Paintbrush

by Hannah Bucchin

  It is a big deal, though. In the end, someone screws someone else over. Someone comes out winning, and someone else loses. That’s what happened with John and Carrie tonight at dinner. That’s what happened with my mom and dad for sure. That’s what happens with Leah and all her boyfriends. It could be as messed up as my dad throwing a beer bottle at my mom’s head, or as simple as Evan ditching dinner plans with Leah to go on an impromptu run. Someone has the power. Someone else doesn’t. And feelings always get hurt.

  My eyes fly open before the first rays of sunlight even hit the cabin window. By the time I leave the cabin, I’m jittery, like I drank six cups of coffee despite the fact that I barely slept last night. I’m nervous to drive to school with Mitchell, to see him so sad and hurt, and nervous that I won’t think of the right thing to say. I’m also too nervous to eat. I stick a banana in my backpack for later.

  I trudge toward the truck in the early morning sunlight, early like usual. But when I get closer, I see Mitchell already sitting in the driver’s seat. He never beats me.

  I open the passenger door cautiously, racking my brain for something meaningful to say, when I catch sight of Mitchell’s broad grin.

  “Good morning, Josephine!” he calls out cheerfully. He reaches over and grabs my bag from me, pushing it into the backseat. “Need a hand?” He waggles his fingers toward me, offering to help me into my seat.

  I stare at his hand. “I’m good, thanks.”

  He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

  Mitchell twists the key in the ignition as I pull myself into the passenger seat. The truck shudders to life before my door is even fully closed.

  “Ready to go?” he asks.

  “Um, sure,” I say, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. “I mean, school doesn’t start for, like, forty-five minutes, so we’ll be a little bit early, but—”

  “Early! You and me? Who ever heard of such a thing?” He grins as he throws the truck in reverse and peels out of the lot. “Mrs. Martinez might actually die from the shock.” He pushes the radio on as we start down the windy mountain road. Sugary pop music fills the car with a thick bass line that makes it hard to think.

  I stay quiet as Mitchell hums along to the music. Glancing at him sideways, I see he’s wearing his outfit from the day before, just with a different t-shirt that I’m pretty sure I saw crumpled up in the backseat yesterday. That would explain the wrinkles. And his hair is a little damp—but more like a splashing-your-hair-with-water-to-get-it-to-lie-flat type of wet, rather than an actual shower.

  If I’m being honest, he doesn’t look too great.

  “Mitchell?” I ask.

  He doesn’t hear me over the music—at least, he acts like he doesn’t hear me.

  “Mitchell!” I try again, louder.

  He turns the music down, only slightly. “What’s up?”

  I take a deep breath. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m really sorry about what happened last night. I know that doesn’t help things, but I wanted you to know. And if you ever want to talk, I’m, you know, here for you. Or whatever. And also if you—”

  “Josie.” He’s smiling, but his shoulders are tense. “That’s really nice and everything, but I’m fine. It is what it is. No use talking about it.” He waves his hand in the air, like he’s pushing it all away. All his problems. Right out of the truck’s slightly cracked window.

  “Are you sure?” I don’t know why I keep pushing. Mitchell is not really a feelings guy. But somehow, this seems important. “Because I feel like tonight, at the meeting, it’s going to be hard to pretend—”

  “I’m not going to the meeting.” His smile is fading now. Not so much a smile as bared, gritted teeth.

  “What?”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Mitchell, come on. You have to be there.”

  “No. I don’t.” He shakes his head. “It’s her problem. Not mine. If she wants to run off with some asshole, fine. Whatever. But I’m not going to be the one to deal with it.”

  He stares straight ahead, eyes on the road. Fingers tapping away on the steering wheel.

  I sigh. “Okay.”

  He nods. “Okay.” He turns the music back up, flips on his turn signal, and we pull into the school parking lot.

  A few hours later, I’m at lunch with Leah. Or Lunch with Leah, as I sometimes capitalize it in my head, because it always feels like a big event, a show. Normally Leah’s stories are the ones that take over. Some crazy drama from her huge redneck family that always sounds like the plot of a reality TV show, or a story about a boy—half the time blissfully romantic, half the time tragically heartbreaking. But today it’s me telling the story, and Leah is the one listening with wide eyes and a dropped jaw.

