The Color Project

by Sierra Abrams

  “How can I help you?” I ask, with my biggest, friendliest smile. I adjust my glasses, which have been sliding down my nose all morning, and stand up straighter.

  Her eye twitches. “I need an all-white arrangement for a funeral. Something big, showy, in a basket.”

  I nearly let out a squeak. We have absolutely nothing like that stocked in the shop right now. Bee, think fast! “Unfortunately, due to the expense of that kind of arrangement, we don’t keep any premade in the shop.” I’m worried I sound just as frazzled as I feel, but I press onward. “Our designer is currently on her way with a fresh batch of flowers—would you be willing to wait?”

  She blinks hard, as if in pain. “Sure. Whatever. But she better make it good.”

  “Oh, she will,” I say. My face hurts from smiling. “She’s the best.”

  The woman mumbles something under her breath, but waits by the front desk. It’s almost like she’s watching every move I make. It’s terrifying, but I try not to think about it.

  Ten minutes later, Tracy stumbles through the back door holding six dozen wrapped roses, three dozen under each arm. “Hello!” she cheers, laying the roses on the table. She laughs. “That was a nasty drive. Bee, can you get the rest in the back of the car and lock it? I’ll help our lovely customers.”

  I take the opportunity, practically running outside. The car is wide open and full to the brim with flowers of all different colors and sizes. I pick them up, only able to carry four or five sets at a time, and put them with the roses. When everything is locked up, I head to the front of the shop—only to have Tracy call me back to the designer’s table again.

  “Help me here, sweetie,” she whispers, when I’m close enough to hear. “I’m overwhelmed. Hand me that oasis.”

  I run to the sink and grab the soaking green foam and help Tracy cut it down to fit in the basket. She starts working on the funeral piece, her fingers skillfully placing each wide fern leaf (which Tracy calls “leather”) into the green foam. I help her strip the white roses of their excess leaves and cut them down to size while she arranges them. I want to stand and watch her all day, but more customers have arrived, and I have to go on delivery soon.

  I step up to the counter. A young woman approaches me, looking like she’s about to burst into tears. She’s holding a premade bouquet from the cooler, one full of white and lavender flowers that I haven’t learned the names of yet. “I want something just like this. Do you mind making it larger? I have to take it…to…a funeral.” She says the last words on a heaving breath.

  I take the vase from her, nodding. “Let me take it to the back. How much do you want to spend?”

  “No more than ninety dollars.”

  I smile sympathetically, but when I place the arrangement on the table in front of Tracy, she shakes her head at me. “I can’t. You do it. Grab that vase there—” She points behind her. “And grab more leather and those lavender dahlias.”

  I stand there, gaping at her. “You want me to make it?”

  “Why not?” She smiles. “You’ve seen me do it before, right? You know what it’s supposed to look like. And I’ve seen the way you decorate the shop for me! I know you have an eye for color and order.”

  I whimper incredulously. “Okay,” I say, and some part of me snaps and bursts into action. I hardly know what I’m doing as I grab the leather and three lavender dahlias. I cut and wipe the stems of the leather like I’ve seen Tracy do it, then set them in the vase so they make a circle around the rim. I add a few more layers, then pick up the original arrangement and place it inside the new vase. There’s still room around the edges, so I fill it with white wax flower. Once it’s full, I add the three dahlias and three stems of spray roses.

  I step back. Tracy steps back. She looks at me. I blush. “Is it okay?” I ask.

  She whistles approvingly. “It’s more than okay. I know you had something to work with already, but I’m impressed.”

  I nod, completely uncertain, but something is buzzing inside of me as I head to the front counter to ring up our customer. I’m happy to see that she’s no longer on the verge of tears. (I feel a bit like flying.)

  Chapter 7

  Dinner is scattered that night. My sisters have ballet at seven, and my dad comes home from work late. By the time I’m hungry, my mom and sisters are gone, and my dad is sitting at the table alone. He’s spooning cereal into his mouth (cereal for dinner; welcome, one and all, to my family) and reading the book that’s propped up between his fingers. Crime and Punishment, the spine says.

