Paintbrush

by Hannah Bucchin

  I roll my eyes. “Next time, Ned, I’ll make a cake with a dead deer on it.”

  “Red icing for the blood and everything,” Mitchell adds.

  Ned grunts in approval. He jabs his fork into his cake and takes a big bite. “Now that’s all I ask,” he says with his mouth full.

  I walk back to the table to where my own cake is waiting, along with my two sisters, and Mitchell follows. His arm brushes mine, and shivers shoot up my spine.

  I plop down on the couch next to Mae, and she hands me my plate. Mitchell takes the seat next to me. Libby sits cross-legged on the floor in front of us, twirling her hair with her fingers.

  “Where’s your cake, Lib?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Not really hungry.”

  Mae rolls her eyes at this. “Too many calories for supermodel over here.”

  I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth. “Come on, Libby. It’s your birthday party. Eat some damn cake.”

  Libby leans back on her arms and narrows her eyes at me. Her black jeans hug her legs so tightly it looks like she can barely move, and her red tank top is borderline sheer. She studies her nails and doesn’t reply.

  “I don’t know what your problem is,” Mae says around a mouthful of cake. “This is good stuff.”

  Mae’s hair is thrown into a messy ponytail and tied back with a red bandana. She’s wearing black leggings and an oversized white t-shirt that reads Eat Local in big black letters. There are cake crumbs all down the front of this shirt, and for some reason this makes me want to lean over and hug her as hard as I can.

  She looks like she’s a normal fourteen-year-old girl. Libby, with her bright-red lipstick and strategically tousled hair, looks like a vampire who’s trying to be sexy.

  “It’s really good.” Mitchell’s voice surprises me. I kind of forgot he was here. I turn to him, and he nudges my arm. “And it has some kick-ass decorations, too.”

  “Oh. My. God.” Libby hauls herself to her feet. “I’m just not hungry. Sometimes people aren’t hungry. How many times do I have to tell you guys?”

  She stalks away. Mitchell watches her go, his brow furrowed.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice is a little shaky. “I didn’t mean anything by that; I was just saying—”

  “Not your fault, dude,” Mae says, waving her fork. “She’s a crazy person.” She stands and holds up her empty plate. “I, for one, am going to enjoy my birthday party. Anyone want seconds?”

  Mitchell and I both shake our heads, and Mae wanders away.

  “So I see what you mean.” Mitchell clears his throat. “About Libby being . . . erratic.”

  I drop my head in my hands. “She’s driving me crazy.”

  He pats my knee. “She’ll come around.”

  I glance down at where his hand rests on my knee. Mitchell follows my eyes, but he doesn’t move his hand. I lean into him, just slightly, and he inhales sharply.

  I’m about to lean my head on his shoulder when a burst of music comes from across the room, followed by a burst of laughter. I sit straight up, and Mitchell does the same.

  A string is plucked, high and tinny, and then people start clapping.

  “Oh no,” Mitchell says.

  I smile at him. “You haven’t been to a Paintbrush party in a long time, have you?”

  He groans. “I forgot about this. I thought maybe everyone had moved past it.”

  “Oh no. It’s actually only gotten worse.”

  People push the tables and couches in the Sanctuary to the edges of the room. Someone opens the windows, and a cool night breeze floats in. Thank god, because there’s at least fifty people in here, and it’s already getting hot.

  I stand and hold out my hand to Mitchell. “Come on.”

  He hesitates. “Are you sure you don’t want to go on a walk? Or a drive? Or do literally anything else?”

  I laugh. But a small part of me, the part of me that loves Paintbrush and the people in it and all the crazy traditions, feels a twinge of hurt at his words. “It’s okay if you want to leave.”

  But I’m staying.

  Mitchell studies my face. “Nah.” He grins and stands, grabbing my hand. “Let’s stay.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Mitchell

  It’s ten o’clock, and the birthday party has turned into a full-on country dance. Myra whipped out her tambourine, an older guy named Willy brought out his fiddle, and everything has just gone downhill from there. There’s a circle of people clapping in time to the music as Willy wails on his fiddle, the music fast and fun and furious. People keep ducking into the middle to dance, then twirling back out again, only to be replaced by the next person in the circle.

