“Were you nice to her?” Dad eyed me in the mirror with a frown on his face. He knew Jessie had made Izzy cry before.
“Yeah. I wouldn’t be mean to her.” I’d never made her cry. Least I hoped not.
“Well, you haven’t played much with Izzy the past couple of years. I thought maybe you didn’t like her anymore.” He kept his eyes on the road, waiting to turn onto the busy street.
“Just because we don’t play together anymore, doesn’t mean I don’t like her. Geesh, Dad.” I threw up my hands and stared out the window.
“Why don’t you play with her anymore?”
We were almost home. I was ready to go play and stop talking about this. Dad acted like I did something wrong.
“Jessie said girls have cooties. I don’t want cooties.” I wasn’t wrong to not want cooties.
Dad chuckled. “Girls do not have cooties. If they did, don’t you think I would’ve gotten them from your mother? And you’d have gotten them from your mother, too, by now?”
“Hmmm. Maybe… I’ll think about it.” Maybe Dad had a point. Mom didn’t have cooties. So, Izzy didn’t really have cooties either?
“Maybe only girl kids have cooties, not girl grown-ups.” I tapped my lips as I thought about it. That had to be it.
“And how do these girl kids get rid of their cooties by the time they’re grown-ups?” Dad chewed on his lips like he wanted to laugh at me.
“Go to the doctor maybe for a cootie shot? No, I know…” I snapped my fingers. “When they have a little girl, the cooties go from the mom to the little girl. Then the mom doesn’t have them anymore.”
“What about women who don’t ever have kids or moms who only have little boys? By your logic, your mom still has cooties.”
“I’ll get back to you.” I frowned.
Days passed, and I still didn’t have an answer about the cooties. I wanted to ask Jessie but figured he’d make fun of me.
I wished Izzy didn’t have cooties. She was really pretty. And nice. And she drew good. Every day, I stared at the back of her head. She waved at me every morning when she took her seat. Her smile made me happy every day. And sometimes I got to sit with her at lunch. Those days were the best.
Weeks went by, and I forgot about the cootie conversation. Then I saw Jessie talking to a girl before school. That afternoon, I told Dad, “I saw Jessie talking to a girl today. And he was holding her hand!”
“And?” Dad didn’t seem to understand the importance.
“Jessie’s the one that tol’ me girls have cooties, ‘member? But here he is holding some girl’s hand!” I shouted as I leaned forward in my seat.
“Son, I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” Dad whispered.
“Dad, I know you said they don’t have cooties. That’s not a secret.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“That wasn’t what I was going to tell you. There comes a time when boys stop thinking girls are gross, and instead they start thinking they’re pretty,” he said as he looked over his shoulder.
“I think Mom’s pretty.” She was the most prettiest mom I’d ever seen.
As we pulled into our driveway, he leaned over and dropped his voice even lower. “Me too, buddy. And guess what? There comes a time when girls stop thinking boys are disgusting and start thinking they’re cute.”
“I heard these girls whispering and giggling at lunch ‘bout boyfriends. What’s that mean?”
“A boyfriend is when a girl likes one boy better than all the others,” Dad explained.
“Oh. So, a girlfriend isn’t just a girl who’s my friend?” Sounded complicated.
“No. She’d be the girl you like better than all the other girls,” he said as he shut the car off.
I got out of the car and went inside to do my homework. Maybe one day Izzy could be my girlfriend. That’d be nice.
The next day, some big boys teased Jessie on the playground about having a girlfriend. They sang some sittin’ in a tree song. Maybe having a girlfriend wasn’t the best idea.
That afternoon during silent reading, a folded-up piece of paper dropped on my desk. When I looked around, I couldn’t tell who’d passed it to me. I opened it up, trying to be real quiet.
I like you. Do you like me, check yes or no. Will you be my boyfren? Check yes or no.
