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of. And Cindy asks for opinions often.
    “What’s up?” I ask, taking a sip of some chai thing Cindy picked out. She says it’s exotic. It tastes like cinnamon and incense to me.
    “I have to submit my portfolio for Rhode Island School of Design, and I’m super nervous, and I don’t know if I’m choosing the right pieces. Can you look at them and tell mewhat you guys think?”
    “You already know what I think,” Kat says, sipping her matching drink. She cringes a little, but takes another sip anyway. “I love your work. I mean, it’s all over my room.”
    “Yeah, but those are pieces for you, not for RISD.”
    “Are you saying you half-assed my paintings?” Kat asks, mock outraged.
    “NO! I did those for you! You know they’re different from—”
    “Honey, I’m kidding,” Kat says, patting Cindy’s hand.
    “I’ve never seen your art. I actually have no idea what kind of art you do. I’m a crap friend,” I say, leaning forward. She puts her binder down and stares at it, as if it’s gold, as if it contains all the answers in the universe. I guess, in a way, it does—it’s her ticket out of here, maybe.
    “You haven’t? Yeah, I guess not,” she says, then opens the first page. I kind of expected paintings of puppies and kittens, but instead I see a mural of color—stripes, dots, splatters, designs. It’s so vast, so complicated, and so beautiful. It’s bright and colorful and full of life, just like her. Lines over polka dots zig and zag along the page, ending with splatters and markings. There’s no pattern, but it’s the lack of pattern that makes it fascinating.
    “That’s beautiful,” I say, tracing my finger around the edge of the page. It’s a photo of the painting, protected under a plastic folder, but it still pops.
    “You think?” she asks, biting her fingernail. “It’s not tooamateur?”
    “Not at all. These are fantastic. Seriously.”
    “Thanks.” She grins, and turns the page. It’s more of the same, but different. Where the other was more linear, this one is more dotted, more rushed, it seems, but in a natural way. More reds and blacks, whereas the other was blues and greens.
    “I’d love to see these in person,” I say, turning the page again to see another, brighter one that’s painted in yellows and oranges.
    “OH! I have them at school right now. I used the photography room to take the photos. We can see them tomorrow.”
    “Awesome,” I say, actually looking forward to it.
    “I think it’s perfect,” Kat says, finishing the book. “Don’t change a thing.”
    Cindy grins at Kat, then squeezes her arm.
    “I’m going to go put this in the car so we don’t spill anything on it,” Cindy says, clutching her portfolio in a massive hug. “Be right back.”
    She walks off, and I’m left with Kat. I like her, I do, but I’m more comfortable with Cindy. She’s just . . . nicer.
    “So where are you applying for school?” I ask, thinking of something to say.
    “I want to go to med school eventually, so I’m applying to schools with good science programs,” she explains.
    “You’d be good as a doctor. Very to the point,” I say, grinning.
    “Ha. Cindy would be terrible. A kid would have a splinter and she’d sob.”
    I chuckle, then say, “You should clearly be a pediatrician.”
    “I should clearly not be a pediatrician. Whereas Cindy would sob, I’d scare the kid,” she says, laughing at herself. She sits back and pushes her barely touched drink away.
    “So are you applying to schools close to RISD?” I ask.
    “Yeah,” she says wearily. “I mean, I am, definitely, but there aren’t many extremely close,” she sighs. “I don’t know. Let me ask you—why did you think long distance wouldn’t work when you broke up with Ella?”
    “Huh?” I ask, taken off-guard, but of course she asked that. She’s worried. I just expected it to be Cindy, not her, who was. “Um, I don’t know. It never worked for my brother,