Crazy Messy Beautiful

by Carrie Arcos

  Callie plops down on the ground. Mel and Imogen walk up arm in arm. I’ve seen them on the volleyball court with Callie.

  “Hey,” Mel says.

  “Hi,” says Imogen.

  Mel is also in my math class. Imogen is in the manga club. I joined two years ago because it’s basically all girls. I’m not proud. I’ll admit I was desperate. I joined because of Elise, my number seven. But Elise ended up liking Ben, the only other guy in the group, and I didn’t care enough to keep up with all the books and the meetings. The manga club is very serious about their books and culture.

  Mel and Imogen sit down across from Callie. They’ve all got that long-legged athletic gracefulness to them that volleyball players have. I feel awkward hovering above them. They take out their lunches, and I pretend I’m scanning the quad for someone.

  As if on cue, Autumn crosses my line of sight, the sunlight following her like a spotlight through the crowd. I consider shouting her name, watching as she turns, running across the quad to meet her. We embrace and I throw her back and plant a kiss on her right in front of everyone, but we don’t care because all we can see is each other.

  I’m lost in this thought when Callie’s question brings me back down.

  “So, when are we going to meet up?” she asks.

  “Whenever,” I say, watching Autumn get farther away, trying to figure out what excuse I can come up with to talk to her.

  “How about Friday?”

  Just as fast as she appears, Autumn disappears. Darn it.

  I glance down at Callie. She’s shielding her face from the sun, waiting for my answer. Her beat-up black boots point in my direction. Today her laces are white with black skulls and crossbones. The symbol of death.

  “Friday? Sure, that’ll work. Later.”

  I take off in Autumn’s direction.

  I HUNT FOR A SIGN OF YOU

  I find Autumn sitting outside on the ground by the band room. She’s by herself and eating a burrito. I wonder if it’s a bean-and-cheese or if she’s a chicken or beef kind of girl. She looks like spring today in her multicolored flowered top and jeans. I take out The Poet’s book from my back pocket and walk over to her.

  “Hi, Autumn.”

  She removes one of her earbuds and squints up at me. “Yeah?” Even with half of her face all scrunched up, she’s adorable.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  We do away with the formalities pretty quickly and I’m left standing there in front of her. Standing anywhere near Autumn Cho is a privilege and awesome really, so I don’t mind that she starts to look in every direction but the one I’m standing in.

  “Is that your clarinet?” I point to the black clarinet case resting at her side. When she finishes chewing, Autumn responds.

  “Yep.”

  “You have band practice today?”

  “Yep.”

  Autumn is very succinct.

  “You guys play all the classics, right?” I rack my brain for the ones I know. “Mozart, Beethoven, Shopen . . . Shopennagun?” I fudge the third name because I don’t actually remember it.

  “Charlie Parker,” she says. “We’re a jazz band.”

  “Oh yeah.” I nod. “Jazz.” Be bold, I tell myself. “So, I wanted to pass this along to you.” I hold out the book to her. She eyes it suspiciously.

  “What is it?”

  “Just a book of poems.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re really good. I think you’ll like them.”

  “Okay.” Autumn takes the book and puts it in her bag.

  “Great.” I smile, glad to have gotten to this point with her. Only now I have no idea what to say to her next.

  Pause. “Thanks,” she says.

  “Sure.” Another pause.

  “So, um, happy reading,” I say.

  Autumn puts her earbud back in, and I turn to leave.

  I let The Poet work his magic.

  • • •

  Advanced Art is my last period of the day and my saving grace in school. My friend Greyson high-fives me when I enter class. He and art class are about the only things that make school bearable.

  Mr. Fisher begins with some pointers on working with oils and then he sets us loose. I suppose walking in would be a bit of a shock for someone expecting a typical high school classroom, because it’s super quiet. Most students have their earbuds in.

  “Check it out,” Greyson says to me, and motions me over to his canvas. He pulls off the cover. “Thoughts? You can tell me for real.”

