Your Destination Is on the Left

by Lauren Spieller

  “I am so telling Mom you did that.”

  He crosses his arms. “That’s tattling. Plus, Mom is so mad at you she won’t even care.”

  “True,” I say, the levity from a moment ago disappearing entirely. I toss the book back to him and he catches it. “Tell me a joke.”

  Rodney’s face lights up. “What do you call taking a poop after you eat alphabet soup?”

  “What?”

  “A vowel movement!”

  Rodney collapses onto the bed in a fit of laughter. I groan and smack him on the leg. “You’re gross.”

  A car pulls into the gravel driveway outside our window. I race down the hall to the entryway. The front door opens just as I arrive, revealing a harassed-looking cab driver and a grumpy, crutch-leaning, sparkly blue jumpsuit–wearing YiaYia.

  “Dessa?” she gasps.

  I throw my arms around her neck. She smells like oregano and Chanel No. 5. I hug her tighter.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” she says. “What a lovely surprise!”

  I let go, only to have Rodney squeeze his way between us. He hugs YiaYia just as tightly as I did, making her laugh. “Sweetheart—you’re strangling me.”

  “Here’s her purse,” the cab driver says, handing it to me before stalking back to his car.

  We file into the kitchen, YiaYia cursing softly in Greek when she bumps into the doorframe. She’s got a bulky white cast on one foot and a slim blue Tom on the other. I slip my arm around her waist and help her forward.

  Dad picks up YiaYia in a giant hug, letting her crutches fall to the floor. “You should have told us you broke your foot!” he says, spinning her around in a circle.

  “Peter Dimitris Rhodes!” YiaYia cries out, “you put me down or I will kick you with my big heavy foot.”

  He sets her down carefully and she slides into a creaky chair at the kitchen table. “Bully,” she says, winking.

  Mom walks around the counter and embraces YiaYia. “Dessa has some good news.”

  YiaYia turns to me. “College?”

  I shake my head. Please don’t ask me anything more, not in front of everyone, I plead with my eyes. Please.

  “Dessa got an internship with an artist here in Santa Fe,” Mom answers. “It starts tomorrow.”

  “That’s wonderful!” YiaYia says. “I didn’t even know you’d applied.”

  “Cyrus did it,” I say. “It was a surprise.”

  “Oh, that sweet boy.”

  When I don’t agree, YiaYia narrows her eyes. “I’d like to lie down for a bit. Help me to my room, Dessa?”

  I hand her the crutches, then slip my arm under hers to help her up. It takes us a second to navigate around the table, but then we’re out in the hall, everyone else left behind.

  “How have you been?” she asks as we enter her bedroom. The lights are off, but I can still make out the framed photograph of Rodney and me on her dresser. I help her sit on the bed.

  “We stayed in North Carolina for a few days, and before that—”

  “I didn’t ask where you’ve been, I asked how you’ve been. It’s about time you heard back from UCLA, isn’t it?”

  I try to keep a straight face, but her question is like a knife in my heart.

  YiaYia’s face crumples. “Oh, psihi mou. I’m so sorry.”

  The sight of disappointment on her face is too much—all the feelings I tried to drown last night return, and my eyes fill with tears.

  “No, no, no,” she says. “Don’t cry.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know how this happened.” I push the heels of my hands against my eyes, but the tears keep coming. “I did everything I was supposed to do. I studied. I practiced my technique. I’ve been over it in my head, and I just . . . I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?”

  YiaYia makes a noise in the back of her throat. “You did nothing wrong,” she says. “Come sit with me.”

  I prop the crutches against the wall and perch on the edge of the bed next to her. “There’s something else. Last night, I snuck out and . . . got a little drunk.” Before she can scold me, I continue, “I was upset, and then Cy went out with Rachel, and I just—”

  YiaYia holds up her hands. “Wait a minute. Cyrus went out with another girl? A girl who isn’t you?” She shakes her head. “That boy loves you, and you love him. The two of you were made for each other.”

  I moan, and she lifts her chin and stares down her nose at me. “Are you doubting my years and years of experience?”

