Perfect Ten

by L. Philips

There’s a lump in my throat and I swallow it down and look away from his heartbreaking gaze, back at the cross. I realize then what Jamie’s really looking for, and I’m hit with the crushing desire to try to be that for him.

  “Yeah,” I agree, and am startled that I actually mean it. “A savior would be nice.”

  Suddenly I can’t be in this little shop anymore. It’s too crowded, too hot, and I’ve got to get out.

  “I’ll be outside,” I whisper to Jamie, and have to keep myself from sprinting toward the door. Jamie follows, his brows knitted together in concern.

  “You okay?” he asks when we’re both outside, touching my shoulder.

  “Yeah,” I say, because I’m not sure why I’m acting the way I am. I can’t explain it to myself yet, so there’s no chance of explaining it to him. I only know that I’m overwhelmed by him, by what he does to me and what he sees in me, by the things he makes me feel. “Sorry, you can stay if you—”

  “Nah,” he says, offering me a smile. “But . . . I am kind of getting hungry.”

  “Man cannot live on German raspberries alone,” I muse, thankful that the heaviness I felt in the jewelry shop is starting to pass. I return his smile and focus on the moment, the here and now. “There’s a great little diner down there,” I say, waving to a spot a half a block away. “It serves all locally grown, organic food.”

  “Sounds exactly like the kind of place two aspiring artists should try.”

  I take his hand again. It’s starting to feel weird not holding his hand, and I know this day is completely spoiling me in that regard. “Let’s go.”

  “Hey,” I say, pushing my empty plate toward the edge of the table and reaching for the bill. “There’s a place you have to see before the bookstore.”

  “What?” Jamie asks.

  “Not telling. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  He does trust me, following me quietly and without giving voice to the questions I see behind his eyes. The place I’m taking him is far off the beaten path of Yellow Springs, two blocks away from the center of town, then three more blocks north, buried in the beginnings of a residential neighborhood. We come to a halt in front of a small green house that looks like something Frank Lloyd Wright might have designed, with a stone sidewalk leading up through a pergola to the front door.

  “Where are we?” Jamie asks, staring at the house, face scrunched in confusion.

  “This is an art museum or . . . I guess they sell stuff, so . . . not so much a museum, but most people don’t know it exists. My parents come here when they want to buy something they can really show off.” I shrug. “I think it’s where Yellow Springs keeps the good stuff.”

  Jamie laughs—a full, bright, surprised laugh. “Sam . . . you’re . . .”

  “I’m amazing, go on and say it,” I tease.

  “I was going to say thoughtful,” Jamie says, rolling his eyes, “but I guess amazing works too.”

  We’re greeted at the door by a woman who reminds me of my mother. She’s got the same airy feeling, and very intelligent eyes, and a smile that doesn’t show on her lips but in her whole body.

  “Welcome to the Green House. My name is Ninah and right now I’m enjoying my cup of afternoon tea, which is fortunate for you because it means I won’t be hovering over you when you look at these beautiful creations. So I’ll be in the kitchen,” she waves toward the back of the house, “minding my own business. If you see something you like, feel free to interrupt my tea break. And if not, let yourselves out the same way you came in, and I’ll try not to be heartbroken.”

  Ninah floats away, and I notice that’s she’s barefooted under her long, patchwork skirt. Jamie and I look at each other, amused and perplexed by her speech. I drop his hand and urge him to look around.

  The Green House is composed of only three small rooms, but every spare inch of the plain white walls is covered in art. I wander, keeping on the other side of the room from Jamie so that I don’t disturb him. I like what I see, some of it more than others, but I’m not here to buy. I do, however, find myself drawn to bright colors, and to things my uneducated brain can only describe as Impressionist-like, and, of course, to watercolor pieces. Then, in the second room, a painting makes me stop and call for Jamie.

  He’s in the first room still, and he ducks in, eyebrow arched. “What is it?”

  I point, and Jamie comes to stand next to me. The painting is watercolor, bright like I seem to like, and it’s of a pretty yellow bird, perched on a branch of a willow tree. The colors run into each other, mixing and becoming one. If not for it being so realistic instead of fanciful, it could be Jamie’s.

