Your Destination Is on the Left

by Lauren Spieller

  “It needs water,” Fiona says from right behind me.

  I jump at the sound of her voice. “Right! Sorry. I’ll do that—”

  But she’s already pushing buttons and opening compartments and pouring water, so I stand to the side, feeling stupid and useless. A moment later, a stream of coffee pours into the mug.

  When her coffee’s made, we go back to the table. Fiona passes me the stack of papers. “I need you to type up all the notes in this stack, and then add them to the binder. My girlfriend’s handwriting is a mess, so let me know if you can’t read it. Did you bring your laptop?”

  Damn it. “No, sorry.”

  “You can use mine for now, but you need to start bringing it every day.” She reaches under the table and pulls a clunky computer out of a bag. “The printer is by the bathroom. It’s wireless, so you don’t have to plug the laptop in.” She nods to the opposite corner of the room, where an ancient printer squats on a scratched secretary desk. “Let me know when you’re done.”

  I spend the next two hours typing up the notes, mostly feedback on her paintings and thoughts about which ones belong in the show. I don’t know anything about her girlfriend, but I can tell she knows a lot about Fiona’s work. She mentions tons of paintings that aren’t in the binder, and occasionally sketches something in the margins. I do my best to commit everything to memory as I type, but I’m going to have to read over the notes again just in case.

  “Done?” Fiona asks a short while later, as I finish adding the pages to the binder. She hands me a new sketch pad and a pencil.

  I follow Fiona over to the sofa. “What are we drawing?” I ask.

  Fiona taps a pencil against her bottom lip. “Let’s start with something simple.” She grabs an owl-shaped coffee mug off a nearby table. It’s wide and blue, one wing folding into the handle. Half-moons make up the feathers, while raised orbs the size of grapes form the piercing eyes.

  “For the next hour,” she says, “I want you to do one sketch per minute.”

  I grip the pad. “That’s a lot faster than I usually sketch.”

  “Good, that means it’ll be a challenge. Here are the rules: You can move the mug, turn it over, whatever you want. But I want to see you flipping to a new page every time the timer goes off.”

  I tuck my feet underneath me and stare at the mug. It’s not much to look at. Not much to sketch. But maybe that’s a good thing.

  Fiona sets an alarm on her phone for one minute. “Ready and go.”

  I grip the pencil tightly in my fingers. I should start with the outline of the mug, the basic shape, before I worry about the feather detail and the beak. My plan in place, I carefully draw the outline of one side of the mug. The edge of the cup bows out a little, but when I try to mimic that perfect sloping edge, my pencil catches on the paper and my line veers too wide. I flip the pencil over and press the eraser to the page.

  “No erasing!” Fiona says. “Just keep going.”

  I sigh, but flip the pencil back over and continue my line, trying to ignore the way it dips in the middle. I glance up at the mug, taking in the way the cup curves at the bottom—

  The timer blares.

  “That’s a minute,” Fiona says, resetting the timer. “New sketch.”

  “But I just started! Can I pick up where I—”

  “Nope. Are you ready?”

  I turn the page. “Ready.”

  “And . . . go.”

  I sketch the outline of the mug quickly. The pencil doesn’t catch this time, but the angle’s wrong. I keep going, focusing on finishing the base and the other side of the mug as quickly as I can. As soon as these elements are in place, I start on the handle, but I can’t quite get the thickness right. I study the little mug, the way the handle curves sharply at the top, but then slopes gently away from the side. I’m halfway through the second curve of the handle when the timer blares again.

  “Better,” Fiona observes, peering at my page. I look at hers, but I’ve barely caught a glimpse before she turns the page. “Eyes on your own paper.”

  “But you already started shading the feathers—”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just get as much down as you can. Don’t let perfection get in the way.”

  That’s easy for her to say. It only takes her a minute to draw a near-perfect owl.

  “Ready to go again?” she asks.