  “No, YiaYia.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders. “I’d never doubt your years and years and years and years—”

  “That’s enough!” she says, laughing.

  We lie back on the bed, our heads tipped toward each other. I breathe in the smell of her face cream and of the heavy quilt on her bed, and I feel the tension in my body start to melt away. Something about being here, about being with her, always makes me feel like I can finally and truly relax in a way I never can on the road.

  YiaYia throws a blanket over us, arranging it carefully to make sure it covers everything from our toes to our waists. I feel a surge of love for her, and I slip my hand into hers. She squeezes back softly.

  “My parents don’t know yet,” I say.

  “We don’t know what?”

  Mom and Dad are standing in the doorway, both wearing identical masks of suspicion. I cringe and bury my face in YiaYia’s shoulder.

  “Dessa?” Mom says. “What’s wrong? Is this about last night?”

  “No,” I say, my voice muffled. I glance up at my parents. They look worried now, like they’re afraid I’m about to tell them something horrible.

  I take a deep breath and sit up. If I see even the tiniest hint that they’re disappointed in me, I’ll fall apart. But I don’t have a choice. “I know you’re angry about last night—”

  “You’re damn right we are,” Dad says. “You could have been hurt!”

  I wince. “I know. But I was really upset, and I just needed to get out.”

  “Upset about what?” Mom asks.

  I hesitate, but YiaYia pats my hand beneath the blanket. “Go on,” she whispers.

  I take a steadying breath. “I’ve been waiting to hear back from colleges, right?” My voice cracks, but I force myself to continue. “Well, a few days ago I found out I didn’t get into UCLA or . . . anywhere else.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry to hear that,” Dad says, his voice softer than before. He rests his hand on the side of my head, and I lean into the warmth of his palm. “But Dessa, there’s no excuse for disappearing in the middle of the night. That’s no way to handle life’s problems. You know that, right?”

  I swallow hard. I know he’s waiting for me to promise that last night isn’t ever going to happen again. But I can’t. I needed the freedom of last night, even if the bar was a bad idea.

  “What I did was reckless and dumb,” I finally say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Mom hurries forward and kisses me on the forehead. “It’s going to be okay.”

  She wraps her arms around me, pulling me to her chest. My heart leaps into my throat, and I hug her back. Maybe she does get it. “I’m just so disappointed,” I say, my voice muffled by her shirt. “I wanted to go to college so badly.”

  “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

  I look up, expecting to see my sadness reflected on her face. But instead of sympathy, she looks . . . relieved.

  “Applying to art school was very brave,” she says. “But you don’t belong in a building full of old white men and students desperate to impress them. You belong with your family, not in a stuffy classroom.”

  I pull back, my eyes filling with tears. “But Mom—”

  “I understand, I promise I do,” she says, hushing me. “But you’ve done everything you can. Now it’s time to hold your head high and move on.”

  A burning mixture of anger and hurt courses through me. It’s easy for her to say I don’t belong in art school—she’s alwa
ys felt right at home on the road, even before she and Dad bought the RV five years ago. But the only place I’ve felt truly happy was hunched over a pad of drawing paper, or standing in front of a fresh piece of canvas. Even Dad says I’m the most myself when I’m covered in paint, and he didn’t want me to apply to art school either. Too expensive, not practical. Says the man who travels the country in a gas-guzzling RV.

  But maybe . . . maybe she’s right. I don’t belong in art school. Not according to half the schools in the country, anyway.

  “The good news is that you have your internship, and you have us,” Dad says, ruffling my hair like I’ve fallen off my bike. Like failing at the most important thing in my entire life is no big deal.

  “That’s right,” Mom says. “You’ll always have the families. And we have lots of adventures ahead of us. Now, let’s all go into the kitchen and start dinner. Maybe your Dad can show you how to make keftedes,” Mom says, helping me to my feet. “You’ll feel better in no time.”

  I glance back at YiaYia, still sitting on the bed, just before my mom pulls me through the door and into the hall. Her face is pinched up, like she’s fighting off tears. She understands this isn’t the beginning of a new adventure. It’s the end of one.