  He’s obviously worked on his painting at home, because it’s way further along than it was the last time he showed me.

  Greyson’s creating a three-piece series exploring what lurks in the shadows of our subconsciousness. Piece two, what he’s currently painting, has body parts all over, hacked and misshapen and oozing blood that pools into the heads of two little anime-styled children with long purple and pink hair. Very dark. Very creepy. Very Greyson.

  “It’s awesome.”

  “Yeah?” Greyson says this like he’s not sure, but it’s all an act. Greyson knows how talented he is. And I respect him for that. Our styles are way different, but there’s mutual admiration for sure. It’s why we are friends and have been since we first sat next to each other in Beginning Art years ago.

  “Mr. Yang, I’m not sure if I should commend you or have you committed,” Mr. Fisher says, suddenly standing there behind us.

  “So, you like it?” Greyson asks.

  We wait for a response from Fisher. Sometimes the waiting can be long; other times, he makes his opinion known right away. Today it’s a long silence. But then he gives the nod. It’s a subtle shift to the left. But it’s enough.

  Full-blown smile from Greyson.

  Fisher turns his attention to my work next. “Mr. Diaz, I’m not sure you know what you want to say yet.”

  He’s right. I’m struggling. Part of it is the medium. Part of it is I’m not fully invested.

  I stare at my painting. In the center is a boy I saw sitting on the curb in front of a Salvadoran restaurant. He was playing on his device and totally oblivious to everything around him. I liked how his stillness was such a contrast to the busy intersection next to him. I keep referring to the quick sketch I made at the time, but I can’t seem to capture the boy’s essence.

  Greyson’s piece has an urgency and emotion to it—also a violence. Compared to his painting, mine looks amateurish.

  I know to be patient when it comes to creating a piece of art. It’s not the outcome that matters; it’s the trying. I’ll only get better through failure. Because each time I fail, I learn and I change so that every time I get closer to creating what I see in my head.

  This is Mr. Fisher’s mantra. But it’s still frustrating when I can’t execute my vision successfully.

  Mr. Fisher gives me some pointers and then moves on to someone else.

  “You could let his eyes kind of droop out of their sockets. That’d be cool,” says Greyson.

  “No, that would be you.”

  He shrugs. “It’d still be cool.”

  We work next to each other in quiet, but I’m too frustrated and distracted to make much more progress. I keep thinking of Autumn and what she’ll say about the book.

  After a couple of attempts to be productive, I cover the portrait back up and work on my ideas for the school mural in my sketchbook.

  Greyson glances at my drawings. “I don’t know why Fisher didn’t ask me to do the mural.”

  “Umm . . . exhibit A.” I point to the severed neck of one of the anime girls he’s been working on. “Besides, you don’t have time.”

  Since Greyson joined water polo and started an internship at his dad’s architecture firm, I hardly see him myself. We used to hang out every other weekend.

&nbs
p; “True,” he says. “Mercy complains about that.”

  Mercy. Greyson’s girlfriend since the summer.

  “I don’t have practice today, though,” he says. “Want to come over?”

  “Sure.”

  • • •

  After school at Greyson’s house, we eat some leftover pizza in the fridge. I debate about telling Greyson that I gave Autumn the book. I know he will probably roll his eyes and laugh at me. He doesn’t approve of my methods. In his defense, they haven’t actually worked. Yet. And even if he is the one with a girlfriend, it’s not a level playing field. Greyson is confident. Greyson always knows what to say. He’s funny and popular and girls always like him.

  I decide not to say anything for now.

  Then we grab some sodas and chips and head for his room. We’ve been playing Call of Duty Capture the Flag for about twenty minutes when he says, “I’m thinking of ending it with Mercy.”

  “Why?”

  I launch a smoke grenade and take off from behind some shrubbery.

  “Too many expectations. Did I tell you that she got all pissed because I didn’t text her back right away last week?”

