Paintbrush

by Hannah Bucchin

  It’s weird, and I feel weird for thinking about it, and then I feel weird for thinking about how I need to stop thinking about it. I shake my head and take a deep breath. Get it together.

  I smile at her. “I don’t mind. As long as you’re not stalking me.”

  She takes her last few steps toward me and raises her eyebrows. “I have a very busy schedule, Mitchell. If I’m going to take the time to stalk someone, it’s going to be someone cooler than you.”

  “Ouch,” I say, hand over my heart. “That hurts. I’ll have you know that I’m very exciting and important. Prime stalking material.”

  She breezes past me, striding up the rocky mountain path at a surprisingly fast pace. “You can’t lie to me, Mitchell Morrison. I know you too well.”

  I quicken my pace to match hers, following her dark bobbing ponytail up the mountain, and it occurs to me that she might be right.

  We reach the swimming hole about an hour later. From here it’s only about twenty minutes to the top and the pretty mountain views, but I almost always make a stop at the swimming hole. It’s just so perfect: gushing water falls from about twenty feet up, cascading over mossy rocks into this big, beautiful clear pool below. It’s only like five feet deep, but in the summer I always jump in for a quick dip. It’s cold, but it feels so good.

  I was definitely planning on jumping in, but now I’m not really sure what Josie wants to do. We stop at the edge, and I crouch forward and trail my hands through the water.

  “Is it cold?” Josie asks from behind me.

  I stand back up. “It’s not too bad.”

  “Liar.” She shakes her head at me. “It’s always freezing this time of year.”

  I look closely at her, and that’s when I notice a blue strap tied behind her neck, poking out of her tank top. I grin. “Then why do you have your bathing suit on?”

  “What?” Her already rosy cheeks turn an even deeper shade of pink. She reaches behind her neck, touching the tied strap. “Well, I thought it would be hot.”

  “You thought right,” I say. My shirt is completely soaked and plastered to my back and chest, and tiny rivulets of sweat run down my neck and face. Climbing up a mountain is no joke.

  “I know. I feel . . . moist.” She shudders.

  “Gross word choice.”

  “Gross feelings call for gross words.”

  She’s gazing at the water with this hungry look. Like she’s dying to jump in but can’t. Because . . . I’m here, maybe? Because there’s this weird tension between us for some reason? I shake my head. I’m done with this awkwardness. It’s too fucking hot.

  “So let’s go in,” I say. I know she’s looking at me as I drop my backpack and yank off my shirt. Before I can feel self-conscious—which is so stupid, I try to remind myself, because it’s just Josie—I hoist myself up on my favorite rock and jump in.

  It’s a shock to my system, how the icy water slips over my skin as I plunge into the pool. And it’s also a shock when I surface, sputtering, drops of water snaking down my face, to find Josie taking off her clothes on the bank.

  I don’t know if I expected her not to join me or what. But something about the way her dark-blue one piece makes her legs seem really long, or maybe the way her hair spills out of her cap in long waves, or even the way she carefully folds her tank top and pants and puts them in a neat pile—something about all these things makes me want to straight up stare at her and also makes me want to close my eyes, like I’ve been looking too long at a bright light. Instead of deciding between these two ridiculous options, I take a deep, deep breath and dive back under, letting the cool water rinse away my thoughts.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Josie

  I’m lying on my stomach on the flat rocks at the top of the mountain, gazing down at the valley below, letting the delicious warmth of the sun toast my skin and warm me up from my icy dip under the waterfall. I’ve done this a million times before—with my sisters and my mom when I was little, with Leah a few times, and mostly by myself—but never with Mitchell lying on the rock right next to me.

