So I didn’t apply. Anywhere. I told my mom I applied to three schools, and that they all rejected me. And then I told her it didn’t matter because I was just going to spend some time at Paintbrush until I figured things out. And the truth is: That doesn’t seem so bad. Mitchell acts like he can’t wait to get out of there, like we’re living in some kind of cult instead of a community, like our lives are terrible and horrible and awful. But the people are so nice and genuine, the farm work we do is so straightforward and simple and comforting, the places and buildings and hiking trails behind the property are so familiar and warm. And I’m happy there. And if I’m happy, why shouldn’t I stay?
As I’m contemplating all this in the dewy early morning sunlight, a bird lands on Mitchell. I’m not kidding. Not near him. On him. It’s a blue jay, too, bright blue with a pointy feathered head. Totally gorgeous. I sit as still as I can, fascinated. But then I remember that blue jays can be kind of mean. Myra got some of her hair pulled out by one once when she was setting up a bird feeder outside. I guess the bird thought some of her frizzier strands would make perfect nesting material. Needless to say, she was not a happy camper.
Just as I’m opening my mouth to shoo it away, Mitchell sleepily opens his eyes and slowly focuses on the blue shape perched on his chest.
“Mitchell,” I whisper, trying to warn him. But it’s too late.
“Ahhh!” he screeches, his voice echoing against the nearby mountain. And with a start, the blue jay jumps forward, gives Mitchell’s forehead a good solid peck, and then launches itself from the truck and flies away.
“Are you kidding me?” Mitchell throws the blankets off and sits straight up, grasping his head in pain. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? What a great wake-up call. I fucking love nature.”
I press my lips together, afraid I’m going to start laughing. “Are you okay?”
“Do I look okay?” He squints at me. “Wait. Are you laughing at me?”
“No!” I exclaim. But I can’t keep the grin from spreading across my face. “I just can’t believe that happened to you.” I shake my head. “This has not been your week.”
He just glares at me. Slowly, he takes his hand away, leaving a smear of blood on his forehead. He looks down at his hand. “Oh god. Am I bleeding?” There’s panic in his eyes. “Is it okay? How do I look?”
His eyes are all bleary from sleep. His hair is sticking straight up. And right in the middle of his forehead, a tiny gash trickles a small but steady stream of blood.
I try to compose myself. “Good. You look good.”
He throws a blanket at me. “Liar.” But he’s grinning as he pulls out his phone and tosses it to me. “I guess we’d better call Myra.”
Chapter Fourteen
Mitchell
Since Josie’s mom doesn’t have her own car, and I since I don’t want to deal with my parents, we call Myra to come help us out. She brings a gas can and fills up my tank enough for me to make it to the nearest gas station. The whole time she gives us a lecture on responsibility, preparedness, and the importance of being mindful.
“Your parents must be worried sick.” Her voice is loud and disapproving, and the breeze whips her wispy gray hair around in a way that’s somehow a little frightening. “Don’t you care about their feelings?”
Josie and I glance at each other and say, “Yes, of course, we’re sorry.” But the truth is that neither of our parents are very strict. Mine like to know where I am, but beyond that they have a trusting parenting style, which essentially means I don’t have a curfew or have to check in or anything. It’s kind of ridiculous, but then again, I don’t do anything overly illegal or dangerous, and I have good grades and all, so I guess it’s worked out so far. And from what I can tell, Josie’s mom doesn’t ever ask where she’s going or what she’s doing or anything like that. Just says bye when she leaves and hi when she comes back. Kind of weird. But again, Josie’s probably a better kid than even I am. Maybe it’s because Myra’s stricter than any parent.
Myra insists that Josie go with her back to Paintbrush while I head into town to get gas. Myra’s still lecturing as Josie slides into the passenger seat. I catch her gaze and grin; she mouths save me through the window as I drive away.