  The minutes pass, so fast and yet never ending. My hand cramps and my brain feels like putty, but I turn the page and start again . . . and again. By the time the hour is over, I have a sketchbook full of half-formed owl mugs. None are great, but each one is a tiny bit better than the last.

  Maybe.

  Fiona shakes out her drawing hand. “Good work today. Maybe tomorrow you’ll be able to get a bit more of the detail down. I’d also like to see you play with perspective more—”

  “Wait, we’re doing this again?”

  “We’re doing this every day.” Fiona picks up the mug and carries it over to the kitchen. “I want you to take that sketch pad home with you and do thirty minutes of sketching every night, too.”

  My shoulders droop. I used to sketch for hours, but now thirty minutes sounds like an eternity.

  “Don’t look so glum,” Fiona says. “At least you don’t have to sketch owls at home.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Fiona and I settle into a rhythm over the next few days. I spend the mornings working on her show, and the afternoons organizing the studio while Fiona paints. When she’s finished, we sketch for an hour, our pencils flying across the page. I struggle to embrace all the terrible artwork she’s forcing me to create each day, but as I sit on her couch, my sketchbook balanced on my knees, I feel a whisper of the excitement I had when Mom bought me my first sketchbook in third grade, insisting that art was just as important as long division.

  The thirty-minute sketches at night are a different story. I press my pencil to the page, but nothing happens. Maybe it’s because I’m exhausted by the time I get home, but it shouldn’t be this hard. I should be able to do this.

  One evening around seven, Fiona peeks over the top of her laptop. “Whatcha doing over there?”

  I rub my eyes, glad to stop scrolling through the endless Excel spreadsheet I’ve been staring at for an hour. “Budget stuff.”

  “Yuck.” Fiona takes a seat next to me. “How’s it looking?”

  “It’s going to be tight, but I think we can get that caterer you wanted. But we can’t do a full bar—just beer and wine.”

  “Ah, well,” she says, reaching over me to scroll down the list of expenses. “At least we’ll know people aren’t just there for the free tequila.” She checks her watch. “It’s late. Let’s call it a day.”

  I resist the urge to slam my computer shut and bolt for the door, instead taking my time saving the expense sheet, closing all my programs, and packing up. The last thing I need is for Fiona to think I’m eager to get out of here. The truth is, I’d stay all night if she asked me to.

  But I’m glad she isn’t.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, then head downstairs. Outside, the streetlights shine overhead as I walk toward the bus stop. My brain is fried, and my neck aches from bending over my work. But despite how hungry I am, how badly I want a hot shower, I’m happy about everything I’ve accomplished. It’s been three days and I’ve done absolutely everything Fiona has asked, even stuff that made me sweat from nerves, like when she had me call a local newspaper to tell them about the upcoming show, or when she made me sketch her face from memory using a permanent marker. I’m not sure what the latter had to do with deserving this internship, but she seemed pleased with it anyway.

  My family greets me at the door when I arrive at YiaYia’s house. Even Rodney wraps his arms around me in a hug. You’d think I’d been away for weeks instead of twelve hours. But then I think about the last few days, and I feel a rush of guilt. I’ve barely seen them since my internship started. Each morning I leave before everyone gets up, and
when I get home dinner is usually over and I barely have the energy to put two words together, let alone tell them about my day.

  “I have a surprise for you,” YiaYia says. She takes my hand, and leads me into the living room. Rodney and my parents follow.

  “Ta-da!” she announces, pointing across the room.

  It takes me a few seconds, but then I see it: Above the fireplace, where the soft yellow yucca used to hang, is the one painting I never wanted to see again.

  The sunburst.

  I shove my hands into my pockets to stop myself from ripping the stupid thing off the wall. “How did you find it?” I ask as nicely as I can, given the circumstances. “I thought I put it away.”

  “We were looking for your brother’s Game Boy, and we came across your painting, all stuffed away in that cabinet by your bed.” She claps her hands together. “Doesn’t it look lovely above the fireplace?”