  Not to say that this is the first time Mitchell and I have gone swimming together. When we were little, our moms used to put a sprinkler out in the big field behind Paintbrush, and Mitchell and I would run through it for hours on hot sunny days. Afterward, my mom and Carrie would wrap us in big towels and give us homemade orange juice popsicles to suck on. They would melt so fast that the juice would run down our chins, turning us into these big sticky messes our moms would have to clean up. I was always more careful with my popsicle. I would try to lick all around the edges evenly so I could make the smallest mess possible. But Mitchell would dive headfirst into his popsicle, licking one side repeatedly while the other melted into a steady river of orange that dripped down his hands and all over his lap. Even then, I was efficient and careful and clean, and he was messy and carefree and bold.

  Next to me, Mitchell is in the process of devouring what must be his sixth oatmeal cookie. There are crumbs everywhere. His brown hair, still damp, flops on his forehead as he turns his head to look at me. Looking at him.

  “What?” he asks.

  “You’re getting cookie everywhere,” I say. “Bears can probably smell us from a mile away. I bet a whole herd is headed our way as we speak.”

  “Bears don’t move in herds.” He licks his fingers.

  “Not usually,” I say. “But this is a special circumstance. Since there are so many crumbs.”

  He sighs. “I can’t help it. These are so good.” He pushes the bag toward me, sits up, and stretches his arms above his head. “I miss the days when I used to come over to your house all the time. I’ve missed Layla’s baking.”

  I shake my head. “My mom didn’t bake them. Libby’s the big baker now. She whips up a batch of cookies, like, every other day. Our cabin is overflowing with baked goods.”

  Mitchell frowns. “Really? But I thought Libby was the twin who . . .” He pauses, like he’s searching for the right word. “She’s more . . .”

  “Crazy?” I suggest. “Shallow? Makes more questionable decisions?”

  “No,” he says quickly. He pauses and tilts his head. “Well. Kind of.”

  “Underneath all that makeup and age-inappropriate clothing, there’s actually a real person. Deep, deep down. We’re talking really deep.”

  Mitchell laughs, leaning back on his hands. “She’s not that bad. She looks like most of the girls at our high school.”

  “That’s exactly my point,” I say. “She’s in eighth grade.”

  “Almost to ninth,” Mitchell points out. “Then she’ll actually be one of the girls at our high school.”

  I sigh. “I don’t really care how old she is. No one should feel the need to wear clothing that tight. Or the need to wake up a full two hours before school just to curl her hair.”

  Mitchell snorts.

  “I’m not kidding. The girl gets up at six every morning. 6:00 a.m. I’d rather wear a trash bag to school and sleep in than get up that early just to look nice.”

  Mitchell rolls his eyes. “You always look nice.”

  There’s a moment of awkward silence. I don’t know what to say to that, so I change the subject with the first thing I can think of. “I just wish my mom cared more about Libby.”

  Mitchell raises his eyebrows. “Cared how?”

  “I guess it’s not so much that I wish she cared more.” I pause, considering. “More like I wish she trusted less.”

  He frowns. “You wish your mom didn’t trust you guys?”

  “Not like that. Well, kind of like that.” I sigh. I’m regretting bringing this up. I’m not making sense. But Mitchell is looking at me with his big brown eyes, with that intense stare of his, and now I feel like I have to keep going. “It’s just that my mom did so much stupid stuff when she was a teenager. She partied all the time and skipped so much school, and then got pregnant at sixteen. She never even got to finish high school because of all the stupid d
ecisions she made.” I’m talking fast, trying to get all my thoughts out at once. “And then after all that—after all her firsthand experience with exactly how stupid teenagers can be—she just lets me walk in and out the door whenever I want. And Libby too, and Mae. They’re only fourteen. Not even a question about where we’re going or who we’re with or what we’re doing. She never worries about us. It’s like she doesn’t care at all.”

  There’s a quiet in the air as I finish my tangent. I gaze out over the valley below us, at the bright treetops and snaking roadways and ridge of mountains stretching in the distance. I must sound insane, blurting all that out. Maybe we haven’t gotten to a whole new level of friendship the past few days. Mitchell and I, we joke, and we talk about homework, and we gossip about Paintbrush. But we don’t really do deep and personal.

