by Andi Teran
“I’m really looking forward—”
“I do not accept anything less than the unleashing of the inner self.”
Ana jumped as the bell rang, though her nerves were already jostled. She stood in front of Mrs. Darnell’s makeshift desk, a heavy piece of wood hammered into two sawhorses, the chipped surface covered in paint splashes, art books, and glasses holding brushes and pencils. Students scurried in and found their seats, the silence in the room in marked contrast to the noise of the busy hallway outside. Mrs. Darnell made her way to the back corner of the room and adjusted something heavy on a pedestal next to the only table with two available seats. Ana crossed the room, took a seat, and fished through her backpack. When she turned around, Rye was standing next to her.
“What the eff happened at lunch?” Rye said. “Brady practically had an asthma attack.”
“Yeah? Well, I had a life attack, or should I say life attacked.”
The sounds of classical music wafted across the room from speakers sitting on a corner shelf. One by one, each of the heads at the front of the class began turning around, focusing on the area just behind Ana’s head. Rye sat down next to her.
“Class, if I can ask you all to turn around, please.”
Ana twisted in her seat and was met with a wide ceramic bowl of fruit sitting atop a wooden pedestal at eye height. An apple, banana, pineapple, and pear stared back at her, begging to be rescued from their rigid tableau.
“We did a free draw and paint session to warm us up yesterday, but this week is all about my getting an idea of each of your strengths and abilities as performed through a series of exercises,” Mrs. Darnell said, pacing behind the bowl of fruit, her hands clasped behind her back. “Today, we’re going to focus on still life, but not in the usual way. I want you to take a long look at this fruit bowl, commit it to memory, then turn back around and re-create it from whatever was impressed upon your psyche. Take a moment to look, reflect, then choose your instrument and begin. I want to remind you that you have forty minutes to complete this task. You may communicate with one another only to divvy up the room’s supplies, but once you return to your desk, you must work in silence.”
Little by little, the room grew louder as students got up and moved around to find their weapons of choice. There were shelves of pastels and charcoal, countertops stacked with various types of drawing and painting paper, and drawers labeled with everything from paint and brushes to modeling clay and materials for collage. Ana reached down into her backpack and pulled out her sketchbook and pencils, placing them on the table to a deep exhalation from Rye.
“Let’s make a trip around the room,” Rye whispered. “Please?”
Not wanting to attract too much attention and noticing she was the only one who had materials on her desk, Ana pushed her chair out and followed.
“What’s your deal?” Rye asked, leaning over a set of drawers.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry if I lied about you. No one cares.”
“Yes, they do, and you know that. You’re the one having to lie your way around bullies rather than ignoring them. I’ve been there too, I know it hurts, but instead of lying to make yourself sound better, why don’t you pull a Rosa Hex and use one of her best song lyrics: ‘Did I stutter? No, I told you to shut it,’ and then walk away. It’s worked for me before.”
“Maybe you have more of a backbone than I do. Maybe you’re stronger and better at handling this than I am. You have no idea what kind of hell they put me through last year.”
“And you have no idea what kind of hell I’ve been through the last ten years.”
“Is it a competition?” Rye asked, throwing a drawer open.
“Girls, find your materials!” Mrs. Darnell bellowed from the other side of the room.
“There’s never any fabric or needles in these drawers,” Rye said.
“Find something else then. Expand yourself,” Mrs. Darnell said, helping a student tear up a newspaper for what seemed like no reason.
“Look,” Ana whispered, “I’m not comparing either one of our situations, but you shouldn’t have said what you said. Why do they keep bothering you so much anyway?”
“Why don’t you ask Cole for an explanation?”
“I don’t know what happened between you two—”
“No talking, please,” Mrs. Darnell said from her desk.
Rye grabbed some paper and a pack of markers before crossing back to the table. Ana followed, both of them sitting down and ignoring each other. Ana took a breath and tried to block out the afternoon and envision the bowl of fruit instead. She saw it clearly in her mind’s eye, every divot in the pineapple, the sensuous slope of the pear, the unevenness of the bowl as it reached up on either side and held the fruits all together in a warm embrace. She pulled out a regular pencil and began sketching. It was always easy for her to access the images, harder to enter that trancelike state where everything falls away and there’s nothing but the mind and heart pushing thought into being on the blank page. Perhaps it was the classical music or desire to please, or maybe it was because her table partner had unnerved her so much, but Ana found it easy to sketch the faint trace of a once-known face onto the paper.
“Utensils down,” Mrs. Darnell said, as if only minutes had passed. “Please stop what you’re doing while I walk around and observe. You may chat quietly among yourselves.”
“Holy Shesus,” Rye said, momentarily forgetting they weren’t speaking and leaning over Ana’s detailed portrait of a woman carrying a bowl of fruit on her head. Though the woman’s face was intentionally blurred, her expression was sad and downcast, the fruit and bowl rendered in meticulous detail, almost exactly as they were arranged in the real still life. “Those are some skills,” Rye said.
