Your Destination Is on the Left

by Lauren Spieller

Fiona kicks off her shoes and curls up on the opposite side of the couch. “Whenever I’m having trouble I always go back to the beginning and ask myself, ‘What am I trying to say with this piece?’ I wonder if that might help you.”

  “But I don’t have a piece yet. That’s the whole problem.”

  “Hmm, true. Then maybe you should go back even further. Don’t ask what you’re trying to say, but why you’re doing it in the first place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She holds out her hands, palms up. “You have two paths in life right now. One, the life of an artist.” She holds up one hand. “The other, the life of . . . well, something else. Anything else. So why are you choosing the first path? Why do you want to be an artist?”

  I pick up a pillow and squeeze it against my chest. I answered the “why do you want to be an artist?” question a million times in my college essays, but I never really settled on a single answer. Is it because I love the challenge of perfectly capturing my subject? Because I want to express myself? Because I love the satisfaction of finishing a piece?

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to answer,” Fiona says. “I know it’s a more personal question than it sounds.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I clear my throat. “So . . . my families share everything and we do everything together, right? It’s part of traveling in a caravan. Or, it is for us, anyway. We decide things as a group, and we always try to do what’s best for everyone. But sometimes . . .” I take a deep breath, struggling to find the words.

  “Take your time,” Fiona says.

  “I guess . . . I’ve always wanted something that I don’t have to share. Something that’s all mine. From the moment I start a piece to the moment I finish it, there’s nothing but me and my art.”

  As soon as I stop talking, I feel a rush of embarrassment. Here I am, whining about how I want something all to myself, while my dad is probably beside himself with worry at this very minute, trying to figure out how to salvage the life he and my mom have built for us. “I sound really selfish, don’t I?”

  “Not at all,” Fiona says. “Going after what you want in life doesn’t make you selfish. It makes you brave.”

  I think of Cyrus, and the way I turned him away last night. Of my mom, and how hurt she was that I didn’t want to go to the Grand Canyon, and how she’d feel if she knew I still wanted to leave the families, even without college on the table. “What if the only way to get what I want is to turn my back on the people I love?”

  “I don’t believe that’s your only choice,” Fiona says. “But if it is . . . then I guess you have to choose.”

  • • •

  The families come home that night, full of stories and laughter, the bridges of their noses burnt to a crisp. We talk about the Grand Canyon over stir-fry in YiaYia’s backyard, which is the only place we can all fit.

  “It’s huge,” Rodney says, throwing his arms wide. “And everything is hot and dusty. But we took a train that looks like one from the Wild West, and they gave me soda in a glass bottle.”

  “That sounds a bit anachronistic,” YiaYia says. “But fun!”

  Across the pool, Cy dangles his feet in the water as he laughs at Mr. McAlister’s story about the twins trying to make a mountain goat wear a pair of pink sunglasses. He catches me staring and gives me a shy smile. My traitorous heart speeds in my chest. Cy pulls his feet out of the pool, like he’s going to stand up and come sit by me. Shit. Do I ask about his trip? About Rachel?

  I’m not ready.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say to no one in particular, and hurry into the house, my wet feet leaving prints along the wood floors. I find Mrs. M and Mom inside the kitchen, scraping mostly empty plates into the trash. “Can I help?” I ask, looking over my shoulder to make sure Cy hasn’t followed me inside.

  “Sure,” Mom says.

  “I’ll go collect the rest,” Mrs. M says, patting my shoulder as she leaves. “It’s good to see you, sweetie.”

  I face Mom, and suddenly I’m nervous. The last time I saw her, we were arguing about me staying here instead of traveling with the families.

  “I’m glad you’re home,” I say. “I missed you.”

  She puts down a plate and hugs me. I breathe in the smell of the road and dirt from the canyon, mixed with the soapy eucalyptus of her shampoo. I’m suddenly back in the RV, hot wind streaming through the window as we drive down the highway, Mom’s raspy voice singing along to the radio, even though she doesn’t know all the words.

  Mom kisses me on the forehead. “Dessa, I need to ask you something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your dad . . . has he said anything to you recently?”

  I tense in her arms. “About what?”

  “I’m not sure. He just seems distracted lately. Don’t you think so?”

  I open my mouth to tell her the truth—that she’s right, that there’s something wrong—but she starts talking again before I can answer.

  “I’m probably imagining it.” She rests her chin on top of my head. “Ever since we got married, he’s only wanted what’s best for our family. That’s why we started traveling in the first place. Your dad and I thought you kids deserved a life full of different people and places. We didn’t want you to grow up thinking your little town was the whole world.” She sighs. “I love our life, but sometimes I worry your dad’s working himself into the ground to make it work. You’re sure he hasn’t mentioned anything?”

  I bite my lip, hard, hating myself for my cowardice. I should tell her the truth about Dad’s job, whatever the consequences. It’s not too late. But that would hurt Dad, and he’s having a hard enough time as it is. So I’ll buy him more time, and maybe, maybe he’ll figure this out. Maybe Mom will never have to know.

