Paintbrush

by Hannah Bucchin

  Plus, there’s Ted. He keeps following me around, trying to talk to me. He’s nice enough, but he keeps getting closer and closer when he talks, and a few minutes ago he put his arm around my shoulder while we were talking about our football team. I told him I had to use the bathroom just so I could get away. But as I was leaving the bathroom, I got cornered by Cord, Mitchell’s best friend and the strangest guy alive. And now here we are, standing in the middle of the kitchen and talking about Mitchell.

  Cord’s eyes are red and a little bleary, and his overly intense stare is really freaking me out. “I’m just saying, Mitchell is my best friend,” he says. For the third time. He’s definitely had too much to drink. And he smells so much like weed, exactly the way Ned and Bernie smell after they go on their daily nature walk every afternoon at two.

  “I know.” I nod to get the message across, and our foreheads bump. I figure his fuzzy brain could use all the help it can get right now. It’s funny how this is Mitchell’s very best friend, and yet we’ve never actually spoken before. I always assumed that while I knew who Cord was, he didn’t know much about me. Apparently, I was wrong.

  “And I don’t think he’s doing too hot. With this thing with his mom.”

  So Mitchell did tell Cord. Mitchell won’t talk to me, but at least he’s talking to somebody. “I know.”

  “So we need to keep an eye on him,” Cord whispers. His face is so close to mine that I have no choice but to look straight into his eyes. His very bloodshot eyes. His voice is a whisper, but the loudest whisper I’ve ever heard. Anyone within a ten-foot radius could hear us for sure, if they were actually paying attention. “You and me. We gotta watch out for him.”

  “I think Mitchell’s pretty good at taking care of himself,” I whisper back.

  Cord shakes his head. “That’s just what he wants you to think. That’s what he wants everyone to think.”

  I lean back a little to consider this, when I feel a hand on my arm. I look up to see Mitchell. And he does not look happy.

  “Come on. We’re leaving.”

  Ten minutes later, I’m in the truck with Mitchell and Cord. Don’t ask me how I got here, when I was supposed to get a ride home with Leah. But Mitchell acted like he had to leave right then, like there was some kind of emergency, and like I just had to come with him. So I went and found Leah—sitting on hipster boy’s lap, of course—told her I had to leave, and made her promise to get home safe. She hadn’t had a single sip of alcohol, so I figured it was fine. And then I made my way out to the truck, where Cord insisted I take the front seat so he could lie down in the back.

  Now he’s back there, lying face down and humming the Pirates of the Caribbean theme song for no apparent reason. Meanwhile, Mitchell and I are sitting in the front seat, in a silence that could be described as awkward at best and angry at worst. And I have no idea why. So I just look out the window.

  “Are we there yet?” Cord mumbles from the backseat.

  “No,” Mitchell and I respond simultaneously. I peek over at him, but he keeps staring ahead.

  A few minutes pass in silence. Then: “Are we there yet?”

  This time, just Mitchell answers. “Dude, no. You’d know if we were there yet, because I’d have dumped your drunk ass on the front lawn and driven away.”

  Cord laughs and then hiccups. With a groan, he pulls himself into a sitting position and leans over the driver’s seat and nuzzles his head onto Mitchell’s shoulder.

  “You’re such a good friend,” Cord slurs.

  I expect Mitchell to shove him off. But instead, his face softens a little, and he shakes his head. “You’re damn right I am.”

  When we finally pull into Cord’s driveway, Mitchell puts the truck in park and jumps out to help Cord inside. As he’s sliding out of the backseat, Cord puts a hand on my shoulder. It would be a nice gesture, except his hand is kind of sticky, like he spilled beer on it.

  “Remember what I said,” he stage-whispers to me.

  “I’ll remember,” I whisper back.

  Mitchell groans. “What exactly did you say that needs to be remembered?”

  “Not for your ears, young Mr. Morrison,” Cord proclaims as he stumbles out of the truck and across the lawn. “Highly classified information. Me and Josie are keeping it on the down toe.”

