Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel)

by Courtney Cook Hopp

  The lull that hung in the air was a familiar, tense and silent. Painful gears turned, assessments were being made — scales balanced.

  “I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “You saw a piece of art that looked like this boat?”

  I didn’t understand what I was saying either, because what my mind hinted at wasn’t possible. The fog inside me began to lift and an uneasy feeling descended down, stalling my verbal processing. “You’re right,” I said, latching on to the only plausible explanation. “I probably saw a piece of art at the SAM that reminded me of this boat.”

  He thrust an accusatory finger at the lifeless boat. “CeeCee, there are no works of art at the museum that look like this boat.”

  I pulled free from the spell the tiny boat had cast over me, too tired to understand, too embarrassed to try and explain. “Your photos. You should get the rest of your pictures before you lose the light.”

  I could see a debate slide across his eyes as he held mine. “The photos can happen another day. We should get you home.” Abruptly, he turned and headed back to the car, the out of balance scale sending him rocketing from the island. Away from the crazy girl.

  My brush stroke was tense, the bristles bending awkwardly under the pressure of my fingers. I focused all of my energy on the hue of crusted amber, determined to keep my mind clear of the garbage it continued to regurgitate. I forced the brush down the canvas, my wrist bent just the way Mom had taught me. Hours she would spend with me, her patience endless, stroke after stroke.

  I dropped my hand and stared at the line of color. It wasn’t right. Nothing felt right. I threw my paintbrush onto the pallet of colors, leaving the floodgates of my mind open to be inundated with the images I’d tried to suppress. Quentin. The lighthouse. The boat. The shadowy figure clinging for life as the storm waters attempted to thwart their efforts.

  Was it supposed to be me? Drowning?

  I shoved my balled fists against my eyes, trying to rub out what lay behind them. Every free moment of the past couple of weeks I’d spent holed up in my art room. Hidden, as I waited and wondered, when and if my mind would turn on me again and make another painful strike, leaving me stripped of all rational explanation.

  The sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway announced a welcome distraction. I shuffled over to the dormer window, twisting my out of control hair up into a knot before shoving a paint brush through it. Grace and Avery stepped out of Grace’s car and headed toward the house. I hesitated before rapping on the window, unsure if I had it in me to be social.

  Acknowledging me with a wave, they altered their course to the stairs that led up the side of the garage.

  They disappeared from view as my forehead came to rest on the cool glass. I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for Grace’s intense level of social banter. As my lids fluttered open, a slow moving car passed the end of our gravel driveway, spiking a surge of adrenaline through my veins. An old green Land Rover, like Quentin’s. It couldn’t be.

  I blinked. Shook my head. Looked again.

  Nothing. It was gone.

  I rubbed my tired eyes, unsure if I’d imagined it or not. Of course I did. I turned from the window, unwilling to fall victim to my mind’s pranks.

  Again.

  I was becoming delusional. It was no different than the figure in the boat, or the images I saw the night at the SAM. Maybe I was the deranged lady that needed to be locked away.

  The thump of feet on the stairs brought me back to reality. I shook off my misguided sight and returned to the canvas, trying to brush in some final details.

  “Okay, Cee,” Grace said as the door flung open and she and Avery stepped in. “Let’s see it.”

  I squinted, brushing wisps of highlights to the dark hair on the canvas. “Hello to you, too.”

  “Hello is a formality we’ve moved way beyond,” she chirped and gave the door a back-kick closed. “Although, with your recent MIA status, maybe formal greetings are back in order.”

  I knew it was true. I’d been in full avoidance mode, embarrassment of possibly fainting keeping me out of the public eye.

  “And you look like crap,” Grace commented, her eyes giving my disheveled appearance a once over.

  “You can ignore her,” Avery chimed in. “She’s a bit bent by a stupid rumor floating around.”

  “It’s not stupid.”

  “It is stupid,” Avery retorted in her usual black and white tone.

