But lately all she could think was maybe she wasn’t now or ever going to be an artist. What more sign did she need, really, than this baby inside her? A warning: Don’t get cocky. You think you deserve art school? Think again.
Audrey sighed and shuffled the glossy images aside, opening her laptop instead. She slotted in an SD card and watched the images load up. All I need is some inspiration.
Right.
“Audrey!” Adam’s yell came muffled through her door. “Dinner’s here!”
Audrey rapped her knuckles on her computer. “Okay,” she called back, forcing some cheer into her voice. “I’ll be down soon!”
She waited for his feet on the stairs to fade before exhaling and beginning to click through the loaded photos. These were all old—technical practice shots in the studio at school freshman year, the cast of one of her mom’s shows in rehearsal, her friends being silly.
Audrey smiled at a shot of Jen standing in the middle of some empty street. If she didn’t already know it was old, Jen’s chin-length hair and bangs would have made it obvious. Her eyes were closed and her smile blurred, like Audrey had caught her off guard. It must have been right after Jen’s parents’ messy divorce, because both the cross and the crescent moon necklaces hung around her neck—Audrey remembered taking Jen shopping the day her dad had moved out, how her face had lit up seeing the moon in a cheap jewelry store and how María had lent her the ten bucks it cost to buy it. When Jen looked that happy, it was contagious.
She clicked out of those and into a more recent folder, scrolling until she noticed a picture she didn’t even remember taking, of the girls sitting on the wall out in the parking lot. María had her tongue sticking out and her eyes crossed, one arm around Rose’s shoulders. Rose was almost completely obscured by Jen sitting on her lap; only the right side of her face and her jean-clad legs were visible. And then there was Olivia, their latest addition, pulling a funny face to match María and her nose ring flashing in the sunlight. What had Olivia said before? You don’t take pictures to remember what people look like? Ha, Audrey thought. Wrong. How would I remember these moments, these girls in this time, otherwise?
Her hand stilled, the cursor hovering over the image. They all looked so carefree and . . . happy.
Audrey wrapped her left hand around her right wrist, her fingers curling over the veins that ran so vividly blue near the surface there. God, she wanted to look like that again, not to have the worry lines and anxious smile permanently fixed to her face. She ached to be happy and stupid again, losing sleep over practice SATs and parties she wasn’t invited to instead of whether or not she’d be good at mixing formula and if an abortion would hurt more or less than the time she got her appendix out.
It was weird how much she could picture her life changing. Almost as if she were already looking back on this moment, these very moments, even as they were still happening.
Picture it: a toothless smile, soft feet kicking gleefully, a cry that could be calmed only by her. Mountains of diapers, long nights of unsettled screaming, and an unrelenting sense of exhaustion, too, of course. But those things didn’t bother Audrey as much as the fact that she couldn’t see further than a couple of years into the future—because any baby that she had would only be a baby for so long, as was the order of life, and yet she couldn’t imagine it any older than a couple of years. She couldn’t imagine what her life might be like when she and Julian would be the parents of a ten-, thirteen-, eighteen-year-old.
Parents.
It hit her so suddenly. They wouldn’t just have a baby; they’d be somebody’s parents. She’d be a mom.
The realization sent goose bumps pinpricking down her arms, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her dry mouth. God, I’m so stupid, she thought. Is this really the first time I’m realizing this?
But it was.
It would change everything: her relationship with Julian, with her parents, with her friends. Rose. Maybe she was right, what she’d said when they were screaming at each other, that a baby would take her away. Where would Rose go when she was lonely? There’d be no more sleepovers, no more days spent laughing at nothing, no running away to do silly things together. Who would be her refuge?
Audrey winced. Not that they were talking now anyway. Perhaps the beginning of the end had already arrived.
And then—adoption. The thought of spending the next seven months with this thing inside her and always worrying, still, and maybe it would be a good thing to do, sure. But why did she have to be good? Who decided exactly what Good was?
She hiccupped, a lone breath of remorse loud in the quiet of her room, her only company the paintings on the walls.
Maybe I don’t want to be pregnant at all, she thought. But what did she want? To have fun again; to put more energy into creating art than possibly creating life; to get a full night’s sleep with her brain on quiet. And what was so bad about that?
Audrey moved her hand down, skimming her chin before coming to rest on her throat. She searched out her pulse: there it was, beating slowly under her fingers, even and calm. She exhaled equally slow. How her body could be so rhythmic and regular when her brain was scrambled to the point of madness was beyond her. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, she realized. Have a baby, not have a baby . . . it’s not like things can ever go back to the way they were before, either way. Not the way I wish they could.
She looked at that picture on the screen again, the joy emanating from it, the carefree feeling that was so unbelievably close, really. Five, maybe six weeks ago: had she suspected then? No, Audrey thought. Wait—I must have. Did I? She looked too happy to have been worrying about anything.
She kept looking, her chest constricting, and then a thunder of steps knocked her out of that zone. Another yell, this time from her mom: “Audrey! Dinner! Come on!”
She slammed her laptop shut and tried to ignore the tightness snaking its way into her ribs and squeezing around her spine. “Okay, I’m coming.”