  Thing You Should Know About Me #104: I’m a book pusher, constantly telling people to read certain books, often to get them out of their comfort zones. I’ve been badgering Papa to read this book for ages, and it looks like he’s finally taking my expert advice. It also looks like I was right to recommend it, because he’s enthralled, his blue eyes focusing hard on the pages. It’s only when I step in front of him that he looks up and scratches his short brown hair. “Hey, Bee.”

  “Hi, Papa.” I lean down to kiss his cheek. “How’s the book?”

  “Good stuff. Raskilnikov is digging himself into a deep hole.”

  I sigh dramatically. “Ahh, Raskilnikov.”

  He leans back. His clothes are dusty from work, and his cheeks are unshaven. “Going somewhere tonight?”

  “Out with Tom and some friends.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Probably in his room.”

  “Hmm.”

  Papa seems a bit more tired than usual. I wrap my arms around his shoulder and give him a squeeze. “How was your week?”

  “Good. I’m tired of working on this attic, though.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. There was a problem with the electrical company, so now we have to wait until they rewire the entire second floor.”

  I pat his arm. “That’s super annoying.”

  “Hmm,” he says again. Then he rubs his eyes and grunts. “I’m going to watch some TV before I go to bed—want to join? I’m starting a new science fiction show.”

  I’m rather tantalized by this, but I give him an apologetic smile. “I promised Tom.”

  “Well, I suppose I should be urging you to go out more often anyway, so…good for you.”

  I laugh, high-fiving him as he heads into the living room. “Thanks, Papa. See you tomorrow.”

  It isn’t until I get into my room that I remember that it’s Saturday, and my dad doesn’t work Saturdays. There’s a split second where I wonder why he’s so tired if he hasn’t worked all day. Then I find myself staring at my closet, thinking about the party and the weather and what to wear (and The Boy), and that moment is past and forgotten.

  I decide on jeans and my favorite blue shirt and polka-dotted sweater. My shoes match the blue on my shirt, and I’ve even put on my favorite pair of gold earrings. I pull my hair into a messy bun and apply lip gloss.

  Thing You Should Know About Me #204: I don’t wear makeup. My skin is sensitive and I’m too practical to spend more than twenty minutes getting ready. But every once in a while, when Tom convinces me to go out (or there’s a wedding; these are the only acceptable times), I borrow some of my mom’s makeup. Right now I’m looking in the mirror at my slightly-more-smooth face, and it surprises me. I look…older. It takes a few seconds, but the near-panic queasiness settles in my stomach with a whoosh. When did that happen?

  “Hey, Beef!” Tom yells from across the house, rescuing me from my moment. “Time to go!”

  “Coming!” I answer, grabbing my purse, and rush outside. Tom’s already waiting by his car…and his girlfriend is with him.

  Thing You Should Know About Me #70: I don’t like Andrea. Now, I like mostly everybody, but Andrea is one of the few people I don’t like without any particular understanding of why. There’s just something about her that bo
thers me. And despite wracking my brain for a reason, I don’t have one. Tom, however, is completely enthralled by her gorgeous blue eyes and candy-red lips and prim way of sitting and standing.

  “Bee,” she says to me. Her smile is not quite a smile.

  “Andy,” I say, because she’s insisted I call her that. As if saying a nickname over and over again will generate some sort of familiarity between us. “I didn’t realize you were coming.”

  “Is there a problem?” Tom asks, glancing back at me through the rear-view mirror.

  “No, of course not,” I say, shrugging. Then I notice the slight downturn of his mouth and the way his eyes flicker to Andrea briefly, as if he’s not quite looking at her, and I want to ask. But I’m afraid he’ll bust me for being nosy, so I move to something else. “I’m excited for tonight.”

  My words are genuine. As much as I’m not a huge fan of big, loud parties, I have hopes that I’ll enjoy this one. After all, it’s at Keagan’s house, a place I’m comfortable with. I breathe in and out, steadying myself after my long day, finding some solace in familiarity.

