ANGEL’S STORM MAGIC

by Meg Xuemei X

  CHAPTER THREE

  TRANSFORMATION

  Kai clears his studio, knowing I wouldn’t visit him while all the bugs, bees, and butterflies are around. He laughs upon hearing the analogy I used to refer to his friends, acquaintances, and models.

  “It’s not easy to drive them away,” he says in a resigned voice. “They stick like glue.” But he has to be hard-hearted for my sake.

  It feels surreal to step into his studio in person after spending a month watching it from behind the curtains.

  I survey the art books on the shelves and extract one. The print quality of the world-known artists’ portfolios is excellent. Kai seems to love French impressionists. I do too, but I’m more into the cost of the books. They even smell expensive. I manage not to let a greedy glint into my eyes, for Kai is watching me. It’s a relief that he can’t read the thoughts coursing through my mind, as some of them aren’t very nice.

  Suppressing a need to possess the painter’s art books, I slide the book back onto the shelf and let my eyes stray to the paintings on the walls. At least they’re too big for me to carry away.

  “Some of the paintings are my works. Some are my friends’. The portrait of the Tibetan girl you’re looking at is my teacher’s work,” Kai says.

  My eyes covet the beauty. I swallow, once again pushing the idea of possessing his books and paintings to the back of my mind. I move to a painting of a forest to distract myself.

  I’ve never been to this forest. As the painted world draws me in, a wild wind passes through me. Suddenly I’m inside the forest, awed by its magnificence. I see what Kai saw; I feel what he once felt in a different time and space. Although I’m a street survivor, I naturally understand and appreciate the profound beauty of art, as if that ability was locked away deep within and has just been released from its prison.

  “You love art, don’t you?” he says softly. “I’ve been right about you.”

  “I’m not like those girls you’re with who are only interested in you.” My voice carries such a note of haughtiness and spite that I throw my hand over my mouth. I didn’t mean to let my thoughts out. He might get the wrong idea that I’m some sort of peeping Tom. The last thing I want is to expose myself as an amateur private eye.

  But I’m not wrong about the girls. From my observations, eavesdropping, and lip reading, his models have never paid much attention to his artwork.

  “I’m not interested in boys,” I say. Feeling the statement isn’t strong enough, I add viciously, “Any boy!”

  He laughs, which sounds more like a bark. “You’re too young to be interested in a boy.”

  “I’m not too young!” I declare. “I know what goes between a man and—” I stop abruptly. Flames burst in my cheeks. I recall those erotic romance novels I once smuggled out of the recycling center where my mother worked. I loaned them to some big girls at school when I was seven. I had to browse through the contents to see whether they were up to my clients’ tastes—

  Kai roars with louder laughter.

  My fists clenching, my chest heaving, I turn to scowl at him. I’m not from the circus! I didn’t come here to provide him with amusement.

  Under my glare, he stops laughing and tries hard to put on a serious face, but his chest seems to be still vibrating. The boy sucks at covering up his emotions.

  My temper reduces when I spot his first weakness, but my stern look stays locked on him. One more wrong move from him, all bets are off, and I’m out of here, even though it pains me to leave all these beautiful things behind before I can take them.

  “I apologize,” he says. “I’m not laughing at you.”

  “I’m just not interested,” I say with irritation, “because it’s boring.” I don’t know why I feel the need to clarify myself. I don’t owe him an explanation. And now I’m mad at myself for spelling myself out, which I regard as a weakness.

  “I like to hear you talk, you know,” he says, a soft smile swimming in his eyes.

  Right. He likes to watch me make a fool of myself, like everyone else. When I was a kid, my mother sometimes smacked me just to get a reaction from me, for my responses and my begging lines. “Just let me eat a little, Mother. I don’t want to have an empty stomach when I go to bed. I’ll have a nightmare!” often made everyone burst into hoots of laughter. They laughed even more when my mother had to drag my hair to pull me away from the dinner table as I grabbed the edge, refusing to leave the food.