  “What’s the rumor?” I looked up as they neared. They both looked crisp against the fuzziness of my mind. Bold and put together, swimming through my world of gray.

  “Sean’s interest has been caught by a little, you know,” Avery said as she leaned in and whispered, “T and A.”

  “Well, which is it?” Glad to have someone else’s problems to focus on. “A ‘T’ or an ‘A’?”

  “She’s got both,” Grace grumbled. “Big boobs and a nice curvy ass.”

  Avery giggled. “Chelsey.”

  Their approaching critique set a flutter of nerves loose in my stomach. “She hardly compares to your curves.”

  “I know I got it in the trunk,” Grace replied, her hips swinging wider, “but her perky double-D’s are a visual stimuli even I can’t compete with.”

  Avery and I did a simultaneous eye roll as I moved to the sink, distancing myself from the canvas and their reactions.

  They both took it in at the same time and went silent, the ticking wall clock suddenly the loudest mechanism in the room. My palms turned damp. I plunged them under the spray of cold water, along with the brushes. Of all the art lessons I took in San Francisco, the one I never mastered was putting my art on display for public opinion.

  It was Grace who finally broke the silence. “Couldn’t you have at least distorted my boobs bigger?” she said of my version of Picasso’s cubism using the two of them as models.

  “I could have.” The cold water bit at my hands as I cleaned the brushes. “But you both knew portraits weren’t my thing before I asked you to model.”

  “It was a stupid class assignment,” Grace spit out.

  Done with her 30-second scrutiny, she snagged a magazine off the art table and flopped herself down on the old couch along the wall. “But, as usual, yours turned out much better then my interpretation of the Seattle skyline.”

  Avery continued her thoughtful study of the canvas. “I don’t get it.”

  “That’s because it doesn’t involve numbers or symbols,” Grace quipped back to our math genius, whose interest in art ran just deep enough to put up with Grace and me.

  My cell phone beeped as I dropped my brushes on the drying rack. I dried my hands and walked back to the art table, pushing around the clutter to find it. “So who’s your source about Chelsey?”

  “Jenni,” Grace pouted.

  “Unreliable,” I said and moved up behind Avery who was still studying the canvas. “You don’t have to look at it any longer,” I whispered over her shoulder. “You’ve fulfilled your friendship viewing quotient.”

  “It’s fascinating.” She cocked her head left, than right. “I can see hints of me the longer I look at it, even though it looks nothing like me.”

  My phone beeped again.

  “Girls. Focus. We’re discussing me. What makes her unreliable?” Grace asked, stretching her legs out and flipping through the magazine. I knew she was trying to act disinterested, but she wasn’t fooling anyone.

  “She’s one of Chelsey’s closest friends. She’s just stirring the pot to see if anything floats to the top.” I grabbed my phone and looked down at the screen. A text. From a number I didn’t recognize.

  “I agree,” I heard Avery say as I stared at the number.

  Finished with her analytical scrutiny, she moved over to the arm of the couch and added, “If you want an answer, you need to flush out a direct contender. Ask Chelsey.”

  “Or better yet,” I sai
d pulling up the text message, “you could ask . . .”

  R U free Thursday night?

  -Quentin

  “I could ask who?” Grace’s voice drifted into my scrambled confusion.

  I reread the text, my heart hammering double-time in my chest. “You, um . . . could . . .” How did he get my cell phone number? I looked up at Grace, the only other person who knew Quentin existed. I wouldn’t put it past her to prank me.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Where’s your cell phone?”

  She did a half roll and pulled it out of her back jean pocket. “Here. Why?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Girl, you are losing it.” She shoved her phone back in her pocket. “Are you going to answer my question?”

  Staring at the text, I asked, “What question?”

  “Focus, Cee. Focus. Who should I ask about Chelsey?”

  “What? Oh, Sean.” Distracted, I moved to the little bench seat in the window and hit the reply button, the dampness in my palms back. “You could ask Sean directly.”

