Jess Wong turns on a wireless microphone and gives me an encouraging smile. I pull out the piece of paper on which I’ve printed my speech. The words swim before my eyes. I’m thinking about my research into the microbial life that might exist on Mars. I look around the room, at the people who have gathered to see my art. Even Skylar’s here; they raise a plastic glass of wine to me. And then the gallery door opens and Tasha hurries inside. She catches my eye immediately and smiles.

“Welcome, everyone!” Jess says. “Thanks so much for coming out tonight. Pearl Gallery is committed to supporting and uplifting exciting new local artists, and I’m so thrilled to introduce you to the talented person behind the incredible pieces you see tonight: Aria Tang West.”

Applause. I see Dad holding up his phone. Mom is watching over FaceTime from Geneva; it’s the middle of the night there. Jess holds the microphone out to me, and after a deep breath, I take it.

—

I’ve probably had too much champagne. I feel the bubbles in me, and I wonder if defending my dissertation will feel this good. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Tasha all night and now she finds me, pulling me over to A Scatter of Light, and we stand still together, in front of it.

“What’s the title mean?” she asks me.

“It’s not literal,” I say.

She gives me a patient look. “Humor me.”

“Okay, so think about the sunset. Sometimes it’s red, right? But the sun is actually white—it’s all colors at once. If you were looking at the sun in space, it would be white. We see the sunset as red because particles in the air like dust or smog scatter away the blues and violets, so we only see red.”

“Okay,” she says, and I can tell she wants more.

“What I’m saying is—” I hesitate. I don’t like to explain this stuff to people. I just want them to see a painting and experience how it makes them feel, but Tasha is my best friend. So I say, “The sunset is beautiful to us but in many ways we’re seeing an illusion. The sun isn’t red. It isn’t even setting.”

“But it’s still beautiful,” she says.

“It is. But what are we not seeing?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Blue?”

I laugh. “Don’t think about it too hard.”

She points up at the painting. “What are those pieces of paper?”

“They’re from a postcard.”

“What postcard?”

“A postcard of this band I used to know.”

“What band?”

I don’t tell her. Instead I say, “Remember when you visited me in California the summer after high school?”

She looks suspicious. “Yeah.”

“That’s when I started working on this piece.”