Izzy
♪ Check Yes or No by George Strait
I couldn’t let anyone see it. I didn’t want either of us to get picked on like Jessie, so I balled it up and stuffed it in my backpack. When I looked up, Izzy was watching me. She looked like she was about to cry.
I thought about it all day. When I finished my homework that afternoon, I took out the paper and flattened all the wrinkles out. Then I put a check mark in both the “yes” boxes. Underneath the questions, I wrote:
Im not sposed to like you, so it’s a secret.
I put my shoes on and yelled to Dad, “I gotta go put something in the treehouse for Izzy. I’ll be right back.”
Izzy was at dance class, so she wouldn’t see me. Super fast, I climbed the tree and left the note on her table. After dinner, I sat by the window in my room. She always went to the treehouse after dinner. I watched her flashlight blink as she climbed. I couldn’t see inside the treehouse really good from my window. But a few minutes after she went up, I saw her come down and go through the gate to my front yard.
When she went back inside, I watched her twirling in front of her window for a little while. Then I went to bed.
After eating my cereal and slurping the milk, I told Mom, “I’ll be in the car.”
“Anxious to get to school?”
I shrugged and went out the door. Before I got in the car, I checked the mailbox. Inside was the crumpled letter.
Under my sentence was one word.
Why?
Ugh. Just because. Why were girls so complicated? I folded the paper up carefully and put it in my backpack. I wished Dad was driving me to school so I could ask him more about girls. Mom wouldn’t understand. Oh well, I’d just ask him when he picked me up.
I avoided Izzy all day. Didn’t look at her or wave at her or talk to her. It was hard. It made me sad to not even see her smile. I wasn’t paying attention, and when Mrs. Jernigan called on me, I didn’t hear her. The whole class laughed at me. The whole day sucked.
Finally, it was time to go home. Dad was waiting in his usual spot. As I slipped in the car, Dad asked, “Did you have a good day?”
“Ehh.” I leaned my head against the window.
“That good, huh?”
“Dad, can I have a secret girlfriend?” I wondered out loud.
“Would the secret be from the girl or from everybody else?”
I looked at him like he was crazy. Why would it be a secret from the girl? “From er‘body else.”
“Why would it be a secret? Are you embarrassed by her?” Dad frowned.
“No. I just don’t want people to pick on me. Or her,” I tried to explain.
“At your age, I guess if she was OK with it being a secret, it would be OK. But when you’re older, having a secret girlfriend is not a good thing. It’s called cheating.” His face turned really serious and stern. That vein popped out on his forehead that always came out when he was mad at me.
“Why would a secret girlfriend be cheating? It’s not a game,” I asked, confused.
“It’s a different kind of cheating. Having a girlfriend that’s a secret when you’re older usually means you’ve got something to hide. Like having two girlfriends, and you don’t want them to know about each other.”
“Ewww. Two girlfriends? That sounds like a lot of trouble and too much giggling.” I shuddered at the thought.
He chuckled. “Two girlfriends are a lot of trouble. You’re only allowed to have one at a time. Because your heart is only supposed to like one girl at a time.”
“So, how do I explain it to her?” I twisted my backpack strap around my fingers.
“You mean explain why it’s a secre
t?”
“Yeah.” Duh. Parents just didn’t understand sometimes.
♪ Parents Just Don’t Understand by DJ Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince
“Just like you did me, Son,” he said patiently.
“OK. Why are girls so complicated?” They should be like boys. We were easy.
“You’re wise beyond your years. You’ve already figured out something that took me years to learn. But girls can’t help it. They think boys are confusing too. Why do you think girls are complicated?” He spun around at the stoplight to talk to me.
“They ask so many questions.”
“They just like to understand things. It makes them feel better when they know what’s going on.”
I nodded. That made sense. “I understand, I guess.” The rest of our ride home was quiet.
Before I started my homework, I took out the note and wrote an answer to her question. B-E-C-A-U-S-E, because, because, because. I sang as I wrote my answer. We’d just learned the song to spell that huge word.
Because.