  In the corner, Ned and Bernie are perched in their chairs, discreetly sipping from a small flask I can only guess contains their home-brewed moonshine. They’re both scowling, but Ned’s tapping his foot along to the music. As much as they want to hate this stuff, I can tell they’re having fun.

  And I’m having fun, which is the biggest surprise of all. I haven’t been to a Paintbrush birthday party in a year, at least. I even missed my own last year because I had a swim meet. Not that I was too broken up about it. Every party turns into this, since the day I can remember; a rollicking, crazy dance party, full of hyped-up old people and shrieking kids and line dancing and drinking—by the adults, mostly—and general chaos and craziness. The most recent one I went to was last March, my mom’s birthday month. Myra insisted on teaching everyone an old country line dance, and Ned and Bernie’s moonshine went from a small discreet flask to a giant bottle that got passed around until it was drained. The Macpherson kids were playing tag on the dance floor, and my parents left early to check on something at the cabin, and it was a total madhouse. It didn’t end until 1:00 a.m.

  It was kind of fun. But I remember looking around halfway through the night and thinking, what a shit show. These parties, they’re just too . . . something. Too weird. Too much. Normal people don’t have parties like this, I thought.

  So I decided I was done with them. I made up an excuse every time one came around. I couldn’t handle it. I told myself that I’m just not a party person. But the truth is that I couldn’t help but wonder: What would someone from school think if they walked in on this scene? And I knew that no matter who it was, they would think Paintbrush was totally and unequivocally bizarre. Like, really fucking weird. And after that thought crossed my mind, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking it was weird too.

  But here I am. Standing in the circle, clapping my hands as Eric and Wendy twirl in the middle, baby Lucy perched in between them. Lucy giggles, drool spilling out of her mouth, as her dad cradles her to his chest with one arm, his other arm around Wendy’s waist. Everyone is laughing at the ridiculous scene in front of us, this three-way jig with a baby. But Eric and Wendy just grin at each other, eyes locked, Wendy’s mouth open in a full and genuine laugh. Eric spins her out and then spins her back in, and Wendy twirls right into his chest and tucks herself under his chin. She leans over and kisses Lucy’s forehead, and everyone laughs.

  They make their way back to the edge of the circle as Julie pulls her partner Miriam into the circle. It’s always refreshing to see Julie with her clothes on, rather than doing naked headstands outside in the morning. I can actually look her in the eye this way. Julie and Miriam sashay around the circle, and everyone cheers.

  Josie nudges me. I take in her pink face, her shining eyes, her huge smile, and I smile back. I can’t help it. She’s so obviously, clearly, wildly happy here. And somehow, her happiness overshadows all my feelings of doubt. It’s impossible to overanalyze the weirdness of this whole thing when Josie’s smiling at me like this.

  I step a little closer to her and rub my shoulder against hers. She laughs and shimmies back. I’m so preoccupied trying to come up with another way to casually touch her I don’t even notice Julie and Miriam have taken a bow. Not until Myra claps in my face.

  “Partner up!” she booms, pushing peo
ple together in random combinations. “Partner dance! Everybody grab partners!”

  Another Paintbrush tradition. Myra always organizes partner dances. She has a thing for waltzes. Never mind that almost no one else knows how to waltz. She thinks partner dances are a good bonding experience, that they create community. And also, judging by the shine in her eyes, she’s had one or two festive beverages tonight. Myra’s a lightweight.

  All across the room, people pair off at the same time my mom walks in, Joe tagging along behind her.

  I wait for the anger to hit me, but it doesn’t. Just a sharp twinge of annoyance. Ned greets her, then Mrs. Macpherson. Maybe people aren’t as mad as I thought.

  Someone next to me clears his throat. I turn to see Max Mendez, one half of one of the younger couples here, standing beside me. He taps Josie on the shoulder, and I freeze.

  “Miss Josie,” he says, smiling, “could I have the honor of this dance?”

  I open my mouth to say something—I don’t know what—but Josie beats me to it.

