to get a move on, already.”

  “Uh-huh,” I laughed easily as I stood back to get a good look at myself in the mirror. I twisted my head a little and closed one eye. Yeah, this outfit just might work. I kicked my purple Converses out into the middle of the floor, and then swirled around in a circle until I spotted my cute, but uncomfortable, pair of white wedge sandals, and kicked them next to my sneakers. “Converse or sandals?”

  “Sneakers,” Gabriella said, exasperated. “Can we go now?”

  “Who wears sneakers to a fancy restaurant?”’

  “Dude, I keep telling you, it’s not a fancy restaurant!” Gabriella insisted. “It’s a cute little hangout spot where all the kids from the neighborhood go for Poetry Slam Wednesdays. And trust: Nobody’s dressing like they’re about to pose for America’s Next Top Model.”