Audrey was an expert at ignoring things now. At least that she could be sure of.
TWENTY-EIGHT
On her way into school the next morning Audrey was ambushed. María and Jen appeared on either side of her, linking their arms with hers as they crossed the parking lot. “Hi,” María said, before Audrey even had a chance to protest. “So, I’m just going to cut to the point: what is going on with you and Rose? Enquiring minds want to know.”
“Enquiring minds miss you at lunch,” Jen said. “I hate it when we’re not all together.”
María steered them away from the school building. “I asked Rose, but she won’t say anything.”
“Whatever it is, can’t you two make up?” Jen said.
Audrey pulled her arms from theirs and shook her head. “If she’s not saying anything, then I’m not. And no, we can’t make up. Sorry I’m not playing nice the way you want,” she bit out. “But whatever. You wouldn’t even understand if I told you, so what’s the point?”
Jen and María looked at her, a mix of confusion and hurt playing on both their faces, and Audrey held up her hands, backing off before she could do any more damage. “I’m sorry,” she called back. “See you later.”
Now she was standing at one of the sinks in the art room, the water running a murky blend of greens and blues as Audrey scrubbed the paint from her hands. The skin under her nails bled shocking violet.
She liked the mess of painting. Sometimes photography could be too sterile, clean, especially since everything was digital. There was a pleasure in the smell of the colors, how they smeared onto the canvas and onto her clothes, through her hair if she wasn’t careful enough. Mostly she kept her painting sessions at home, where no one could judge her lack of technique.
But walking into art class today, her fingers had itched to do something different, and before she knew it she was sitting in front of an easel with a brush in her hand and a moody mix of paints before her.
Audrey watched the water swirling down the dr
ain until it ran clear and then dried her hands on scratchy paper towels. She stood there until a throat-clearing noise interrupted her introspection. “Sorry,” she said, turning to see Karima Yang waiting.
“It’s all right,” Karima said, and she moved forward to tip her mug of water into the sink. “Thanks.”
Audrey walked back to her painting, only to see Olivia standing in front of it. She darted back to her seat when she saw Audrey coming, and Audrey gave a halfhearted roll of her eyes. “You can look,” she said. “If you want.”
“Hmm?” Olivia looked up. “Oh. Okay.” She stood and slowly crossed to where Audrey’s canvas was propped up. “I like it. Did you work off one of your photos?”
Audrey folded her arms and positioned herself next to Olivia. The canvas held a basic outline of the scene she was trying to create, bold strokes of blue forming Izzy’s fire-filled eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “I wanted to do something different for a change.”
She glanced at Olivia, who was staring fixedly at the painting. “You know, I’m pissed at Rose, but that doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me.”
Olivia cracked a small smile. “You think I’m not talking to you because of her?” She looked properly at Audrey now. “I thought you were pissed at me, too.”
“Why would I be mad at you?” Audrey asked the question even though she could guess at the answer; probably it had been too much to hope that she could’ve pinned this on Cooper. He made such a good scapegoat, though.
“You know why,” Olivia said, and she looked so guilty that Audrey almost laughed. “If it wasn’t for me, Rose wouldn’t—” She lowered her voice. “I didn’t tell her. Okay? I said I would keep your secret and I did. I tried anyway, but—God, this is going to sound so stupid—Rose guessed it. I swear to God. And then I told her that it wasn’t any of our business, that if you wanted her to know you would tell her, and she promised me she wasn’t going to say anything.” Olivia did a nervous sweep of the room with her eyes, as if anybody else would even be remotely interested in their conversation. “I didn’t think she was going to throw it at you like that.”
“It’s Rose,” Audrey said flatly. “You think you know her, and then she does something like this. Trust me, you’ll get used to it.”
“I’m really sorry,” Olivia said now. “Really sorry. This is—”
A clatter of plastic bangles signaled Ms. Fitz’s approach and Olivia shut up fast. “Audrey,” the teacher said, her eyes serious behind red plastic-framed glasses today. “Can I have a word?”
Olivia dropped back, giving Audrey a grim smile, and Ms. Fitz slipped right into the space left behind. Those bracelets clinked again as she pushed her glasses on top of her head. “This is . . . different,” she said, tilting her head toward Audrey’s painting, and Audrey knew she wasn’t saying it in a happy way. “You remember what we talked about?”
“Yeah,” Audrey said. “I mean, yes. I remember.”
“Good.” Ms. Fitz said, one eyebrow arching. “So I’m assuming you’ve worked up a project now, yes?”
“I—yes,” Audrey lied. “Um, I’ve been working on a new series. I’m trying a mixed-media thing, and—well, I have some pieces at home. But I’ll bring them in.” What? Where the hell did that come from?
Great. Now when she didn’t have anything to show, the shit was going to hit the fan worse than it would have if she’d kept her mouth shut. Nice going, Audrey.
Ms. Fitz gave a muted smile, as if she knew Audrey was lying but wasn’t going to call her on it. “Great,” the teacher said. “I’m excited to see it. Keep your focus, Audrey. Don’t let yourself down.”
