Paintbrush

by Hannah Bucchin

  “That sheep needs to be sheared,” comes Ned’s grumbling voice from beside me. I turn and find that he’s looking at Joe, too.

  “Hi, Ned,” I say.

  Ned jabs his fork in Joe’s direction. “When I was his age, we always figured that boys with hair like that were playing for the other team. If you know what I mean.”

  Maddie leans around me to look at Ned, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “Like in a game of baseball?”

  “Yep,” I say quickly, at the same time that Ned says, “Not like a game of baseball. Like the game of love.”

  Maddie frowns. “I don’t get it.”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Ned continues. “People do what they like, and that’s the way it should be. No one telling you what to do or what not to do with your own life. Especially not the government.”

  “What about the government?” shouts Bernie, a few spots down. I swear he can’t hear a thing when I’m talking to him a foot in front of his face, but he’ll hear the word government from a mile away.

  “A bunch of dirty thieves, the whole lot of them,” Ned shouts back. “Goddamn criminals, stealing people’s guns and money and rights. Stealing our freedom right out from under us!”

  “That’s not a very nice word.” Maddie frowns at Ned.

  Ned leans over me to look at her. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But sometimes, you have to use bad words when bad words are due. If the situation calls for a goddamn, you’ve got to say goddamn. If it calls for shit, well, you just gotta grit your teeth and say shit. If it calls for—”

  “How was school today, Maddie?” I interrupt before things get too graphic. Who knows what Ned was about to say to this poor eight-year-old girl.

  Before she can answer, a ding ding ding rings from the head of the table. Myra stands at her spot and taps her glass, and the chatter dies away. This is a part of the Thursday night Community Dinner ritual: Myra’s toast. It’s the same damn toast every Thursday night. I glance a few seats down the table and meet Josie’s eyes and then pick up my butter knife and pretend to stab myself in the chest. She gives me a slow head shake, like she’s disappointed in me. I place my fork back in its place and properly fold my hands, and she gives me a thumbs up.

  Myra raises her glass with a very dramatic flourish and a typically solemn face. “This Thursday evening, as every Thursday evening, we give thanks—to each other, for the time and loving care that went into the preparation of this meal; to the earth, for doing such fine work in growing the food in front of us; and to whatever god or spirit or energy that gives each and every one of us this miraculous gift we call life.”

  There are a few mumbles of “hear, hear” around the table, and then everyone starts in on their food. It’s the same speech every week, with a few words altered here and there. I like to pretend that it annoys me, but really, it’s kind of comforting. I’m pretty sure I’ve never missed a community dinner my whole life, except maybe once or twice when I was sick. I could probably recite Myra’s speech for her, word for word. Sometimes, there’s something kind of comforting about that. And sometimes I want to cover my ears and hum loudly so I never have to hear it again.

  There’s a bustle of activity around the table as people start talking and laughing and filling their plates. I’m about to scoop a heaping spoonful of quinoa-beet salad onto my plate—a specialty of Layla, Josie’s mom—when I hear my mom’s voice from the end of the table.

  “Actually, I have an announcement. Well, we have an announcement.” She stands, pulling Joe up with her.

  I shovel a huge spoonful of quinoa into my mouth. It’s not a cheeseburger, but it’ll do.

  “I know that announcements are normally made after dinner, but I’ve been thinking about this one for a while, and it just couldn’t wait.” Her hands are shaking, and she opens and closes her mouth like she can’t remember what she was going to say. But just when it looks like she might sit back down, Joe slips his arm around her shoulders.

  And it doesn’t look so much like friendly support as . . . weird. Just weird.

  I put my fork down and glance at my father in the seat across from me. He’s watching her with his usual look of total adoration. Hanging on to her every word.

  “I know this is slightly unorthodox—well, very unorthodox, actually—I don’t think it’s ever been done before here, but what I’m trying to say is . . .” She closes her eyes. “Joe and I have fallen in love. We’ve fallen in love, and we’d like your blessing to continue to live here, together.” She takes a deep, shaky breath and looks directly at my dad. “We hope that you—that all of you—can understand.”