  So, I stopped reacting altogether and resolved to play more of a dead bug than a clown. I don’t entertain anyone. But my lack of normal interaction with people seems to backfire on me now.

  “Your voice is low and rich,” he continues. “I find it appealing.”

  I examine his eyes, trying to find a hint of a lie. I can smell a liar a mile away. It takes one to know one. A dark mind always touches its own kind. But there’s no mocking inside the golden specks of his eyes, which both surprises and appeases me.

  So, he isn’t like the others. Rather than focus on what I’m saying, he focuses on the way I sound. That’s a first. But how can he like my voice? I regard my low voice as a curse, for it has brought me nothing but inconvenience. I’ve never won over my opponents in a screaming match. What I lack in vocal volume, I make up for in vicious words that cut right to the core.

  Noticing that I’m now self-conscious and thus growing edgy, Kai removes his gaze from me and picks up his guitar. He adjusts the strings, trying a few notes, until he’s comfortable with the new tuning.

  “In order to be friends, I think we should know more about each other,” he says, his fingers moving along the strings, making the music dance to his tune. “Friends know each other. Do you agree?”

  “I don’t know if I should agree,” I say cautiously. “I don’t know how this friend thing works.”

  “Why don’t we start with questions?” he suggests with an encouraging smile.

  I do not like anyone asking me questions. I remember those endless interrogations from my mother. A simple question from my family members always led to a trap. As a kid, I had to constantly outthink them. But now I’ve grown too old for the mind games and am sick of them. As my mother put it, “The dead thing isn’t fun anymore. She used to be a firecracker when she was little.”

  “What kind of questions?” I ask defensively.

  “I’d like to hear you talk about yourself,” he says.

  Is he crazy? My jaw drops. Talk about myself? I haven’t talked about myself for a century. Who can I talk to, and what can I talk about? When I was required to talk about myself, it usually involved finding an excuse to escape punishment.

  “What about your dreams? You do have plans for your future, right?” He offers me a hint. “As for me, all I want is to be a great painter.”

  My plan? The immediate one is to break free from my family. As for my undying dream, I aim to be an astronaut. My mouth opens but then closes. I’m not sharing this information with anyone.

  Kai must have noticed my guarded look. “I guess you aren’t fond of being questioned . . . or sharing,” he says. “Feel free to correct me if I made a poor judgment.”

  I give him a measured look. “Your judgment is fine,” I say.

  “Do you feel like asking me questions?” he asks. Over my quizzical look, he adds, “I don’t mind. I’m an open book.”

  “I’ll turn the page when I decide to read the book,” I say. He smiles. Then the next minute, I’ve thrown him a string of questions. The process is more like a cross-examination. I decide the sooner I find his Achilles heel, the safer I’ll be.

  The moment my mind moves in that direction, I realize I’ve treated him like an enemy. But how am I going to deal with him differently when I know no other way?

  “Are your parents okay with you being an artist?” I ask in a tone that is less conversational and more demanding. I remember what my mother said about his parents’ objections.

  “They hated it,” Kai says. “My mom begged me to reconside
r. She said I was too young to understand the importance of security. And when I grew older, it’d be too late to turn back. But I’ve made up my mind. Life isn’t all about a full belly.” He then turns to me with a dark look as if daring me to challenge him too. “I failed last year.”

  “It seems you rise and shine now,” I say.

  A half smile touches the corner of his lips while his dark look abides. “I can’t fail again.” He grips his hair in his hands. A troubled look drives his smile away. “I must get into the Central Art School next fall, or I’m dead.”

  “You have a talent, even I can see that,” I say. “But you need to be more focused and disciplined.”

  The smile floats back into his eyes. “Disciplined?”

  “You have too many parties,” I say, “and too many girls.”

  “I don’t have a girl.”

  “Whatever,” I say.