  How did you get

  this #?

  “What do I care? Sean can date whomever he wants.”

  I shook my head, because I knew she did care. My phone beeped again, startling me.

  If you’re free on Thurs,

  I’ll tell you.

  “CeeCee? Hello?” Grace’s exaggerated voice catching my attention.

  “What?” Annoyance seeped into my tone. I could easily sneak out, but to meet him? I looked out the window, picturing the car I saw drive-by earlier. I knew I needed to say no. I should say no. Every logical thought screamed no.

  Grace lowered the magazine and shot me her best offended look. “Don’t get uppity with me for asking you a friggin’ question. Who’s texting you, anyway?”

  “Oh, um. Foster,” I lied. “Complaining about his school work and lack of social life.”

  “It’s his own fault,” she shot back with her typical answer for everything. “Did your brother think he would be able to skate through an engineering degree?”

  “Engineering’s a great field,” Avery added in.

  “Whatever,” Grace said, going back to her magazine. “But in my book, it’s just another form of island isolation.”

  Island isolation. I was tired of isolation. Tired of this room. Tired of my own mind. Tired of gray. In a moment of irrational thought, I typed one word and hit send.

  OK

  “Not everything has to be about isolation,” Avery added. “It could just mean . . .”

  The next beep seemed to have doubled in volume.

  “CeeCee, I know you two are close and all, but you’ve got to cut him off.”

  I tuned her out to read the text.

  Catch the 6:40 ferry.

  I’ll meet you on the other side.

  I didn’t reply. Unsure of what I’d just agreed to.

  “Can you believe that?” Dylan leaned over and asked after the last bell of the day released us from the apprehension I’d been locked in all week. “An essay? In French? By next week? This class is going to kill me.”

  “Um, yeah.” A French essay was the least of my worries. I was distracted by the fact that it was now Thursday and I’d agreed to meet a total stranger in the city, who may or may not be stalking me. Who may or may not be a nice guy. Who may or may not . . .

  Stop.

  I had to stop with the what-ifs. I shoved my books into my messenger bag and bee-lined for the door.

  Dylan’s lanky lope easily kept pace with my jumpy gait. “Where are you off to? I told Grace and Avery I’d meet them at the coffee shop after school. Do you want to come?”

  I ignored the hope in his voice. “I can’t.”

  We stepped into the mass of humanity that had flooded the halls. “I’ve got to, um . . . I’ve got some things I need to do.” Like, go home and search for my sanity, which seemed to have vanished the moment I agreed to meet Quentin. Well, actually, before that, but I was now pushing the blame in his direction.

  A body jarred my shoulder from behind and sent me tripping into Dylan. His French book fluttered to the ground as he awkwardly reached out to catch me and missed, leaving me to land with a “whoosh” on top of three hundred pages of Français.

  “You okay?” He jammed the flow of bodies with his towering frame and reached down, clamping his clammy hands around my forearms, nearly yanking my arms from their sockets as he lifted me up against him.

  “Yeah, fine.” I quickly stepped back and shook my arms to be certain they were still attached and slung my bag back over my shoulder. “I’ve got to go.”

  He looked down at me hesitantly. I quickly looked away. “Um, okay, I guess I’ll catch you later,” he mumbled as his frame receded in the crowd.

  I was too distracted to react to his tone and hesitation. I pushed my way against the flow, the jostling of bodies inflaming my anxiousness. Ignorance was my choice of weapon against his unasked questions of interest. I didn’t ask for it, and I sure didn’t encourage it. I wanted nothing that would tie me to this island come the end of the school year.

  The doors to the north parking lot were in sight. I could almost taste the fresh air on the other side. My body slugged through the last ten feet.

  “CeeCee!”

  Cut short of opening the door, I turned to see Grace running to catch up with me.

  Winded, she asked, “Can I get a ride to the coffee shop?”