  “Oh. My. God.” Leah leans across the greasy cafeteria table toward me, her silky hair falling in front of her face dramatically. “Out of all the people living up there with you in hippieville. Surfer boy?”

  “Keep your voice down.” I glance at the tables around us, each overflowing with students, but everyone is too absorbed in their own conversation to notice us. Our high school serves two whole counties, so even with four lunch periods, the cafeteria is bursting to the brim with students. All over people are digging in brown paper bags and chomping on chicken nuggets, talking and laughing and yelling and milling around on the sticky tile floor. What I’m really worried about is Mitchell hearing our conversation. He has the same lunch period as Leah and me, but he sits so far away that most days I don’t even see him.

  “Sorry.” Leah lowers her voice. “I just can’t believe it. Poor Mitchell. Poor, beautiful Mitchell.”

  I roll my eyes and take a bite of my PB—all natural!—and J—locally canned, strawberry—sandwich—delicious homemade bread courtesy of Libby. Leah has always had a crush on Mitchell. Well, a pseudo-crush. She doesn’t know him well enough to actually have feelings for him, but she just obsesses over how adorable he is from afar. I’m glad they don’t actually know each other, though. Whenever Leah has crazy drama, I can tell Mitchell about it. Whenever something happens with Mitchell, I can confide in Leah. I trust them both not to tell other people, and this way I don’t have to keep any good stories or big secrets all to myself. It’s not like gossiping, really. Sometimes, I just need other people to help me carry my thoughts around.

  Leah pops a potato chip into her mouth. “So, how’d he take it?” she asks between crunches.

  I shake my head. “Not good. He’s usually the happiest guy I know, you know? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him mad before. And he was definitely mad.”

  “That’s crazy.” Leah swallows and nods over my shoulder. “Looks like he got over it pretty quick, though.”

  I follow Leah’s line of vision. There’s Mitchell, all the way by the far wall of the cafeteria. He’s laughing and talking to a redheaded girl I don’t even know—what’s her name? Katie, or Kathleen, something with a K—and leaning against the wall.

  Behind me, Leah crunches on another chip. “Look at that lean. So casual. So chill.”

  Mitchell leans over and plucks an apple from K-girl’s hand, dangling the apple high above her head. Of course she’s eating an apple—just an apple—for lunch. She squeals and jumps for the apple, hands outstretched, bumping into Mitchell and laughing.

  I turn around and face Leah. She’s still entranced by what’s going on behind me. “Josie, you’re missing it! Now she’s tugging on his shirt.” She furrows her brow and puts on her best movie announcer voice. “Will tiny redhead girl be successful in her quest to take back what is rightfully hers? Or will the apple be tragically lost, forever, never to be returned . . . ?” She pauses and shakes her head. “Never mind. He gave it back.”

  “Well. He was upset last night, at least.”

  Leah licks the last chip crumbs from her fingers. “He’s probably still upset. You know Mitchell. He never flirts. Always friendly, always warm, but respectably distant. A perfect gentleman. The guy every girl wants but none can have. I
f he’s flirting with some random girl, in the cafeteria, where God and everyone can see him, there’s definitely something wrong.”

  I steal a carrot off her tray. “Says the girl who’s never even had a conversation with Mitchell.”

  Leah shrugs. “Yeah, but you talk about him so much. At this point, I probably know him better than his own mother.”

  I cross my arms. “I don’t talk about him that much. We’re not even that close.”

  Leah picks up her tray and stands, raising her eyebrows at me. “Favorite food: lemon garlic chicken. Favorite band: Rolling Stones. Favorite color: blue. But like faded blue jeans, not navy. Favorite movie—”

  “Okay, okay. Jesus. I get it. I’ll never even speak the name Mitchell Morrison again.”

  She grins. “Now you know I wouldn’t want that.”