  He doesn’t want to dwell on the subject of girls. “When I told my mom and dad I’d never turn back, even if my fate went the way of Vincent Van Gogh, they asked in unison, ‘Vin who?’” He chuckles and, noticing my blank look, he stops. “Do you know who Van Gogh is? If you don’t know, it’s fine. None of my models know who he is.”

  Van Gogh’s Wheat Fields is one of my favorite paintings. “While the Dutch impressionist lived in Paris, he cut off his ear and gave it to his girlfriend,” I say.

  Kai laughs again. “Xirena, you’re full of surprises.”

  “I don’t know much about other painters.”

  “Who would you like to know?”

  “Everyone and everything.”

  Kai then walks me through the world of paintings. I hang onto his every word while I study his long, dark eyebrows, which look like graceful twin swords. In classic Chinese literature, this type of eyebrow is the trademark of a superior warrior. I drag myself back before I forget myself and reach to trace his eyebrows with my fingers.

  “You’re a good listener.” He meets my gaze.

  I listen skillfully, because I’ve learned it’s important to discover my opponent’s disadvantages. No one is capable of telling a hundred percent truth. Knowing how to decode lies and hidden messages between the lines is a gift. So far, I haven’t detected Kai’s fatal flaws. Instead, I recognize in him a quality.

  “You aren’t a conventional thinker like the others,” I say.

  “I’ll never be like the others.” He pauses, regarding me. “We’re alike, Xirena.”

  “I’m not like you,” I say, “or anyone.”

  “How about let’s find out?” His gaze is keen.

  “How?” I ask, then immediately feel stupid.

  “By spending more time together,” he says.

  My heart flutters. I hesitate, pondering the cons and pros of continuing to meet with him. As I spot a mosaic of worry and expectation twirling on his face, I convince myself it won’t hurt to see more of him if I’m cautious enough.

  And I’m always careful.

  “Can you keep a secret?” I ask.

  He makes the sign of crossing his heart.

  “No one can know about our meetings,” I say.

  If the news of our meetings leaks to my mother, she’ll give me hell. She might even go to my school to have me expelled. “You don’t deserve good fortune,” she’s said more than once. And if the school principals catch us, I’ll get kicked out. There are very strict rules about this. A minor, anyone under the age of sixteen, can be expelled for having a relationship. And before the student is thrown out, they’ll read the verdict of the indecent conduct in public to all fellow students, so no one follows suit.

  I’ll not let that happen. High education is my only ticket to leaving this town forever.

  “No one will know,” Kai says solemnly.

  * * *

  Discreetly, I begin to pay him exclusive visits. Half of the time we’re together, I watch him paint. He’s learned that when he paints, I’m at ease, as I do not care for being stared at.

  But in truth, I love to be in his universe. When he concentrates on drawing or applying the brushes to his canvas, he has this enigmatic look that holds me spellbound. He’s close and yet a million miles away, and I just stare at him, wondering how a boy’s complexion can be so perfect. Is that why the girls keep coming back? Are they drooling over how hot he looks when he’s lost in his art?

  A lock of dark hair drops to his forehead, but he isn’t conscious of that either. He scrapes unwanted paint from the canvas and then repaints in quick, smooth movements, mixing colors on the palette. Sometimes when he wants a rough look, he uses his palette knife directly on the canvas.

  It’s a fascinating process. I stay as quiet as possible and dare not breathe too loudly, for fear that if I disturb him, he’ll take away my observing privilege.

  I wonder whether other girls, especially the twins, care about how he tilts the canvas to an angle he prefers before he starts a new painting. Do they care about his frustration when he tosses his failed drawings into the trash bin? I believe they just want his body. At that thought, my eyes drift from his hand to his toned arms, his v-shaped torso in the black cotton T-shirt, and his powerful, long legs in black sweatpants.

  When I catch myself, it’s a bit too late to dart my eyes away. He smiles brilliantly, close to smugness. I thought I was safe looking him over while he was so absorbed in repairing his painting. The boy is devious!

