Unlike all her other works, these are abstracts. A half circle of burnished red seemingly guarded by a fence of deep maroon against a background of silver. A heavy, dark-gray form that reminds me of a wrought-iron flower. A stiff beige ribbon that slashes from one corner of the canvas to the opposite corner on the bottom of the other side. What looks like the tip of a black boot on a block of light blue stone. A line of seven red rectangles marked with a strange winged figure painted in gold—and finally, the one that she had yet to finish.

A horn honks, reminding me that I’m supposed to hurry. Still, I take one last look at the group of paintings. While I didn’t understand what drove her to paint them, I recognize the talent that made the images leap off the canvases. All my life I have worked to be as skilled an artist as my mother. I’m not. Even without the small head-shakes of disapproval she used to give my screen, I knew that. But if she could take the risk of creating something this different, maybe I should take a chance on the unknown, too.

The horn honks again as I leave a message on the kitchen memo screen for my father in case he gets home before me. Then, clutching my tablet tight to my chest, I hurry outside.

The music has been turned down from deafening to bearable. The minute I get in, Isaac peels away from the curb and Rose begins a steady stream of instructions that cause me to rub my palms on my pants.

“Katy Mitchell runs the City Art Program, but Victor Beschloss is the one that you’ll be meeting with. Dad says he is a good guy.”

Which meant he probably never unbuttoned his collar and didn’t smile a whole lot.

“Tell him all about your love of art and design and why you want to be a part of the program and how important you think the program is to our city and to our national identity.”

“Maybe I should salute the flag while I’m at it?” I ask sarcastically. Although it would be easy enough to do, since every house and business was gifted a flag at the time the new star was added.

Isaac grins at me as he stops at a light. Rose continues her monologue as if I never interrupted her.

“Make sure you smile.”

As if smiling is really my thing.

“Mention how your mother’s pieces, created on behalf of the government, influenced your own creations.”

So basically, lie.

“Tell him how you want to use your art the way she did—to celebrate our society and to do your part to keep the country safe and strong and prosperous.”

Finally something I can say without feeling like an impostor. “Okay.”

“And don’t gnaw on the ends of your hair.”

I drop the strands of damp hair from my mouth and put my hands back in my lap.