Audrey opened her mouth to reply, but sudden heat flushed her face and this ball of frustration rose up in her throat, blocking any words she might have been able to force out. Instead she nodded tightly and stretched her lips into the fakest smile.
Ms. Fitz looked satisfied. “Good.” With that she swept on to the next victim, Rami Clark bent over his block of clay.
Audrey looked down at her hands, her palms still pink from the hot water, and then to her utter mortification, tears pricked her eyes. She swore quietly and looked around, dragging her sweater sleeve over her face.
That this was the thing that finally broke her was both surprising and not. Art was the one thing she needed, the thing that she’d chosen. It was hers, for better or worse. When things were strange, when she felt bad, she found peace, beauty, fascination in a photo. She threw colors on canvas until she could breathe again, twisted the tangled threads of her heart into wires that spiraled in the wind. Until this time. The fighting with Rose, the pregnancy, everything—that felt surreal, another world, another time. But her art was real, and it was hers. If she didn’t have that, then what did she have? From the first time she’d picked up the camera, Audrey had imagined going after art with everything she had, her whole heart. Now it was slipping away, and it was almost too much to bear.
The music playing out of the stereo covered Audrey’s steps as she crossed the classroom and ducked into the supply closet, breathing in the sharp smell of white spirits and oils. The door closed with a soft click behind her, and in the blanketing quiet, shut away, it all burst forth.
For a brief, burning minute she sobbed, allowed herself to weep real chest-racking, mucus-leaking, salty tears for everything that was pressing at the shaky seams of her brain: the baby, and the birth mother, and the mom watching her carefully. The best friend and the fighting and the sharp press of guilt each time Rose’s name came up. The future she had and might not have and the future she might be taking from her boyfriend. And the girl in California seventeen years ago, the life she might have had if it hadn’t been for Audrey, forcing her way into the world without a care for anybody else.
As suddenly as she’d started, she forced herself to stop. One, two, three shuddering breaths in the dim light; one, two hands curling into tight fists.
“Okay,” she whispered fiercely, swiping at her sodden cheeks. “Get it together.”
Noise flooded the closet as the door opened, and Audrey moved quickly, turning into the shelves as footsteps sounded behind her. She cleared her throat loudly and pushed her hair behind her ear with one hand, stretching the other toward the bottles of white spirits on the topmost shelf.
The hand on her shoulder surprised a choked breath out of her, and she shook it off almost violently, spinning around to see Olivia standing there. “Hey,” she said in this soft voice that turned Audrey’s tender heart inside out. “Are you okay?”
Audrey didn’t know whether to nod or shake her head or shrug—so she did all three, bursting into a shaky laugh as she did so. “Oh my God,” she said, feeling fresh tears soak into her eyelashes. “Ignore me. I’m so stupid!” She flexed her fingers around the bottle she’d grabbed, avoiding meeting Olivia’s eyes. “How pathetic am I, crying over that? I’m beyond ridiculous.”
Olivia leaned against a stack of paper boxes and plucked at Audrey’s sleeve. “You’re not ridiculous. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re going through some major stuff right now, remember?”
“How could I forget?” Audrey hiccupped and laughed again, although it sounded more like a childish tantrum sound effect. “I know it’s so not important right now, but I want Ms. Fitz to think I’m doing good, y’know? I need somebody to, like . . . believe in me.”
Olivia nodded. “I get it.”
“Shit.” Audrey looked at Olivia, pressing her fingers to her cheeks and bringing them away smudged with black. I knew I shouldn’t have put on makeup today. “On a scale of one to ten, how much of a hot mess do I look like right now?”
“About a six,” Olivia said mildly, and laughed when Audrey gasped. “But that I can help with. Here.”
From behind her back she produced a small black pouch and a cracked compact, pressing them into Audrey’s hands. “Just call me your queer fairy godmother.”
Audrey laughed through her sniffling sounds and flipped the compact open, sighing at her r
eflection. “I don’t think we’re the same foundation shade,” she quipped, and then said, “But thank you.”
“No sweat.”
Audrey ran her thumb under her eyes, wiping away the smudged mascara to reveal circles almost as dark underneath, and then picked a worn-down lipstick out of Olivia’s makeup case. She parted her lips and watched herself slick on the peachy shade in the dusty mirror. The only sounds were her rusty breathing, the creaking of the pipes against the back wall. But then Olivia spoke again.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, quiet but firm, “I believe in you. And you should believe in you. Fuck everybody else. It’s all you, Audrey.”
Audrey rubbed her lips together and repeated Olivia’s words in her head. Fuck everybody else, she thought. It’s all me.
Is it all me?
I don’t know anymore.
But it felt good to think it, even for a moment. She faced Olivia again, lifting her head high and seeing the look of approval rise in Olivia’s eyes. “Right,” she said. “It’s all me.”
TWENTY-NINE
Audrey, is that you?”
Audrey cursed the squeaky hinges on the bathroom door. All she wanted was to get upstairs and put on a campy old horror movie, something that required no brain activity and that she could fall asleep to. She did not want to talk to her mother.
You Don’t Know Me but I Know You Page 15