  Chapter Five

  Josie

  The Meeting Place is dead silent for a moment. Forks paused in midair, blank stares, the air buzzing with nervous tension. After a few seconds, Lucy, the baby, breaks the silence with a happy shriek as she cheerfully smashes her tiny baby fists into a banana on the table in front of her. And after this comes a sound much worse—John, Mitchell’s dad, still wearing a bemused smile on his face, asking in a heartbreakingly quiet voice: “Carrie?”

  A tear slides down Carrie’s face, Joe’s arm around her shoulder tightens, and chaos lets loose as everyone around the table begins to chatter and ask questions. Everyone is looking at John, who is looking at Carrie helplessly. Who is looking down at her plate.

  Across the table, Libby and Mae start whispering to each other, but my mom shoots them a look that quiets them right back down. They may be polar opposites, but my twin sisters are still fourteen-year-old girls, and they can’t resist discussing gossip like this.

  I glance down the table at Mitchell. He’s staring at his mom, his mouth set in a hard line, his expression blank. I try to catch his gaze, but he won’t look at me.

  “Okay, people. Okay!” Myra stands, banging on her glass with a fork. “Everyone settle down.”

  Everyone falls silent. Carrie is full on crying now, tears falling down her cheeks, shoulders shaking. Joe is rubbing her back. And John is watching this happen with a crestfallen look on his face. Not even angry. Just devastatingly, horribly sad.

  Myra clears her throat and takes a breath, like she’s not quite sure how to proceed. “Well. This is . . . hmm.” She clears her throat again. “This is something, I think, that calls for a community meeting. Not just dinner talk.” A few people murmur their agreement. “So, I propose that everyone take tonight to think about . . . this. And what this means for our community.” Her voice gets stronger as she gains momentum. “And tomorrow evening, after dinner, we’ll have a community meeting to discuss and vote on whether we find this situation acceptable. Agreed?” Around the table, people nod. “Anyone opposed, say so now.”

  The silence in the room is thick and heavy until Mitchell stands up suddenly, his chair scraping the floor with an angry screech. He makes eye contact with his mom, his lip quivering, and then turns and strides out the door.

  The door swings shut behind him. Without thinking, I stand and follow him.

  But I’m too late. By the time I get outside, Mitchell has started running. I slow to a stop as he reaches his truck and hurls himself into the driver’s seat. The lights flash on, the engine sputters, and Mitchell peels out of the gravel lot and down the road, out of sight.

  Chapter Six

  Mitchell

  I’m driving too fast, but I don’t really care at this point. I know I should pull over, stop, and take a few deep breaths. But right now it feels so good to be hurtling along these empty mountain highways, my lights illuminating the dark trees lining the road, the yellow lines speeding by under my wheels. I focus all my energy and thoughts on driving and try not to think about what just happened.

  I was sitting there at the Meeting Place; I watched my mom talk and heard her words and saw her cry, but it still feels like something I made up in my head. And I know it was Joe standing next to her—fucking Joe Jagger, of all people—but in my head he keeps turning into my dad as I play the night
over and over again. It’s like my brain just can’t help it, because it’s always been my dad standing next to my mom. It’s always been them standing there together, my whole life. Other people’s parents fight or argue or whatever. Like Cord’s parents, who’ve been sleeping in separate bedrooms for the past ten years. But that was never my parents. My dad would kiss my mom’s neck as she cooked dinner, so gently that I’d have to look away. My mom would massage my dad’s shoulders after he came in from gardening. They spent nights reading together and going over lesson plans for their community college business classes. Which they taught together. Just last month, I walked into the house after school to find them making out in the kitchen. My dad grinned at me apologetically and called out a “Sorry, kiddo,” as I walked right back out the door, but they made no move to stop me. They loved me, but not enough to give up some alone time together. The way they are together—perfectly matched, in tune with each other, happy and comfortable and in love—that’s the way I’ve always imagined myself being with some girl, someday. They’re soul mates.