  “Sorry, Max. Myra already paired me up with Mitchell.”

  It’s not the truth, exactly. But Max just shrugs and clasps his hand over his heart. “Rejection!” He sighs dramatically and winks. “It’s okay. I see another partner.”

  He reaches down and scoops up Ada Macpherson. She squeals delightedly, and they waltz away.

  The fiddle begins again across the room. Slower than before, but not exactly a slow song. Like an old-timey waltz.

  I look down at Josie. Standing so close to her makes me realize how short she really is. It also makes me nervous.

  “You’re tiny,” I say without thinking. God. What a weird thing to say. My hands are suddenly really sweaty. I try to wipe them on my jeans without being obvious about it.

  Josie snorts. “I’m short. I’m not tiny.”

  I take a small step closer. “You’re compact.” If I step any closer, I’ll be stepping on her feet.

  She frowns. “Like a car?”

  I shake my head. “Like a fun-size candy bar.” I swallow, hard, and then tentatively reach one hand out and place it on her waist. “One perfect bite.”

  She laughs, and it relaxes me enough to reach for her hand. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” she says, sliding her hand onto my shoulder. “And please don’t bite me.”

  I grin and raise my eyebrows. “I make no promises.”

  She blushes, like I knew she would, and I have to bite back a laugh. Every time I make Josie blush, it puts me on even footing again. Makes me feel like I’m an eighteen-year-old who knows his way around girls and not like a stammering, awkward middle schooler with a first crush. Which is how I feel most of the time.

  We’re dancing. We’re dancing here, in the middle of the Sanctuary, surrounded by goofy kids and tipsy adults and everything in between. I never thought I would have fun at Paintbrush again. But here I am. And I know it’s because of her warm hand in mine, the way her dark eyelashes flutter as she looks around the room, the way her waist is soft and muscled and perfect under my hand. I want to slide my hand around her back and pull her closer, want her to rest her head on my chest, want to feel her hair under my chin and close my eyes and live here in this moment forever.

  But I can’t, because people are watching. And because, in a moment of stupid weakness, I told Josie I’d wait for her to make the first move. What was I thinking? If that first move doesn’t happen soon, I might actually go crazy.

  Josie squeezes my hand in hers. She looks up at me and smiles, and her smile makes my breath catch in my throat. I’ve seen that smile every day since I can remember. I don’t know why, all of a sudden, I have to remind myself to breathe when I see it.

  “Hi,” she whispers.

  “Hi.” I tighten my grip on her waist, and she moves her hand from my shoulder, sliding her fingertips slowly, until they rest on the back of my neck. I close my eyes.

  When I open them again, she’s staring at me, her face so close I can see the flecks of brown in her green eyes. It would be so easy to kiss her. Just a few inches. It would be the easiest thing in the world.

  I glance around the room, to make sure no one is watching. Almost everyone is preoccupied. Everyone except my mother, and Josie’s mother.

  My mom leans in to Layla and whispers something in her ear. Layla’s gaze flicks across the room, landing right on Josie and me, and Layla’s eyebrows shoot up as she whispers something back. A smug smile spreads across my mom’s face in answer.

  I remember what they always used to say, when Josie and I were little. When we were sharing graham crackers or wrestling in the grass or squabbling over who got to pick the movie that night. “We’ll be related, one day,” my mom used to say to Layla.

  And Layla would agree. “It’s fate.”

  I know they were kidding, back then and probably even now. I know I shouldn’t let their gossip bother me. But the thought of my mom, looking at Josie and me and thinking she had something to do with it—it’s too much for me.

  I pull back and drop Josie’s hand.

  Her brow furrows. “Mitchell?”

  And I feel so bad. But I can’t help it.

  “I have to go,” I say. And then I stride out of the room and into the summer night.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Josie

  I’m left standing in the middle of the dance floor, like I’m a lame girl in an 80s movie. In the beginning of the movie, when she’s still sad and pathetic and boyfriend-less.

