“Is that even possible?”
“It is if they ask the guys for clarification.” Dad pushed back from the table and stood, stretching his arms and legs. “They need to know promoters are paying attention. It’s a safety thing. If they can’t get the cookies right, how can they trust they got the stage setup and stuff like that right?”
“I guess.”
He twisted his arm to examine the Swiss luxury watch on his wrist. It made no sense with his otherwise disheveled appearance, but it had been a gift from Mom. He only took it off to shower or swim, even after he’d tucked his wedding band away with hers. “I’ve got a call coming from New York. See you tonight?”
“Don’t work too hard.”
Dad quirked a half-smile, then bent to kiss her cheek. “Love you, Pumpkin Pie.”
Finishing her muffin in one bite, Bria washed it down with the last of her coffee and grabbed her book bag from the family room. The empty house sealed around her and she rushed out to the garage to escape the silence.
Her old Corvair started with its familiar growl, and then stalled out. She narrowed her eyes at it, like one angry glare could fix the carburetors, and then tried again with the same results. With a sigh, she yanked the keys free from the ignition and texted Abby while she popped open the engine compartment.
A few minutes later a car pulled into the driveway and Bria slammed the trunk down over the engine. As much as she loved the Corvair, maintenance was a bitch.
She lost her train of thought to the image of Ben’s jeep idling at the edge of the driveway. She swallowed and kept her steps slow and steady.
Maybe walking the quarter mile to school wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
She’d managed to avoid him since the bonfire Friday night, but there he was, sitting in her driveway and wearing that shade of red that pulled out the auburn tint to his hair.
“You’re up front,” Abby said. “I’m still copying Dolores’s summer reading report.”
Bria’s eyes locked with Ben’s for a brief moment as she slid into the front seat of his too neat car, then she jerked her head down to fasten her seatbelt.
“What’s wrong with the Corvair this time?” he asked, fixing his eyes on the road and tightening his grip on the wheel.
“Carburetors again.” She couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice.
Ben laughed, that deep laugh that made her stomach all shivery. “Good thing Abby caught me in time. She’s out of gas.”
“I’m saving for my homecoming dress,” Abby said.
Ben rolled his eyes and Bria held back a giggle by biting her lip.
“Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?” she asked. “You haven’t been to a dance since junior high.”
Abby grinned. “That’s because no one has ever asked me. Eli did.”
“Eli? Like Elijah Cohen Eli?”
“We hung out a lot this summer while you were gallivanting around New York with Aunt Becky. So I’m going to homecoming with him and we’re finding you a date.”
Ben tilted his head just enough to see Bria’s face and she could have sworn he looked sad. Or wistful. Some emotion that didn’t look right on Oceanside High School’s star quarterback.
She cleared her throat and reached toward the center console. “I hate this song,” she said, changing the station.
“Here.” He nudged her hand away and switched over to his MP3 player. Something far too cool came through the speakers. “Better?”
“Is this Criminal Casino?” Bria turned up the volume. It was still weird to hear one of her dad’s bands out in the wild.
“I stole the promo from Abby’s room. I hope that’s okay.”
“Yeah, sure. And it’s better than twenty year old grunge crap that wasn’t that good the first time.”
Ben laughed and dropped his arm back on the armrest. His hand stretched over Bria’s, but he didn’t react, even when she jerked her head up. He didn’t move, didn’t look at her. Just kept his hand covering hers, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Which it kind of was.
“O. M. G.,” Abby said, spacing out each letter.
Bria yanked her hand away and twisted to face Abby in the backseat. “What?”
“Dolores sent me a picture of the new mural. They so should have let you do it.”
“It’s not so bad,” Ben said. “Especially considering the cheerleaders painted it. I mean, it could be a lot worse.”
“How?”
“Let me see,” Bria said, reaching for Abby’s phone.
“Nope. You of all people need to see this in person.”
