“You’re good with her,” Uncle Jasper says. “She doesn’t like everyone.”
“I know.” I think of Alexa and Sammy at the picnic table. “Sammy reminds me of someone I know.”
“You?” Uncle Jasper asks.
“Yes,” I say, and smile. “Me.”
And then, as I watch Sammy, I realize the empty space inside is filling. The answer has been there all along.
Thirty minutes later, all the tables have been packed up, the trash picked up, and everyone’s art is gone.
“That’s it,” Opal says in a tired voice. Sammy stands beside her, holding the glass pieces in her hands. Her rock castle is half-built on the grass behind us.
I clear my throat. “Not quite.”
Uncle Jasper turns and looks around the park. “I don’t see anything else.”
“It’s about the mentors.” I lick my lips. “The art mentors.”
Opal raises her eyebrow. She gently taps Uncle Jasper on the arm, as if they’ve had some previous conversation about mentors and me staying on the Island.
“I’d like to mentor Sammy,” I say. I feel calm as I speak the words.
Sammy immediately pushes away from Opal. “What’s mentor?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” Opal says. “It doesn’t hurt.” She turns to me, and our eyes lock. The light in the center of Opal’s eyes sparkles like the light in the glass. “I think that would work. We could arrange it so you’re a mentor instead of having a mentor.”
I look to Uncle Jasper, who rubs his chin and studies me. “Yes. I agree. We could make that work. I’m sure your Mom will agree also. She’ll be proud to hear you’re going to be a mentor.”
Before I can say thank you to Uncle Jasper or Opal, Sammy slips her hand into mine. “Jasmine is my mentor. I like Jasmine.”
“Yes,” I say. “I am your mentor.”
And the tears that I’ve held back all day finally fall.
Chapter Fourteen
On the front porch, Cole pulls me close. “I’m glad you’re staying for the summer,” he says softly.
“Me too.” I relax against his chest. Cole’s heart pounds, and I inhale his smell of earth and clean soap. I don’t know how Cole keeps his fresh smell, especially after our bike ride from the park to Uncle Jasper’s house. I’m sure I smell like sweat, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
The front porch door bangs open. “Um…” Uncle Jasper says.
I quickly pull away from Cole. I’m never going to get that kiss. The warm one.
“See you tomorrow,” Cole says, and in one quick motion kisses me on the lips. His lips are warm. Very warm. I barely move as I feel his lips on mine. But just as I’m wondering if I’m doing it right, he jerks away and calls, “’Night, Jasper,” before heading down the driveway.
“’Night, Cole,” I say quietly. I feel like I could soar. I slip off my sandals and hold them lightly between my fingertips. The sandals wobble but remain on the tips of my fingers as I dance across the porch.
Uncle Jasper holds open the screen door. “Mom’s on the phone.”
I dance across the living room to the phone in the hallway. “Mom?” I say into the phone. I twirl the cord between my fingers.
“Jasmine! I’m looking forward to having you come home. I’m just about to book my plane ticket out to meet you. I thought we could spend a few days in Seattle before we both fly back to Chicago. What do you think?”
“I have good news.” I take a deep breath. I hope Mom is happy for me. And I hope she won’t miss me too much because, although I’ll miss her, it’s important for me to spend the summer on the Island. For more reasons than one. I can’t help but smile as I think of Cole. “I’m going to be a mentor.” I explain who Sammy is and how I am going to mentor her.
Mom is silent when I finish. For a minute, I think I’ve lost her. “Mom?”
“I’m here,” she says very quietly. “I’m proud of you.”
“You are?”
“Yes,” Mom says, louder. “I’m so very proud of you.”
I hold the phone close to my ear and twirl around in a small circle. “Guess what else?” I want to hear her say she’s proud of me just one more time. “I won an award.”
“Just like your dad,” Mom says.
“Not really.” I stop twirling. It’s not really like Dad at all. Not at all.
“Well, maybe not,” Mom says. “You know, I took his award pictures down. Do you want one or two to hang in your room?”
I pause, but I already know the answer. I don’t want Dad’s awards. I don’t want to remember how I compared myself to him and always came up short, or thought that to be an artist I had to win awards.
