“You’re kidding. Aren’t you some kind of super star? Captain of the team and all that?”
“A living, breathing cliché.” He sighed, pulling his hands away from the piano and turning backwards to lean against it. “I had so much fun as a wide receiver. There’s strategy and movement. Coach doesn’t let me run the ball much, so playing quarterback is like one big, dumb game of catch.”
Bria swung her legs around to match Ben’s posture, facing the open room. “Doesn’t the quarterback get to like call arguables?”
“Audibles.” He grinned at her. “You really don’t watch football, do you?”
“Not any more. Aunt Becky dated a retired player a while ago. He tried to teach me some stuff, but, yeah. Dad’s an entertainment lawyer. We spend weekends at clubs watching his bands. I’m not sure he’d know a football if it hit him in the face.”
“Leading the team, calling plays. It’s a ton of pressure. If we lose, it’s on me. If we win, it’s on me. Doesn’t matter if it’s really my receivers or tackles or safeties who win the game.”
“Safeties are a thing?”
“A super important thing. And that’s exactly my point, no one knows who they are even when they’re the reason we win.”
“So you hate playing. You hate the pressure. You hate the popularity.”
“I know. Boohoo me.”
She giggled. “Why not quit?”
“I don’t hate it, really.” He brought his hands together and rested his chin on them. “And right now, it’s a way to pay for school. Mom and Dad work crazy hard so we can live here. They can’t pay for both of us to go to college. Especially with all the film jobs leaving LA. So I play really well and colleges line up to pay for me to play for them.”
She quirked a smile at him. “I guess that’s as good a reason as any.”
“I don’t know.” He leaned back again with an exhausted groan. “Don’t you ever get sick of being you?”
Her heart thumped out of time. Somehow Ben, of all people, had stumbled onto her biggest secret, her greatest weakness. For a moment, they were more alike than they’d ever been different.
“Hey.” Abby hopped into the room. “I thought you were waiting in the family room.”
“Oh. I…just looking at the piano.”
“What are you guys talking about?”
“Football.” Bria pulled away from Ben’s side, only just realizing how close they sat, arms nearly touching. “What movie did you pick?”
“Evil Mountain.” Abby waggled her eyebrows. “It’s the movie our parents met on.”
“So bad makeup and cheesy stunts,” Ben said.
“They’re a lot better now.”
“It’s still god awful.”
“That’s what she gets for letting me and Dolores pick.” She grabbed Bria’s hands and dragged her to her feet. “Come on, Mom made some kind of cookie bar things to eat while we wait for dinner.”
Chapter Four
Bria leaned over the engine compartment of the Corvair, working at the tight screws on her carburetors. Music pumped through a portable stereo set up in the garage and she tapped her bare foot along with the relentless beat of a double bass drum. Nothing like thrash metal on a Saturday morning.
The top of the first carb came loose and she disconnected the fuel line before setting it aside, taking time to wipe her hands before going in again.
No matter how hard she tried to keep the car clean, inside and out, grease still coated her hands and clung to her nails by the time she removed the venturi cluster to clean it.
She pushed back from the car. The oil probably needed a change and she might as well top off fluids while she had it open.
“Bria?”
She leaned around the hood to see Rafael at the edge of the driveway, jogging in place and holding an ear bud in one hand. “Hey.” She wiped her hands again and tossed the rag aside before pulling on her hoodie to cover the scar across her collarbone.
“This is a different look,” he said, taking in her cut offs and tank top peaking out under the hoodie. A slight sheen coated his olive skin and his shirt clung to his chest.
“Shockingly, combat boots don’t work for everything.” She picked up a socket wrench, popping a new socket onto the handle. “I’m trying to get her running again before school Monday morning.”
“You fix cars?”
“I know how to maintain this one. I can’t do anything major, but oil changes, fluids, cleaning the carbs. That kind of thing I can handle.”