Ana turned toward Rye’s work. It was an unusually colorful drawing, almost childlike in its simplicity, of a faceless figure in a mini dress that was shaped like multiple upside-down bowls. Each tiered bowl of the dress was covered in a print pattern mimicking the fruit in the bowl, all rendered in their most basic forms.
“I’m better with my laptop, or with a needle and thread,” Rye said.
“It’s fun. I could see you wearing that,” Ana said.
“Let’s see the work, girls,” Mrs. Darnell said, picking up Rye’s drawing. “Very interesting. You broke free from your desire to use sewing accoutrements for the second day in a row, Ms. Moon, congratulations. I’m excited to see you try some different mediums this year. While I like the concept and use of color in this piece, I’d like to see you ruminate for longer and free yourself from what’s most comfortable to you.” She handed the drawing back before picking up Ana’s, staring at it intensely.
“Can you explain to me what this depicts, Ms. Cortez?”
“It’s the fruit bowl but imagined as if it were balanced on the head of a woman carrying it home to her family after a particularly long, hot day. I wanted to pair the realism with a bit of fantasy while also—”
“What in your gut made you want to draw this?”
“Well, it’s what popped into my head. It reminded me of someone I used—”
“Why is the woman’s face blurred?”
“I ran out of time, I guess,” Ana lied. Even if she had had more time, she knew the real face was no longer as clear.
“Aren’t the details incredible?” Rye chimed in.
“I will kindly ask that you refrain from comment,” Mrs. Darnell said, scrutinizing the drawing before handing it back. “The technicality is good, but there’s restraint here. Why is that? What is it about this woman that makes you want to blur her face? That’s the meat for the bones.”
She shuffled to the next table, leaving Rye and Ana silent.
“Your work is beautiful,” Rye said.
“Thanks,” Ana said, tucking her sketchbook back into her backpack. “He
r critiques are a bit—”
“Cryptic? Get used to it.”
They both sat there waiting for the bell.
“What are you doing after school?” Rye asked.
“Meeting Abbie at the café on Main Street. You?”
“Heading to my dad’s store, also conveniently located on Main. Here’s an idea—want to walk together?”
“Do you really want to walk with me or am I just your muscle now? I can break the nunchakus out of my locker if necessary. Or are we going old school with switchblades and our bare fists?”
“Ha-ha, very funny . . . Sure you’re not meeting Cole after school?” Rye said.
“No,” Ana answered, though she wondered if he’d be waiting out by the flagpole again.
“Word travels fast around these hallowed halls, and the word is you two have something caliente brewing.”
“Would you stop? I barely know him.”
“But you want to, right?” Rye pressed. “Don’t worry, every girl wants to know him better. Kelsey Weaver from our English class wants to know him in the biblical sense. Trouble is, no one has a clue what they’re getting into. He’s not who they think he is.”
“And who is he to you?”
“He’s someone to avoid at all costs. Like herpes of the soul. Trust me.”
The bell rang, igniting a tidal wave of departures.
“I’m sorry for what I said, even though I unintentionally raised your social profile and mine from loser table to badass table,” Rye said.
“You’ll need a leather jacket if you want to sit with us.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Abbie was surprised the first time Nadine Brannan placed an order with Garber Farm, doubly surprised when she placed a second a couple of weeks later. Nadine had only recently begun hosting parties and charity events, primarily for guests from the Bay Area or the university village up north. Hadley chatter had it that her husband, Nathaniel Brannan, was spending much of his time in Keyserville, after the purchase of two local farms. But Abbie knew otherwise.
Though their properties were close in proximity, just over the hill from each other with acres of shared land in between, there had never been the closeness neighbors in small towns often share. When Emmett Garber Sr. was still alive and struggling to keep the farm afloat, he and Alder Kinman had no choice but to sell their portion of the land to the young Brannan family from Marin County. It was a price they couldn’t refuse. They divided the surrounding forest in three, each remaining respectful of the borders of that land. The Brannans agreed to build on a fraction of it, keeping the rest wild and undeveloped—unlike other plots they’d purchased and expanded into corporate farms.
Abbie thought of Nadine from time to time over the years, not that they’d ever formally met, not that she’d ever be invited to any of Nadine’s soirées. But like other townsfolk, she was curious about the inside of the Brannans’ enormous house. The only person she knew from the area who had even been invited was Minerva Shaw.
“Opulent,” Minerva told her over tea at Monarch Mansion one afternoon. “Sprawling but tasteful—an ode to the American dream. The food was divine, the conversation quite over my head; but it was an invitation I simply couldn’t refuse. I’m sure you’d find it just as enchanting if there wasn’t that spot of bother.”
Abbie knew all about the details of Nadine’s “bother.” None of the locals gossiped—in front of her at least—beyond the fact that Nathaniel Brannan had possibly run away with another woman. Whether they knew the whole truth or not was none of Abbie’s concern; it was inevitable anyway. Nathaniel had left his wife for Josie. Abbie wondered if Nadine’s interest in deliveries from the farm had something to do with exacting revenge on her spouse. But she decided not to question it. For the sake of her own brother’s bit of bother, she was more than happy to deliver.