“What about the one in the hallway?” Mom says.
“Maybe we could just leave it in the hallway. I like that one.”
“I do, too.”
“Mom,” I say suddenly. “Why don’t you come out to the Island? You’ve never been here. They have a great place for bath salts and scents. We could shop around the town.” I think about us playing tourist. I’m not sure Mom and Opal would get along, but maybe Mom could meet Alexa’s mom. They could be special testers for the bath soaps and salts.
“That would be nice,” Mom says. “I’ll plan on it. I’ll plan a little trip out for the last two weeks of August.”
“Fabulous!” I say.
Even on the Island, Mom and I are still a team. And I know we’ll always be a team.
After Mom hangs up, I replace the phone, knowing I’m too wired to go to sleep. At home, when I couldn’t sleep, Mom always gave me milk to drink. I’m not sure it really works, but it’s worth a try. When I reach the kitchen, I stop to look out into the sunlit back yard. The glass balls dangle from the thin wires.
Dad is back in Chicago, and it’s time I talked to him. I have something to tell him. With shaking hands, I reach for the phone and dial Dad’s cell number.
“Jasmine?”
“Dad.” Dad sounds like he is on the Island. His voice is warm and close in my ear. I move the phone, just a bit, away from me.
“I’ve been meaning to get a hold of you,” Dad says. “I’ve got big news.”
I stare out the window and into the backyard. Opal’s twirling glass balls sparkle with red, purple and green light. “I’ve got news too,” I say, and swallow. My voice seems to have dried up.
“I’m having a show. In Chicago. I want you here.” It’s a statement, not a request.
My heart races faster than it did when I was on the boat with Cole, and harder than when I waited for the contest to be announced. I can’t go to Dad’s show—not can’t go, I correct myself, I will not go. My mouth has a funny dry taste, and I lick my lips.
“I’m a mentor,” I say. “I can’t just leave the Island. Not now.”
“I’m your mentor,” Dad says, and laughs. “And I need you for the show. I’m up for an award.”
I ball my fists. Nothing has changed. Dad still thinks the world revolves around him.
“No,” I whisper. “No. No. No.”
“Give me your e-mail address, I’ll send you an e-ticket.”
“No,” I say. The word seems like a shout in the kitchen. “No.”
“What?” Dad pauses. “What’s wrong with your e-mail?”
“No,” I say. “I mean, yes.” I stop, and take a deep breath. I can handle this. I pretend I’m on Uncle Jasper’s porch. I focus on the tall evergreen trees and pretend I’m sinking my roots deep into the ground. The wind blows, the branches toss to the ground, but I remain steady.
“I’m ready,” Dad says. “Fire away.”
“I’m not coming.”
“Can’t hear you,” Dad says. “What’s the address?”
I want to scream. Dad’s game: It’s not that he can’t hear; he doesn’t want to hear.
“I’m not coming,” I repeat. I’m not leaving Sammy. I’m not leaving Cole. I’m not leaving Opal. I’m not leaving the Island.
&n
bsp; “Enough with the games,” Dad says sharply.
“No games.” My voice sounds calm and confident. But I’m glad Dad can’t see inside of me.
“Sorry to hear that,” Dad says, and I hear something else. Something that has always been a part of Dad, but I overlooked because I didn’t want to hear it. The distracted tone. The tone in Dad’s voice that says he has moved on. He’s working on something. Some picture. Not paying attention to me.
And I know what I have always known…
Dad’s art comes first.
Dad comes first. Everywhere. All the time. It’s nothing I did or didn’t do.
It’s just how Dad is.
“I’m sorry.” This time my voice does shake.
“I’m sorry, too,” Dad says, and for a minute I wonder if he is sorry. But as the phone line goes dead in my ear, I know he isn’t. He really doesn’t think he did anything wrong. This is the way Dad is—but it’s not the way I am. I am an artist, but not an artist like Dad.
I stand up and take a deep breath. I move my right finger over the ring’s purple amethyst stone as I stare into the backyard.
Slipping off my ring, I turn it over in my hands.
Dad always said the ring had power.
Art power.