  • • •

  Cyrus, Jeff, and the McAlisters arrive late. I meet them a few streets away from YiaYia’s house, where they’ve parked on the side of a dirt road. Cyrus jumps out of the RV.

  “Hey,” he calls, and jogs across the street to where I’m waiting. “What are you doing out here? Not sneaking off again, are you?”

  I smile for the first time in hours. “Wanna take a walk?”

  We walk in silence, leaving the yellow glow of the streetlight behind us. Our shadows stretch out in front of us, leading the way.

  “How pissed are your parents about last night?” Cy asks.

  “They’re more disappointed.”

  “Oh man, that’s way worse.”

  I shake my head. “Tell me about it. At least it looks like I’m going to get off without a punishment.”

  We reach an alleyway, and he stops. “Why’d you sneak out, anyway?”

  I look down at my beat-up Converse. The canvas is peeling away from the rubber on one side, and the laces are gray. “Oh, you know . . . I was too cooped up in the RV.”

  “That’s it?” he asks, his voice skeptical.

  “And . . . I felt bad for myself.”

  “Why?”

  I look up at him. His forehead is creased, and his eyes look worried. I take a deep breath, and say the one thing I never thought I would.

  “Honestly? You and Rachel were on a date, and I was jealous.”

  “Are you serious?” He runs his hands over his head and groans. “That wasn’t a date. We’re just friends.”

  I cross my arms. “Well how was I supposed to know that?”

  “How were you—Dessa, there’s only one person I want to be with.”

  Cy takes my hand, holding it palm up. He makes a circle with his finger, then a dot in the middle. It’s something he’s been doing since we were kids, back when we used to camp and I was afraid of the dark. He’d draw circle after circle, until the fear drained away and all I could feel was his warm fingers on my skin.

  But tonight his touch doesn’t calm me. It’s electric.

  His hand travels up my arm, until his palm presses against my neck. His fingers curl into my hair.

  “It’s you, Dess. It’s always been you.”

  My breath hitches as I stare into his brown eyes. He pulls me close, and my lips part, hungry for his.

  “What are you kids doing out there?” Jeff calls down the block.

  We jerk apart.

  “Nothing!” I yelp.

  Jeff is standing outside their RV, a trash bag in his hand. He holds it up. “Cyrus, come get this. It’s stinking up the whole kitchen.”

  Cy grimaces. “I’ll be there in a second, Dad.”

  “No, come get it now.”

  Cyrus turns to me, his eyes full of apology.

  “It’s okay,” I say. My chest is heaving like I’ve just run five miles. “Go. I’ll see you tomorrow after my internship.”

  Cy starts back down the block. “I’ll call you. We’ll . . . figure this out. Right?”

  I nod, even as my heart rebels against the idea of waiting even a second longer to kiss him. “Yes. Definitely.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The outside of Fiona’s studio looks like a post office—adobe and concrete, a drooping US flag, and a few people hanging around near a scraggly bush. It’s only nine a.m., but already the sun is beating down on my head, a welcome change from the rain in Asheville and the chill night air in Oklahoma. I ring the bell, my fingers shaking a little.

  A minute passes and Fiona doesn’t answer the door. I knock, lightly at first, and then not so lightly. I’m starting to sweat, and my tank top is sticking to my stomach. I take a step back from the door and peer up at the windows on the second floor, but they’re covered in newspaper or cardboard or something, so I can’t tell if the lights are on inside.

  I grab a piece of paper that’s stuck halfway under the door and use it to fan myself. I’m not early, and I triple-checked the address. Definitely in the right place at the right time. Maybe this is a test. Maybe she wants me to prove to her how badly I want this, and the only way I can do that is to stand here, baking in the sun, fanning myself with a piece of trash.

  I ring the bell again, then look down at the piece of paper in my hand just to pass the time. There’s a bit of tape on the end, as if it had been stuck to the door. I turn it over and see the handwriting on the other side.