  “No.”

  “And it’s not like I’m sitting around. Between work, school, sports, and everything, I just can’t see her like she wants. I barely have time to see my friends, you know?”

  “True.”

  “I don’t know . . . she’s great and everything, but it’s getting complicated.”

  “Complicated doesn’t mean it’s not worth it,” I say.

  The only time Greyson and I have deep talks is when we play video games.

  “Did you see how hot Jasmine looked today?” he asks as he shoots up a bunch of guys.

  Jasmine is a foreign exchange student from Singapore. Greyson talks about her a little too much for a guy who is supposed to be in a relationship.

  “Yeah. She was all right.”

  “All right? Oh, wait, you were probably too busy putting in the work for Autumn.”

  Putting in the work is what Greyson calls anything having to do with girls.

  “Shut up,” I say.

  “Did you actually talk to her today?”

  “Maybe.”

  “No shit?”

  “I gave her The Book.”

  He laughs. “Wow.”

  “Shut up,” I say again.

  “When has The Book ever worked?”

  “Doesn’t mean it won’t,” I mumble.

  Greyson’s man grabs the flag and I lose.

  “Damn,” I say.

  “For your sake, man, I hope something happens soon.”

  • • •

  The next day, one of Autumn’s friends hand delivers the book to me. There’s a small note inside.

  Neruda, how weird that you have the same name as this poet. Coincidence? Anyway, thanks for the book. It was good. I hope that I’m not assuming something, but I feel like I should be honest with you. I think you are a nice guy, but I don’t like you in that way. I’m sorry. Thank you again, and I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings.

  Autumn

  I read the note over a couple of times. The words I don’t like you expand and erupt in my heart with each reading.

  I try to write a response, but I can’t form the words. I literally can’t get my pen to cooperate with my brain. My words mark the page as if a second-grader has written them—crooked and misspelled.

  My heart spends the rest of the day in the shadow of Autumn’s letter. For consolation, I read “XX,” by The Poet, which begins: “Tonight I can write the saddest lines.” It’s about a girl who doesn’t return a boy’s love, and the pain and the loneliness are more real to me now. It’s like the poem was written especially for me, and the girl he speaks of is Autumn.

  I crumple up her letter and throw it in the trash.

  GIRL LITHE AND TAWNY

  On Friday night I’m still crushed by Autumn’s rejection, but I head over to Callie’s to work on our research project. I park my red Vespa scooter on the curb in front of her house, and just as I remove my helmet, Callie opens the front door. She comes down the walkway and leans against the rail, watching me. She looks different somehow.

  “Yours?” she asks, referring to the scooter.

  “Yeah, birthday present last year.” At first I was worried that a scooter would reflect poorly on my manhood, but when it became clear that a car was nowhere in the conversation, I accepted the present and can now admit to its usefulness. Dad said it would build my character to have to work for a car. So far I have more character saved up than money.

  “Cool. I got a fifty-dollar gift card to H&M,” she says with what sounds like disappointment.

  I don’t know what H&M is, but I figure it’s bad the way she says it. “That sucks,” I say.

  She shrugs. “It’s all good. I bought some needed basics and accessories. Come on in.”

  Seeing Callie outside of school is weird, but what’s weirder is that she’s not wearing her big black boots. The weirdest thing of all, though, is just how normal and almost nice she’s being. I follow her bare feet through the front door. Her feet cross the wood floor like a cat’s—deliberately and without sound.

  “Welcome to Casa Leibowitz. Mom, Dad, Neruda’s here!” she yells as we enter.

  She leads me down the hall, past a dining table, and into a large living room with a gray sectional sofa that takes up most of the space. A woman who looks like an older version of Callie with darker, shorter hair sits at one end of the couch. A man with gray hair and a maroon hoodie sits on the other end. Both are wearing headphones and working on laptops when we enter, so they don’t even look up or seem to hear us.

  Callie stands in front of her mom to get her attention.