When I pull into the Paintbrush lot a few minutes later, I’m strangely calm. I’ve been dreading coming back here and facing my parents. But knowing I’m about to get it out of the way is a good feeling. There’s a nervous buzz in my chest, an anxious energy in my fingertips. I’m ready.
Until I walk into the cabin and find my parents leaning against the wall, arms around each other, lips locked. I’m so not ready for that.
“What the fuck?” My words sound extra harsh in the tiny cabin.
My mom spins around and straightens her shirt, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Mitchell!” she says, her voice a relieved gasp, at the same time my father says, “Watch your language.”
My mom moves to hug me, but I take a deliberate step back. She freezes, her arms still half extended. Her mouth turns down a little, like she’s trying not to cry, and I instinctively want to reach out and hug her. But then I think of her and my dad, pressed together, and I just can’t.
“What was that?” I ask again. “Did something change while I was gone?”
A small flutter rises in my chest, a glimmer of hope that I hate myself for having. Because as soon as I see my mom and dad exchange glances, I know nothing has changed.
“Oh, honey. No,” my mom stammers. “We were just . . .”
She trails off, looking at my dad for help. But he jams his hands in his pockets and looks down at the ground.
“So you’re still with Joe.” My heart clenches, my throat tightening. “Does this mean you’re cheating on him now, too?”
She shakes her head, and her eyes glisten, her voice wavering slightly. “No, sweetie. I mean, yes, I’m still with Joe. But he knows things are complicated right now. I love him”—at this my dad turns and walks to the sink and starts shuffling dishes around—“but I’ve loved your dad for so long, and some feelings don’t go away.” She pauses and looks up, like she’s searching for the right words in the air or something. “I just . . . I needed to say goodbye.”
I stare at her. Is she kidding? I glance at my dad, who’s still moving dishes around. It’s like he’s trying to do the dishes, but he can’t remember how. “Dad?”
“Yes, Mitchell?” He sounds exhausted, his voice emotionless.
“You’re just going to let this happen?”
He sighs. “It’s your mother’s choice. She chose someone else.”
At this my mom cringes, and a tear slides down her cheek. But I don’t let up. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, you’re going to let her come in here and manipulate you like this?”
He crosses his arms. “It’s not like that—”
“It is like that. She doesn’t live here anymore. She’s not part of this family anymore. You should be mad.”
My mom is full on crying now, shoulders shaking under her faded denim shirt, blotchy face, the whole thing. And I feel bad, but I can’t give in. This is her fault. Not mine.
My dad watches her, his shoulders hunched. He looks so, so tired, and for the first time ever, he seems old to me. “I’m sorry this is confusing to you, Mitchell. It’s just complicated right now.”
I want to scream. Mostly at my mom, but at him too, for letting her cry here in the kitchen. For letting her see his sadness. For not screaming at her to get out like she deserves. But instead, I take a deep breath and swallow my words, along with the lump rising in my throat. I’ve caused enough damage for today.
“I’ve got work to do,” I tell them both. And then I turn and walk out the door.
Everyone at Paintbrush has chores to do. Some people actually work full-time at Paintbrush, selling our produce at farmer’s markets and stuff. The more each member works at Paintbrush, the less that member has to pay per year. Not that it’s much of a pay
ment, anyway. Myra uses a sliding scale, so people who don’t make much money barely have to pay at all. And lots of people work in town, too. But everyone is required to at least do something. Mostly I help Bernie with the handiwork that needs to be done, like painting and sanding and fixing chairs and installing light bulbs. Today, I’m mowing the grass.
A bead of sweat slides into my eye with a sharp sting. I’ve only been mowing for twenty minutes, and I’m already ridiculously sweaty. The Paintbrush lawn stretches around and between all the cabins—there are currently thirty-four—the common building, and the various gardens; and way past that, there’s this huge stretch of field. It’s a huge job—normally takes me about two hours with a riding mower—but I don’t really mind because riding the mower is kind of badass. And also because one time I had to spend my entire Saturday sanding the floor in the Meeting Place when we put new boards in, and I practically broke my back. And then when I complained, Myra said it was a shame that “they just don’t make strapping young boys like they used to.” So anything is better than that.