  But Mitchell’s words are slow and careful when he speaks. Like he’s trying hard to say the right thing. “Layla loves you guys, though. I see the way she hugs you, and the way she always pauses to look around for you three on work days or at community dinners. And then, when she finds you among the crowd, she always smiles.” He shrugs. “You guys make her happy.”

  I turn my gaze from the view in front of me to him. “You notice that much about my family?”

  He trails his fingers over the ground. “It’s been twelve years since you all moved here. After twelve years, you start to notice some things.”

  He’s really blushing now, and looking at him is making me blush too. So I sit up and pull off my hiking boots, one by one, and then slide over to dangle my feet off the ledge. My bare feet swing in the air, high above the treetops.

  “So want to hear a funny story?” Mitchell asks.

  Thank god for a change of subject. “Yeah.”

  He pulls off his boots and scoots over, swinging his legs over the ledge next to me. Our thighs are touching, the black of his athletic shorts brushing against the pale skin of my leg, and I’m finding it hard to look at anything else.

  He points off to our left. “See that mountain over there?”

  I lean around him and squint. “Yeah?”

  “That’s Mount Mitchell. That’s the mountain I’m named after.”

  “Really?” I tilt my head, confused. “But you’re not even from here. You were born in New York City.”

  “Yeah, but my parents were vacationing here. Nine months before I was born, if you know what I mean.”

  “What?” I frown. And then it clicks. “Oh. Oh.” I pause for a second. “So wait. That mountain was where . . . ?”

  “Yep. That mountain was where I was conceived. ‘Out in nature, the way God intended,’ if I remember correctly. Which I wish I didn’t.”

  I laugh. “Oh god. I would probably throw up if my mom tried to tell about the moment of my conception.”

  He nodded. “Imagine your parents telling you about it together. And then following it up with a safe sex talk. It took me months to recover.”

  I grin. “I can imagine. My story’s probably pretty boring, anyway. I bet I was conceived in a car. Or wherever teenagers have sex. I wouldn’t know.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Mitchell says. “I wouldn’t know, either.”

  I’m surprised that I said it, and even more surprised at Mitchell’s response. I’ve always assumed, with all the girls at school who fall all over him, something probably happened at some point. But it’s stupid to waste time thinking about it. It’s not like Mitchell’s sex life has anything to do with me.

  I scoot backward from the ledge and lie down, my back warm against the sunbaked rock. The sky is bright with the summer sun, and I close my eyes.

  After a few seconds, Mitchell starts moving around. I don’t open my eyes, but I hear his soft breathing, and I can almost feel his warm skin radiating heat. He’s lying down next to me.

  I squeeze my eyes even tighter, so I won’t be tempted to peek and see how close he really is. Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. It’s Mitchell. It’s just Mitchell.

  I’m still telling myself this as I drift off to sleep in the sunshine.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mitchell

  When I wake up, I find myself face to face with Josie. Again. For the second time in two days. I don’t think we’ve slept in the same place since first or second grade, when we used to fall asleep side by side watching kid movies in the Sanctuary. So twice in two days is pretty weird. But not in a bad way.

  I reach for my backpack and check my phone. My heart is thumping with that sleepy, panicked feeling I always get when I fall asleep accidentally and wake up confused. But it’s only late afternoon, and we’ve only been asleep for half an hour. We still have plenty of time to get back down to Paintbrush before it gets dark.

  Josie murmurs in her sleep and rolls over, and my heart catches. She’s getting kind of close to the edge. I inch closer and shake her shoulder.

  “Josie?”

  She cracks opens one eye and sits up, her damp hair falling in front of her face. “Oh god. What time is it?”

  “Five,” I say. “We’re fine.”

  She nods and stretches her arms way up to the sky, yawning. She’s still wearing her bathing suit, and halfway through her yawn she looks down at herself and quickly folds her arms. Like she’s self-conscious or something. It makes me feel like I should look away.

