Unseen

by Stephanie Erickson

  He moved on rather quickly from that topic, not entertaining any more questions about the flag. I didn’t hear the rest of the discussion, though. I was captivated by the image. Looking closer at it, I decided the white speckles were stars, arranged in the shape of a circle. And what was a flag?

  At lunch, I took out my tablet and punched flag into the search bar.

  No results found

  It glared defiantly at me. I wondered if the term was so old that it wasn’t in the database, or if it was blocked, considered information that was too “charged” for the general population—whatever that meant.

  By the end of the day, I was obsessed with the flag. I used my art class as a release. Art was my favorite class. I liked to think of myself as somewhat of an artist, as much as you can in tenth grade. Someday, I wanted to be a professional artist, and have people pay me for my art. Wouldn’t that be something? For today, we were doing a still life with watercolors to be graded on technique.

  The cream-colored bowl of fruit was placed on a faux oak table in the center of the room. Our tables were arranged around it so we could all have an unobstructed view of the piece. There were about fifteen of us in this class, which wasn’t as many as some of my other classes, but Ms. Paige liked to keep her class sizes down to give attention to all her students.

  Dutifully, I painted the bowl with its banana, apples, oranges, and a bunch of grapes draped over the side. The table wasn’t even draped with an interesting cloth. I sighed. Although my painting looked just like the table in front of me, it was dull. Before I knew it, the flag came flowing from my brush. I watched the background of the painting fill with red, white and blue. Apparently, I’d decided to depict the flag as though it was waving in the breeze, although I had no idea if flags actually did that or what they were used for. It just gave the image some depth.

  When I was done, I sat back in my chair, proud of the finished product. The bell rang at least an hour before I finished, but my teacher was used to having me hang behind.

  She walked over to see my latest creation. Ms. Paige was what we all called a hippie. She usually had some sort of hemp on her somewhere, whether it was a bracelet or a necklace. I swear one time she came in with a hemp skirt. Her clothes were baggy and generally stained with the remnants of her latest project. For some reason, she liked to wear long beaded necklaces, but they were always dragging in her paints, so the beads didn’t all seem to be their original colors anymore. Her brown, frizzy hair was something of a phenomenon. Some of the kids took bets on how long it’d been since she’d washed it. I didn’t participate. First of all, there was no way to win. How on earth would they find concrete evidence of that? Second, I liked Ms. Paige. I wasn’t interested in berating her. Yeah, she was different, but she’s an artist. What did you expect?

  “Oh, Macey. I’m sorry, but I can’t accept this.” She picked up my painting, and I reached out for it instinctively, not sure all the paint was dry.

  I took it from her hands, inspecting it for flaws. “What? Why?”

  “I just can’t. It’s too…controversial. You’ll have to do it over, or take an F on the project.”

  I started to protest. “But-”

  “I’m sorry Macey. That’s my final ruling. Take it or leave it.”

  She walked back to her office, leaving me, mouth agape, at my station. An F? I’d never gotten an F for anything before, let alone in my favorite class.

  I studied the painting closely. The technique wasn’t perfect, per se, but it was worth at least a B, and seeing as it was better than all the other kids in the class, it was really worth an A. The project was supposed to be graded on technique.

  I blotted the paper with a tissue, making sure it was totally dry, rolled it up, secured it with a piece of twine, grabbed my things, and headed out the door.

  This was a first. I never left my art class so bewildered before.

  2.

  I left school totally depressed. Art was subjective. I didn’t know anyone who got an F on anything in Art, as long as they put in the effort. That’s why it was such a popular class! It was considered an easy A, and here I was, facing an F.

  My feet followed their route automatically as I twirled the twine securing my F-worthy painting. Maybe I would ask Alex; he might know what was so bad about it. Alex was two years older than me and studying to be an architect, not an artist, but maybe he knew about these things. But asking him would require telling him what had happened. I wasn’t sure I wanted that embarrassment. ‘Oh, by the way, your best friend and aspiring artist is looking at taking an F in Art if she doesn’t redo her latest project.’ I knew he wouldn’t laugh at me. Alex never did that. But he might be disappointed—a fate I considered worse than death. I thought about my baby brother, claimed by the disease, and reconsidered. Okay, maybe not worse than death, but darn close.

  The construction site was only about two miles from school. They were building another housing complex or something. I wasn’t really paying close attention when Alex told me. He graduated last year ahead of his class and was working as a contractor to pay for his tuition at the local trade school for architectural design. It was hard labor, but Alex was built for it. Muscular and tan, he never seemed bothered by getting his hands dirty.

  We’d been friends since I could remember, long before Joey died, it seemed. He lived up the street from us as a ward of our neighbors. The District paid them to take care of him. He was lucky. They treated him well. Not warmly, but he had everything he needed. He always said he never felt like they were family, not like our family did, but he was grateful to them. Some wards ended up one step above homeless while the families kept all the money the District gave them and spent it on themselves. The disease claimed Alex’s family one by one. His dad died from the quest for the cure when Alex was about two, and his mom died from the disease right after he was born. Since then, Alex lived with our neighbors, at least until he started school last fall and got an apartment of his own.

