by Amber Kizer
Misty blinked back tears. Weariness laid heavy hands on her shoulders and shoved her deeper down. She slid bonelessly toward the earth. Under the far desk caddy, beneath the Russian poets and surrounded by theologians’ and philosophers’ lives etched in words.
Misty huddled in her sweatshirt, tucking her knees against her stomach. No one saw her. No one used this section. She closed her eyes and forced herself to find a place where she felt safe. It was there. Somewhere deep and far down in the dark.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Vivian saw Leif staring up at one of her most recent pieces, hung high on the studio wall. Mathilda No-last-name. She knew the portrait of this one-hundred-year-old homeless lady was haunting and disturbing. It drew viewers in and didn’t let them go. People either loved it or hated it. Curiosity stroked her forward.
“Hi,” she said, approaching cautiously. Why was he back again today?
Because art is in his blood, he just doesn’t see it yet. And he likes you. I grinned.
“How’d they do this?” he asked, without looking directly at her.
A common question that no one really wanted details about. “Bunch of different kinds of paints. Layered. Blown through various diameter pipes and straws.” Vivian shrugged before she gave herself away.
“Really?” Leif frowned, as if he was thinking about arguing.
Great, Leif, you sound like she’s making stuff up and you don’t believe her. Way to woo a girl. I wanted to smack his shoulder, but settled for rolling my eyes. At least thinking I did.
Since it was her work, Vivian felt very comfortable answering him with a smile and incredulous expression. “Really.”
“Oh, sorry, that sounded rude, didn’t it?” Leif rubbed his knuckles. “I’ve just never seen anything like it. I wanna do that.” He pointed.
“That’s, um, difficult to do—” Vivian broke off. How was she going to explain the years it took to master these techniques? She didn’t want to discourage him, but he wouldn’t off the bat be able to paint portraits full of mini pictures—definitely not with blowing. Maybe on the computer with Photoshop. And plagiarism.
“I don’t m-mean … obviously … I m-mean,” Leif stuttered. He stopped staring up at the picture, then focused his gaze on his hands while blood crept up his neck. Finally, he made eye contact before his gaze flitted away from hers. He was a doofus when he got nervous. She seemed to like it, though. I didn’t understand why Vivian’s heart continued to tizzy and surge, but whatever. “Can you show me what to do? I mean, what do I use to, uh, ‘blow,’ you said?” His face flushed.
These two spend more time blushing than talking.
“Now?” Vivian expected him to lose interest and move on. Go back to the gym instead.
“Yeah, can you?” His face lit up.
“Sure.” Part of her job was demonstrating and helping customers with their work, she did this all the time for others. Why did showing Leif seem more intimate and personal? “We’ll start easy.”
She headed toward the back of the studio space. Several painters worked with music blaring only in their ears, others chatted with each other. This wasn’t the place to work as a loner who didn’t like people.
Leif followed. “Do you, uh, blow?”
Good god, Leif.
“Paint, blow paint,” he corrected, but Vivian didn’t even acknowledge the double entendre of his words.
Girl needs to watch some Showtime. Mistake #1 for Jessica Chai—thinking there’d always be a next time.
“Yeah, I know the technique.” She stopped at that.
Why? Tell him that’s yours up there on that wall! Tell him people pay you thousands of dollars to blow. Please? I want to see his expression.
“Cool.” Leif nodded.
In instructor mode, Vivian commandeered a workstation. “We’ll start with scrap paper and watercolors. It’ll give you a feel.”
“Sure … sure,” Leif answered.
Vivian prepared paints and straws while Leif wandered, observing the other artists. She and Leif obviously struggled for conversational topics any time they were within each other’s range. When she was ready, she motioned him over. “The key is to really just play with how hard you exhale and point the straw in the direction you want the medium to go. Don’t inhale the paint.”
“Can you show me?” Leif looked like a lost little boy.
“Yeah.” Vivian demonstrated several times, making it look astoundingly easy.
“You’re really good at this.” Leif was impressed.