But art power doesn’t come from things like magic rings or awards. Art power comes from inside, like the light reflected from the glass balls hanging on a thin wire. Art power comes from knowing where talent can be shared, and not things like awards. And I know, without looking in the mirror, that my eyes have that sparkle.
Light from within.
I set the ring on the counter.
I am an artist.
Epilogue
Jasmine slipped off her silver ring and leaned against the wooden ferry dock. She held the ring over Puget Sound. Her chocolate spice-painted fingernails moved over the amethyst. Jasmine lifted the ring to her lips. She breathed onto the purple stone and then, with one swoop, tossed the ring high in the air. Arcs of silver light moved across the rock castle, and the ring plummeted downward into Puget Sound and sank out of sight.
On the beach, a five-year-old girl, wearing an orange and blue flower bathing suit, held a piece of purple glass. She waved the rectangular glass in the air. The sunlight sent squares of purple light across the rocky beach. The girl placed the glass piece inside the rock castle. She knew the powers that lay inside.
Acknowledgments
The journey of this story was a long one and it would not have happened without the following people:
My mentors: Laura Wilson, Ann Teplick, and Henri Wilson.
The young authors who allowed me to mentor them and gave valuable insight to this story: Kendra Bonzon, Shannon Smith, Chad Merkely, Cassie Atkins, and Ashley Bloxom. A very special shout-out to my mentee, Faith Dye! And a very, very special thank you to all the youth at Denney Juvenile Justice Center—you are the gold in my writing process.
This story was my thesis for the Vermont College MFA in Writing for Children program, where the following people guided the story: Lisa Jahn-Clough, Sharon Darrow, Liza Ketchum, Kathi Appelt, Ron Koertge, Norma Fox Mazer, Lauren Myracle, and Ann Angel. Maltby Art Glass classes taught me how to make a stained glass suncatcher, The National Book Foundation and Meg Kearney invited me to attend the July 2002 Summer Writing Camp, and the Lake Stevens Writers Group gave me a safe space for a first draft to emerge.
During the writing of this novel, I was a teacher and a special shout out goes to both the staff and students at Northlake Middle School as well as Chrysalis School including: Adam, Lacy, Tiffany, Louise Parsons, Kristen Flores, and Rick DeYoung.
Thank you to some very special friends who kept encouraging me in the long, long journey of this novel: Eileen, who gave me the glass pieces which inspired this story; the YA book group—Nancy Vittor, Kristen Hendricks-Fonseca, Carole Daag, and Pamela Greenwood; Stephanie Lile, who showed me how to “write outside the book;” Gary Marks, who opened the door at Denney Juvenile Justice Center; Rhay Christou, whose daily e-mails are priceless; and my family, who have never tired of supporting me in so many ways during the creative process.
Sarah Cloots—you were the key in this story’s evolution. Thank you.
And finally, to the ladies at Musa: My wonderful editor, Jenn Loring who saw how to shine this story; Celine Summers, who sent that long, long awaited for “Yes” e-mail; Kelly Shorten, Kerry Mand, Elspeth McClanahan, and Kathy Teel, you are amazing! It is an honor to be a part of the Musa Family!
This story is dedicated to those who mentor the young artist.
About the Author
Mindy Hardwick writes stories for children and young adults. Mindy facilitates a poetry workshop with teens at Denney Youth Juvenile Justice Center. She is the co-editor of four anthologies, written by the youth at Denney, as well as the teens’ blog at:
www.denneypoetry.com
Mindy is included on the Washington State Arts Commission Teaching Artist Roster, and worked with the youth of the Tulalip Tribe in the 2011 New Directions Music and Art Prevention Program. Mindy is one of the teaching artists included in the Reclaiming Futures Program at Denney Juvenile Justice Center. She holds an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults from Vermont College and is a member of Seattle SCBWI.
When Mindy is not writing, she likes to art journal and visit the San Juan Islands, where she takes hikes and enjoys seeing eagles from pebble beaches. Mindy lives in the Pacific Northwest with her cocker spaniel, Stormy, and her feisty cat, Cleo. Visit Mindy at:
www.mindyhardwick.com.
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