But today, the riding mower is broken. Bernie’s fiddling with it out in one of our tool sheds, but he said it might be a while. So here I am, dragging our old red push mower around the lawn in the hot beating sun and trying to avoid old stumps and hidden holes.
It’s a good distraction from my parents. And it’s a Saturday, which means basically everyone is out working—cleaning and gardening and everything else. I pass Ned on his front porch, ominously cleaning his rifle; he barely ever uses it anymore, but he likes to make a big show out of cleaning it so everyone will think he’s tough. The Macpherson kids—all seven of them—are playing tag next to the herb patch where their parents are gardening, using baby Lucy as home base. Wendy sits in the grass holding Lucy, looking highly amused and also slightly terrified each time a Macpherson child comes tearing across the lawn. I wave as I pass. Ada Macpherson, the five-year-old, sticks out her tongue and crosses her eyes at me. Maddie gives me a very solemn nod.
By the time I reach the back field, it’s already been three hours. I strip off my sweaty shirt and take another hour to finish the meadow. And I’m so exhausted from two nights of little to no sleep that I almost run over my own foot with the mower. I put it back in the shed, go back to the cabin, chug two huge glasses of water, shower, and climb into bed. It’s only six when I pull the covers up to my chin. My dad’s not even in from doing his work yet. But when I close my eyes, I don’t open them again until almost nine the next morning.
Chapter Fifteen
Josie
When Myra drops me off after my night with Mitchell in the truck, I walk into my cabin to find my mom cleaning the kitchen. It’s not even messy; my mom just likes to clean, to wipe every tiny smudge and speck from the green-and-blue tile, to straighten all our mason jars and plates in the cabinet until they stand in perfect lines, to neatly fold every dish towel into pressed squares. She says it relaxes her. I say she needs to find something better to do with her time.
She turns around when she hears the door open, sponge in hand, and smiles when she sees me. “Hi, honey. Did you have a good night?”
That’s it. That’s really all she says. I’ve been gone all night and she has no idea where, and all she asks me is if I had a good time.
“Yep,” I say.
She starts scrubbing the tile again. “And Leah did too?”
“I think so.”
“Glad to hear it.” And just like that, the conversation is over. I know a lot of kids my age would kill to have parents that let them do whatever they want. But it just makes me mad. Like she doesn’t care.
Mom hums a tune under her breath, no idea that I’m annoyed. I force a smile and walk into my room, willing myself not to slam the door.
In my bedroom I find both my sisters still asleep. Mae is basically where I left her last night, curled up with her book still pressed to her chest. When I peer into Libby’s bed, though, I see she’s still wearing clothes from the night before—a dress I know for a fact is way too short on her—and that she has black eyeliner smeared around her eyes. I frown. Isn’t fourteen too young to be wearing eyeliner? I definitely didn’t wear eyeliner when I was her age. But maybe I was weird.
I sigh and pull Libby’s quilt up to her chin, covering her skimpy dress. My mom should be the one in here. She should be shaking Libby awake and making her change out of this dress, wiping the makeup off her face and asking where she went last night. Mom needs to keep tabs on Libby. But Mom’s not. Just another reason why I’m glad I’ll be home in the fall.
I could definitely use a couple more hours of sleep–sleeping in the back of a truck is not all that comfortable, it turns out–but it’s Saturday morning. And Saturday mornings are for work. So I throw on my old jeans and head outside to do my gardening. I’m working on the tomatoes, like always—Myra says I have a gift, a sixth sense for when to plant the seeds and how to water the vines and which plant will produce the fattest, juiciest results. I don’t know about that, but I do know our tomatoes always sell really big at the farmers markets in the summer. So maybe she’s right.