He pulled out his other ear bud and walked up the driveway. “This is a beautiful car. 1960s?”
“’63. It was my grandpa’s. He gave it to my mom, then me.” She beamed at it. The shinning blue paint she carefully waxed twice a month looked as good as new and the cream leather interior was flawless. Every inch of chrome sparkled.
“Why’d your mom give it up?”
She rubbed a stubborn spot of grease on her hand with her thumb. “She died. Six years ago.”
“Shit. Sorry.”
“Anyway, I’ve been taking care of it since then. Finally got my license last summer and now the carbs keep fouling.”
“How does it run?” He opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat, running his hands over the wheel.
“Flawless when she decides to behave.”
His hand went to the gearshift. “This really is a thing of beauty.”
“I’ll turn her on for you after I finish this.”
“That’s what she said.” Rafael grinned.
“Very mature.” She lifted the second venturi cluster free from the carb. A metal rod, half the diameter of a pencil and perforated with five little holes, came down from a misshapen bolt plate. “This is the part that gets clogged. Makes her idle out at inopportune times.”
“You can clean those yourself?”
Bria lifted up a paper clip. “I use very high tech tools.” She cleaned each of the five holes and slid the piece back into place, securing it with the screws again. “Scoot.”
Rafael slid over and she took his place in the driver’s seat. She turned the key in the ignition and the engine came to life with a growl. She revved the engine a few times, making the car rumble.
“Oh, man.” Rafael grinned. “You have to let me drive this.”
“Nope.” She switched off the engine. “No one gets to drive her but me.”
He popped open the passenger door and got out of the car. “No one?”
“Nope. Not Abby, not my dad. No one.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
“No.” She folded her arms.
He held up his hands in surrender and backed away from the car. “Okay. I get it. No touching the car.”
“What are you doing here anyway?”
“Out for a run.”
“You run? At 8 A.M. on Saturday mornings?”
He tapped his watch. “It’s almost 10 and yeah. Cardio helps with performances. No one wants to see you get winded ten minutes into a show. You should come sometime.”
“Running? Never.” She dropped her tools back into the toolbox and closed the engine compartment. “A show? Maybe.”
“I don’t know a whole lot about cars, but shouldn’t the engine be up front?” He tapped on the hood.
Bria grinned at the car and passed a loving hand over the trunk. “That’s one of the cool things about Corvairs.”
“Still looks weird.”
“I like weird.” She put her hands on her hips. “Do you need a bottle of water or something? You’re looking a little shiny.”
“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “This is a nice place. What does your dad do?”
“Oh.” She motioned him into the garage and opened the fridge in the back corner. “He’s a lawyer.” No need to mention the music part to a musician. With a flip of her wrist, she tossed a bottle at him.
He caught it handily and twisted off the top. “Nice painting,” he said, nodding at the giant canvas covering most of
the remaining wall.
“I haven’t worked on it in a while,” she said, glancing at the half-finished painting of a shoreline. Storm clouds, dark and menacing, gathered to the north and rain lashed at the sand. Excellent use of chiaroscuro, or so Ms. Fury had said last time Bria had showed her an update.
“That’s yours? Vega was right – you are wicked good.”
“I started it last spring. Ms. Fury wants it to be the showcase piece in my portfolio.”
He leaned back against the utility sink. “Why aren’t you working on it then?”
“Pressure?” She shrugged and looked up at it. “Every time I try to paint, I hear all the ways someone is going to pick it apart. All the meaning they’re going to ascribe to it. I just wanted to paint something pretty. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.”
“Sure.” He pushed up from the sink and crushed the empty bottle.
“Sorry. Just ranting.”
“I should get going again. Still have two miles to go.”
“Have fun, I guess?”
“Always.” He grinned at her. “See you Monday.”
Bria shook her head and pressed the button to close the garage door after him. She scrubbed her hands in the utility sink and turned to the painting again. Her fingers itched to hold a brush, but self-doubt kept her from trying. Better to never finish than to do it wrong.