Cassidy heard him and cracked up as she went by, carrying fresh canvases.
“What?” Leif frowned. “What’d I miss?”
Vivian shook her head, trying to get Cassidy’s attention.
“That’s her painting.” Cassidy pointed at the lady’s portrait. “Oh, so is that one. And that one just sold to a guy in Iman or Iran or—”
“United Arab Emirates. Thanks, Cassidy.” Vivian swallowed.
“Oh, that’s right. No problem.” Perky and undisturbed, Cassidy returned to the front of the store.
Leif froze in his chair. His leg fidgeted under the table. He hated feeling stupid.
Vivian hated the ugly silence (Pantone 3985) that wedged between their chairs.
“I’m sorry,” Vivian apologized, to break the silence. “I don’t know how to tell people about my work. I don’t want to sound like I’m showing off, or make anyone feel like they need to compare.” She stammered, trying to find words for the colors she felt. “I was afraid—”
“I get it. It’s not like I ever greeted the crowds with a list of my stats. It could be interpreted as rude.”
Vivian sighed. “Yes, exactly.”
“You’re amazing. I m-mean, your work is—” Leif stuttered.
I’d always assumed he was smooth and born to flirt until I watched him in action.
“Thanks. Here, try this color.” Vivian handed him a tube of slightly thicker paint in a purple that could almost be called blue.
He took the switch of paints and they worked in comfortable companionship. I envied people who could sit side by side and not speak, not feel the need to fill the void. Eventually, Vivian grabbed ice-cold bottles of water from the fridge and handed him one.
Leif’s painting looked like one of those the elephants at the zoo did with their trunks. Only his had a layer of sprayed spit. “That’s like trying to inflate a balloon made of tire rubber.” He gestured at the last blob of acrylic yellow. “How did you get started?”
Vivian paused, wondering how honest to be. She didn’t want to lie to Leif, but part of her questioned if he wanted the real story or the sanitized version. She headed for the middle of both. “My dad. I needed a lot of lung therapy as a kid. I had a cough and bronchitis a lot. But I hated it all.” Nice understatement. Make the therapy sound like taking out the trash instead of a necessary brutality. “When I was little, I played with my food. He made it into a game with me blowing peas down the dining room table. He made me graduate to grapes quickly, then shampoo, pudding, oranges—if it could move or roll, he put it in front of me.” Leave out the coughing and hacking up tons of sticky phlegm and it almost sounds fun.
Leif nodded, sipping his water and listening closely. I knew his casual facade belied the pointed energy he listened with.
“One day, he was watching one of those kid craft shows.” The kind that are on during the day when you’re stuck in the hospital with your sick kid. “They were blowing paint for some place mat thing, I think. He thought he could get me to work my lungs harder if I was painting. I loved those paint-with-water books and my coloring books. It worked. I still use watercolors, but now I use all sorts of paints and viscosities.”
Leif motioned her over to stand beneath Mathilda No-last-name again. “Is that how you get the depth like it’s her real skin? Using lots of different paint types?” He squinted up, studying the portrait so closely.
“Yeah, something like that.” Vivian was relieved he didn’t ask abo
ut her being sick or why she needed so much lung therapy. Healthy kids didn’t understand CF and they seemed to fear an impossible contagion. She wondered what it would be like to have Leif study her that closely. Would he, could he, see beyond her outsides to the reality within?
“Wow. Cool.” They moved back toward his workstation. He was enthused. He picked up the straw again and focused on the paper in front of him. Vivian watched his expression cloud and furrow. She knew this expression—she’d seen it often when her friends bore down to do physical therapy they knew hurt but had to be done. She didn’t understand why he wore it, though. Painting didn’t hurt.
“It just takes practice,” she assured him as he blew along a dot of celestial blue (Pantone 19-4530).
He frowned, but replied, “Right. Okay.”
“Hey, Viv, I need your help with this order,” Cassidy called.
“I’ll practice.” He pulled his chair closer to the table and hunkered down as Vivian joined Cassidy at the front of the shop. Was this the expression he wore during a losing game? Or a winning one?
