You Know Me Well Read Free Page A

parents who never seem to be home. Violet knows her, too. Shelbie’s mom and Lehna’s mom and aunt go way back, I guess. I don’t totally understand the connection, but I am willing to accept it because it’s taking me a step closer to finally meeting Violet.
    Now that we are actually in the city, my dad’s old Jeep taking us closer and closer to where we’re going, the streets full of celebrating people, the night buzzing all around us, I feel my hands start to shake.
    I know that it’s just a first meeting. I know that Violet has already heard about me and that she wants to meet me, too. I know that it shouldn’t be the end of the world if it doesn’t work out between us. But the embarrassing truth is that I have far too much at stake to be casual about this.
    When I’m sitting through History, listening to my teacher drone on about dates and the names of battles, I think about Violet. At night, as I do the dinner dishes listening to love songs through oversize headphones, I think about Violet. I think about her when I wake up in the morning and when I’m mixing oil paints and when I’m getting books out of my locker. And when I begin to worry that I chose the wrong college, or that my future roommate will hate me, or that I’m going to grow up and forget about the things I once loved—cobalt blue, this certain hill behind my high school, searching for old slides at flea markets, the song “Divided”—I think about Violet. She’s swinging from a trapeze, mending colorful costumes, driving in a caravan across Europe while cracking jokes with fire-breathers and tightrope walkers—then coming home to San Francisco and falling in love with me.
    “There’s something I should mention,” Lehna says as we make our way down Guerrero Street. “I may have told her you had a solo show coming up at a gallery in the city.”
    “What?”
    “We were talking about how good of a painter you are, and then I just got carried away for a second.”
    “But I don’t even know any galleries in the city,” I say.
    “We’ll look up a couple places when we get to Shelbie’s house, okay? Once Violet gets to know you she won’t care about it anymore. For now it makes you seem sophisticated and accomplished. Here, park in the driveway. Shelbie said it was fine.”
    I pull into the narrow space and park at an incline that seems perilous.
    “Lovebirds!” Lehna calls into the backseat. “It’s time to get out of the car!”
    I hear Uma murmur something and June giggle, and then I guess some weird time-lapse thing happens, because the three of them are outside of the car and I am still here, clutching the steering wheel.
    Lehna knocks on the window.
    “Come on, Kate .”
    I follow them inside to where Shelbie and her cool city-dwelling friends sprawl across the sofas and rugs, laughing and drinking and looking fabulous. All these kids, gay and straight and everything in between—they look at us and wave and say hello and I would like to stop and get to know some of them, but Lehna heads to the study, where the computer screen saver glows, shifting family snapshots, and says, “We have to look something up real quick. We’ll be right back.”
    And then, even though I am right behind her, she says, “Let’s go, Kate .”
    I’m about to ask why it’s so annoying to her; it’s my name, after all. And it’s not like I’ve decided that I want to be called something totally random. It’s just another form of Katherine, one I think might suit me better. But I don’t even need to ask her because I already know the answer. When you’re friends with someone for such a long time, it’s easy to feel like she belongs to you, like the version of the person you became friends with is the only real version. If she hated peas when she was a kid then she will always hate peas, and if she starts to eat them and declares them delicious, really she is deluding herself, masking her hatred of them, trying to pretend that she’s