She stepped into the laundry room off the garage and closed the door.
Around the corner, Dad’s office remained closed up, meaning he was still on a call or videoconference. The poor man didn’t know the meaning of weekend.
She crossed through the kitchen, grabbing an organic, gluten-free, vegan protein bar and then paused by the fridge. Peering around the corner at Dad’s office again, she deliberated before opening the refrigerator door.
Principles be damned. Sometimes it hurt too much to control everything all the time and she made Dad get local, humanely raised, pasture-based, organic meat anyway.
It took a minute of digging to find the rest of the bacon Consuela had made for his breakfast on Friday and then pop it in the microwave. After piling it onto a bagel, she grabbed an orange for good measure and retreated to her room with the forbidden treat.
She sat down in the middle of her oversized bed, in a sea of fluffy white pillows and blankets. Consuela didn’t make the beds on the weekend so it remained a mess from her restless night of sleep.
Dreaming about Ben would do that.
Taking a giant bite of the sandwich, the salty, greasy flavor of the bacon flooded her mouth, instantly transporting her back to childhood. Thick, fluffy pancakes, drenched in syrup. Her own small hands coated in flour and a single streak across Mom’s cheek.
Dad before the laughter left his eyes and work took him the rest of him.
For a few moments, she let herself savor that small taste of another life.
Setting her plate aside, Bria pulled out her laptop and the folder of Dad’s receipts. The pile of crumpled paper translated into neat columns and rows, each entry falling into place. Mess succumbing to order. Chaos to reason.
Halfway through the week’s receipts, the sense of control that came with bookkeeping still hadn’t fixed her mood. She looked between her half-eaten sandwich and her phone before snatching up the latter to tap out a text.
Come over?
She finished the sandwich in the time it took Abby to reply.
Yep.
A pause.
You okay?
Bria typed out a response with her thumb.
Missing Mom
And need to re-dye my hair
Abby’s response popped up faster than her first.
I’m there with gloves and chocolate
Bria grinned.
That’s what she said
She hopped up with her plate and the receipts, and then skipped back down stairs to dispose of the evidence of both.
After giving the plate a quick rinse, she stashed it in the dishwasher, choosing to ignore the sense of guilt that crept in every time she failed to live up to her own expectations.
Chapter Five
“Crap.” Dolores frowned at the mascara in her hand. “I bought brown-black instead of very black.”
“Use mine,” Abby said, handing it across the tiny sink in the high school bathroom.
“Gross,” Bria said. “You’re going to give each other pinkeye or something.”
“Please,” Abby said. “She’s been borrowing my makeup since we were twelve.”
“I do take better care of mine,” Dolores said, wincing at the clumps on Abby’s brush.
“I can’t believe your mom still won’t let you wear makeup,” Abby said. She twisted her med alert bracelet around on her wrist a few times.
“Don’t you know?” Dolores gave them her best wide-eyed, innocent look. “That’s how you end up pregnant at sixteen.”
“Yeah, but you’re almost eighteen.”
Bria shook her head. Dolores was the conscience of their group, but her mom was so busy keeping her daughter from repeating her mistakes that she’d missed the fact that she’d raised a really good kid.
“New?” Bria asked, nodding at the leather cuff on Abby’s wrist. Rugged, hand-stamped letters spelled out her allergies should she ever be found incapacitated.
“Ben got it for me for my birthday.”
“Better taste than I’d expect from him,” Dolores said. “That’s awesome.”
“I know, right? Sometimes he’s almost not totally lame.”
The first bell rang and Bria twisted her hair on top of her head, securing it with a paintbrush. Several pieces slipped loose, hiding her face behind the purple waves.
Dolores and Abby crammed their makeup into their bags, and then brushed past Alyson and Kaileigh Rutherford. The two artificially blond cheerleaders scuttled out of their way.
“Boo!” Abby said and the girls jumped, prompting giggles from Dolores.
