You never really find answers, just new and deeper questions.
We finally found Mychal leaning against the wall opposite his photograph, talking to two older women.
Daisy cut in and took his hand. “I hate to break up this party,” she said, “but this famous artist has a curfew.”
Mychal laughed, and the three of us made our way out of the tunnel, into the silver-bright parking lot, and then into Mychal’s minivan.
The moment my door slid shut, he said, “That was the best night of my life. Thank you for being there.
Oh my God, that was just the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I feel like I might be an artist, like a proper one.
That was so, so amazing. Did you guys have fun?” “Tell us all about it,” Daisy said, not exactly answering his question.
When I got home, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a mug of tea.
“What is that smell?” she asked. “Sewage, body odor, mold—a mix of things.”
“I’m worried, Aza. I’m worried you’re losing your connection to reality.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m just tired.” “Tonight, you’re gonna stay up and talk to me.”
“About what?” “About where you were, what you were doing, who you were doing it with. About your life.”
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