  So this can’t be real. It just can’t be. I zoom around a sharp corner, and my grip on the steering wheel tightens as I picture my dad’s face—helpless, confused—and my mom’s tears. My knuckles go white, and my face burns with anger. She had no right to cry. She’s the one doing this to us. She has no right to make it about her.

  I press a little harder on the gas pedal, urging my mind to stop thinking and just drive. I whip around another corner when, all of a sudden, I’m face to face with a deer in the road.

  I slam on my brakes and skid, hard. The truck makes an ear-splitting squeal as it slides to a stop just a few feet from the deer.

  I lean on the wheel and gasp for air. Holy shit. When I look up, the deer is still in the road, blinking her deep brown eyes at me. And when I look closer, I see another set of four legs, spindly and small, peeking out from behind her. Her baby. He—or she, I guess, but a childhood spent watching Bambi has me always thinking all baby deer are boys—peers at me from behind his mother. After a gentle nudge, he skitters away on his scrawny legs and disappears into the dark tree line. The mother watches him until he is safe in the forest, blinks at me one more time, and then disappears after him.

  I lean back against my seat and close my eyes for a second. That was close. Way too close. I take a deep breath. Jesus, Mitchell. Calm the fuck down. Slowly, carefully, I take my foot off the brake and ease myself down the road. At a legally acceptable pace this time. I can’t let this get to me. I need to be okay, for my dad.

  And to show my mom that she can’t hurt us like this.

  The blinking green clock on my dashboard reads 1:30 by the time I pull into the Paintbrush lot. The gravel crunches under my wheels, and my truck wheezes to a stop and falls silent as I pull the key out of the ignition.

  I slump in my seat and examine the cluster of cabins in front of me. Most are dark, of course. Almost everyone at Paintbrush gets up by 7:00 a.m. to farm or work or go to school or whatever, so bedtime is generally early. But one cabin is still lit up, awake and waiting. Mine, of course. It could just be my dad. I can picture him sitting alone at our kitchen table, drinking his free trade coffee and crying, probably. But my mom might be there too, hashing out details or divorce plans or god knows what with him.

  Either way, I definitely don’t want to be there right now.

  I reach into the backseat and feel around in the dark before yanking out an old blanket I use for sitting outside sometimes. The blanket is an ugly neon orange and smells kind of like dirt, but it’s just worn enough to be super soft. I tuck it under my arm, hop out of the truck, and then make my way to the community building. I’ll sleep in the Sanctuary tonight.

  I’m halfway there when I hear a voice in the darkness that scares me so bad I almost trip.

  “Mitchell?”

  I turn around. There’s Josie sitting on a wooden chair on her front porch. She’s wearing flannel pants and a huge oversized sweatshirt decorated with coffee mugs that reads I Love You a Latte—a sweatshirt that a grandma on vacation would wear. She nervously twists her hair with her fingers.

  “Josie?” I take a step closer. “Why are you awake?”

  She stands. “I wanted to see if—” She pauses and shakes her head. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I gesture behind me to the Sanctuary. “I’m gonna try and grab some sleep. Since we have to be at school in”—I check my phone—“six hours and all.”

  She nods. “Right.”

  But she doesn’t move.

  I shift from one foot to the other in the awkward silence. “So . . . see you tomorrow morning?”

  “Sure. Of course.” She flicks her gaze down at the ground and then right at me. “Mitchell? Are you okay?”

  I open my mouth to say yeah, sure, that automatic yes-of-course-I’m-fine, but something stops me. Specifically, that something is a lump in my throat that’s rising dangerously close to my mouth. I take a deep breath.