  She stands up and gathers her clothes. “We’ve been up here a while,” she says. She slips on her loose green pants then tugs on her hiking boots. “We should probably get going.”

  I nod. “Sure.” But I really don’t want to go back down. These past few hours, this golden afternoon in my favorite mountain paradise, have been so relaxing and quiet and perfect. Almost like I dreamed it up and exactly what I needed. Going back down means going back to real life, my real life, where things are complicated and messy and stressful. I want to just stay up here, in the sunlight and fresh air, forever.

  But Josie is pulling on her shirt now and looking at me with a confused why-are-you-still-sitting-down expression. So I stand up, slowly, and reach for my backpack with a sigh.

  Two hours later, we’re walking onto the grounds of Paintbrush, and my desperation to avoid my problems claws at my ribcage and flutters in my throat. I’m dragging my feet, casting around in my head for ways to avoid going back to my cabin. Because if I go back and just my dad is there, it’ll be sad. And if I go back and both of them are there, I’ll be angry. There’s nowhere for me to go.

  Josie and I walk side by side in a quiet silence, arms swinging. We’re almost to Josie’s cabin when someone shouts from our left.

  “You two! Get in here!” Ned’s voice echoes from inside his cabin. His front door is propped open, and somewhere inside, a baby wails.

  I glance at Josie. She squints toward his front door.

  “Ned?”

  Next door, Bernie pokes his head out of his cabin. “What’s all the commotion about? Some people are trying to sleep!”

  “It’s not even 7:30 yet, you old goat!” shouts Ned from inside. “We all know you weren’t asleep. Now one of you three better get in here and help me if you know what’s good for you.”

  “I mighta been asleep,” Bernie grumbles under his breath. But he follows Josie and me into the cabin.

  Inside, Ned is perched on an old rocking chair, a beautiful cedar piece that looks hand-carved—probably by him. In his lap is baby Lucy, awkwardly enfolded in Ned’s flannel-clad arms and wailing with a bright-red face. Ned rocks back and forth at a frantic pace.

  “What’s going on in here?” I ask, carefully stepping over a whittling knife on the floor. Not exactly a kid-friendly space.

  “What does it look like?” Ned growls. “Damn thing won’t be quiet.”

  “First rule of babysitting,” I say. “Don’t refer to the child as ‘thing.’”

  Bernie snorts, but Josie gives me a you’re-not-helping look. She turns back to face Ned. “Ned, why do you have Lucy?”

  “Wendy and Eric went to the store.
Emergency diaper run, they said.” In his arms, Lucy lets out another scream, high-pitched and angry. Ned winces and continues. “But I’m starting to get real suspicious. Seems like they abandoned me here with this screaming mess just so they could get a break.”

  “They must have been pretty desperate,” agrees Bernie. “If their best option for a babysitter was you.”

  Ned glares at him.

  I take a step closer and peer into Ned’s arms. Lucy flails her tiny baby fists as she screams, her face twisted. I smile, despite myself. Even in distress, Lucy is pretty cute. But then, without warning, Ned thrusts her into my arms.

  “You’re supposed to be some kind of smart guy, college boy. Give it a try.”

  Lucy is a tiny bundle in my arms, soft and warm. I hold her against my chest and hum softly, my favorite lullaby from when I was little: Uncle John’s Band. Of course, I later learned that it was actually a Grateful Dead song. My parents were nuts like that. But when I was little, and I was crying or tired or scared, it always did the trick.

  Lucy falls quiet, blinking at me as I hum. I glance at Josie, who is watching me with wide eyes. I raise my eyebrows triumphantly. I am the baby whisperer, I think. But seconds later, Lucy starts screaming again.

  “Give her to me.” Josie reaches out and tugs Lucy from my arms, cradling the baby in the crook of her elbow. Lucy doesn’t stop crying for even one moment. Her tiny eyes scrunch up as her little screams turn into one long wail. She doesn’t even pause for a breath. This kid has some serious lung capacity. It would be impressive if the sound wasn’t so grating.