  Her mom removes her headphones, sets the computer down, and stands up. After a moment, her dad does the same.

  “Guys, this is Neruda.”

  “Hi.” I shake both of their hands. Her mom and I are eye level, but her dad towers over all of us, which is not intimidating at all. I rock on my heels and put my hands in my back pockets.

  “Neruda, like the poet?” her dad asks.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Studied him in college.” Callie’s dad spreads his stance and crosses his arms in front of him. “I bet your parents are writers, huh?”

  “Actually, no, my mom is an actuary. My dad loves poetry, though. He’s an English professor.”

  “Where does he teach?”

  “USC,” I say.

  Callie’s dad smiles wide at his wife and puffs himself up.

  “Don’t you start,” she tells him.

  “Mom went to UCLA,” Callie explains.

  But she doesn’t really have to. The USC and UCLA rivalry is pretty well known all over LA. Even though Dad teaches at USC, I’m not biased. For the money factor alone, I get why people choose UCLA. I’d get a huge discount on tuition at USC, but it’s not like I’ll get in. You practically need a GPA of 4.5 plus extracurriculars. I’d be lucky just to get into Cal State. But I’m thinking I might apply to more of an art school instead of a traditional college anyway, somewhere like the Art Center in Pasadena or even Rhode Island School of Design.

  “I’m always fascinated by the history of names,” her mom says, bringing the conversation back to me.

  “I’m named after a girl who died from cancer when they were kids. That’s not heavy at all,” Callie says.

  Her mom reaches out and pulls on a piece of Callie’s brown hair. “She was my best friend. And Callie means ‘beautiful,’ so there’s that too.”

  “Mom,” Callie says.

  But as her mom says it, I notice that Callie does look kind of pretty. Brighter or something. I can’t figure it out. Maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe it’s that her hair is down. Maybe it’s
that she’s smiling.

  Her parents continue to conduct their own research assignment.

  “Where do you live, Neruda?” her dad asks.

  “About eight minutes that way.” I point left across my body, except I’m all turned around, so I have to adjust it and turn to the right. “Actually, that way.”

  Just then a big yellow Lab comes down the stairs, wagging its tail. It heads for me, sniffing. I bend down to pet it. “Hello there.”

  “Her name’s Lucy,” Callie says. She rubs Lucy behind the ears.

  “Hi, Lucy.”

  “There’s meat in the Crock-Pot and buns on the table if you guys want to make yourselves some sloppy joes. I think it’s going to be a work-through-dinner kind of night,” says Callie’s mom.

  “Nice to meet you,” her dad says, and they resume their original positions on the couch.

  Callie walks into the kitchen and I follow. She grabs a paper plate, puts a bun on it, and opens the slow cooker for the meat. I do the same. There’s also a simple romaine salad with tomatoes and almonds.

  “Here.” Callie hands me a bottle of dressing. “They’re weird, huh?” she asks as she picks out all of the cherry tomatoes from her plate and puts them back into the big salad bowl.

  “No,” I say. Even though she’s giving me permission to insult her parents, I realize I don’t want to.

  “Dad’s a writer and graphic designer. Mom’s a marriage and family counselor.”

  “Cool,” I say.

  We take our plates of food over to the kitchen nook, where Callie has a notebook already open. I feel myself stealing glances at her. It’s not just the hair. It’s not just that she’s actually being sort of friendly for a change.

  Suddenly, it hits me. She’s not wearing any makeup.

  “What?” she asks.

  Crap. I didn’t realize I was staring.

  “Nothing.”

  I take a bite of my sandwich. It’s not bad. It’s got a little kick to it. I try to focus on the flavors, try to figure out what spices her mom must have used to season the meat, but all I keep thinking is that Callie looks really pretty. Surprisingly pretty. I guess she’s always been pretty in an aggressive, I-don’t-need-any-help-from-a-guy kind of way. But tonight she’s softer. Much more chill and easy to talk to.