  I approached the site and spotted him standing up after setting a couple of two-by-fours on the pile. Outfitted in his normal construction attire, jeans and a white t-shirt, he stretched his back, removed his hard hat, and ran a hand through his blond hair.

  I pointed my rolled-up F at him. “Ya know, that gold-on-gold look isn’t really working out for you. Maybe you should think about dying your hair a different color.” I snickered. “Or you could wear makeup to lighten your skin.”

  “Whatever,” he said, and took me in a headlock before releasing me. “What do you want, ya little brat?” He noticed my painting and snatched it from me before I could react.

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  He started to unfold it. “Why not? You’re going to be famous some day, and I’d like to think it will be a portrait of a gold-on-gold Greek God that will make it happen for you.” When he saw what it was, his demeanor changed immediately. “Oh. Hey now, Macey. You can’t be painting stuff like this.” He rolled it up quickly and glanced around, checking for people nearby. Handing it back to me, he asked, “What did your teacher say?”

  I shifted my weight and avoided his eyes. “She said if I didn’t redo it, I’d get an F on the project.” I said it quietly, and some of it was drowned out by the hammering that surrounded us.

  “She said what?”

  I looked up at him. Although I couldn’t see, I just knew his blue eyes were challenging me behind those dark glasses. “She said I’d have to take an F on the project if I didn’t redo it.”

  He tilted his head. “I get the impression you’re considering not redoing it.”

  “Well, look at it!” I offered it back to him, but he didn’t take it from me. Instead he glanced back and forth, making sure no one was watching us. I sighed. “Alex, it’s good. The project was supposed to be graded on technique. It’s not perfect, but I’d be willing to bet it’s the best in the class.”

  Taking a deep breath, he reached for the painting and unrolled it. “It really is
quite special, Mace, but you can’t turn this in.”

  “I don’t understand why.” Tears started welling, and I forced them back. I didn’t like to cry, let alone in front of Alex. Crying was for babies and invalids. I was neither of those things. The headache I gained was the reward for my efforts. A battle scar I always wore with pride and without complaint.

  “Mace, where did you even see something like that?” He pointed to the flag.

  “I saw it in our history book. I don’t understand why it’s so bad. It was in our book, for heaven’s sake.”

  “What did your history teacher say about it?”

  “Just that it was a symbol that people got overly attached to, so the government took it away.”

  I followed him across the site to the cooler where he grabbed a bottle of water. He sat down and nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s about the gist of it.”

  “So, if that’s all there is to it, why does this deserve an F?”

  His blue eyes looked deeply into my own. I hated it when he did that. He knew I was powerless against that stare, only because I could tell he meant business and I didn’t want to let him down. “Did you think about what might have caused the government to ban this symbol in the first place? Or even that the symbol is banned? What do you think might happen to you if someone at the Facility got a hold of this?”

  I snorted. “Well, I think the people at the Facility are a little busy trying to find that ever-elusive cure to care much about what a tenth-grader paints in Art.”

  “You’re missing the point. Once you turn this stuff in, it stays with you. It doesn’t just disappear. It will follow you forever. No one will let you into their school, no one will hire you. You’d be too much of a risk. Too much of a loose cannon.”

  “Why, though? It’s just a painting. And a darn good one at that!” I looked longingly at the painting. Why was it so wrong to be proud of it?

  “Hey, Bowman! Break’s over! We’ve got a lot to finish up here!” a man called across the construction yard.

  Alex handed the painting back to me. “Yeah! Ok!” he hollered back. “I gotta get back to work. Listen, whatever you decide on this one, please don’t paint stuff like this for school again, okay? It’s just not…constructive.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I wasn’t sure I agreed with him. How could it not be constructive to express myself? Although, when I really thought about it, I didn’t know what exactly I was expressing with the painting. Why did it have to have such a controversial meaning behind it? Why couldn’t it just be a beautiful painting? That was all I meant it as. Maybe if I explained that to the teacher she’d accept it. I frowned, doubting my conclusion.

  On my walk home, I looked at my neighborhood with new eyes. What about that stupid flag had made it the way it was? On the surface, everything seemed fine, which was by design. The streets were well-manicured, although not fancy. Trees were evenly spaced and all the same height, homes were equal distances apart and all the same. Everything, down to the frequency of grass cutting was tightly controlled to maintain a uniform and “clean” appearance. The government said it provided fewer distractions, and thus would help lead them to a cure faster. My mom commented once before Joey died that it had turned into a “Stepford community” overnight, but Dad shushed her before I could ask what that meant.

  What did it look like when the flag and the freedom it represented existed? Were the homes different colors? Different shapes? Different sizes? Did everyone choose what their lawns looked like? Was the image really that distracting? Growing up with such uniformity, the image was difficult to picture, but I couldn’t imagine something so minute was all that damaging.