  “Sorry,” I finally say. “he hasn’t said anything to me.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Thursday morning lasts forever. First I have to argue with the caterer for almost an hour because he refuses to tell me exactly which fruit and cheeses he’ll be bringing since he only purchases what’s fresh that day. Then I spend another forty-five minutes on the phone with the Albuquerque gallery, making sure the light installation will be delivered in time for the show. When I finally get to Jordan’s gallery, Fiona is already there, unwrapping the pieces we messengered over last night. I help her with each painting, taking painstaking care to remove the bubble wrap and masking tape X’s we’ve put across each piece of glass in case it shattered during the move. Then we work on the statuary. Fiona’s found art pieces come in a million different shapes and sizes, and it takes a long time to remove all the protective materials and move them to their places in the gallery. By the time we’re finished with the birdcage, we’re all hot and ready for a break.

  While Jordan runs out to grab a few bottles of water, I start to gather all the packing material into a big pile.

  “How’s your piece coming along?” Fiona asks from where she’s sitting on the floor, her back against the wall.

  My fingers freeze over a broken-down cardboard box. “Um . . . I’m working on it.”

  Fiona twists her mouth to the side and considers me. “You’ve been working all morning. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Go home and focus on your art. Jordan and I can throw this away,” she says, gesturing to the discarded packing material. “All that’s left now is to make a few phone calls to the caterer.”

  “I did that already.”

  She throws up her hands. “See? You’ve taken care of everything.”

  “Not everything. I still need to call the valet company and make sure they’re sending someone. And we should also walk around the plaza to double-check the posters we put up last week.”

  Fiona stands. “Dessa . . .”

  “I also meant to call the Santa Fe Reporter yesterday. They spelled your name wrong in the event announcement, did you notice? I think we can get them to print the ad again, which would be great. Double exposure.”

  She puts her ha
nds on my shoulders, turns me toward the door, and gives me a little push. “Go home. Take two days off.”

  “Two days? Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Make art. I’ll see you Monday.”

  I catch the bus back to YiaYia’s house, and spend the whole ride sweating bullets. With two whole days to work, I have no excuse. I have to figure this out. When I arrive, I tug the thin chain around my neck out from under my tank top and use the key dangling from the end to open the RV door. The inside is boiling hot from sitting in the sun all day. I reach into the groove between dad’s seat and the center console, where he keeps a spare key to the ignition, and start up the RV. Cold air pours out of the vents.

  While I wait for the RV to cool down, I change into a pair of old jean shorts I have stashed in my cupboard. They’re covered in paint that won’t wash off, and they’re so worn in some places that they’re practically see-through, but I refuse to throw them away. Nothing puts me in the zone like putting them on. And today of all days, I need to be able to disappear into my work.

  I pull my art bag out of the closet and kneel on the floor. I need my sketch pad, of course, but I’m not sure what to draw with. Usually I’d start with pencil, but I want something heavier today. I rummage through the bag, picking up my case of colored pencils, a box of charcoal. I settle on a set of soft pastels Cyrus bought me for my birthday last year. It’s been a while since I’ve used them and I miss the way I can blend them with my fingertips.

  When I’ve got everything I need, I sit on the floor with my back against the kitchen counter. There’s just enough space so I can stretch my legs out under the table. I’m surprised to find it feels good to be seated here again after so long. I close my eyes and lean my head back, searching for something to draw, something to get me started. But I can’t see anything. My shoulders tense, and I feel that same panicky feeling from Fiona’s studio coming on.

  I shake my arms out and roll my head around on my neck. I can do this. I’m an artist and I can do this. I try to clear my mind. I shouldn’t worry about what to draw. I should just let my hand move across the paper, like guiding the wooden marker across a Ouija board.

  I open my eyes and press a robin egg blue pastel to the page. I draw a sloping line from the bottom right corner toward the top left—and the pastel breaks in two.

  “Shit.”

  I toss the smaller of the two pieces to the side, and pick up what’s left. I begin a new line, this one moving parallel to the first. But then an image of my dad’s face, creased with worry as he tells the families we can no longer travel, floats across my mind, and my line goes off course, careening across the first.

  “Damn it!” I toss the pad of drawing paper on the floor.

  Someone bangs on the door of the RV. “You okay in there?”

  I climb to my feet and peer out the window. Cy is standing outside, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his shorts. “Just a second,” I call through the glass.

  I grab the pieces of broken pastel and toss them into my supply box, then shove my drawing pad under my mattress.

  “Hey,” he says when I open the door. “I came by to return your dad’s shirt, and I heard you yelling.” He peers past me into the RV. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, stepping into the doorway to block his view. “Just drawing.”

  “Not going well?”

  I sag against the door frame. “You could say that. I’ve gotta figure out what I’m going to make for Fiona’s show and I have no idea what to do.”

  “Wow, she’s letting you put a piece in?”

  “I didn’t tell you?”

  “No,” he says. “You didn’t.”

  I run through the last week in my brain, and I realize he’s right. I’ve been so pissed at him for leaving that it never occurred to me that maybe I was being a shitty friend too. “Cy . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Right.” He looks away, rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I’m happy for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Suddenly it feels like a million years ago that he stood in YiaYia’s house, asking me to hang out. And even longer since he told me to stop lying to myself about my feelings for him. How did everything get so screwed up? How did we go from being best friends without a secret between us to . . . this?

