“I understand,” Mr. Dooney said in a soft voice. “Putting yourself out there for the world to see is not easy. Believe me, I know.”
“You do?” Carmen asked. “Are you an artist?”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t draw a picture if my life depended on it. No, I was an author once upon a time.”
“You wrote books?” I asked him.
“I sure did,” he said. “Western novels. Back in the good old days when people loved reading about the Wild West.”
“Wow,” Emma said. “That’s amazing, Mr. Dooney.”
“Writing a novel is a lot of work, but also a lot of fun,” he replied. “And of course, I understand your love of books and wanting to keep the bookmobile where it is. I feel the same. So let’s see what we can do, okay?”
“Okay!” Emma and Carmen said.
I just smiled. Sort of.
As we walked to Emma’s house a little while later to hang out, I thought about the time when Dad asked me to sign my name on my painting. I’m not sure how old I was. Four, I think? I’d painted an apple tree. It was one of those big, bushy trees kids draw because they’re easy. First you draw a trunk and then you basically draw a green cloud on top of the trunk. But I hadn’t stopped there. I’d added red dots. Apples. My dad made me feel like it was the best painting he’d ever seen.
“It’s spectacular,” he’d told me. I specifically remember that’s what he said. But it wasn’t about the words, it was about the way it made me feel. Like I was truly an artist who had created something beautiful.
And then he told me all great artists signed their work, usually in the corner. So I’d written my first name as small as I could (which wasn’t very small at all) in the right-hand corner and Dad had told me something like, “I hope you’ll paint a lot more pictures in the coming years, Juliet. But I’m keeping this one forever, because it’s your first original piece.”
Maybe his reaction was the reason I still loved painting trees. I don’t know. All I know is back then, sharing my art with him had been so easy. And maybe deep down I knew he’d love it no matter what, because that’s what parents do. They love you and they love the work you do. But now, sharing art even with my mom wasn’t exactly easy. I only wanted her to see the pieces that I thought were my best.
In school, during art literacy class, when we studied Vincent van Gogh’s painting The Starry Night, our teacher told us that Vincent’s brother was his biggest supporter. Letters between the brothers showed how much Theo had loved and supported him, which often carried him through hard times. She told us that while it’s wonderful to have someone who loves your work, it’s important that you love the process of creating and enjoy bringing something new into the world more than you love other people’s approval.
I’ve thought about that a lot. But it’s so hard to not want people’s approval. It feels so good to have someone say they love something I’ve made, the way Carmen did when I gave her Happy Boy at the Beach. And if you’re going to give your art away, or sell it, don’t you need other people to like it?
It’s all very confusing to me. All I know is I love painting. I love making something from nothing. But thinking about someone maybe walking into a booth, looking around, and walking away while whispering to her mom, “Those were the ugliest paintings I’ve ever seen” made my stomach hurt. How do you make yourself not care about that?
When we got to Emma’s house, Joanne was sitting in the family room, reading a book. “Hello, girls, so nice to see you. How was the picnic?”
“It was good, thanks,” Emma said. “We’re going to hang out in my room for a while, is that okay? It was getting kind of windy on the beach.”
“That’s perfectly fine,” her mom said. “I’m going to go to the shop here in a few minutes. Your dad offered to give me some time to myself, so I happily took it. But I know he has things he needs to do. I think Molly’s in her room, so you won’t be here alone.”
“We’ll be fine,” Emma said.
Joanne smiled. “Yes, I know. But sometimes it’s just nice to know someone’s here, right?”
“With a big family, someone’s probably always around, right?” Carmen asked.
“Pretty much,” Emma said as she headed for the stairs. “It can be kind of annoying, actually.”
“I would love it,” Carmen said softly. “I would love it so much.”
And just like that, it seemed ridiculous that I was worrying about my feelings when it came to my artwork when Carmen had much bigger things to worry about.
How I feel when I’m painting
* I’m so excited—I’m going to paint something!
* This is going to be my best one yet!
* Okay, maybe not the best one. But good. Hopefully.
* Is this even good?
* It’s okay, I can still fix it. Maybe.
* Hm. Do I even like it?
* A little more work will make it better.
* Keep working. Keep trying. It’s getting there.
* I wish it was my best. Maybe next time.
* I like it, though. But will anyone else?
When I got home, I really, really wanted to talk to Inca. But it’d been almost a week since our disastrous doughnut date and she hadn’t texted me once. It didn’t seem fair. Why did I have to be the one to try to end this weird thing between us? But I needed someone to listen and understand what I was feeling, instead of telling me I was wrong to feel nervous about showing my art. And I knew I could count on Inca to listen.
Mom and Miranda were both out. They’d texted me to let me know they were doing some shopping. It was the perfect time to reach out to Inca if I was going to do it. I told myself there was no reason to be anxious. She and I had been friends for a long time. She was the kind of friend who let me cry in her room after I learned my parents were separating. That kind of friendship doesn’t just disappear in a matter of a few weeks, does it? I decided it wouldn’t as long as I didn’t let it.