  Tom smiles. (Although his eyes maintain some wariness.) “Good.”

  The party is in full swing when we arrive.

  I walk in first (bad idea), so I’m immediately hit by a wave of humans: Keagan, Michael (who slips my mom’s bill into my purse as he hugs me), Greg, and some of Tom’s old friends from high school. I hug Mariah and Trey, who both graduated with Tom last year, and Mariah introduces me to her friend. Because of all the noise, I barely register that her name is Casey. Behind me, Tom is shouting something about a video game, and the music blares, and the sound of cue sticks hitting billiard balls pops against my eardrums.

  I awkwardly smile and nod at Mariah and Casey, even though I suddenly can’t focus on either of them (oh God this party is already overwhelming me helphelphelp). I turn toward the game room, scanning for the pool table, and when my eyes find it, I nearly drop and cover my head. There stands Levi (OF ALL PEOPLE) making a perfect shot, his tall, lean body bent over the table, and I have to force my mouth closed. Enough gaping at him, Bee.

  If I wasn’t going to let Tom talk me into playing before, I’m sure as hell not going to now. And if I thought for one second that this party was going to get me out of seeing That Boy today, I was dead-wrong.

  Levi straightens, his bright red sweater falling loosely across his shoulders and around his long torso. When he raises one hand in a triumphant fist pump, I can see the top button of his jeans, and the belt around his hips, and the sliver of skin and hip bones and muscle just above that.

  Everything is beautiful. Everything is terrible.

  I clear my throat. Once again I’m staring at him, and once again he’s caught me. He knows exactly who I am and that we talked and that he named my car and that I’m an awkward human being, but he still smiles at me.

  I nod in his direction, grinning a little too hard, thanking God he’s too involved in the game to walk over to me. I wonder when he’s going to start thinking I’m a creep for staring all the time. I need to compose myself, get my crap together.

  He’s just a boy.

  (Who just happens to be everything I want, so help me.)

  Tom slaps my shoulder, already holding a beer, and leans close to me. “Hey, don’t take this the wrong way, but everyone can tell who you like.”

  I elbow him hard in the ribs. “I don’t like him,” I whisper harshly. “And you already know I think he’s cute, so you don’t count as everyone.”

  “O-kay,” he says lamely. I can’t help but smile at him. “I won’t let your secret out, then. Could be bad for you.”

  I purse my lips. “Tom, you’re incorrigible.”

  “Come on, Bee,” Andrea says, coming up beside Tom. “You don’t have to show off with all your big words.”

  Her tone is decidedly teasing, like she’s my older sister and she wants to mess around with me, but somehow her smile looks like a sneer. I wonder for the umpteenth time if I’m reading into something or if I’m actually right. “Incorrigible?” I ask. “It’s not that big—”

  Someone to my left interrupts me. “Unredeemable, incurable, habitual.”

  I suck in my breath.

  “Come on, Andy,” Levi continues. “If you don’t know that word, then maybe you should retake fifth grade vocabulary?”

  He’s teasing, laughing like it’s all in good fun, but now he’s pissed off the Wicked Witch of the West. With a disgusted glance in my direction, Andrea shrugs and turns to my brother. I half expect her to hug him, to play the whiny girlfriend, but they don’t even make eye contact. Tom grabs his beer bottle and tosses it in the trash, and Andrea heads straight to the drink table.

  I don’t know what’s going on with them, but I brush off my concern and pivot to face Levi.

  He’s right there. Right behind me. Too close too close too close.

  “You know her by Andy?” I blurt.

  He shrugs. “She practically chewed me out the second time I met her and didn’t call her Andy. I never forgot again.” He chuckles, fingers wrapped around his cue stick, which rests chalk-end-up next to him. “But I’m sure you know all about that.”

  “Ha!” I laugh, a little too loudly. (Tone it down, Bee.) “Yes. Well. Tom must see something in her.”

  “Hmm.” He glances over at Tom, who is purposefully avoiding eye-contact with us. “Maybe.”