  As I turned the corner and walked down yet another identical street, I thought about just redoing the project. I mean, I had the likeness of the fruit in my original painting. It wouldn’t take me very long to do it. It was just the principle of the thing. Why should I redo something that met the requirements of the project? I shouldn’t. It was as simple as that.

  Resolved, I walked up the driveway to our home. It looked exactly like all the other homes in this neighborhood, right down to the two sycamore trees in the front yard. We weren’t the first family to live in it and probably wouldn’t be the last, but for now, it was ours. That made it perfect to me.

  The pale yellow siding always greeted me with a smile. Rosie unlocked the front door when I approached.

  I stood in the doorway as she sanitized me, making sure the disease didn’t come inside. “Welcome home, Macey.” She said in her soothing but still robotic voice as the beam covered me in a green glow. It wasn’t as sophisticated or intense as the one we had at school, but I guessed it didn’t need to be. That one was super high-powered and worked much faster. It was meant for higher volume. Here at home, Rosie only had the three of us to keep healthy.

  “Hey, Rosie. What’s new?”

  “Your arrival at home.” She always answered the same way, but I still asked because some part of me found it funny.

  Rosie was what we named our home. Mom said it was a reference to some cartoon from the twentieth century, but I never figured out which one. Rosie was an automated system, the latest technology when the house was built, but now pretty outdated. She suited our needs, though.

  I tossed my backpack on the stairs and parked myself on the couch. “Rosie, are Mom and Dad on their way home yet?”

  “Your mother is seven minutes and forty-two seconds away from home. Your father is still at work.”

  Satisfied, I unrolled the painting and rested it against the red glass vase that lived in the middle of the coffee table. Leaning back on the couch, I studied my work.

  The colors were perfect. Lines, a little shaky, but getting better. Proportions, right on the money. These were the things I was told we’d be graded on. The more I thought about it, the more I felt this was the piece I would turn in. Convinced my teacher would change her mind once she’d had time to think about it logically, I folded my arms over my chest, pleased with my accomplishment.

  My resolve wavered, though, when I heard the garage door, signaling the arrival of my mom.

  The Cure is available on Amazon, Nook, iTunes, Kobo and Google Play. Get your copy today!

  Bibliography

  Home Page. spdfoundation.net. 2014. The Sensory Processing Disorder Foundation.

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  “How Music Helps to Heal the Injured Brain.” www.brainline.org. 2010. The Dana

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  “Music Therapy: The Healing Power of Music.” Musictherapyintheus.wordpress.com.

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  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I thank God for everything. For giving me the words, time, and drive to complete this project. I am in constant awe of the blessings I’ve received recently, and my gratitude in increasingly inadequate.

  Although Unseen is my third published book, for me, it’s a first of sorts. It’s the first book I’m publishing as a full-time author. It’s scary, exciting, and uncomfortably real. Through the rollercoaster, my husband has been such an amazing supporter, cheerleader, business partner, best friend, and general cohort. It’s because of him that this book even came to be. Honey, your support with this endeavor is so appreciated! I’m so excited to see how far we can take it!

  Of course, no project can come together without the unrelenting support of your team. So, I’d like to first thank my amazing editors Angela and Cynthia. Angela, you really got out your turd polish on this one and helped me take Unseen from an okay story to something I am so freaking exc
ited about! Cynthia, I thank you for removing every misplaced comma, every extra space, every wrongly used word, and other sinful grammatical errors. And who can forget the beta readers? My favorite beta, Jamie, is an amazingly patient person who can read a barely passable draft and point out glaring errors while still making you feel like it’s amazing enough to keep going. What would I do without you?

  No book is completed without friends and family. Sometimes they end up as characters in the book, sometimes they sit on the sidelines, quietly supportive while you write just one more chapter, but they’re always there, always interested and always excited. Dannie and Mary, you guys are amazing. I love you both so much and hope I can be as good to you as you are to me.

  My parents are a force to be reckoned with. Their support for whatever I do is ceaseless, loud, and joyful. I know I’m lucky to have such selfless people for my parents, and hope that if you don’t, dear reader, you have at least one person in your life who can show you what unconditional love looks like.

  Lastly, of course, a book is nothing but a paperweight without a reader. So, I thank you. You’ve taken hours from your busy schedule to spend time with my characters, and me. I know what a sacrifice that is, believe me, and I am so grateful. I certainly enjoyed it, and I hope you did too! Until next time!

  –S

  About the Author

  Stephanie Erickson is an English Literature graduate from Flagler College. She lives in Florida with her family. Unseen is her third novel.

  She loves to connect with readers! Follow her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/stephmerickson, Twitter @sm_erickson, or stop by her Web site at www.stephanieericksonbooks.com.

  You can also get the latest news on new releases, contests, and author appearances by signing up for her newsletter here.