She isn’t lying. My skin is no longer blotchy. The peach shadow she used on my lids is almost translucent, but somehow makes them appear less sleep deprived. I seem almost normal—as long as no one looks too hard. The anger and fatigue and distrust in my eyes cannot be smoothed away with powder and lip gloss. Those are beyond even my best friend’s ministrations.

But when I look away from my image and see Rose’s grin, I can’t help but smile back. After so many years, all the changes in our lives, and the bitterness and hurt I have waded through, the thing I am most grateful for is Rose’s friendship. “Thanks,” I say, lifting my eyes to hers. “I owe you.”

“Real friends don’t keep score.” Rose shoves the makeup case back into her bag. Once it’s stowed, she shrugs the bag onto her shoulder and we start walking. “So what happened this morning?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” I wait for a red sports car to pass and cross the street with Rose beside me.

“Meri, I yelled your name three times before you noticed me. That’s not like you.”

I take a deep breath and say, “Dad asked about my submission to the City Art Program this morning. It’s the first time he’s brought it up since . . . before.” I walk faster, as if I can escape the ache that comes with the reminder of my mother’s death. “He was disappointed when I told him I didn’t finish my submission. I guess I thought in some way he would be relieved.”

“Why would you think that?”

“He never goes in Mom’s studio. He took her award off the shelf in the living room. He can’t bring himself to look at her art or talk to anyone she used to work with. And whenever I start sketching or even talk about one of my assignments for art class he goes into another room.”

The things that keep me going drive him to search for a way to forget. The award lives on the shelf next to my bedroom window. I draw for hours every day. A nicer daughter would give those things up to help him. Clearly, I’m not that nice.

“Your father’s hurting,” Rose says quietly. “But he knows how important your art is. He’s not like my dad—determined to make everyone just like him. Your dad would never want you to give up something that makes you happy. Speaking of the City Art Program, I know you said your portfolio wasn’t finished, but—”

“The submission deadline was two weeks ago.” I walk even faster as our school and the dozens of cars and buses navigating the street in front of the redbrick building come into sight. “It’s over, Rose.”

Maybe I’d still get into one of the college art programs, but my chances of becoming a City Art Program designer now were low. And I had only myself to blame.

“Nothing is ever over until you admit defeat. I talked to—”