  Dessa, come to art fair! –F

  Shit. I flip the paper over again, hoping there’s more to her note, but that’s it—“come to the art fair.” Except I have no idea where this art fair is and even if I did, it’s not like I have a car. I pull my cell phone out and check the time. I’ve already been standing here for almost five minutes, which means at the very least I’m running five minutes late to a location I’ve never heard of. Double shit.

  I Google “Santa Fe art fair,” and about twenty million results come up, so I add today’s date. There’s an outdoor art fair today near the Santa Fe plaza, which is only a few blocks away. I take off running, Fiona’s note clutched in my shaking hand. This is not how I wanted to begin my first day.

  By the time I reach the plaza, I’m a sweaty, disgusting mess; my hair is frizzy and falling out of its ponytail, and my heart is pounding in the back of my throat. I stop and bend over, my breath coming hard and fast. It’s Monday, but the plaza is full of people. Parents crouch in front of their children, wiping ice cream off their mouths. Two old men lean over a card table they’ve set up in the shade of a tree, a chessboard between them. And directly to my right is a bench where a couple my age is in the middle of a very passionate kiss. The handsy kind that makes people yell get a room! The guy cups the back of the girl’s head, and I notice a thick leather cuff around his wrist just like the one Cy always wears. I feel of tug of longing, but I don’t have time for this. I cross the plaza and keep walking.

  I catch sight of an outdoor market set up next to the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi. There are tons of vendors, many selling plastic keychains, silly tchotchkes for kids, paper masks, and Welcome to Santa Fe postcards. But there are lots of artisans, too. Vibrant kachina dolls line tables, accompanied by little cards explaining their Hopi roots, and I spot a stall full of intricate turquoise jewelry and painted pottery. I look at Fiona’s crumpled note again, but she didn’t give me any hints about where to go once I got here. I’m on my own.

  I wander through the stalls, keeping my eyes peeled for someone who looks like the picture of Fiona on her website, but there’s no sign of her. I don’t see any art that looks like it could belong to her either. I see plenty of amazing stuff—I’m particularly intrigued by the glass blowers—but no found art sculptures like the ones Fiona is known for. I’
m about to accept that whatever this test is, I’ve failed it, when I hear a snatch of conversation behind me.

  “—she made them out of trash, can you believe that?”

  “They looked so real.”

  Two women are standing off to the side, both in matching purple T-shirts that read KNIT FIRST, ASK QUESTIONS LATER. The taller of the two is wearing a neon yellow fanny pack around her waist.

  “Excuse me,” I say, taking a step toward them. “Did you say you saw something made out of trash?”

  “Yes!” exclaims the one with the fanny pack. “It was incredible. The artist says she spent a month collecting bottles from around town so she could use the glass. She means it to be a protest of pollution, I’m sure. It’s just horrible how everyone dumps their trash—”

  “Where did you see her?”

  The woman points back in the direction I just came from. “That way, then left, about ten stalls down.”

  “Thank you!”

  I set off down the aisle, dodging tourists and small dogs as I go. When another aisle splits off to my left, I take it. It looks exactly like the rest of the art market, full of people leaning over tables, trying on handmade purses and silver jewelry, but a group of women is gathered to one side, and I recognize their vivid purple T-shirts.

  Jackpot.

  I hang back, not wanting to be pulled into the gaggle of tourists until I’m sure I’m in the right place. But then two ladies step away from the table, and I see her: Fiona Velarde. She’s talking and smiling, her hands moving back and forth between her cash box, the display table, and her customers. She looks exactly like the picture on her website—long black hair hanging free around her tan shoulders, no makeup, save for cherry red lipstick. But she’s wearing tons of jewelry. Her fingers are covered in rings, and a twisty gold bracelet curls around her upper arm, ending in a delicate arrow.

  I step away from the table and take out my phone, using the camera as a mirror. My hair is plastered to my face and my cheeks are flushed. I fan myself, trying to cool down while Fiona helps her customers. But as they wander away, bags clutched in their hands, I hear the familiar voice in my head, whispering worries. What if she doesn’t like you? What if she finds out you’re a fraud?