“Abs,” Ben said. “Don’t be mean.”
“They might as well have painted ‘ha-ha, Bria Hale’ over it. This is a mockery of everything she – we – stand for.”
“Oh, come on.” Bria reached for the phone again.
“Later.” Abby shoved her phone back into her pocket.
Ben pulled into the rapidly filling parking lot. “I have practice tonight,” he said. “So I’m not going home until late. Do you want the keys or can you wait?”
Abby grabbed the keys from his hand. “We’ll see.”
“I’ll catch up, Abs,” Bria said. “I dropped my phone.”
“Fine. I’m going to find Dolores.”
Bria turned on Ben. “What are you doing?”
He actually blushed. “She didn’t notice.”
“I did.”
“Was it so bad?”
She swallowed. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“We’re not doing this, okay?” She slammed the door and stomped across the parking lot, terrified freshmen going all Red Sea and scattering in front of her.
Bypassing her locker, she headed straight into the crowded art room. With its paint stained floors and ever-present perfume of turpentine and baking clay, it had somehow managed to get less organized over the summer.
She picked her way through the jumble of tables, stools and easels to find a spot with the other seniors along the back wall of the room. With a cursory nod toward Sebastian Vega, she popped open the archaic CD player standing sentry over the counter.
Technically any senior could pick what music they listened to, but no one had questioned Bria’s choices in three years. The art room belonged to her. It had since the second half of freshman year, when she’d won the Scholastic Gold Medal for one of her paintings and it had gone on display in New York.
In reality, all of the buzz about her attention to detail, her deep symbolism, and comparisons to artists like David and Caravaggio freaked her out. She just liked to find the bizarre in the ordinary. Like the piece that won the Gold Medal: a portrait of a woman with braids. Except instead of braids, chains grew from her head, weighing her down.
Whatever the critical response in New York, back home it gave her enough status to make high school a whole lot easier for a weird art kid.
“Smashing Pumpkins,” a warm, male voice said behind her. “Not what I’d expect.”
She pivoted to see a boy with jet-black hair flopping across his forehead, and just the right amount of brooding smolder. His tight hoodie hugged his narrow frame and Chuck Taylors extended from his slim jeans.
“Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness is timeless,” she said.
A slight smile curled his full lips. “Rafael,” he said, extending his hand.
“Bria.”
His black eyes, ringed with lashes so thick they gave the impression of eyeliner, widened. “So you’re Bria. I expected you to be taller.”
“I’m almost 5’9” without the boots. Isn’t that tall enough?”
A playful shrug coaxed a smile from her. “I think it’s perfect.”
“Dude,” Bas said, adjusting his thick glasses. “A little subtlety.”
Ms. Fury, in a cloud of chalk dust and unruly curls, waltzed toward them. Ms. Fury never walked. She danced through life in a whirlwind of her own whimsy and chaos.
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“Oh, good, you’ve met,” she said. Her feet never stilled as she moved around the table. “This is home room, so I’ll check you in, but then it’s a free day. The poor Art I’s need me.”
“Free day?” Rafael said.
“No assignment,” Bria translated.
“Next week, we’ll work on portfolios,” Ms. Fury said, sweeping a lock of hair back with a paint stained hand. “Application deadlines are coming.”
“You’re applying to art school?” Rafael asked.
“What else would Bria do?” Bas said. “She’s wicked good. Creepy as hell, but good.”
Bria pulled her legs up under herself and set her sketchbook in her lap. Bas’s words rang in her head, but not the way he meant them.
“Your parents are cool with that?” Rafael asked.
“Yep.” She stayed hunched over the sketchpad, drawing her own hand. She never could get hands just right. Too many bones and muscles and ligaments, all refusing to fall into place.
“My dad insists music isn’t a profession and I have to go to college for a real job.”
She looked up from the sketch, which had slowly transformed from her own hand into something gnarled and clawed. “You play?”