“Need some help?” Ana asked, removing her shoes as she entered the kitchen, then heading over to the sink to wash away the Saturday farmwork.
“Does it look that bad in here?”
“It’s impressive, which is a nicer way of saying yes.”
“Last-minute order again for that chef over at the Brannans. Nothing to do but fill it fast and deliver it quick.”
“Don’t you need to change?” Ana asked.
“Why?”
“Your dinner at The Bracken . . . you’re having dinner with Will tonight, right?”
“Oh, that!” Abbie exclaimed, her heart suddenly racing. “I forgot about it for a moment.”
“You should fance it up.”
“Fance it?”
“Get fancy, gussy up, ‘tip it out,’ as Rye always says. Which translates to doing your hair and wearing pointier shoes. I think. Not to blow his cover or anything, but it’s pretty much a date.”
“It’s just a quick dinner. He said it’s a thank-you.”
“It’s a meeting,” said Emmett, flinging the back door shut as Dolly whimpered out on the porch. “He likes what we’ve got so far, so it’s more a case of selling our product and not debating what to wear. Don’t forget to mention the heirloom pumpkins coming up or—”
“The barley wine, I know,” Abbie said. “I’m the one who makes it every year. Think I’ve done well enough so far . . .”
“Yep, you’re doing something all right,” Emmett said.
“I was planning on washing up and throwing a sweater over these jeans.”
“No—” Ana and Emmett sputtered in unison. “You’re representing the farm,” said Emmett.
“And it’s a good excuse to wear something from the back of your closet,” Ana added.
“Fine, but you do realize I have to deliver all this and be back before six . . .”
“We can do the delivery, right, Emmett?” Ana asked, but he did not answer.
“I’ve got it,” Abbie said. “I can go to dinner as is. It’s not a big deal.”
“We’ll do it,” Emmett said.
“Are you sure?”
“I said we’ll do it.”
Emmett and Abbie exchanged one of their looks that Ana still couldn’t decipher. It wasn’t in their nature to say so, but they’d always wanted each other to be happy. For Emmett, that meant moving on from the night he lost his love, and for Abbie it meant having the courage to find hers.
“You can drop it all off at the back entrance with someone from the event staff,” said Abbie, opening the oven and pulling out two loaves of bread that filled the kitchen with the scent of sweet citrus and cloves.
“Fine.”
“You won’t see her; she rarely comes into the kitchen.”
“Despite the business she’s giving us, I still think those people are ruining this town, and if he steps one foot out of that house, so help me I will—”
“Emmett,” said Abbie, resting the loaves on top of the stove. “He’s not going to be there. She mentioned he’s out of the country for a while, so just pull around to the back, knock on the side door, and hand off the boxes. Quick and easy. I’ll invoice for everything later.”
“Whatever you say.”
“And take a deep breath. She probably doesn’t want to see you either.”
• • •
It was a quiet ride out of Garber Farm. Emmett accelerated down Crescent Lane, driving faster than usual, whipping the truck around the curve of the hill as they passed fewer and fewer glowing porches, the farmland giving way to the coast.
“Is that it?” Ana said, clinging to the window and straining her eyes to take in the sea.
“Sure is. Much better in the day—” He paused. “Have you not been out here yet?”
“Nope, cooped up on the farm or inside the hallowed halls of Hadley High, Boss. But holy wow, even just watching it whir by is outstanding.”
Emmett suddenly pulled off the road and turned back around. The truck bo
unced up and down as he drove along a roughly paved path that soon gave way to sand.
“There it is,” he said.
“It’s . . . wow. It’s endless.”
“Why are you sitting in here? Get out there and dig your feet in for a minute.”
Ana creaked open the van door and climbed down, landing on the soft sand. The beach stretched out for miles in either direction. It was a treacherous coast, she thought, the waves rolling in with a whoosh and a crash and exploding farther away against the walls of jagged cliffs.
“This is unreal.”
“I know it’s brisk tonight,” Emmett said, “but when it’s warm, there’s nothing better than burying your toes in the sand.”
“Do you come out here often?” she said, stepping back from the incoming waves.
“Used to all the time. I still drive by, but I haven’t set foot in the sand in well over a year.”
They stood there watching the waves roll in and out, the water shimmering in the moonlight in the distance.
“What happened to her?” Ana asked.
“Who?”
She hesitated. “Your wife. Josie.”
Emmett put his hands in the pockets of his coat and looked up at the sky. “She left,” he said, clearing his throat. “Nothing more or less—said she never figured out who she was and wanted to set herself free.”
“Free from what?”
“Me, mostly.”
“Had you been together a long time?”
“Yep. She was just out of high school—Abbie’s year—I was already working the farm. We’ve all known one another since we were kids.”
Ana didn’t know if she should ask any more questions, but she wanted to know more.
“Man, we used to have fun out here,” he continued. “Used to ride our trucks in the dunes, build big ol’ bonfires near the cliffs, and just stay out here all night talking, laughing, being stupid. Thing is, I never thought there was anything wrong with all this. Thought our life was nice, simple. Hell, I thought we’d have kids and all that, but Josie never wanted them. I think she just didn’t want me.”