  My face burns. “You often wear black,” I say in a stern tone.

  A moment of confusion crosses over his face, and his expression turns serious. “You don’t like black?”

  Oh, heaven! The black brings out every inch of sexiness and coolness in him. But I let my hard look linger, even though I congratulate myself for having covered up my trail. “You can lighten up a little sometimes; you have a sunny personality,” I say. I have to be consistent with my former statement.

  A grin returns to his face. This is the first time I’ve complimented him. But if I were him, any flattery would raise a red flag. I don’t trust a smooth talker.

  He tosses his brushes into a paint bucket in a good mood. “I’m taking a break.” He advances toward me.

  A sudden electricity charges in the room as he reduces the space between us. I believe he feels it too, because I see amazement in his eyes. He stops before me, brushing a loose strand of my hair back behind my ear. His fingertips trail from my temple to the skin near my ear. A delicious feeling buzzes through me, numbing my face.

  I control my breathing in order to keep away the shudder. My reactions embarrass me. This is what my sweet talk has done! I pretend not to notice his touch and stroll toward the rear window, looking at the view.

  There isn’t much to see. The view is lousy, with an old tiled roof spreading under the window. Most of the tiles are in bad shape. But then Kai has no need to worry about a thief visiting through this window.

  He comes up behind me. My heart picks up speed again and pounds so hard that I’m afraid I’ll faint. That would be even more embarrassing. For a few seconds, I wonder whether I have a weak heart that I don’t know about. Why does it act so erratically when I’m around him?

  Just then another sensation prickles between my shoulder blades. From the corner of my eye, I see strong, beautiful hands resting on my shoulders.

  Kai turns me to face him.

  My lips part slightly, involuntarily, as I glance up at him through my lashes, inhaling his intoxicating male scent mixed with paints. And I’m lost.

  “If you don’t like me wearing black, then I won’t wear the color when I’m with you,” he says.

  I blink, waking up. He saunters over to me just to tell me this? “No,” I protest. “Don’t do it for me.”

  “I want to do it for you,” he says.

  I feel his warm, fresh breath when we’re inches apart. My own breath also goes heavier. I turn to look at his hands that still hold my shoulders. He removes them unwillingly.

  There is no longer physical contact between us, but a wave
of electricity still pulses, passing between us. My skin continues to tingle. Panic sweeps over me. I have to stop this electricity swap before my mind totally loses it and my heart faints like a damsel in distress.

  Studying me and seeing my uneasiness, Kai takes a half step back.

  “What if I change my mind?” I lick my lip. “What if I like you in black?” My low voice steadies, assuring myself that now I have the situation under control.

  “So you do like me wearing black.” An amused, smug smirk returns to his sculpted lips.

  Has he just tricked me?

  “I don’t care!” I wave a hand in irritation. “Wear whatever you want, black or white or green.”

  “Not green, Xirena. You don’t like green.” His smile expands. “But you like me.”

  The heat rising in my face has become more than I can handle. I wish for a hole into which I can jump before I get burned like a human torch. Unfortunately, there is no hole available, and I’ve heard stories about human combustion.

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life!” I scoff, letting iciness edge back into my eyes. “I was only trying to be nice and see if we really could be friends, but it seems—”

  “Then I’ll have to accept your friendship challenge and prove I’m worthy,” he says, cutting off my likely break-up line. He falls back, giving me more ground but eyeing me, as if a river has formed between us and he’s desperate to cross it, but can’t find a boat.

  My features soften, yet my mind frantically searches for a boring, secure subject to disperse the tension in the room.

  “How’s your English study?” I test the waters. I heard that English ruined his chance to get into the college last year.

  His face falls. Exasperated, he throws himself into a nearby chair instead of advancing to me. An English textbook happens to be on the table in front of him, staring right into his face. He turns away, but not before he snatches a decorative knife beside the textbook and hurls it in the air. The knife lodges itself at the center point of a dartboard hanging on the wall.