about when we’re going to the MoMA. “Fridays are free from four to eight,” Nicole advertises. “But I don’t want to wait that long. And there’s the dance Friday.” “But we could go before.” “Can we please just go now? I seriously need something to distract me until I can see Steve tomorrow. I’m going crazy .” I use my pity-me frownie face. It works. “Okay,” Nicole gives in. “Let’s go.” “Fine. But we need to hurry up. I’ve got stuff to do.” “What stuff?” “Just stuff.” Lately it’s like there’s all this drama going on in Nicole’s life she’s not telling me about. And she hasn’t even given me the remotest hint about what it is. We go. We take notes on sculptures. I want to find this one Picasso sculpture called She-Goat that used all these recycled materials. Picasso totally put in a wicker garbage can and flowerpots and bottles and stuff when he was making it. That’s hot. But we can’t find it. So I go up to a guard and say, “Excuse me. Where is Picasso’s She-Goat ?” And he’s all, in his snazzy French accent, “Zee goat is in zee garden.” And he sweeps his hand in this grand gesture that’s like, After you, madam. The sculpture garden is awesome. I recognize She-Goat from some photos I saw online. I put my face really close to the surface. I don’t know if you’re allowed to touch the sculptures or not. There’s no sign or anything saying not to touch them. I mean, I know you’re not supposed to touch the paintings because the oil from your hands could damage the paint, but these sculptures are all outside. One of the photos even showed She-Goat almost buried in snow from that huge storm we had last winter. So it’s probably okay. But maybe not. I look closer. “What are you doing?” Nicole says. “Trying to find the garbage can.” “Huh?” “You know how it’s—” “Oh, yeah. You told me.” I can’t find the garbage can. Or the flowerpots. Or really anything. We take notes for a while, not talking much. But I’m still wondering what’s taking over Nicole’s life these days. And why she hasn’t told me about any of it. I’m trying to be okay with respecting her privacy, though. We had a big fight last year about how I felt like I was sharing a lot more of my life than she was. And she said how there were some things she just wasn’t ready to talk about. But she promised to tell me about the important things. So whatever’s going on, it’s probably no big deal.
The sound of the phone not ringing is the loudest sound there is. It’s distracting me from the poem I’m supposed to be reading for English. I can’t concentrate on iambic pentameter. I can’t think about anything but why Steve isn’t calling me. He gave me flowers. He should be calling me. I get up from my desk and open my window some more. It’s so nice out. I’m dying to walk to the pier and sketch the moon since it looked so incredible yesterday. But I don’t want to go in case Steve calls. I can’t have my cell on when I’m visiting the moon. That would be impolite. I sit back down at my desk. I stare at the next page. My brain refuses to work. The phone still doesn’t ring. I can’t concentrate. But I have to do something. Sitting still long enough to watch a movie is not an option. I need to move around, but I can’t leave. Cleaning my room would be a perfect solution if it wasn’t already perfect. I’m so anal about it. I don’t know where it comes from, but I’m an organization freak. If even one thing is out of place, I have to put it back or else it totally distracts me. I guess that’s why I want to be an interior designer. Or even a closet organizer. I think organizing people’s stuff is super fun. The most fun is when someone is a total slob. You can organize their life for days. And inspire this calm feeling that permeates into all areas of their life. Since everything is connected. Nicole is always saying my room