  “Where’s your car?” An endless afternoon of Grace chit-chat was not what I needed. Inevitably, my focus, or lack of, would be called into question, leading to a relentless inquiry as to why.

  She followed on my tail out the door. “In the repair shop again. I should have opted for an oldie like yours.”

  I sucked in a deep breath. With every step, the cool air sliced through my lungs, expelling bits of pent-up anxiety.

  “Besides,” she continued, “you could stand a few moments out of that fume filled room of yours,” she added.

  “I’ve just got some stuff to do.” I set my messenger bag on the hood of my car and began the endless search for car keys.

  Undeterred by my “no,” she walked around to the passenger door and waited. “What stuff?”

  “Is this an interrogation?” I glanced irritably over the top of my car. “If you must know, I have a hot date in the city I have to get ready for.”

  She held her laughter back for all of two seconds before letting it rip. “Girlfriend, you are funny.” She was actually snorting. “You’ve given no island misfit the time of day, and now, one in the city? I don’t think so. You’re not that good at keeping secrets from me.”

  That’s what she thought. We both slid into my car at the same time. “I said I wasn’t going to the coffee shop.”

  “I know, but you can still roll your little ride by and drop me off.” She wasn’t getting out. I relented and backed out of my parking spot. “So, speaking of dates, Avery and I decided we should all go to Homecoming together as a group.”

  I glanced at her, trying to assess where this was leading. “Have fun.”

  “You’ll come.” She flipped down the visor and began a lip-gloss and primp routine. “It’s totally casual. We figure we can all watch the game together and then head to the dance. Dylan’s coming too.”

  “Is Sean coming?”

  “The last time I checked, we lived in a free country. No one’s stopping him.” I could have puckered from her tartness. She tossed her gloss back in her bag, asking, “So, you’ll come?”

  I pulled into the coffee shop parking lot and left my car idling, “Don’t know.”

  “I’m not getting out of the car until you agree to go.”

  “Get out. I’ll come.” I caved easily, figuring I’d work on an excuse when my brain was less occupied by near future events.

  “Goodbye to you, too.” She slammed the door closed and sashayed up the stairs to the coffee shop.

  Locked in the safety of my bedroom, I pulle
d open my closet and stared, daunted by the clothes hanging in the tight space. I didn’t want to care. I reached for a clean shirt to replace the one I was wearing, but instead, my hand landed on a hanger holding a black flippy skirt. I pulled it out, but quickly shoved it back in. Too much.

  An instant later, I pulled it out again and threw it on. Along with an emerald green cardigan and boots.

  I stepped in front of the mirror, a long sigh escaped up my throat. Who was I kidding?

  I grabbed a rubber band and pulled my hair partly up in the back, trying to hide the out of control natural of the kinks. My hands dropped to my side and I stared. I didn’t have to go. No one was holding a gun to my head. I could just stay home, not get on the ferry, never see him again.

  Distraction. I needed a distraction. And to stop looking in the mirror. Grace would have been the perfect distraction. Her voice would fill every crevice in my head. But even she would eventually circle back around, inflaming my already fire of nerves with questions.

  My eyes landed on my French book. The essay. Perfect. Foreign words to run interference with spools of crazy English thoughts. I didn’t get far when there was a light knock on the door.

  “Come in,” I said not looking up, assuming it was Dad.

  “Hello, Miss CeeCee.”

  The chimes of Aunt Lucy’s voice tingled the air as she breezed through the door, her peasant skirt swishing gently around her long, slender legs. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I would stop by to see how you all were getting along.”

  I spun my desk chair around, grateful for the unplanned distraction. “Same as always. And you?”

  “Oh, fine.” Her eyes wandered up and down me, the waves of her long, dusty brown hair brushing the top of her tailbone. “Don’t you look nice? Is dressing up a requirement for doing homework?”

  Consciously, my hands brushed down my skirt, tucking the ends tight around my legs. “Um, well, yes, as a matter of fact, it is.”