I work on the tomatoes all day, getting the field ready to plant. I can feel the sun tanning my skin—okay, burning my skin—and I’m covered in dirt after like ten minutes, but it’s a good feeling. To do something with my hands and to actually see the results in front of me.
Plus, it gets my mind off Mitchell. Ever since last night, my stomach has been twisting into knots, and I can’t figure out why. Maybe because it feels like our friendship got pushed to some weird new level. But I’m torn between desperately wanting to see him and talk to him and also desperately wanting to avoid him at all costs. I see him pushing the old mower around all day, but I’m never quite close enough to actually talk to him. And later, I catch a glimpse of him mowing the back lawn. His shirt is off, and even though he’s too far away to see me looking at him, it makes me blush, for some unknown reason, and then I feel stupid for blushing. Ultimately, it all just makes me want to curl up in my cabin and read for the rest of the night. So I do.
I’m getting ready to crawl under the covers when my phone pings with a text from Leah: Diego is the cutest. Thank the Lord for an actual good guy. Let’s hope it lasts!
I roll my eyes. Classic Leah. But I text her back: Yay! Fingers crossed.
Leah: You have a good night? Get home safe?
I’m about to respond with the whole big story, the fight with Mitchell and the sleeping outside and the blue jay and all that. But as my fingers hover over the keyboard, I realize Leah will read something into all this. Something that’s probably not even there. So I just reply: All good.
It must be late when I finally drift off because I don’t wake up until nine or so in the morning, which is late for me. I think about spending today—Sunday, my one day off from school and from Paintbrush chores—like yesterday, stressed out from talking to Mitchell and also from not talking to Mitchell, annoyed at my mom, worried about Libby, wondering about the whole John/Carrie debacle.
I’m exhausted just thinking about it. And it’s definitely not how I want to spend my day off. So I pack a sandwich, an apple, and a handful of oatmeal raisin cookies, throw a book into a backpack, and head out onto the trails up the mountain behind Paintbrush. There’s one trail that’s my absolute favorite. It has a waterfall with a beautiful swimming hole underneath, a rushing creek that follows the trail the whole way, and a gorgeous lookout at the end. It’s a long one, at least two hours to get to the end and then two hours back again, but a long hike is exactly what I need.
Chapter Sixteen
Mitchell
I’m pretty sure a bear is following me up the mountain. Usually I’m not paranoid about stuff like this, but with the whole blue jay incident yesterday, I kind of feel like nature is out to get me. And there’s definitely something coming up behind me.
Except when I turn around to make sure I’m not about to be attacked by an angry mama bear, I spot Josie c
oming around the corner.
My heart kind of sputters in this nervous way when I see her, but I can’t tell if it’s because she scared me or if I’m anxious or disappointed that my hike is no longer solo or . . . something else. Whatever it is, I don’t have time to figure it out.
I cup my hands around my mouth and call to her. “Are you following me or something?”
She stops, blinks at me, and then walks a few more paces until she’s about twenty feet away. She shields her eyes with her hand as she peers at me, other hand firmly grasping the strap of the beat-up canvas backpack on her shoulders.
“I’m . . . sorry.” Her voice wavers.
“For what?”
She shrugs. “Getting all up in your nature, I guess.”
“Come on, Josie.” I make a sweeping gesture with my arms. “This is America. The woods are free for everyone.”
She takes a few steps closer. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
I’m not sure, actually. I came up here to be alone, to think things out. And also, I can’t get the whole sleeping together in my truck thing out of my head. Now that I know how she curls up on her side like a cat when she sleeps, how her breathing is deep and steady and slow, how her wispy hair curls around her face in the morning, it’s like I’m not quite sure how to act around her anymore. I’m looking at her now, dressed in these flowing bright-green pants and a white tank top, with her hair tucked up under a trucker hat that reads Eat Your Veggies in lettering made out of carrots. But all I can see is her face scrunched up and snuggled into a blanket, and the way her mouth moves in her sleep, like she’s talking to someone in her dreams.
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