Crazy Messy Beautiful

by Carrie Arcos

Ezra

  I read his letter several times. It’s hard to be mad at him when he’s being so honest. It’s also hard not to miss him.

  • • •

  A little while later, I hear the buzz of talking down the hall. I knock on my mom’s door.

  “Come in,” she calls.

  I poke my head in her room. She’s on the phone.

  “I’ll call you later,” she says, and ends the call. “Hi, sweetie.” She gives me a weak I’m-trying-hard-to-be-positive-for-my-son smile.

  “Hi, Mom. Just checking in.”

  She pats the bed for me to join her. “How was school?”

  “Same. How was work?” I ask.

  “Same.” This time her smile is a little brighter. “Did you see the letter from Ezra?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did he go on a trip somewhere?”

  “Yeah. He’s doing some traveling.”

  “That’s nice. I used to love to travel.” She takes in a big breath and lets it out in one big whoosh.

  I decide to make something right that has been sitting on my chest since the night I came home from camping. “Mom, I’m sorry for telling you about Dad the way I did.”

  She holds up her hand. “Neruda, none of this is your fault.”

  “I know, but I’m talking about the way I blurted it out. I shouldn’t have done it like that. It wasn’t right.”

  She nods. “Well, I appreciate the apology.”

  I don’t know what else to say, so I’m starting to get up when her words stop me.

  “Neruda, whatever happens with your dad and me, I want you to know that we both love you and that nothing will ever change that.”

  “I know,” I say.

  But the knowing doesn’t change the fear. The fear that my family will be broken forever.

  “Good.” She pauses. “You know, love and marriage are complicated. But I don’t want you to hate your father.”

  I can’t agree to that yet, so I remain quiet.

  “He’s still your dad, no matter what he does. And anyone can make mistakes. Remember that, okay?”

  She stares at me, waiting for a response.

  “Okay,” I finally say. “Mom, can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you regret it?” I ask.

  “Regret what?”

  “Marrying Dad.”

  “Oh no, honey. I love your dad, that’s why this is so painful. If I never married your dad, I wouldn’t have you.” She chokes up a little. “No, I don’t have any regrets. I’m just . . . sad and angry and hurt and . . .” She takes a deep breath and pauses as if she realizes that she’s sharing too much with me.

  I use the pause to ask her another question, even though it’s one that I’m not sure I want the answer to. “So does this mean that you guys are getting a divorce?”

  She sighs. “We have some things to work out. Big things. I’m not sure what will happen exactly, but I do know that we love each other. That’s really all I know right now.”

  “You still love him after everything?”

  She studies her hands. “I love him in spite of everything, I guess.”

  “I don’t get it. I don’t understand love at all.”

  “Love is . . . hard work. People change, grow together, grow apart. I think the real question is whether loving someone is reason enough to forgive the pain they cause you.”

  I let this sink in, but I don’t have an answer.

  A little while later, I make both of us some milk and Pepsi. It’s Mom’s favorite drink when she’s sick or feeling blue. She first heard about it on an old TV show called Laverne and Shirley. We sit and watch TV together like we used to do when I was a kid.

  • • •

  After Mom turns off her bedroom light, I head out for a late-night walk. I cross through my neighborhood and onto Fig, go south a couple of blocks, and turn down an alley next to a parking lot. I hear a familiar noise, the shaking of a spray can, which draws me deeper into the alley.

  The artist, dressed in all black, moves like a shadow, spraying paint on the side of a low brick wall. A flashlight lies on the ground and acts as a spotlight. While I approach as quietly as I can, he bends down and grabs another aerosol can from a white plastic grocery bag near his feet.

  He turns suddenly, and for a moment, he looks like a cat about to pounce. He’s wearing a face mask to protect against the fumes. The whites of his eyes glow under the soft light. He relaxes when he sees it’s only me. He doesn’t tell me to leave, so I take that as an invitation. I come closer, stand just a little behind and off to the side, and watch him create a flock of black birds flying across the building. One of them has something in its talons and little drops of blood fall from its grasp.

  “You gonna just watch or throw something up yourself?” he says after a while.

  “Can I?”

  He hands me a similar white mask and points to a clean section of the wall a few paces down.

  “You can take that spot over there. I won’t get to it tonight. If it sucks, I’ll paint over it tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  I take one of the black cans of paint and shake it. I’ve used spray paint before, but as fillers, not to do a whole painting. It takes me a few tries to understand the can control. Then I start creating.

  After minutes or hours, I don’t know which, I feel his eyes on me. I stop and see that he’s pulled his mask down, his hands are on his hips, and he’s staring at my work.

  “Is that original? You didn’t copy that from a picture or something?”

  “Nah, it’s original.”

  “Cool, man. Tag it.”

  Uncertain of what my tag should be, I take a red can and sign ND underneath the rosebush. I’ve painted Callie with one of the first faces from her portfolio that she showed me. The one where she had a vine of roses and thorns traveling up her neck and face. For something that I just did on the spot, it looks really good. It’s raw, but that’s okay because it feels more like a street art piece than what it would look like on canvas. It suits the wall.