“Bass. Band’s been together almost two years. We’re about to record an EP. I gotta prove we can make it before graduation.”
Turning back to her sketching, she began to add some color. “What kind of bass?”
“I have my dad’s old Ibanez. I’m saving up for a Stingray.”
Bria nodded. So he wasn’t a total poseur behind that pretty face. “Nice.”
“Maybe you can watch me play some time.”
“Ooh,” Bas said. “You are brave. Hitting on Bria on the first day of school.”
“Shut it, Vega,” she said.
He threw up his hands in surrender. “Consider it shut.”
Chapter Three
“Why is the first week of school so freaking long?” Abby said, flouncing out of school with a suspiciously light backpack.
Dolores Herrera stopped to adjust something on her oversized camera and then shook her head, the red streaks in her dark hair glittering in the bright sunlight.
“Because you don’t do any actual schoolwork?” Bria suggested, unlocking Dad’s Volkswagen hatchback. She couldn’t wait to get the Corvair fixed. “It goes faster if you take notes and stuff.”
“I take notes.”
“You copy notes,” Dolores said.
“Same difference.”
“Whatever.” Dolores aimed her camera at Bria, clicking the shutter before sliding into the backseat. “So where are we hanging out tonight? I am beyond broke.”
“We should go to Bria’s.” Abby settled in to fiddle with the radio. “It’s free and your dad works so much it’s like you have the whole house to yourself.”
“Yeah,” Bria said. “It sucks. No food, no cable. I love my dad, but he’s not exactly good at making it feel homey.”
“We are not going to my house,” Dolores said. “My mom will actually make us study. First weekend of senior year, I am not doing homework on Friday night.”
“Fine.” Abby heaved an overly dramatic sigh. “We’ll go to my house. Again. You guys should just move in already. And no more pictures, Lor!”
“It’s for the back-to-school issue of the newspaper. I have to document this.”
Bria laughed and pulled out of the high school parking lot. Rafael waved at her from beside his motorcycle, one of those old café racers, maybe an Indian. Either way, the leather jacket definitely added to his look.
She waved back.
“Oooh,” Abby said. “The hot, mysterious new guy waves at our heroine. Her heart flutters, consumed with a desire she doesn’t understand.”
“Shut it.” Bria swatted her arm. “That’s Rafael, from art.”
“Rafael,” Abby said in a husky voice.
Dolores leaned over the front seat to snap a picture of Rafael through the windshield. “It is a hot name. And he’s an artist?”
“Put your seatbelt on,” Bria said. “He’s in a band too. But I am not dating this year.”
“No one said anything about dating,” Abby said. “Why are you not jumping on that right now?”
“New York, remember? Besides, it’s like he’s almost too much, you know?”
Abby rolled her oversized eyes. “You sound like my brother. Not all hipsters are poseurs.”
“You’d look really good with him,” Dolores said, examining the photo on the back of her camera.
“Ben?” Abby raised her eyebrow in classic Harris fashion.
“No! Rafael. They’re like a perfect match. All moody and counterculture.”
“He’s kind of short,” Bria said. She gripped the wheel, focusing way too hard on the lines in the road leading onto Abby’s street.
“I think he’s hot,” Abby said. “But I’m not a gorgeous Amazon like you. Come on, you guys could lay around naked all day and paint each other.”
“I am not getting naked with Rafael,” Bria said. “No matter how hot he is.”
“Seriously, can you imagine Bria with Ben?” Dolores said.
Abby giggled. “He could borrow her eyeliner if he runs out of eye black.”
“Ooh, maybe she could woo him to the dark side. Can’t you see him in some tight jeans and boots? Get his septum pierced or something?”
“Shut up!” Abby spun around to face the backseat. “I don’t want to hear about my brother again. You are both better than that.”
