My Not-So-Still Life

by Liz Gallagher

  I wonder if I’m still included in that scenario. I give her a weak wave, and she returns it with one of her own.

  When we get off the bus in Ballard, Nick mumbles something about homework and heads toward his house.

  I wander over to the skate park to sit.

  From my bench, I watch the skater-guys doing tricks. One catches my eye. He wears a wool beanie even though it’s getting warm out. He’s got on long shorts, skate shoes, and a beat-up T-shirt. It crosses my mind that he should have pads, a helmet.

  The guy is so into what he’s doing. He’s working in the big concrete bowl, gliding from one side to the other. He must have so much focus, to be able to just do that. He’s totally in this moment. His board is part of his body.

  As he approaches the lip of the bowl, I see a shift in his body right before he tries to do a three-sixty turn. He doesn’t quite catch the board right as he lands. Sliding down to the bottom of the bowl must burn.

  He falls out of my view. I feel like a cord connecting us has broken.

  Then he runs back up to the top of the bowl and starts over. I’m mesmerized as he goes down, up, out of view, into view. He gets up a crazy momentum, and then he does it. He does the three-sixty perfectly.

  On his next rise, he hops out of the bowl and someone else drops in. The guy goes to sit in the grass, just like that.

  What I’ve just seen is art. No doubt about it. Beanie skater-guy is an artist.

  I pull my sketchbook from my messenger bag and a charcoal from my box. I try to make something.

  I start playing with shade, making swoops and swirls.

  Ever since Holly got mad at me, I’ve felt full up of this energy that I couldn’t get out because I didn’t know how to make it right. It subsided, but now it’s back. Nick has good reason to be pissed off, and I’m still on shaky ground with Holly.

  This is even worse than before. As I work, I feel like I will burst. I really will.

  I want art to take me away.

  But charcoal on paper isn’t doing anything. I flip to a new page and stare at it. This feels wrong. I want the squeeze of the spray paint can. The way you can’t quite control the flow. The way the color is so alive, and so free.

  I just look at the paper, thinking about blankness and choices. I could do anything. So why can’t I do something?

  Nick and I talk about coloring in the lines, filling them in. But who needs lines? I want to break completely free. I want to be out of bounds, out where it’s all color and everything’s beautiful, even when it’s a mess.

  If I sit still for one more minute, I think I really will burst.

  I walk over to Palette, where it’s slow. Oscar must be in back. Maye’s at the main register.

  “Hot chocolate craving?” she asks.

  “In the worst way.” We walk over to the espresso stand.

  She pours the milk and starts to steam it. I want to talk to her about stuff, but I don’t know where to start, exactly. Tell her I’ve ruined everything with my two best friends? Tell her that school drives me nuts? Tell her that I’m afraid of messing up my life? That I want to be exactly like her, and can she tell me the steps to take to get there?

  Just being quiet is all I have to do, because she asks, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m stressed out is all,” I say. But I do want to talk. I can’t dismiss this energy. “Are you ever just sick of being yourself?”

  She turns off the steamer and stirs my drink. I reconsider the question. “Duh, of course you’re not sick of yourself. You’re awesome.”

  She lets out a breath, hands me my drink. “You think I’m awesome? That’s so sweet, Vanessa.”

  “It’s just true. You’re kind of a role model for me, I guess.”

  “Well, I’m glad we met too. You’re so much cooler than I was at your age,” she says. “You’re so far ahead with your art. I can tell just by the way you talk about it.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You’re right on track,” she says. “You’re really gonna be something. By the time you’re my age, I have a feeling you’ll be doing way better than little shows at the Ballard Collective.”

  “I’d be thrilled with shows at the Ballard Collective. I hope I can get there.”

  “You can,” she says. “You will. Just trust yourself.”

  I take my hot chocolate and walk home, teeny buds of inspiration blooming through the electric storm inside me.

  *

  I go to my room, throw on my splattered tank dress, and run to the garage to spray again.

  This time, I use the wall. The inside of the garage. First, I move my drop cloth to cover up the parts of Grampie’s Chevy that are closest to where I’m working. He’d never forgive me if I messed up his car.

  There’s not enough wall to get out everything I’m feeling.

  Red hearts. Holly. Blue question marks. Nick. Sweeps of black with a nozzle that make it look gray. Spraying and spraying and spraying.

  I stand back and look at my work, which didn’t feel like work at all. It felt like the burst I needed. It’s all about worry over Nick and Holly, and that’s real, but there’s this other thing in me now. This thing that says my trouble with them is not undoable.

  I grab the yellow and make a sun up in the corner.

  The spray paint got all over my dress. I smile to myself over adding new splotches to it from doing something that felt so right. It also got on my skin. So I cool down with a long shower.

  Mom orders pizza for dinner, and when it shows up I join her and Grampie in the kitchen. I don’t know what will happen when one of them sees the garage. Maybe I should just tell them?

  Grampie talks about the Greenwood Car Show, which is coming up. It’s kind of the highlight of his year. One of the few times he actually shows off his Chevy.

  Eventually, Grampie says, “So how’s my workin’ girl? You enjoying punching the ol’ time card?”