“Freaks,” Kaileigh said, disappearing into the bathroom.
“Seriously?” Bria pursed her full lips. “We’re seniors. You still want to act like that?”
“Come on,” Abby said. “It’s so fun to watch them twitch.”
“After how mean they were in junior high?” Dolores said. “They kind of deserve it.”
“Right,” Bria said. “So we should be better. Not stooping to their level.”
“What happened to you this summer?” Abby said. “You spend a couple mouths wandering around New York and come back all weird. You’ve been off since school started.”
“I’m fine.”
“Whatever,” Abby said. “Hey! You want to go see the mural?”
“No. Why? If it’s that bad –”
“Oh. My God,” Dolores said, catching her arm. “You haven’t seen it?”
“I usually avoid the gym. Beside, it can’t be worse than the old one,” Bria said, shuddering at the memory of the cartoonish hunter covering the back wall behind the basketball hoop.
“Oh no?” Abby raised her eyebrow, an expression so much like her brother’s it hurt. “You have art first period, right?”
“Why?”
“Ms. Fury can wait. She lets you get away with anything.”
Abby looped her arm through Bria’s and pulled her down the hall.
With a few minutes until last bell, no one stopped them in the halls. Abby threw open the gym doors, unleashing the heady scent of fresh paint, and Dolores led the way inside.
“Dear. God.” Bria froze below the oversized painting with her jaw slack. The old mural was bad. The new one made her want to vomit.
Instead of the tasteful explorer surveying the coast that she’d submitted, a snarling hunter dressed like Davy Crockett graced the wall. Coonskin cap and all. The proportions were wrong. The colors were off. A preschooler could have painted neater than the cheer squad. Even the school’s motto – citius altius fortius – was a mess.
As if the artistry wasn’t gag-inducing enough, this hunter
carried a musket in one hand and a bloody bowie knife in the other. At his feet lay the decapitated, bleeding remains of not one, or even two, but three cross-eyed beavers.
“One for each year we’ve beat Topanga,” Abby said, pointing at the beavers.
“Seriously.” Dolores shook her head. “It’s bad enough that we’re the Huntsmen, but is catching a beaver really even hunting?”
“It is when you’re biggest rivals are the Topanga Beavers,” Abby said.
“Doesn’t Topanga suck?” Bria said. “Is that even a real rivalry?”
“After your PETA protest last year, you’d think they’d at least question this,” Dolores said. “Yours was way better – and less violent.”
Bria scattered the ends of her ponytail with her hand. “I can’t even…”
The bell rang and Abby steered her toward the door. “We need to get to class.”
“I can’t believe Ms. Fury let that happen,” Bria said. “Why give it to the cheerleaders when we have an award-winning art department?”
“Get her to change it,” Abby said. “Or do it yourself.”
“Somehow I don’t think they’d like my version.” She hitched her book bag up on her shoulder and marched into the art room, past the Art I kids bent over awkward still lifes. With her sketchbook in hand, she settled on a stool.
“No music today?” Rafael said.
She peeked up from her drawing. His long, loose limbs and open disappointment made she feel the need to apologize. “You can pick something.”
“You alright?” He touched her arm. “You look intense.”
She sighed and tucked her pencil behind her ear. “Have you seen the mural?”
“Can’t be worse than my old school. We were the Red Men. Fake war dance at half time and everything.”
She lifted up the sketch she’d done of the mural and he winced. “Yeah.”
“Not that thing,” Sebastian said, peering over her shoulder. “Like high school sports aren’t stupid enough.”
“God I hate jocks,” Rafael said. “Make us all look like idiots.”
Ms. Fury fluttered to Bria’s side and clicked her tongue. “I told Principal Erickson it was insensitive.”
“It’s horrible,” Bria said. “Our gun-toting mascot is slaughtering beavers with a bloody knife. A gun and a knife. In a high school.”
The Art of Falling Page 3