  My shoulders relax. “You see it, too?”

  “They’ve never been this weird.”

  I sigh heavily. “Right? I mean, I don’t know her that well, but…”

  “Yeah.” Levi jerks his head up at the sound of his name being yelled from across the room. “One sec, it’s my turn.”

  I follow him to the crowded pool table. It looks like Keagan and Michael have joined the game, as well as three new arrivals. To avoid being trampled, I sit down behind them on one of the kitchen barstools next to Mariah. I don’t understand the rules of the game at all (I’m dreadfully confused), but I watch intently nonetheless. The room tenses when Levi knocks three of the balls out of the game. A cry goes up: anguish from Michael, triumph from Keagan.

  It’s Michael’s turn, and then Keagan’s (I’m starting to get the idea that they’re playing with teams), and three other guys I don’t know. When it’s Levi’s turn again, he saunters over—narrowly avoiding the foot Michael sticks out to trip him—and sets up his shot. We’re all watching, holding our breath, and Michael is completely bitter that we’re all rooting for Levi.

  Of course, he strikes perfectly, and the balls fly just how he wants them to, and everyone jumps up wildly. Levi shouts something I can’t understand and grabs Keagan’s face in his hands. Laughing, Keagan slaps him on the back, raising their hands in the air between them like they’ve won some big championship. Everyone crowds around them and I’m grinning hard from their contagious joy.

  Mariah leans in close, laughing over the racket. “Levi’s been trying to beat Michael at pool for over a year. The tension’s been high.”

  I laugh, knowing Michael’s competitive spirit and typical winning streak. I’m happy he lost a game; he probably deserved it for something.

  When things calm down (and Michael is only half-grumbling, and Keagan has stopped running around yelling “WINNEERRRRS!” in his loudest voice), I find my way back to the barstool. Before I can get comfortable, Levi sits beside me, his elbows resting on the bar behind us. I get a split-second thrill looking at him, admiring his well-cut jaw and shoulders and long legs. Then I snap myself out of La-la Land and realize he’s said something.

  “Wait, what?” (I blush. Profusely.)

  He laughs, leftover flush from his victory on his cheeks. “Nothing. You look dazed. Are you tired?”

  How to answer that question… “…Yes,” I decide on. “A little.”

/>   “New job stuff?”

  I smile—he remembered. “Mostly that. Also, parties wear me out.”

  “Why?”

  “Nerves.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. I’m headed straight for embarrassment.

  He tips his head back. “You don’t look nervous.”

  “Ha!” It’s the second time I’ve burst out laughing at something he’s said, and I want to tell him that right there is a sign of nerves. But that would mean admitting that he makes me nervous. No can do, Beautiful Boy. “Well, that’s good to know.”

  Levi takes a sip of beer and sets his bottle on the counter behind us. “So what’s this new job?”

  I smile. “I’m a florist’s assistant. The delivery girl—whatever you want to call it.”

  He returns my smile with his own. “That suits you.”

  “Really?” (You don’t know me, I want to say. Not yet, you don’t, I want to add.)

  “You have that look about you. It’s the long hair, I think.”

  I pat the bun on my head. For the second time, I’m thrilled he remembered that detail from our meeting yesterday; I’d worn my hair down when I picked up my car. “At least it does something.”

  His expression asks me why: one eyebrow raised, the left corner of his mouth tightened in a quirk.

  I sigh. “I once donated fifteen inches of my hair to Locks of Love. Great decision, don’t get me wrong, but it was…not my best look. I couldn’t do anything with it. I know I wear it up a lot now, but at least there’s the option when I need it.”

  He nods. “Fair enough.” He runs a hand through his own hair, ruining his perfect coif. His fingers are thin and smooth, but I remember their steady grip from our handshake yesterday.

  At this sudden and vivid memory, my body reacts with a ruddy blush that lights up my face. How nice. It was just a frickin’ handshake, dammit.

  “What about your job?” I ask. Time for a distraction. “How do you know about cars?”