  “Sure,” I say, turning away. I don’t want to look at it for a second longer than I have to. “I’m going to get cleaned up for dinner, okay?”

  “Dessa?” YiaYia calls after me. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Nope,” I call over my shoulder. “It’s great.”

  I’m almost to the bathroom, when Dad stops me. “Dessa, hold on.”

  I sigh and stop walking. “Dad, it’s fine, okay? I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I actually wanted to ask you . . . something else.”

  “Oh. What’s up?”

  He looks back toward the living room, where YiaYia and my mom are talking, and gestures for me to follow him into one of the bedrooms. “You didn’t tell your mom I lost my job, did you?” he asks quietly, closing the door behind us.

  “You told me not to.”

  “Good, that’s good.” He runs his hand down his face and leans against the wall.

  I cross my arms. “But I think you should.”

  “Absolutely not. It’ll just worry her.”

  “Maybe she should be worried.” I am, I add silently.

  He shakes his head. “You don’t understand what it’s like to keep this family afloat. To make this traveling thing work. And your mom—it’s so important to her that we keep doing this. Her whole life, she’s wanted to travel the country. I can’t let her or you kids down. I can’t tell her I’m failing.”

  His words make my heart ache. It’s not fair that he’s making me keep this from Mom, but I hate seeing him this way even more than the idea of keeping secrets. “You’re not letting us down, Dad.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m not giving you the lives you deserve.”

  “Are you sure you can’t get your old job back?”

  “I called Mark today and tried to work things out, but he said his mind is made up. There’s not going to be any more contract work. Not for a while anyway. There’s a seasonal position, some management job, but I’d have to be in Charleston for half the year. So that’s out.”

  “What about regular freelance work?”

  “I’ve been looking, but it’s hard to find a steady gig, and I keep getting priced out.”

  I hug myself. My dad’s never opened up to me about this kind of thing before. I want to help him, but his words make me feel like I’m holding on to the edge of a cliff, helpless and alone.

  “I’m thinking about taking out a loan,” he mutters, more to himself than me. “Just enough to cover our expenses until I can find some new work.”

  I blanch. “But—but you always say loans are only for emergencies. What if we can’t pay it back?”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “How am I supposed to let you worry about it, if you’re telling me?” I say, my voice rising.

  His face goes stony, and he straightens up. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No, Dad, that not what I’m saying—”

  “Dessa?” Mom calls through the door. “Find your dad and tell him it’s dinnertime.”

  He holds his finger up to his lips. When her footsteps disappear down the hall, he whispers, “Remember, mum’s the word.”

  I sigh heavily.

  “Wait a sec, Dad.” I reach into my back pocket and pull out the crumpled twenty-dollar bills from my art sale. Every morning I tuck the money into my pocket, waiting for the right moment to give it to him. Now seems like the time.

  “I sold a painting,” I explain. “I didn’t make much, but I want you to have it.”

  “I can’t take this, sweetheart.”

  “Yes,” I say, folding the bills into his hand. “You can.”

  Before he can say anything else, I open the door and hurry down the hallway toward the kitchen. Part of me wants him to come after me, but at the same time, I need space. It’s not fair that he is putting me in the middle, especially since there’s nothing I can do to help, no way I can make things better. It’s not like forty bucks is going to last long.

  Except . . . maybe I can help. Once my internship is over, the future will be as wide open as the road I’m so sick of traveling. I’ve never wanted to be anything but an artist, but as long as my dream of going to college is over, I might as well figure out a way to support my family. Selling my art didn’t help much, but I could pick up odd jobs on the road, or learn how to do web design work like my dad.

  It’s not what I want, but what choice do I have?

  • • •

  “Come on,” Cyrus says over the phone later that night. “I haven’t seen you in days.”

  “I know, I know.” I put my sketch pad aside, trying to ignore the blank page. “I’ve been really busy with work.”

  “Sounds like you need a break.”