“Be right back,” I yelled and dashed to the treehouse.
The next morning, the note was back in my mailbox. All she added to it was OK and drew a heart.
And just like that, Izzy became my secret girlfriend. Nothing changed, except she smiled at me more and started signing her notes with a heart. And I started dotting the i in her name with the teeniest heart I could draw.
We didn’t hold hands. We didn’t talk. But we knew we were each other’s favorite. She still drew me pictures every week. Sometimes I drew her some too. And sometimes I just added to hers. Most of the time when she drew me a new picture, I taped it up in her treehouse next to the last drawing we exchanged. The wall was getting full.
♪ Stereo Heart by Gym Class Heroes
One day, she wrote a note to go with her latest drawing.
Why don’t you keep my pictures? Don’t you like them?
Izzy
I decided to draw her a special picture. I added lots of butterflies. Then I added to her note.
Our drawings shud be togeter sinc we cant.
Dawson
All year, other girls tried to talk to me. But I ignored them. Close to the end of the year, a new note appeared in my mailbox.
Am I your only secret girlfriend?
I responded right away.
Yes. I’m not a cheater.
Her letter back came a few days later.
How duz cheating on a game have any thing to do wit bein my secret boyfriend?
They said girls were smarter than boys. I shook my head as I wrote back.
A cheater is when the boy has more than one girlfren and lies about it.
Mom had explained it to me months after Dad had. For some reason.
I couldn’t help the laughter that spilled from my lips as I read back over our exchanges. Izzy had glued some of the actual letters in the book and photographed the others. Man, I’d thought things were complicated back then. I was so naïve.
If I could just go back in time, not to when we were eight, but back a few years to when we were together and things weren’t so complicated. I closed the book and gently placed it in the lock box for safekeeping. Casting a lingering look at the framed photo by my bed, I finally got up and went downstairs.
♪ Two is Better Than One by Boys Like Girls
When I logged in to the band’s Facebook page, I saw my video had been shared thousands of times, and the likes were higher than anything we’d ever posted before. I started going through the comments. They were all favorable and encouraging. A few asked why I’d be writing a letter to the universe.
Our fans just might hold the answer. Maybe some wave worship would help me decide what to post next. Once I had on my wetsuit, I tucked my board beneath my arm and made my way to one of the few places left in my world that still made sense.
Chapter 9
Izzy
When I stepped through the doors of the art gallery, I immediately felt at home. I wandered aimlessly at first, taking in the new exhibits. Smiling at some. Tearing up at others. As an artist myself, the emotions in other’s work usually poured into me. My strides became more purposeful as I made my way to where four of my pieces were displayed—a watercolor, a pencil sketch and two photographs. Tiny “sold” tags were under two of them. I was ecstatic.
“Isabelle, how lovely to see you,” Charles Strong, owner of Strong Art, said when he saw me. His arms opened wide as I turned.
“Charles, it’s wonderful to see you.” I stepped into his embrace. This man had believed in my work when I hadn’t.
“You’re looking well today.” He set me away from him, so he could look me over.
“I’m feeling really good these days,” I assured him.
“You saw that we sold two of your pieces?”
“I did. That’s great.” I refrained from jumping up and down. Barely.
“We’ve had some interest in the other two as well. So… I want to expand your display.” He turned to the wall holding my four pieces and motioned to the space to the left of them. “Maybe eight pieces here. And a few at the gallery in Columbia. Can you show me some of your latest pieces?”
“Sure. I have photos on my phone of at least my last five pieces and my two current works in progress. That’ll give you an idea of what I have. I haven’t photographed everything yet. And of course, my photography pieces aren’t in my phone at all,” I rambled excitedly.
While I was talking, I pulled out my phone and opened the photo album of my work. I handed it over to him.
“Feel free to swipe through or zoom in to get a better idea,” I offered.
His face went through a gamut of expressions as he scrolled through my photos. “I need to see some of these in person, so I can make the right selections. I looked further into your album. Like twenty images back.”