  I return the cans to the artist. He gives me his card with the name Dante on it and some art studio in LA.

  He walks off carrying a plastic bag in each hand.

  I examine my portrait of Callie. Her eyes are still not perfect. They are a little sad in this version, like they were the last time I saw her. I note the places that need improvement.

  I’m not sure how I feel about having this up in such a public space. I could do better if I practiced it at home and then came back with a polished idea.

  But this piece does have something. There’s hurt and pain and love and regret. All great emotions I can use to fuel something amazing.

  Then I get an idea.

  POET’S OBLIGATION

  The next day, Luis is standing outside Mr. Nelson’s room when I approach. I brace myself for another physical altercation, planning my moves in my mind. I’ll have to be quick. Maybe I can smash his face in with my binder before he gets me in one of his fancy pins.

  “So, uh, I talked to Mr. Fisher,” he says. “I just want you to know there’s no hard feelings about yesterday.” He holds out his hand.

  I assume he’s joking, but there is no humor in his eyes. I shake his hand.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Artistic differences, I get it. Same in wrestling. Everyone’s got a signature style. And to be honest, I wasn’t really flowing with what we were doing with the mural. It’s not bad or anything, just not what I would have designed, you know?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Luis steps into the room and I follow him, still slightly unnerved by his apology.

  Class begins, and I stare at Callie’s empty seat. She doesn’t show the whole period.

  Mr. Ne
lson reminds us that our essays are due on Tuesday. I think of asking for an extension because honestly I haven’t even started it. Ever since things blew up with Callie, writing a paper on her hasn’t been something I’m dying to do. And it’s not like I’m going to have tons of time to work on it this weekend, because I have to finish the mural before the unveiling on Monday. I have no idea when or how I’ll actually be able to write the paper. Maybe I won’t do it. Take an F instead.

  With our assignment officially coming to an end, Callie and I won’t even have a reason to speak to each other. Not that we’re really on speaking terms anyway. I’ve been trying to avoid her, erase her from my mind, but my actions have only made her a permanent fixture. And I can’t shake the memory of her eyes yesterday. She looked upset about something. Now she’s not even here.

  What did she say? Something about not everything being about me? Something about other people having things going on?

  I stare at her empty chair.

  I imagine Callie turning and giving me one of her bored-in-class looks.

  It sucks to miss her.

  And I realize that the idea of not knowing Callie anymore, of not spending time with her, is worse than her not loving me. I can imagine a world where we are not romantically involved, because that’s our world now. But I don’t want to imagine one where we are not even friends. I don’t want her to become just some stranger I sit next to.

  I don’t know how to tell her these things, but I wonder if there’s a way I can show her.

  • • •

  I spend lunch and Mr. Fisher’s class working on the mural. I’ve finally figured out what I want to add, but I don’t have a lot of time and I’m not sure I can do it right.

  After the final bell rings, Mr. Fisher comes by to check on my progress. He stares a long time before he pats me on the back.

  “Your best work here, Neruda. Really excellent.”

  “Thanks,” I say. And it feels good.

  “I’m sorry about Luis,” he says, “forcing you two to partner on this. I know it wasn’t easy, but you’ve done a great job.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess he’s not all bad,” I say.

  I have just two days left to work, so on Saturday, I head to the library for an early start. I paint for hours, only taking a break at 11:00 to go watch some of the volleyball game.

  I sneak in and go right to the top bleacher, hoping Callie won’t see me. I scan the players, but she isn’t in the game. I scan the bench, but she’s not there either.

  First school, now this. It’s not like Callie to miss a game. She’s the type to play even if she had pneumonia. After the final game in the set, I approach Imogen.

  “Good game,” I tell her.

  “Thanks!” she says.

  “Hey, where’s Callie today?”

  “She’s off the team.”

  “What?” I don’t get it. Callie loves playing volleyball.

  Imogen motions for me to lean in. “Her grades got really bad, so she’s not allowed to play.”

  “For good?”

  “Not sure. Maybe if she gets them up. We really need her too.”

  “How is she?”

  “You know Callie. She’s taking it hard. You should reach out to her. I know you guys are good friends.”

  Imogen walks back to her teammates, and I head back to the library. It makes sense now why she looked so upset the other day. For Callie not to be on the team anymore, she must be devastated. I had no idea she struggled that much with school. I think about sending her a text, but it seems too little, too late now.

  A couple hours later, I finish the mural and carefully put up the sheet. It’s not flawless; no art ever is. But I’ve created something I am proud of.

  And I want Callie to see it. I just don’t know how to get her there on Monday night.

  IT’S GOOD TO FEEL YOU ARE CLOSE TO ME

  I wake up Sunday with a feeling of uneasiness gnawing at me. It follows me downstairs, stays with me during breakfast, waits for me outside of the shower. I can’t shake it. Normally I’d chalk it up to nerves, but this feels different.