Bria parked behind Ben’s jeep and shivered to keep her face neutral. They tumbled toward the front door, Dolores and Abby still laughing at the absurdity of Bria and Ben. Nearly identical in height and shape, only their hair set them apart from behind. Dolores’s long glossy braid swished against her shoulder blades with every step while Abby’s blond bob perpetually floated on some unfelt wind.
Bria sighed and clomped after them.
“Hi, girls.” Mrs. Harris rose from the couch and wrapped each of them in a hug.
Bria sank into her arms, letting her soft lilies of the valley scent bring her home.
“Hi, Mrs. Harris,” Dolores said, shedding her shoes beside the others at the door.
“Adele,” she corrected. She planted a kiss on Bria’s forehead. “You look tired.”
“First week of school,” Bria said, dropping her eyes.
Adele tilted Bria’s chin from side to side, scrutinizing her face. “I hope you’re sleeping.”
“As much as I ever do.”
“Eating?”
“Consuela bought a new vegan cookbook.”
She hugged Bria again. “Well, I’m about to start on some chana masala. Can I convince you to stay for dinner? Let me make sure you get one solid meal this week?”
She smiled. “I’ll text my dad and let him know.”
“Good.” Adele’s smile lit her whole face, just like her kids. It bathed Bria in light, welcoming her soul as well as her body.
“You coming?” Abby yelled from the top of the staircase.
“Hmm?” Bria pulled away from Adele’s warmth and wrapped her arms around herself.
“We’re finding a movie.”
“I’ll wait in the family room.”
“Fine.” Abby shrugged and ran up the stairs.
Bria unzipped her boots and kicked them off with a sigh. The Harris’ house was as full of life as hers was empty. She turned into the living room, pausing at the decades of family photos gracing the walls. Vacation pictures, Christmas morning. Twelve years of school portraits. Ben’s school dances. Abby’s cast pictures from drama club. All the milestones families celebrate together.
The kind of photos that stopped after Mom died.
The rest of the room, all warm shades of cream and red with soft curtains and overstuffed furniture, felt so familiar, so welcoming it hurt. She dug her toes into the plush rug, like they could anchor her there and make her belong.
The piano at t
he far side called to her. She slid onto the bench and brushed the keys with her fingertips before moving her hands into place. She closed her eyes, playing the familiar melody by feel.
If she kept her eyes closed, she could pretend it wasn’t her playing. She could listen, like she had as a little girl, watching her mother’s graceful fingers whisper across the keys, like music flowed from her instead of from the strings hidden inside.
Footsteps broke her concentration and she dropped her hands into her lap.
“That’s beautiful,” Ben said.
“Thanks.” Her heart sank as he moved closer.
“I just…” He sat beside her on the bench. “I just wanted to make sure we’re okay. We haven’t talked really since…”
“No worries. We’re fine.” She turned back to the piano, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Sorry I interrupted. You looked pretty blissed out,” he said. “I didn’t even know you played.”
“I don’t. Anymore.”
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.
“When your dad reps some of the best musicians in the world, you figure out pretty quick that you’re not one of them.”
“Ouch.”
“I’m good at other things.” She brushed her fingers over the keys. “That was my mom’s favorite.”
“Chopin?”
“You know classical music? Do you play?”
“Scoot over.”
She obliged and he sat beside her on the bench. He stretched his fingers and tapped out the first notes of Heart and Soul. She filled in the second part of the melody and he turned to grin at her, finishing his part with a flourish.
“That’s all I know.”
“A very impressive repertoire.”
“Our grandma had this idea about me and Abby playing duets. She paid for like three years of lessons.”
“And that’s all you remember?”
“I totally sucked.”
“You’re good at other things,” she said. For some reason the memory of their kiss floated to the top of her mind and her eyes drifted toward his lips. She caught herself and heat crept up her face. “I mean. I hear you’re really good at football.”
He cleared his throat. “You want to know something?” He leaned across the piano bench and dropped his voice. “I actually hate playing quarterback.”
The Art of Falling Page 2