  Mitchell weaves through the dancing crowd, and my stomach sinks. I feel stupid, and I feel stupid for feeling stupid, and I feel stupid for taking it so personally. Doubt creeps into my mind, curling around my thoughts, choking out the good ones from a minute ago, from these past few days, with the scary mean ones—he’s too good for you, and you’re just a distraction, and what are you thinking.

  I shake my head and make my way to the edge of the room. Everyone is still dancing. The fiddle hums through the air, and the dancers are cheerfully stumbling around, and the room echoes with talking and laughing.

  I find my mom whispering with Carrie. Joe stands next to them, looking uncomfortable. Good.

  Myra moves around the dance floor again, waving her arms. The music changes to a fast-paced, bluegrass rendition of Happy Birthday.

  “Birthday dance!” Myra shouts, and the pairs of dancers break apart and circle up again. “Birthday people in the middle!”

  Mae sheepishly stands in the middle of the circle, goofy Joey Macpherson joining her. Eric is pushed in by a giggling Wendy, and he puts his arm around Julie. Joey starts a ridiculous jig, Julie grabs Mae’s hand, and Eric rolls his eyes as they all start to dance.

  But of course, Libby’s missing. I catch Mae’s gaze and raise my eyebrows. She rolls her eyes and points to Mom.

  I make my way over to Mom. She’s still chatting animatedly with Carrie. I haven’t seen her having this much fun in a long time. I would be happy for her, except I’m not Carrie’s biggest fan right now. And also, where is Libby?

  “Where’s Libby?” I scan the room, but there’s no sign of her.

  Carrie reaches out to squeeze my arm. “Hey, Josie.”

  I nod at her.

  My mom grins up at me. “Hi, honey.”

  “Hi.” I force myself to paste a pleasant expression on my face. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Libby?” My mom glances at the crowd. “She went off with some friends, I think. A little while ago.”

  “She went off with some friends?” I clench my fists. “Mom, it’s her own birthday party.”

  She shakes her head. “You know Libby. Always doing things her own way.”

  I suck in a breath. “She should have stayed here, Mom. It’s late.” I’m trying to keep my voice steady, but it’s wavering anyway. “Who was she with?”

  My mom’s cheerful expression falters, and Carrie very subtly backs away a few feet.

  My mom blinks up at me. “She’s with some friends.
They came to pick her up.”

  “Jesus Christ, Mom.” I don’t mean to spit the words out like that, but they slice through the air. “She’s fourteen years old. She shouldn’t be hanging out with kids who can drive already.”

  She winces. “Josie—”

  But I can’t stop. “This is unbelievable. Why can’t you, just once, tell her no? Tell her she can’t do whatever she wants, whenever she wants to do it?”

  “I think you’re overreacting.” My mom stands, reaches a hand out to touch my arm, but I jerk away.

  “Someone has to overreact, Mom. Since you won’t react at all.”

  She presses her lips together in a thin line, and I wait. But she doesn’t say anything, and this makes me even madder.

  I spin around and jog to the door, pushing past Carrie without a word. I jog all the way to our cabin, my feet thumping up the wooden deck. A knot fills my stomach, hard and cold, and for a split-second, I think I’m going to cry.

  I pause with my hand on the doorknob and take a deep breath. I squeeze my eyes shut, as tight as I possibly can, and stay like this until the knot loosens and the tightness in my chest dissolves, just a little. Then I let myself push in the door, cross the kitchen, and crawl right into my bed.

  It’s two in the morning, and I’m still not asleep. Libby got home around an hour ago; she crept in through the front door and then quietly got undressed and slipped under the covers. I thought about saying something to her—where were you, or maybe what were you doing, or hey, did you know it’s really rude to leave in the middle of your own birthday party—but the thought of a middle-of-the-night confrontation made me feel like I might throw up. So I pretended I was asleep.

  Every time I start to drift off, a new thought sneaks into my head and flashes behind my closed eyelids, messing with my sleep cycle and making my heart pound. I can’t stop thinking about tonight—about Libby, about my fight with Mom, about Mitchell ditching me without a word. And I’m mad about all of it, but mostly I’m just . . . sad. Dancing with Mitchell made me sad.