  This feels like worry.

  Instead of texting or calling, I decide to just show up. If she’s home, we’re meant to have a conversation. If she isn’t home, then I’ve at least made an attempt to reconcile. Fate will decide either way.

  When I pull up to the curb, Callie is outside.

  Damn fate.

  She’s pumping up a bike tire.

  “Hi,” I say as I cautiously approach her. “You going for a ride?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where?”

  “Debs Park.”

  She finishes the tire and then pumps up the second one.

  “Kind of far from here?”

  “It’s only like three miles.”

  “I could give you a ride.”

  “No, thank you. I want the exercise.”

  When she’s done, she stands and attaches the pump back on the bike.

  I decide it’s now or never, so I ask her, “Do you have plans Monday night?”

  “What?”

  “There’s an unveiling of the mural I’ve been working on, and I wanted to see if you would come. I mean, if you’re free.”

  She stands there with her arms crossed, looking at me like she wants to throw something. I want to tell her I’m sorry, but she’s not making this easy.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Okay.” I turn to leave. Then I turn back around. “Look, I don’t know what to say,” I blurt out. “I’m sorry.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  I stand there a minute longer, then it’s clear I should go. “Okay. Well, have a good ride,” I say.

  As I’m walking back to my scooter, I hear over my shoulder, “You can use my dad’s bike, if you want to come.”

  “You sure?”

  She shrugs and puts on a black helmet with pink flames.

  • • •

  She takes the lead as we bike single file through the streets and past busy intersections. She’s right. It isn’t that far at all. The problem is when we enter the park, there’s a huge, long hill that we have to ride up. Callie doesn’t give any indication that she’s going to slow down or walk, so I have to work hard to keep up with her. My legs burn as I stand and try to ignore the pain. But I can’t stop and walk it. If she can make it, so can I.

  I’m all out of breath by the time we reach the actual parking lot and grass fields. Callie stops and takes a drink from her water bottle. I look around for a water fountain. There isn’t one.

  “Here.” Callie throws me the bottle.

  “Thanks,” I say, and take a drink. I stretch my legs a little so they won’t cramp.

  “Ready?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say, even though I still feel like passing out.

  She gets back on her bike and leads us to another hill. This hill is shorter, but it’s steeper.

  I make it about halfway and then I have to stop.

  “It’s okay,” I croak. “You go on ahead.”

  Callie doesn’t even acknowledge me. She’s totally focused. She’s a machine. She literally leaves me in her dust.

  I push the bike up the rest of the way and take in the view. Downtown LA is on my left. It’s a bright, sunny day, so I can see everything super clear. On my right are brown hills and trees and a good deal of Northeast LA.

  When I reach the top, Callie is waiting for me. Without a word, she turns to the left, where a small pond sits.

  We walk our bikes around the pool of water to a bench on the other side. She props her bike up against a tree and sits down. I do the same and sit next to her, though I’m careful to leave plenty of space between us. We face the relatively still water.

  It’s shady here and quiet even
though we aren’t the only ones here. There are some girls in workout clothes on another bench, talking. A guy on the other side of the pond fishes with a small pole.

  “Have you been here before?” Callie asks me.

  “Once. A long time ago.”

  “I like to come here and think. Or sometimes when I want to have a Shabbat.”

  “I thought that was on Saturdays.”

  “A real Shabbat is. I like the idea of Shabbat. A day of rest and remembering and thinking. Every now and then, I just take a day—or, if not a whole day, I take a couple of hours—I turn off my phone, don’t go online, and I come here to sit and think. My mom showed me this article where a rabbi talked about how he went to his island of peace during Shabbat. A place where he could be at peace with himself and his family, no matter the situation.” She points to the pond. “This is my pond of peace.” She smiles.

  Callie’s right; it is super peaceful here. We sit for a long time and watch the water. Turtles poke their heads out like tiny brown periscopes. Small frogs splash and dart across the top like smooth stones.

  She takes a deep breath. “I’ve been benched.”

  “Why? What happened?” I pretend not to know anything so that Callie can tell me herself.

  “My grades. It’s my fault. I know it. I just . . . school is hard for me. Tests and organizing. Remembering to turn in things. That’s why I’m in Nelson’s English class. I’m not stupid, though, you know?” She looks at me and she is beautiful. She is strong. She is many things, but stupid is not one of them.

  “What if your parents talked to your teachers?”

  “They were the ones who told my coach I shouldn’t be playing until I got my grades up.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh.”

  “So there’s no chance of you playing?”

  “I mean, there’s a tiny chance, I guess.” She wipes some tears from her eyes. “I really wanted to go to CIF this year.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  And then we don’t say anything else. We watch the pond, each in our own thoughts. The nervousness I felt at being so close to her, the smell of her, the beauty, begins to fade. The question of why she didn’t kiss me back, which was so prominent in my mind, I push aside. I remember that I enjoy simply being with her.