Read Online Something Like Fate by Susane Colasanti - Free Book Online Page A

Jason goes. “Happy birthday. Thanks for having us over. It was fun.”
    “Of course. Anytime.”
    Anytime? Why did I say that? It sounds like an invitation to come over and make out or something.
    Blake sits on the swing next to me after letting them out. I’m in a total daze. I can’t even get up.
    We listen to Jason’s Jeep pulling out of the driveway.
    “How’s it going?” Blake says.
    “I wish I knew.”
    “Are you okay?”
    “Yeah.”
    “What happened out here?”
    “Nothing.”
    I’m sure that’s exactly how it felt to Jason. Like nothing happened. I just wish that to me, it didn’t feel like something.

13
    We’re doing pointillism in art. It’s a method of painting where the image you’re creating consists of all these tiny dots. The cool thing is that you can only see the dots up close. When you look at the painting from far away, it just looks like a regular painting. Pointillism is really hard because it takes forever to make all the little dots. And getting the right colors in the right places is key. If your colors are corroded in one little section, it ruins the whole painting.
    Naturally, Connor rocks at pointillism.
    “You’re so good at everything,” I tell him. “I suck at this.”
    “No you don’t,” he says. He’s just being nice. I’m trying to paint an underwater ocean scene. It’s just not working. My queen angelfish is supposed to have these bright yellow eyes and electric-blue stripes along the edge of her fin. Instead, it looks like I’m trying to paint a fried egg with some blue bacon. Maybe I can pass it off as postmodern.
    “Are you sure I don’t suck?” I ask.
    “Positive.”
    “Then what’s this supposed to be?” I slide my paper across the table to Connor.
    He turns the paper around and barely looks at it before sliding it back. He goes, “A fish.”
    “How did you do that?”
    “You’re not as bad as you think. It looks good.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes.”
    People are always telling me that I’m too hard on myself. That’s part of being a Taurus. I can be so stubborn about making things perfect that I don’t stop to notice they’re already good enough.
    “What do you think of mine?” Sophie asks me. She’s been sitting with me and Connor since that day Ryan harassed her. She doesn’t really say much.
    “It’s good!” I say.
    “Thanks.” She grins at the table.
    Sophie and Connor are so much better at this. I’ve been blending red and blue together for ten minutes and I still can’t get the exact shade of purple I want.
    “Maybe it doesn’t exist,” I tell myself. But I say it out loud.
    “What?” Connor says.
    “This color I’m trying to make. Maybe it’s not an actual color.”
    “Kind of lost me there.”
    “I mean, have all the colors been invented already? Or are there some new colors that don’t exist yet?”
    “Still lost.”
    “Like . . . how are colors . . . made?”
    “How are they made ?”
    “Yeah.”
    “From pigment combinations.”
    “Well, where do pigments come from?”
    “I think they’re just naturally occurring.”
    “Naturally occurring in what?”
    “Um . . .”
    I hate when questions like this get stuck in my head. They bother me until I can find an answer. The annoying thing is that these kinds of questions usually don’t have definite answers. Like with the whole fate thing. Do we have control over our fate, or will our lives turn out the same way no matter what we do? This is the one question I wish I could know the answer to more than any others. But I’ll probably never know.
    Ms. Sheptock lets us out early. This happens sometimes when she has to set up complicated project materials for the advanced art class she has next. I go to get a drink of water near the locker room. I wonder if Danielle’s around. She has gym now.
    Just when I’m about to leave, Danielle comes out of the gym with a group of girls. They pass by in a cloud of cherry lip gloss and Secret deodorant, disappearing into