  Mitchell frowns. “What?”

  “I think he means down low,” I say.

  Cord points at me. “Agree to disagree.”

  Cord falls twice on his way across his enormous front yard, and then he takes off his left shoe and throws it in the bushes because “it’s itchy.” Mitchell finally manages to corral Cord into the dark house by offering him a piggyback ride. The house is huge, but it looks pretty empty. Either his parents are asleep, or they’re out of town. Either way, it seems like a lonely place to spend the night. But then again, Cord’s probably too drunk to notice.

  After a good fifteen minutes, Mitchell hops back in the truck. He throws it into drive and pulls away.

  “Is he okay?” I ask.

  “He’ll be fine. I made him throw up and drink a glass of water. He was asleep in his bed when I left. Nothing worse than usual.”

  I nod. “Good.”

  We drive in a thick silence. I lean my forehead against the window and watch the trees rush by. Sometimes I can see little eyes blinking at me from the forest—raccoons, possums, deer. Sometimes I’ll even see bears. I like to think of these forest animals, living their whole lives in the quiet nighttime while all us humans are asleep.

  Finally, I turn toward Mitchell. “So, do you want to tell me what the big emergency is?”

  He keeps his eyes on the road, hands at ten and two. “What are you talking about?”

  “You tell me. The reason I just had to leave the party with you, instead of waiting for my ride with Leah.”

  He pauses, like he’s considering his words. “Because I had to leave. To take Cord home. And I couldn’t leave you there like that.”

  I frown. “Like what?”

  “Drunk.”

  I snap my head around to stare at him. Is he kidding? I cross my arms. “What are you talking about? Do I seem drunk to you?”

  “I saw you. You had a cup in your hand all night.”

  “First of all, why were you watching me?” Does he think I’m so socially incompetent that I need a babysitter? “I can handle myself. Second of all, it was the same cup all night. Which I took, like, three sips out of. That stuff was disgusting.”

  “Oh.” His tone is genuinely surprised. But then he shakes his head. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Everyone else was drunk. I didn’t trust Leah to get you home.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether or not you trust Leah. I trust Leah. She didn’t have anything to drink all night.”

  He sighs, an exasperated sigh, like he’s so done with this conversation. “Fine. But there’s no use talking about it anymore. It’s over. We already left.”

  “Oh really?” My face flushes. “Just because I’m not the golden boy of North Mountain High, just because I don’t usually go to parties like this, doesn’t mean I need your protection, Mitchell. I’m not some pathetic social leper who can’t handle herself.”

  “I never said you were.”

  “Actually, you kind of did.”

  “Jesus. Fine.” He pulls over suddenly, onto a big grassy patch on the side of the road. I know where we are—on the mountain road on the way to Paintbrush, about twenty minutes away. Sometimes kids from Paintbrush ride their bikes down here to play pickup soccer in the big grassy clearing surrounded by woods. They get picked up afterward, though, instead of biking home. The mountain is a bitch to walk up.

  “You want me to turn around? Go back to Bobby’s house so you can find Leah? Since I ruined your party and all.” He glares at me, arms crossed, car in park.

  I’m so tempted to make him turn around, but the truth is I really don’t want to go back there. I’m ready to get to sleep in my own bed. But I hate that he’s putt
ing me in this position. My face is hot, my arms are crossed, my hands are shaky. I hate confrontation. And it’s extra weird because this is so different from the normal cheerful, joking, not-a-care-in-the-world Mitchell that I’ve always known. This is touchy, mean, I-don’t-know-what-he’s-thinking Mitchell. And since our contact is usually limited to car rides and Paintbrush stuff, this whole night has felt like some kind of parallel universe. And honestly, I’m ready for it to be over.

  Finally, I shake my head. “Just keep going.”

  He smirks, pleased with himself. But as he reaches for the gear to put the truck back in drive, the engine shudders and dies.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mitchell

  This can’t be happening. I turn the key again and again, but there’s nothing, not even a sputter. I frown at the dashboard. What the hell?