  “Yep,” I say. “I really like it.”

  “That’s good, kiddo,” he says. “It’s good to earn some money.”

  “Abso-snootly,” I say. I’m trying really hard to not let on that, really, I feel as if I’m losing my friends.

  “Yeah,” Mom says. “You haven’t been around much. You and Nick hung out today, right?”

  “We went to the mall,” I say. “With Holly.” It should be happy news.

  “That’s great!”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m assuming she’s forgiven you.”

  “I’m not sure. Things are going really well between her and Wilson now, so she’s happy. And she said I was the first person she wanted to tell. But I’m not sure if everything’s really quite right between us yet.” I stop. I don’t want to rehash this.

  “Things like that can take time, Nessie,” Mom says. “But she’s like a sister to you. You need to talk until it’s all out.”

  Grampie nods. “Life’s too short for regrets.”

  If anyone else said that, I’d mock it.

  “I’ll try,” I say.

  We munch on our pizza, and I feel a little bit okay.

  I still have my family, and now I have a new kind of color.

  That night, in bed, I let my thoughts drift back to what I said about Nick today. I’m not sure why I said it. I don’t think of him as a girl. Not at all. He’s Nick.

  All I wanted to do was show that lady that boundaries are nothing. That everything doesn’t have to be all neat and organized and normal to be good. Like a Pollock painting, all messy and beautiful and saying something just by being there.

  Life can be like that.

  Can’t life be like that?

  Thirteen

  I walk to school on Monday wearing an orange string, only two steps up from black.

  Nick isn’t waiting at the door.

  That’s a huge first.

  I think of Grampie and what he said about regrets.

  That applies to Nick as much as it does to Holly.

  I find him at l
unch, at some random table.

  He keeps his head down.

  “Nick, look,” I say. “Look at me.”

  He doesn’t.

  “I don’t want things to be messed up between us. Look, Nick.” I hold up my wrist. “Orange.” He looks at me now. “I’m sorry for being stupid yesterday,” I whisper.

  “You should be,” he says.

  “I am,” I say. “I really am, Nick.”

  He puts his head back down.

  I spend lunch in the library, looking through a Jackson Pollock biography.

  It’s almost impossible to sit still the rest of the day.

  I am not this person.

  This person in a box, waiting for something to happen.

  After school, Nick’s waiting by my locker.

  He looks right at me this time. “I think I accept your apology. Lunch was miserable without you. I can’t handle knowing you’re in an orange zone.”

  I grab him in a hug. “I really am sorry,” I say into his hair. I breathe out.

  “I know. It’s okay. Just don’t ever say that again.”

  There’s still a twinge in his voice, but I ignore it. I have to. I cannot take a confrontation right now. If he’s over it, then I’m over it.

  I pull back feeling lighter. We can get back to normal. “We should do our hair this week.”

  He gets this little frown in his forehead.

  “I gotta get home,” I say. It’s pretty clear that he wants to have some big conversation, and right now, I just need everyone to not be mad at me.

  “Not yet,” he says. He reaches out so that he’s holding me by the elbows, and his face softens. “I do forgive you, but I’m also a little worried about you.”

  My mouth opens, but I don’t know what to say.

  “Sometimes, it’s like you just want everyone to think you don’t care. You just want to be larger than life.”

  I don’t blink. I try to compute.

  “You want things to not be a big deal, so it’s like you pretend they’re not. Even when they are. Like me being gay. It matters. Some people aren’t cool with it. I have to deal with that. It’s up to me who I tell and how I tell them.”

  Of course it is.

  “You seem in such a hurry lately,” he says. “To grow up or something. And to force everyone else to do it with you. I mean, going to Pride would be kind of a big step for me, and it’s like you think it’s just another thing to do on the weekend, like going for gelato.”

  Yeah, I am in a hurry. Being sixteen, being a sophomore, being in high school—it all sucks. It’s just rehearsal.

  I don’t want Nick to worry, but I don’t know how he can stand the status quo anymore. He, who’s waiting to go on his first date, to have his first kiss, even, till college or after. He should know better than anyone how false this holding pattern we’re in is.

  “It’s almost like you think you’re better than everyone. You’ve figured out how you think things should be, and if something doesn’t fit into that picture of Vanessa’s vision of the world, then it doesn’t even exist. Holly doesn’t have a right to keep her crush to herself if that’s what she wants, and I don’t have a right to feel awkward sometimes.”

  “Do you want to live in a box? Don’t you want to grow up?” I ask him. “Don’t you wish you were already where you know you’re going? Why wait? Why should that makeup lady get away with thinking there’s something wrong with you?”

  The hallway is pretty much empty.

  “She shouldn’t get away with it, no. But she’s out there, and there are plenty of people like her.”

  “She rolled her eyes at you.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can change the whole world. It doesn’t mean you can just erase it … or … color over it. It’s not as easy as saying everything’s fine, he’s practically a girl, and then everyone’s over it. Things are more complicated.”

  “Okay, Yoda.”

  “Besides, it’s not like this stuff will go away once we’re older. I think we’re as grown as we need to be to realize that.”

  He’s saying I’m naive. And maybe he’s right. Maybe I can’t change anything.