Hours went by under a crush of odd and complicated customers, and Vivian assumed Leif had left while she was busy.
Nope, check again, chica.
There were only thirty minutes until the close of the store and time to start straightening up for the weekend morning rush. Yep, she worked on Friday nights. Especially when she was healthy. It made her feel less awkward about having no social life. She blamed work to her family. She didn’t know who, if anyone, believed her.
“You’re still here?” She stopped in her tracks, seeing Leif bent over another piece of paper.
“I can’t get it right.”
Vivian moved closer, closing tubes and screwing on lids. She straightened up out of habit with quick and graceful movements. She stood over his table and saw the series of pages, clearly an evolution of attempts as he worked on a green line, topped it with a brown circle, and then began to add yellow petals. To her, his current page looked like a fairly perfect single sunflower. But if he was going for a dog, or a dolphin, he had a ways to go—she’d learned to be careful until she knew the artist’s intent. Too many people burst into tears after hours of not transferring their vision to the page.
“It’s a—?” She left the question dangling.
“Oh hell, it’s supposed to be a flower. Is it that bad you can’t tell?” Leif sank his head into his hands. Yellow paint speckled his forehead and a streak of green wove through his hair like a leprechaun highlight.
She rushed to reassure him. “No, no! It’s good. It’s great. It’s just I wasn’t sure what you meant to paint. I mean, you should see some of the bowls of fruit people paint in our classes that end up looking like a pile of vomit, or the nude drawings that look more like spiderwebs or robots than people. I mean, it’s good—really good.” Vivian knew she was rambling, but he looked so sad her heart hurt. Rejections of any kind hurt, even the unintentional ones. “This is your first time. And you’re new to art, right?”
“Painting? Yeah. It’s obvious?” Leif nodded as though she’d delivered a life-imprisonment sentence. As if he knew his happiness depended on something that would never work.
Vivian sat down. She reached out and touched her fingertips to his shoulder. Just the tips, but it took every ounce of mustered courage she had. She caught a whiff of spicy cologne and wanted to lean closer, but she didn’t. “Only cuz you’re so unsure of yourself. Really. It takes practice. You didn’t score a touchup the first time you held a ball, right?”
Leif glanced up. “A what?”
Vivian blanched. “Sorry. Whatever you score in football.” She licked her lips and shrank back against the chair before standing. She’d used up all her courage.
Leif started laughing. “A touchdown.” He laughed harder. “No, I guess I didn’t.”
Stop laughing, she thinks you’re laughing at her. I wanted to smack him.
“Um, I need to close up.” Vivian tossed the empty water bottles into the recycling without making any eye contact.
“Oh, sorry.” He jumped to his feet, almost pushing the chair over. Vivian saw him flinch as if his leg didn’t want to hold his weight, but she didn’t point it out. He hid it quickly and she assumed he didn’t want her to notice. He doesn’t. “I’ll be out of here in no time. I guess I’ll just toss these away?” he asked, looking for a garbage can to throw away his dry and half-dry paintings.
“I’ll do it,” Vivian answered briskly.
“No, no, I’ll clean up my stuff.” Leif didn’t understand why she’d gone all frosty on him.
She paused. “It’s okay.”
Good grief, these two give me a headache. Neither of them wanted to leave. So don’t!
Leif tried to extend an apology, though he had no idea what he’d done. “You wanna get coffee?”
“I have to stay here and finish up—”
“Oh, right. Sure.” He picked up his bag and backed away, almost running over an easel.
Don’t let him leave. Say something.
“You like breakfast?” Vivian blurted.
“Breakfast?”
“I have to work at ten, but the best omelets and cinnamon rolls are served next door.”
Leif grinned. “I love breakfast.”
Vivian returned his smile. “Good. Say eight-thirty?”
“Yeah, see you tomorrow.” Leif waved on his way out the door.