  I look over the back of YiaYia’s couch. I can just make out Dad and Rodney in the kitchen, my brother’s math homework strewn across the table next to Dad’s laptop. “I’m not saying I’m leaving, but . . . where would we go?”

  I can practically hear him grinning into the phone. “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

  I laugh. “That doesn’t sound suspicious at all.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. I brought home Fiona’s binder so I could focus on finalizing the list of pieces in the show. After I finish my stupid thirty minutes of sketching, that is. If I leave now, there’s no way I’ll get it all done tonight. But I haven’t seen Cy since the disastrous art sale, and before that . . . Goose bumps race up my arms at the thought of his arms around me, his lips only inches away.

  “Come on, Dess,” Cy says, his voice so low it sounds like he’s right next to me. “I miss you.”

  Screw it. I can look over the list of pieces for the show in the morning. “Give me five minutes.”

  “Wear your bathing suit,” Cy says, then hangs up.

  “Hey, Dad?” I call as I hop over the back of the sofa. “Is it okay if I go out with Cyrus for a few hours? I’ll be back by ten-ish.”

  He looks up from his laptop. “What?”

  “I’m going out? Back by ten?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Okay.” He looks back at the screen. Next to him, Rodney chews on the end of his pencil and stares into space.

  I go to my bedroom and pull my bikini out of the set of drawers I’m sharing with Rodney. The navy fabric is stretched thin and the strings are still knotted from the last time I wore it. I put it on, making sure nothing is hanging out that shouldn’t be, then throw my clothes back on and grab my purse off a chair by the front door. I consider saying goodbye, but I don’t want my dad to change his mind about letting me go, so I quietly close the door behind me.

  Cyrus is waiting for me at the end of YiaYia’s driveway. A pair of black swim trunks hangs low on his hips, and his sleeveless navy shirt shows off his dark, muscled shoulders. For once I don’t look away.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “You’ll see.”

  Twenty minutes later, we arrive outside a wrought-iron gate set into a thick brick wall. We’re not far from YiaYia’s house
, but this neighborhood is totally different. Fancier. All the hedges are perfectly trimmed, and I heard at least three fountains bubbling behind tall hedges as we passed some of the bigger houses. But there hasn’t been any sign of a public swimming pool, and this isn’t the kind of neighborhood that would have a broken fire hydrant. Or at least, it’s not the kind of neighborhood that would let the hydrant stay broken for long. “Cy, where are we?”

  Cyrus holds out his arms, as if he’s presenting the iron gate to me. “This is the Santa Fe Women’s Club.”

  “Uh-huh . . .” I lean against the gate. “And we’re here because . . . ?”

  “Because they have a swimming pool and no one is here.”

  “We can’t sneak into their pool!” I say, but already my heart is racing with the thrill of it.

  “We’re not. I got permission.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  “I did! I was walking by earlier and I ran into a lady who works here, and she told me the side gate’s always open in case I wanted to come swim sometime at night.”

  “She just told you that?”

  “I offered to help her carry some boxes from her car. She said I reminded her of her grandson, Rick.”

  I shake my head. “Is no one immune to your charms?”

  He takes a step closer to me. I can feel the heat of his body. “You tell me.”

  Cy leans forward, and for one delicious moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, but then he looks over my shoulder. “Did you see that? The light in the security guard’s booth just went off. We have the place all to ourselves now.”

  “So that’s why you didn’t want to swim at my YiaYia’s.”

  I laugh, and turn around to peer through the gate. It’s dark on the other side, but the streetlight is bright enough that I can see the front door of a wide, two-story building set far back on the other side of a plush lawn. There’s a tennis court to the right, and what looks like a brand-new BMW in the driveway. “There’s a car. Someone is here.”

  Cy shakes his head. “That’s a complimentary car to drive the members around town. I heard one of the other staff members talking about having to wash it every day even though no one ever uses it.” He takes my hand. “You ready?”