  She turns and heads toward the garbage cans, long hair bouncing behind her. Leah has perfect, shiny, naturally blond hair, the kind of hair that makes girls hate her when they don’t even know her. It’s like a beacon of light in the cafeteria crowds.

  Before I follow her, I glance one more time toward the back cafeteria wall and see redheaded K-girl sitting with a group of her friends. But Mitchell has disappeared.

  Chapter Eight

  Mitchell

  I skip my last two classes of the day and go sit in my truck. I need a nap, and I need it now. Between barely sleeping last night and working so hard all day at being Happy Fun Mitchell, I’m exhausted. My eyes kept drifting closed in English class this morning, even though we were discussing Macbeth, which I love—though I would never tell anyone that. Plus, Cord passed me a note in the middle of class that said you look like shit. He included a smiley face, but still. I decided that skipping this afternoon would probably be for the best.

  I wish I could just go home and crawl into my bed. If I time it right, I bet my dad won’t even be there, so I could slip under the covers and be asleep before he comes back for the day. I wouldn’t have to answer any questions. But I told Josie I’d give her a ride home, like always. For the first time ever, I feel annoyed about it. It’s not just the fact that I have to wait, and I’m so damn tired. But I know she’s going to press me to talk about stuff I am so not in the mood to talk about.

  So I paste a pleasant expression on my face as she slides into the passenger seat an hour later, even though my smile muscles have been pretty much stretched to the breaking point all day. Forcing a smile can be surprisingly painful. But maybe if I just keep grinning like an idiot, she won’t ask me any questions.

  “Macbeth is boring,” Josie complains as we drive. We have the same class and same teacher, just at different times.

  “How can you say that?” I shake my head. “It’s about murder and ghosts and witches and shit. It’s like a horror movie. Just from a long time ago. And that you read.”

  “Fine. Then the way Miss Martinez explains it is boring.”

  She’s kind of right. Miss Martinez is young, like really young—twenty-three years old or something. But she’s so tiny she could pass for a freshman. It’s her first year, and she’s so intimidated by us that she doesn’t do anything all class but ask us questions she clearly found online after a Macbeth Discussion Questions Google search.

  When I pull into the gravel Paintbrush lot and still no discussion of my feelings has come up, I think I’m home free. But then Josie opens the door, hops out of the passenger seat, gathers her stuff, and looks up to see me still in the driver’s seat, truck still running.

  Her long braid falls over her shoulder as she squints at me. “What are you doing?”

  I shrug. “I’m going to go hang out at Cord’s house for a while.” Cord and I don’t actually have plans to hang out, but I know if I call him up and tell him I’m coming over, he’ll be fine with it. He lives up in this luxury cottage—which is actually a huge mansion with an incredible view of the mountains—and his parents own this fancy real estate company and are never home.

  Josie eyes me suspiciously. “Okay. But you’ll be back by 7:00, right? For the meeting?”

  I exhale, loudly, like I’ve been holding my breath all day. Maybe I have. “I told you. I’m not going.”

  “But it’s your family. Have you even talked to your dad yet? Or your mom?”

  I roll my eyes. I can’t believe she’s being so pushy. It’s not like her. “My mom is the last person I would have talked to. She’s the last person I’ll ever talk to.”

  “But what about your dad?” Her voice is soft but firm. “He could really use you right now.”

  A pang of guilt twists in my stomach at the thought of my dad sleeping all alone in the cabin last night. But then I shake my head. “I told you. Not my problem.”

  Josie crosses her arms. “Mitchell. Would you just think for a minute? You have to come back tonight—”

  “No,” I cut her off, loudly. “I don’t.” Josie’s eyes widen, but I can’t stop. She’s voicing everything that’s been tumbling around in my head all day, so my answer comes fast and angry. “I don’t have to come back tonight. And in a month, after we graduate, I don’t have to come back ever. I’m so sick of being in the same small place with the same people. Every single fucking day is the same. This shit with my parents is just icing on the cake.” I grip the steering wheel with white knuckles, even though the truck is in park. “I’m just waiting for the day when I can get out of here.”