I sat at the computer and opened Skype and clicked on Inca’s name. I was amazed when she answered and her face popped up on my screen.
“Hey!” I said.
“Hi.”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Waiting to go to the movies with Ariel.”
“Oh. Fun. I, um …”
And just like that, I couldn’t think of a thing to say. It felt like last Sunday all over again. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to be happy to see me and maybe tell me she was sorry she hadn’t texted me to make sure everything was all right.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
I wondered if I looked like I was about to cry. I felt like I was about to cry.
“I just, I miss you, that’s all,” I said. “Things feel … different.”
“I know,” she said. There was kindness in her voice and it made me so happy to hear it. “Things are different. I miss you, too.”
“You do?” I asked as I blinked back tears.
“Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t I, silly? Do you know how awful P.E. is without you?”
“Is Maverick still being his totally obnoxious self?”
“What do you think? Some things change, but a lot of things stay the same, too.”
Hearing her say this made me feel so much better. I mean, not the stuff about Maverick. Mean people are awful and all of that. But this was the friend I knew and loved. The friend who cared and seemed to say just the right thing when I needed it. I wanted to tell her everything that was happening. I wanted to tell her about my disappointing weekend at Dad’s. About the situation with Emma and Carmen. About how scared Carmen was for her mom and how I was scared for her. “My new friends—”
But I didn’t get to finish, because just then, Inca’s door opened and her mom said, “Ariel and her mom are here.”
“Sorry, I gotta g
o,” she told me. “But it was good to talk to you.”
“Oh. Yeah. You, too.”
She waved and smiled. “Bye!”
“Bye.”
As I turned off the computer, it felt like being at a restaurant and having the waiter walk by with a piece of chocolate and peanut butter pie, the best kind of pie in the world, but when you order it, he says, “Sorry, we’re all out.” All I wanted was to have a good heart-to-heart with my best friend and just when I thought it might happen, she had to go. So not fair.
I tried to tell myself that at least I knew things were okay between us. She missed me and I missed her and hopefully we’d find some time to talk again soon. It made me feel bad that I had left so suddenly last weekend. I probably should have given it more of a chance to work itself out.
I stood up, and when I did, my two paintings on the shelf on the wall caught my eye. One was a tree, the other was an owl. I thought back to when Emma had stopped by one day and said how much she loved them. She had told me she’d happily pay me to paint her something, but I’d told her I’d do one for free, and I had. I’d painted her a picture of Casper, on a black canvas, because when she’d met him, she’d told me that she’d always wanted a white kitty. Since she couldn’t have one because some of her family members were allergic, I figured she could have the next best thing—a painting of one. She was thrilled when I gave it to her.
Why was I able to give her one, and Carmen, too, but the thought of painting for strangers scared me so much? It seemed kind of backward. Was it because I felt safe with my friends? That I was sure they would never say something mean?
I wanted it to make sense. More than that, I wanted to be as excited about the arts and crafts fair as my friends were. The Starry Beach Club was all about making wishes come true, and we had a chance to work together to make a wish come true for two of our favorite people. Couldn’t I just get over it and do it for them?
Just then, there was a knock at the front door. I went to the window to check before opening it, just like Mom had taught me. When I flung the door open, I said, “Grandma, you’re back!”
“Juliet!” she said as she took me in her arms and gave me a long, wonderful hug. She smelled like her favorite lavender-scented lotion. Then she stepped inside and looked around. “Your mom had told me she was hoping to buy some local artwork for the place. Must still be looking, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She’s just been really busy with the new job. She and Miranda are out shopping right now—maybe they’ll bring something home. Is Grandpa parking the car?”
“No, he wasn’t feeling well, so he stayed home. I just decided to drive down and see all of you. I still feel awful that we were out of the country when you were moving in.” She glanced around the room again and smiled. “Looks like you’ve managed pretty well on your own, though.”
Grandma doesn’t look sixty-five at all. She looks more like fifty, with her tall, slim build, her dyed blond hair, and her stylish tortoiseshell eyeglasses. Before she retired last year, she was vice president of a temp agency. I guess she did a really good job, because when she announced her retirement, they begged her to stay. But she told them it was time to do other things, and she seems to be happy with her decision.
“Did you get my postcards?” she asked.
“We got one from Paris, one from London, and one from Dublin.”
“Oh, good,” she said.
“Thank you for sending them,” I said. “Which city was your favorite?”
Grandma walked over to the shelf with my artwork and lovingly traced the owl with her finger. “None of them, actually. My favorite was a place I’d like to take you someday. A charming little town about an hour outside Paris where Vincent van Gogh spent his last remaining days. It’s called Auvers-sur-Oise. Have you heard of it?”
“I think I read about it,” I said. “In one of the books I checked out about Vincent. Are he and his brother buried there?”