“Oh… OK.” I should’ve deleted the photos of my old pieces from my phone. They were different. They were from… before.
“When did you paint this one?”
He turned my phone to show me the vibrant painting of people bustling about beneath the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. The masses were blurred and out of focus. The focal point was the couple kissing in the center. They were oblivious to the world or beauty moving around them. Love made them completely wrapped up in each other. Love was beautiful. Until it died at least.
I swallowed hard. “That one was painted over two years ago.”
“I need to see that one for sure.” He nodded to himself.
“OK.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to sell that one, but it was just sitting in my spare bedroom, covered in plastic. And I did need the money.
“I know it’s terribly inconvenient for you, but I’m leaving in about an hour to head back to Columbia. I’ll be there for several weeks. But I don’t want to wait that long to get your work on display. So, can you bring your portfolio, fifty or so photos you would consider displaying, your last five creations and eight from any time before you were sick to Columbia later this week?” Charles rattled off his list.
“Uh… sure. Just let me check to see what my schedule is, and I’ll let you know when to expect me.” I had a few photography sessions scheduled this week, but not many. Taking a trip to Columbia shouldn’t be a problem.
“Great. And I’m so glad you stopped by. Expect a deposit in your account by Tuesday.” He patted me on the shoulder before he strolled off to help someone waiting by the receptionist’s desk.
I hurried home to start figuring out what to take to Columbia.
Hours later, I was still pacing around the spare bedroom, looking at the paintings scattered about that I’d pulled out from various drawers and storage racks. The most recent five creations were easy, a series of sketches from the park. They were in a case by the door. Three easels sat on drop cloths by the windows. One was a beach sunset done in muted watercolors. It should be pretty marketable and wouldn’t take much to finish up. Another was a charcoal sketch of an old f
isherman on the pier. I wasn’t satisfied with it. I needed to sit on it a while longer to figure out what was missing.
The third easel was covered and had been for over a year. Carefully, I folded up the fabric that had protected it and me for months. My fingers traced the red and black where they intermingled. The emotion seeped from the canvas and into my skin.
Even after all this time, I still felt the same emotions I felt when I started the painting. It was more abstract than not. But I painted it while looking at myself in the mirror. It was unfinished, but for some reason I felt compelled to snap a few photos of it with my phone. Then I pulled the cover back over it. I wasn’t strong enough yet to finish it. I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror and had no desire to further immortalize it onto the canvas.
The paint formed a chaotic swirl where depending on the view, the colors represented conflicting emotions. The colors were at war with each other—red trying to override yellow, blue drowning green, pink darkening to purple. And all the colors were over washed by the blackness of grief, which held no hint of elegance.
Stepping to the bed, I shuffled through the stack there until I found the Eiffel Tower one Charles had specifically requested to see. I didn’t allow myself to linger over it, instead, I leaned it with the other pieces by the door.
Seven more to go. The trick would be choosing pieces I could bear to part with. Even though I never intended to hang these up or even look at them occasionally, I still wasn’t sure I could let them go. They were a part of me. A part of us. A memory was tied to each one. And I didn’t know how to cut the ties.
After a few minutes of sorting, I set aside a desert landscape, a painting of a group of eclectic fans waiting outside a concert venue and a concert inspired piece with the band silhouetted against a splash of rainbow lights. Four down, four more to go.
I sat on the edge of the bed. A blue corner peeked from the bottom of the stack. I sifted through the stack of drawings separated by crescent board until I unearthed one of Dawson surfing. Tears filled my eyes as I took in the carefree smile on his face, the wind tousled flip of his hair, the sparkle in his eyes. He’d waited all afternoon for that wave. The perfect one. He’d been eager to show off for me. The vivid blue of the sky was the same shade of blue as the package I’d been avoiding for days. Shaking off the memory, I stood. I was drained. The rest would have to wait until another day.
Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series: Box Set 1 Page 24