  My face flushes from everything I just said, from the anger thumping in my chest and humming through my veins. Josie takes a step back, like I pushed her away. She bites her lip, and an awkward silence hangs in the air between us.

  I let go of the wheel and slump back against the seat. “I’m sorry. I’m just upset. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Yes. You did.” She looks at the ground.

  I don’t try to convince her.

  “The truth is . . . I have a date tonight,” I hear myself saying. Maybe this will distract her. “So I’m going to Cord’s to get ready for it.”

  Her head snaps up. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. But thanks for the tone of surprise.”

  She blushes. “No, that’s not what I . . . It’s just that you don’t date.”

  “I date,” I respond automatically.

  She’s right, though. I don’t really date. I hang out with girls, whatever that means. Sometimes I kiss girls at parties. But I figured dating wasn’t worth it until I was ready to have something real. Something like my parents.

  Today, though, when Katrina Rossi was all over me at lunch—like she has been for the past few weeks—I figured, what the hell. I’ll be leaving for college soon, so it’s not like anything serious is going to happen. I might as well have fun. Plus, it’s a distraction from everything shitty that’s happening here.

  Josie’s still looking at me with her arms crossed. I sigh. “I’m being serious. I promise. I’m meeting Katrina at Bobby Jenner’s party tonight. You should come,” I add spontaneously.

  I know she’ll never come—Josie’s not the partying type—but hopefully she’ll see my invitation as a gesture of goodwill. A peace offering. An olive branch.

  “Maybe,” she replies, with a tone that says I would never come to that in a million years.

  “You should,” I say. “It starts at 9:00, but I’ll probably be there around 10:00 or so.”

  “Fashionably late.” She smirks.

  “I’m nothing if not fashionable.”

  “Your truck’s still running.” She points to the dashboard. “If you’re gonna go, you should probably go.”

  “So it is.” I focus on the blinking gas light on my dashboard. Maybe if I stare hard enough at the tiny red lever hovering above Empty, Josie will focus her very intense gaze somewhere else. “Well, I should head out.”

  “Bye.” Her tone is a little cold, like maybe she’s still mad at me. She shuts the door and walks away.

  As I’m pulling out, I glance over my shoulder to see if she’s watching me. But she doesn�
�t turn back.

  I crash on the couch at Cord’s house for a couple hours. He has a home theater in his basement, and it has this huge, circular comfy couch with about a thousand pillows and a down comforter. I only know it’s down because sometimes I find these tiny little gray feathers on me after I take a nap on it. Which I often do.

  I wake up to something wet on my cheek. When I open my eyes, Cord’s three tiny white dogs are licking my face, and Cord is sitting by my feet, grinning at me.

  “Wake up, Morrison! It’s almost party time.” He flicks my leg. “And you definitely need to shower before we leave. If you know what I’m saying.”

  I rub the sleep out of my eyes and look at him. He raises an eyebrow.

  “I’m saying you look terrible,” he adds.

  I throw a pillow at him. “Dude. I get it.” I sit up and stretch my arms. “Can’t you just shake me awake like a normal person? Do you have to set your little rats on me?”

  Cord’s jaw drops. “How dare you.” He scoops his three dogs into his arms. They start licking his face instead. “You should consider yourself lucky to be awoken by these guys. The three most noble dogs in the world.”

  “When I walked into your house today, Moe was peeing on the front rug.”

  Cord sighs. “So he was.” He puts them down and they scamper off in a little herd, tripping over one another and yipping at nothing. “But Rafiki and Julie Andrews would never do such a thing. So two out of three’s not bad.”

  The fact that Cord’s dogs are named after one of the three stooges, an animated Disney baboon, and the star of The Sound of Music is pretty bizarre but also totally fitting for Cord. He lives in the giant mansion but dresses like he’s homeless—homeless chic, he tells me—drives a fancy sports car but volunteers as a big brother at the local elementary school, loves old musicals, smokes more weed than anyone I know, obsessively reads classic novels and comic books, and knits. And with all this weird, weird behavior, he somehow manages to attract the attention of girl after girl after girl.