  And then I remember. Gas. My truck’s been running on E since this morning. I meant to stop and get gas after the party, but in my rush to get a drunk Cord and what I thought was a drunk Josie home, I totally forgot. Shit. I lean back against the seat and close my eyes.

  “What?” Josie asks.

  I open my eyes to find her peering at me, concerned. Even after I’ve been such a dick to her, she’s still concerned about me. It makes me feel even worse. “We ran out of gas.”

  “Oh.”

  We sit in silence. Josie fidgets in her seat, biting her lip.

  “So?” she asks after the silence has stretched on long enough to make us both uncomfortable. “What are we going to do?”

  “What time is it?” I sit back up.

  She pulls her phone from her pocket, but the screen stays black. “I don’t know. My phone’s dead.”

  I pull mine out and glance at the screen. “It’s two in the morning.”

  “Well. We’re, what, twenty minutes away from Paintbrush? We could call someone to come get us, I guess.”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know.” She sighs. “My mom doesn’t have a car.”

  “I know.”

  “And I’m assuming you’re not really in the mood to call your parents,” she continues.

  It’s too dark to see much of her, just the outline of her hair down around her shoulders, her pale skin that glows softly in the moonlight. I can’t see her face to know what she’s thinking.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, slowly. “But I really, really don’t want to call them.”

  She nods. “Okay.”

  She doesn’t push it, and for a moment I feel so grateful that I don’t have to explain it to her. I know my parents would come get us. But I don’t want them to feel like I need them. Not right now.

  “We could walk,” I suggest half-heartedly. “It would only take us . . .”

  “At least an hour,” Josie responds. “All uphill. In the dark. There’s no way I’m doing that.”

  I laugh, a real and genuine laugh, for the first time since last night. “Thank god. I was trying not to be a baby about it, but I really do not want to come across a bear at night.”

  She nods. “Agreed.”

  “So.” I clear my throat. I want to word this in the least awkward way possible. “I guess we’re sleeping in the truck until morning?” I meant to word it as a statement, but it comes off as a question. Like we really have another option. I just don’t want her to get the wrong idea.

  But her response is quick and confident. “I guess we are. In here? Or in the back?”

  Of course she wouldn’t get the wrong idea. This is Josie. Josie, that I had mud fights with when it rained. Josie, who watched Bambi with me about a thousand times, when it used to be the only movie we had at Paintbrush. Josie, who taught me how to tell if a tomato is ripe enough to be picked. We might not be as close as we used to be, but she’s still the same girl.

  “We could spread out more in the truck bed,” I tell her. “I have enough blankets to keep us warm.” I blush. Why am I blushing? I’m glad she can’t see my face turning red. “Not us, together. Separately. I have enough blankets for us to each have our own. So we can be warm. By ourselves.” I sound like a maniac.

  She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Okay, weirdo.” She reaches into my messy backseat, grabs a loose sweatshirt and an armful of old quilts, and hops out of the truck.

  A few minutes later, I’ve laid a tarp down on the bed and a blanket on top of it, made pillows out of the old clothes I had stuffed in the backseat, and handed Josie two quilts. That only leaves one for me, but I’ll be fine. My body temperature runs hot, always. It’s why I sometimes wear shorts in winter and why my mom always thinks I have a fever when I don’t. And besides, it’s not that cold out. It feels almost like summer—a little chilly, but no wind. There are even fireflies out, their blinking lights creating patterns against the starry sky. It smells like summer, too—like pine needles and fresh air and something else, something sweet and almost salty and impossible to define.

  I’m sitting in the corner of the truck bed, a ratty red quilt draped over my shoulders. Josie is across from me, curled up against the wall of the bed. I can hear her breathing, slow and steady, and I think she must be asleep. Until she talks.

  “Thanks for the blankets, Mitchell.” Her voice is sleepy and slow and buried under the blankets she has pulled up to her nose. “Even if they do smell like dirt.”