She turned and looked at me. “Yes. In very simple graves at the back of the cemetery. And all over the village are prints of his paintings that he did while he lived there. He painted one just about every day leading up to his death, because his doctor told him it would do him good. He was so talented, wasn’t he? It’s sad that he didn’t see it. Or couldn’t see it.”
“Do you think most artists are that way?” I ask. “Like, not able to see their talent?”
“I don’t really know,” she said. “I’m not particularly artistic myself, remember. I think every artist must deal with some insecurities, and part of making art is probably figuring out what works and what doesn’t in dealing with those insecurities.”
“You know Mr. Dooney, right?” I asked.
She smiled. “Oh, yes. We’ve been friends for a long time. I sure do miss his wife, Patricia. I know he does, too.”
“Today, he told me that he used to be an author. He wrote Western novels.”
“Yes, isn’t that something? I actually read a few of them. They were quite good, too.”
“I want to ask him if he ever felt nervous showing his work to people.”
“I’m sure he’d be happy to talk to you about that,” Grandma said. “He’s a very nice man.” She walked toward the kitchen. “Do you think your mom and sister will be back soon?”
“I’ll text them and tell them you’re here,” I said. “That’ll get them home fast.”
“I’ll take you out to dinner later, how’s that sound?”
“Sounds good to me, Grandma.” And I really meant it. There’s just something special, comforting even, about spending time with your grandma.
Things I wish I could ask Vincent van Gogh
* Which painting of yours is your favorite? I bet we’d be surprised by your answer.
* Did you worry a lot about what people would think of your art?
* If you did worry, how were you able to keep painting?
* Did you ever think about giving up?
* What’s your number one piece of advice for a young artist like me?
* What’s your favorite color?
* Do you like pickles?
* How did you die? Really? I want to know the truth. More and more people think it was actually some kind of accident.
* Do you wish you were alive so you could see how much your art means to people? I do.
The following Friday, the Starry Beach Club went to Mr. Dooney’s house after school together.
“I hope he has an amazing place for us,” Emma said, swinging her arms extra hard as we walked. She seemed very … excited. “My mom and my sister both said they’d be willing to pitch in and help us organize the event. We’ll need to get the word out quickly, so they’ll be a big help.”
“Are you sure we have enough time?” I asked. “I mean, for the people who want to sell stuff?”
“I think a lot of people who like to do booths have their crafts ready,” Emma said. “Like, my mom’s friend Susan, who knits blankets and hats? The last time I was at her house, she had a whole tub of items just waiting for the next arts and crafts fair.”
That was smart. That way, she wasn’t stressing about making a bunch of things in a short amount of time like I would be if everything came together and we went ahead with the fair.
Carmen had been pretty quiet on the bus ride home, but now she spoke up. “I told my mom about it and she’d like to have a booth but she’s kind of scared. Not about selling her stuff, just … about being in public like that.”
“I’m sorry she feels that way,” I said. “What does she make?”
“She makes necklaces out of paper,” Carmen said. “She uses colorful pages from magazines and folds them so they look like beads. They’re really beautiful. I’ve tried to do it and it’s hard. She’s so good at it, though.”
“Hey!” Emma said. “I know. You can sell them for her. You’re a kid. No one will give you a hard time
.”
“But what if they ask me if I made them?” Carmen asked. “I don’t want to lie, you know?”
“Can you help her put a few together?” I asked. “Like string them together or even put price tags on them? That way, you could just say you and your mom made them together and you’d be telling the truth.”
“Hm,” she replied. “Maybe. Good idea. How many paintings are you going to try and sell?”
“Twenty!” Emma exclaimed. “No. How about fifty? I bet if you took fifty, you’d sell them all.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” I said.
She rubbed my arm and grinned. “There. I just gave you some. Feel it?”
If only it were that easy.
“If I do this, I want to have paintings that people will love,” I said, “and I’m not sure I can do that in such a short amount of time. I only have one or two at my house ready to go.”
“They don’t have to be complicated, right?” Emma said. “So, keep it simple.”
I wasn’t sure I knew how to do that. With every painting, I try to give it my all. I want it to be the best it can be. It’s not that I was trying to be complicated; I was trying to be a good artist.
When we got to Mr. Dooney’s, he wasn’t on his patio, since it wasn’t exactly patio weather. So we knocked on his door, and when he answered, he invited us into his house.
“You’ve come at the perfect time,” he said. “I have good news. And someone here to tell you that good news. Please, come into the kitchen. We were just having some lemonade. Would you like some? I might even have some vanilla wafers, too, if you’re hungry.”
Emma looked at us and shrugged. “We’re eleven-year-olds. We’re always happy to eat. Or that’s what my dad says, anyway.”
When we walked into the kitchen, I froze when I saw who was there.
“Anne Marie, I’d like you to meet the girls who are organizing the Mother’s Day arts and craft fair. This is Emma, Juliet, and Carmen. Girls, this is Ms. Anne Marie Strickland. She works at the senior center and they have a large space that would be perfect for your event.”
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