  She reaches out and squeezes my arm. For one second I’m terrified she’s going to hug me, because I know that if she hugs me—if anyone hugs me—I’ll totally lose it. And even though we’ve known each other a long time, we’re definitely not at a sobbing-in-each-other’s-arms level of friendship. At least not anymore. But it’s just her hand, resting on my arm, and her voice, warm and soft in the chilly night. “It’ll be okay.”

  I nod. She drops her hand. And then I’m walking away, through the door of the Sanctuary, and slipping onto the hideous green-and-white checkered couch that rests against the wall next to the fireplace. But it isn’t until I’m finally settled under my blanket that I hear the far-off creak of her cabin door opening and the gentle thud as it closes behind her. It’s the last thing I remember before I fall asleep.

  Chapter Seven

  Josie

  I can’t sleep all night. I blink at the ceiling, listening to Mae’s soft, even breathing and Libby’s occasional sleepy mumblings from the bunk bed on the other side of the room. My mom didn’t want me to wait up for Mitchell—she insisted he’d be gone hours, probably, and that I shouldn’t waste any sleep—but I finally convinced her I was fine on the porch and that she should go to bed. I just kept replaying the look on his face—hard, angry, and so un-Mitchell—and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I made sure he was okay.

  But of course, I couldn’t think of anything useful to say. It’ll be okay. Basically the most cliché and least helpful thing I could have thought of. I might as well have said everything happens for a reason. Or, it’s not your fault. Or maybe, sometimes people just fall out of love.

  That last one always gets me. People act like some relationships just . . . fall apart. They weren’t meant to last. It’s a mutual thing. The relationship ran its course.

  But in real life, that’s total bullshit. It’s never totally mutual. It’s never for no reason. And it’s always somebody’s fault.

  Like with my mom and dad. Before we lived at Paintbrush, we lived in South Carolina, all five of us together in a small town in a small house that I barely remember. I don’t remember much about my dad either, but I do remember his voice: gravelly and slurred and loud, scary loud, echoing off the walls when he came stumbling home every night.

  The night we left, he had one two many glasses of whiskey at dinner. And when my mom quietly told him that maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t be getting behind the wheel that night, he gave her a black eye. I watched it happen from my chair at the end of the table—the way his fist flew through the air, the way she went down, hard, her head knocking on the floor with a resounding smack. The way the twins immediately started wailing, their identical toddler shrieks filling the air. How he slammed the door so hard it felt like the whole house might shatter into pieces.

  The hitting and yelling wasn’t that unusual. What was unusual was how my mom sprang into action as soon as she could stand back up. She scurried around the house, grabbing every piece of clothing and beat-up to
y and stray shoe she could find. She packed us up in our battered minivan, stuffed our clothes in the trunk, and drove until she couldn’t drive anymore. We spent the night curled up in the minivan in an empty drug store parking lot. Libby and Mae got the only blanket in the car, being toddlers and all. My mom and I huddled together under a pile of sweatshirts and shivered ourselves to sleep.

  Myra found us, so our story sort of has a happy ending. But my mom never called the police, never contacted her parents, never called him or confronted him or got closure of any kind. She may have escaped, but it’s clear who had the upper hand.

  Leah does the same thing in all her relationships. She dates boy after boy after boy, so I’ve seen breakup after breakup after breakup. The last boy, Evan, a cross-country guy, said he had to break up with her to “focus on his marathon training.” Before that there was Brady, from the next town over, who completely and totally stopped calling out of nowhere. Just disappeared into thin air. And then there was Jackson, who straight up cheated on her with Melissa from the swim team. Leah caught them in the act—in Jackson’s car behind the football stadium, with the windows all fogged up. Literally. The windows were all steamy. Leah likes to tell the story of how she wrote it’s over in the steam on the window, tapped on the glass to get their attention, and then cheerfully flipped them both off.

  Leah is perky and positive and smart, and she doesn’t let much get to her. She cries for a few hours, but she always bounces back. “Relationships end,” she’ll tell me with a shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”