  “Yeah. Of course.” I blink up at the sky. “Josie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry I took you away from the party. It was stupid, and I was mean, and I’m sorry.” I swallow. “I’m not really myself tonight.”

  “It’s okay.” She pauses. “Though I’d probably be home sleeping in my warm bed if you hadn’t kidnapped me.”

  I laugh, softly. “Probably. But then you’d be missing out on all this.”

  “This what? Scary darkness? Bears and coyotes prowling around, looking for fresh meat?”

  I roll my eyes. Not like she can see me. “This adventure.”

  “I know.” There’s a hint of a smile in her voice. “Everything seems better in the fresh air. You know?”

  I nod and close my eyes, taking a deep breath. One upside of growing up at Paintbrush: There was never a shortage of fresh air and the great outdoors. I fill my lungs with the soft spring air, my chest rising, until I can’t take in any more. Slowly, I let it out. “I know.”

  I slide down into my spot, curled up against the opposite side of the truck. I don’t want to make Josie feel weird or anything. But there’s a good two feet of space between us, so we should be fine. I close my eyes and listen to the crickets chirping in the woods around us.

  “Mitchell?” comes Josie’s voice again.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why did you do it?”

  I open my eyes and stare at the dark sky, until the stars above me start to swim. I want to pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about—Why did I do what?—but I know what she means.

  “It was just . . . too much,” I say, softly. “I didn’t want to see you there, like that. Partying and drinking and whatever. That’s what other people do. Stupid high schoolers who don’t know anything about real life. But you’re Josie. You’re different.”

  I feel stupid saying it out loud.

  Her voice carries back to me, across the truck. “Maybe I’m not.”

  I shake my head. “No. You are.”

  I wait for her to respond, but she stays quiet. Eventually I hear her breathing, soft and slow and even, and I know she’s probably asleep. Her breathing mixes with the crickets, with the sound of rustling leaves. Like a mini symphony. A perfect forest lullaby.

  I’m still listening as I drift off to sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Josie

  I wake up with Mitchell. Actually, that’s not true. I wake up before Mitchell. Judging by the sun, I’m guessing it’s around seven or so. I think about waking him up, but his face looks so peaceful, and his usually well-combed dark hair is all messy and tangled. He looks relaxed, actually relax
ed, for the first time since Thursday night dinner. So I let him sleep.

  I can’t believe this whole debacle with his family was just on Thursday. It’s only Saturday morning now, so less than two days ago. It feels like it’s been an eternity. And if it feels that way to me, I can only guess how it feels for Mitchell.

  I sit up and pull my blankets around my shoulders. If today is Saturday, then tomorrow is Sunday, which means that as of tomorrow, graduation will be in three weeks. My heart speeds up a little bit at the thought. Next to everyone’s name in the program—at least everyone from my AP classes—there will be a college listed. Mostly the big state schools, but some fancy private schools, too. A few people are headed to California, I think. Mitchell and Ted are the only ones headed to New England, as far as I know. Leah is going to the local community college for a year or two, to save up money until she can transfer. She wants to go to school somewhere in New York City, to study Art History. Everyone has a plan.

  Everyone except me.

  I don’t know why I didn’t apply. I went to the library after school every day for three weeks straight back in October. I sat there and stared at the applications. I filled out my name, my date of birth, my essential SAT and GPA information. I had picked five schools—three in state, two out, all with pretty green campuses and lots of different majors and good reputations. But when it came to the essays—Why do you want to attend this school?—I sat and stared at the blinking cursor, my fingers hovering aimlessly over the keyboard. I didn’t know why I wanted to attend. And every time I pictured myself packing up my stuff, driving away from Paintbrush, leaving Mae and Libby and my mom behind, the beautiful mountains fading in my rearview mirror . . . I couldn’t do it. I tried, over and over again, to picture my mom, alone in the cabin with my sisters, cooking and cleaning for them all by herself. Drinking tea in the kitchen all by herself, her thin arms holding a tattered book. I tried to picture her doing it all, all by herself. And I just couldn’t.