She sank into a chair, and how long she stayed frozen I’m not sure, but my heart pounded so hard I thought perhaps she was going to break it. The thundering didn’t stop until long after Leif’s scent dissipated and the door swung shut behind him. I wanted to tell her it was soap and deodorant, but she wouldn’t have listened.
“I asked Leif Leolin out. I asked Leif Leolin out.” Vivian kept repeating this to herself in a breathless whisper full of shock and disbelief.
Technically, he asked you out and you responded after shooting him down.
“I mean he asked first, but I didn’t say no totally.” Vivian finally felt her legs again and stood up. “Where did I get the courage?”
Don’t look at me. I never asked a boy out, not a first time, or in retaliation.
Vivian smiled through the rest of her cleanup, and I didn’t need to hang around to know who she’d be dreaming about tonight.
CHAPTER NINE
Samuel untangled the power cords and took his homemade laptop outside. Ma played old hymn records so loud he was sure she thought God himself might sing along. The late spring sun was warm, but low clouds flowed continuously over the sun like a newsfeed on the bottom of the screen. Was Earth God’s reality television? What was His endgame and prize? Who was His target audience? Who did the casting?
I wasn’t sure God cared about any of us, or if there even was a God. Maybe that’s why I was still here. My parents taught an uninspired lack of faith, while Samuel’s ma was so over-the-top that I hoped truth lay in between. Sam read about religions and works by people like the Dalai Lama, Billy Graham, and Rabbi Shimon Finkelman the way Vivian saw the world through colors. His faith used to be unwavering, but recently I’d started to feel questions rising. But maybe it was just me. Maybe I question too much?
Sam flicked through news sites, searching for the latest miracles. Anything was game. He posted video clips, links to websites, photographs, and stories. His definition of miracle was the importance he wanted people to notice. From the list of comments and the constant flow of incoming messages, the number of people who paid attention to his site grew every day.
There was a story about a double amputee who successfully summited Mount Everest and another about a kindergartner who hand-raised kittens after she watched a man toss them into a Dumpster. A frog, born without a back leg, living happily in Boston’s garden conservatory, was adopted as the mascot for local Special Olympians. Samuel’s list grew as he weighed the pros and cons of possible posts. Hours he used to spend in dialysis. This was how he filled the other hours of the
day. The hours not filled with the hunt for me.
All Samuel wants is for people to wake up and see the world around them. And to participate in their own lives.
He most often posted things about people choosing to do the hard thing, the right thing, rather than taking the easiest path. The unemployed person who returned a full briefcase of savings bonds to a widow. The child who started a school turkey drive because her best friend had never had turkey at Thanksgiving. Parents of a dying three-day-old girl who gut-wrenchingly fought grief by donating her organs and subsequently saved five other babies, five other sets of parents from burying an infant. Sam liked the stories that made people aware that they could choose to alleviate suffering rather than contribute to it.
Though he tried to hide and ignore her, his ma tracked him down, waiting only a few heartbeats before launching. “Samuel, Mrs. Wayland’s son, Trevor, has invited you to his birthday party on Friday night.”
Not another friend date. Samuel had barely healed before she’d begun thrusting him out into the world. Apparently anyone under the age of eighteen was a potential friend hookup for her only son. That’s all her standards seemed to stop at—age. She’d invited more random boys over for cookies and milk than hardcore pedophiles.
“I have plans. And, isn’t he ten?” Samuel didn’t look up. He knew eye contact was an unfavorable idea.
She tsked so hard, spittle flew from her lips. “You don’t have plans.”
Gross. I tried to wipe my face clean on reflex.
“There’s a gaming tourney this weekend. Starts Friday afternoon.” Samuel rarely lied. But sometimes lying was the only way to get her to back off. I don’t understand why he even tries the truth. Just tell her what she wants to hear.
“They’re going camping up in the mountains, Samuel. It will be fun.”
I watched her lock her knees and cross her arms. Sam clenched his jaw and hissed an inhale. I felt sorry for him.
“Why do you want me to go camping with a bunch of kids?” he asked.
She sighed. That sigh was never a good sign, even I knew that. “I want you to make friends.”