  “Anyway, here’s the shirt,” Cy says, pushing Dad’s shirt into my hand. “See you later.” He starts back down the driveway.

  “Wait!” I jump down to the pavement just as Cy turns around. He looks unsure.

  “Yeah?”

  I lick my lips, searching for the rights words even though I have no clue what I’m trying to say. “I want to be us again.”

  “Huh?”

  I swallow. “I don’t want to fight. But I also don’t want to pretend nothing is wrong. That’s not us. We always tell each other what’s going on, what we’re thinking.”

  He folds his arms over his chest. “Okay. You go first.”

  Damn it. I wasn’t prepared for that. I take a deep breath, searching for the truth in my own heart. But all I can feel is the pain of standing so far apart from my best friend.

  “I don’t think I’m too good for you, Cy. I really don’t. I just . . . I’m afraid, okay? I’m afraid that if we’re together, it’ll be so . . . so right.” As soon as I hear myself say it, I realize how true it is. I haven’t been hiding from what’s wrong with us being together. I’ve been hiding from what’s right about it.

  “Why is that a bad thing?” he asks.

  “Because if we’re together, I’ll never be anything but a traveler because I’ll never want to be anywhere that you aren’t.” I stare into his eyes, willing him to understand. Begging him to see that the reason I can’t be with him is that I want it too badly, but also that I don’t want it badly enough.

  “But . . . you love traveling,” Cy says. “Why would you want to leave?”

  “I don’t love traveling. It’s never been right for me. And I think . . . I think you know that.”

  He takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah. I get it. I mean . . . shit, I hate it, but I get it.”

  I expect to feel relief, but instead I just feel strange, like I’ve been running from something for days, only to discover I was never being chased. “Your turn.”

  He kicks at a rock on the driveway. “I shouldn’t have said what I did about you and that cowboy. I was just jealous. And angry. And I shouldn’t have . . . what I said about . . .” He rubs the back of his neck. “I never should have said you thought you were too good for us. For me. That was a dick move.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling. Looks like I’m not the only one who’s been playing our fight over and over again in their mind.

  “It’s just that traveling is really important to me,” he continues. “I love it. And my mom . . .” He looks down at his feet. “She loved traveling too. So when you said it wasn’t enough for you, I kind of freaked out.”

  “I get that,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry, Cy.”

  “Nah, it’s not your fault.” He looks up at me, his brow creased with new worry. “Dess, there’s one more thing. I shouldn’t have run off with Rachel like that. I just wanted—”

  I hold up my hand. “Don’t, please. Not yet.”

  He frowns. “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  We look at each other again, but this time it doesn’t feel charged and horrible. It feels weird, sure, but like the kind of weird you can fix.

  “So . . . is there anything I can do to help?” Cy asks. “With your art thing, I mean. For the show?”

  “Oh, that.” I sigh, and lean against the side of the RV. “I wouldn’t say no to a brilliant idea for a gallery-quality piece of artwork.”

  “Hmm . . . maybe your problem is that you’re all cooped up in there. Maybe you need more space, or a change of scenery.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ocean views? Wide-open
plains?” He shrugs. “Just somewhere that isn’t here.”

  I shake my head. “Not everything can be fixed by traveling.”

  “No,” he says. “But some things can.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Cyrus comes to the house around seven, just as I’m biting into a piece of toast.

  “Ready to go?” he asks.

  “I really shouldn’t. I only have a few days left before the show, and I made zero progress last night after you left.”

  “That’s exactly why you’ve got to come with me today. Trust me, Dess. It’s going to help.”

  I finish my toast, then we walk out to the curb. I start toward the bus stop at the end of the street, but Cy stops me. “We’re not taking the bus.”

  He points to the other side of the street, where a gleaming motorcycle is parked under a tree.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “I bought a Suzuki,” he says, his face lit with pride. “I’ve been saving for a year, and since you’ve been so busy the last few weeks, I picked up some part-time work at an auto body shop. I realized I had enough money saved up last week, so I went to a garage that rehabs old bikes, and I found this beauty. What do you think?”

  I walk across the street and stand in front of the bike. The smooth green metal shines in the mottled sunlight under the tree, and the curves make it look sensual, almost . . . sexy. And deadly.

  “It’s beautiful, but there’s no way I’m riding it.”

  “Oh, come on,” Cy says. “I bought you a helmet and everything.” He picks up a light blue helmet off the back of the bike and hands it to me.

  I take it and turn it over slowly. “This doesn’t look like much.”

  “It’s top of the line. I made sure.”

  I hand it back to him. “That’s really sweet, Cy. But just the idea of all that pavement rushing at my tender skull—it’s not happening.”

  “Please, Dess,” Cy says. “I will drive extra carefully. I’ll go no faster than thirty. And if you feel even a little bit scared, you can just squeeze me and I’ll pull over. I promise.”

  He smiles at me hopefully, and my resolve crumbles.