  But then what are we all doing? Why bother at all?

  “I just think … Not everyone is fine with a gay guy. And not everyone is fine with a girl like you, either. But we’ve got it pretty good. We have fun together. Isn’t that enough for now?”

  For now. When will now become then, the time that’s always somewhere out there in front of us? I hate this feeling, like I need something different, something he’s not ready for. But that doesn’t mean I’m not ready for it. To explode.

  Because I am.

  I can handle what comes.

  What fun is living within boundaries?

  There might be a few casualties along the way, but I have to do what I feel is right. It feels like he’s asking me to hold back. Stay inside the lines.

  I can do what I want. Nothing’s stopping me. No one’s telling me what to do.

  “No,” I say. “That’s definitely not enough for me.”

  I push past Nick.

  He follows me outside. “Vanessa!” I turn around automatically. “You know what? It’s time for you to stop messing with my life. And Holly’s. What about your own life? What are you even doing for the spring show?”

  “I’ve barely even thought about the spring show, Nick.”

  “Exactly.”

  It’s like he releases me with his gaze. I get to my bike and ride around until dark, trying to pedal out this lightning inside me.

  Tuesday morning, I pack my messenger bag with supplies.

  Not for school.

  I try to look like everything’s normal. I give Mom a hug before I get in the shower. I tell Grampie to have a great day in the garden.

  Then I do what I want to do.

  Picking a place is the hardest part. I don’t want to destroy anything. I just want to create art that people can see.

  I head to the park near school, before anyone’s around.

  I use the basketball blacktop.

  My symbol: a lightning bolt. A field full of zap.

  Everything I’ve been feeling lately is like electricity. Shooting through me, making my life light up. Strong, flashing, bright.

  Squeezing it out in purple on the blacktop feels even better than practicing in the garage. I feel so alive. This color cannot be contained.

  I make at least twenty before my breathing calms and I feel okay.

  It’s nearly impossible to force myself to go sit through a day of school after that, but I do it.

  All week, I visit the park in the morning, and during lunch, I hide in the library with Jackson Pollock.

  Grampie notices the garage at some point on Wednesday.

  Over dinner, he says to Mom, “Have you seen Nessie’s latest masterpiece?”

  She shakes her head. “Go get it, Nessie. I want to see.”

  I realize what Grampie means, and I panic. But he doesn’t seem mad.

  He says, “It’s in the garage. It looks almost like a Pollock. But more … girly.”

  It’s probably the best thing anyone’s said about me in months.

  “Thanks, Grampie.”

  Mom goes out to look, right in the middle of dinner.

  Grampie and I keep eating. When she gets back, she says, “Wow. I’m just glad your hair never got quite that colorful.”

  I guess I’m allowed to spray-paint the garage. Cool.

  More than cool, now I know what to do for the school art show.

  *

  Holly calls on Thursday after school. “I got a dress,” she says. “I just wanted you to know. Nick and I went shopping last night.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “It felt weird not to tell you. It felt weird not to have you there.”

  It’s more than weird. It’s me losing my friends. I should have been there. I should be listening to every little thing she has to say about Wilson and the dance an
d the rest of her life.

  I’m crying but I don’t want her to know. Fortunately, she keeps talking.

  “He’s just worried about you, you know? He’s not mad. I’m not mad. We both think you’ve gotten a little … out of control. We needed some space.”

  I created that space. I know it. But I’m not quite sure how to close the gap.

  I gulp and breathe deeply. “So, Wilson asked you?”

  “Monday night at rehearsal, yep.”

  “You’re getting exactly what you want. That’s great.”

  “What is it you want, Nessie?”

  “I want … to live without boundaries.”

  She sighs. “What does that even mean?”

  It means her kind of life is too small for me. Nick’s kind of patience is too much for me. “It means … growing up.”

  “We all are, Ness. I’m gonna go practice.”

  We hang up, and I think about it. Maybe we’re all growing up, but why am I the only one who wants it to happen faster?

  The school show’s on Friday night. I signed up a long time ago to help with setup after school. I won’t let Mr. Smith down.

  During lunch, I get a text from James. My ID is ready, and we arrange a meeting at the skate park at six-thirty.

  Perfect. I had no intention of going to the actual art show anyway. I haven’t even told Mom or Grampie about it. Other parents will be there, and Smith, of course, and all the kids who take art.

  I’ll let my art speak for me.

  Other people are setting up too, including Jewel and Alice. They’re in charge of the cheese cubes. They look really happy. Maybe I really am over Jewel. There’s definitely less of a sting.

  It’s my job to hang up the work on the walls in the lobby and in the small gallery room next to the office.

  Jewel’s done some photos. They’re perfect, of course. Black-and-white shots of flowers and fruit down at Pike Place Market.

  Alice made a collage out of old magazines. Lots of nature. I like what she did; you can tell the pieces are trees and rivers and rocks, but she’s put them together in a really interesting way, so they’re something new.

  I hang Nick’s rebel Prince Charming sketches. He did it all himself. Pencil, ink, color. The character has a personality, just in the lopsided way his crown sits on his swoopy hair. Nick’s gotten really good. How did I not notice that before now?