  “It’s good,” he offers, and his fingers hover over the canvas, following the curve of the bird’s back. “I like their lines. Not definite, but precise nonetheless. It looks like it could fly off the canvas.”

  I keep my eyes on the painting. “It’s not as good as yours.”

  Jamie opens his mouth, tries to speak, and then shuts it again. Then he shakes his head. “No, this”—he looks for the artist’s name—“this Henri, he’s much better than I am. This is stunning work.”

  I turn to Jamie, shaking my head. “It’s beautiful, yeah. But it’s not as good as yours.”

  “Henri is a friend of mine.”

  At the sound of a womanly voice, Jamie and I both turn around, startled, as Ninah walks through the door behind us.

  I wince. “Sorry, I mean no offense to Henri. He’s obviously talented, and I’m not an art critic so what do I know? I just . . . I like his stuff better,” I say, jerking my thumb in Jamie’s direction.

  Ninah leans against the wall, scrutinizing Jamie with a shrewd glare. “You are an artist?”

  “I’m an art student,” Jamie corrects her with gentle modesty. “Watercolors, mostly. And birds, which is why Sam made the comparison at all, but mine’s nowhere near as good as your friend’s.”

  “Let me see.”

  “What?” Jamie stammers, confused.

  “Let me see some of your art,” Ninah insists.

  “I don’t, um. I don’t have anything with me.”

  As Jamie stutters I reach for my phone, tapping through the screens until I get to a picture I took of Jamie’s Jubjub, and I hold it out for Ninah to see. “This one is mine, so it’s not for sale. But the rest are. Just flick through. He’s done a gorgeous phoenix, and a peacock and dodo that look better than I could even dream up in my imagination.”

  Ninah takes my phone, casting both Jamie and me a dubious glance before looking at the screen.

  “Oh,” she says after a minute, then taps the phone so that it gives her another picture. Then she starts talking—really talking—to Jamie. Questioning his methods, his instruction, his plans and goals. “And how old are you?”

  “I’ll be sixteen in March,” Jamie says, and I almost regret showing Ninah the pictures. Jamie looks pale, sickly, because this art dealer is inspecting and therefore possibly criticizing his work. “I, um . . . I don’t know where I’ll go to school yet, of course, but . . . this is definitely what I want to do.”

  Ninah finally tears her eyes away from the phone, hands it back to me, and settles a focused gaze on Jamie. “How much are you asking for those?”

  “What? Asking? Like, to sell?”

  Ninah’s lips almost falter into a smile. Almost. “Yes. How much?”

  “I’ve, um . . . I’ve never thought to price them.”

  “I wouldn’t take less than four hundred for each of them here, if you’d be interested.”

  Jamie reaches for my hand, scrabbling at my side until he finds it, and grips it so tight I have to bite my lip to keep from yelping. “You’d sell them for me?”

  “Yes. You’re quite talented. And at fifteen, I could throw around the term ‘prodigy,’ which gets all the art snobs’ panties in a bunch.” Ninah finally does smile, em
bellishing it with a conspiratorial wink. “Your friend is right, from what I can tell. You have talent. You should be selling these.”

  Ninah begins to walk toward the mysterious back room, casting us a pointed look over her shoulder. “Well, come on. Let’s talk about your future, sweetheart. I’ll make us some tea.”

  Jamie starts walking with her, turning back to me, eyes wide, to mouth, “Oh my god!” I reach out and touch his elbow.

  “Hey, go talk. Unless you need me, I’d probably do more good at the bookstore. And this way it’ll be less time that you sit there watching me buy piles of old books. So . . .”

  Jamie nods, his happiness shining in his blue eyes. “Okay. Go. I’ll meet you there. Sam . . . she wants to buy my art.”

  I touch my palm to his cheek. “And she’s making you tea, so go on. I’ll see you soon.”

  Jamie all but skips away and I watch him go, chest tight with happiness for him, and pride. Then I turn myself toward the front door. I’m not going to the bookstore, though. I lied. At the center of town I turn right, the opposite direction of the bookstore, and toward the little jewelry store we were in before. When I walk through the door and the little bell chimes over my head, the white-haired woman looks up.

  “I figured you’d be back. Gonna buy that boy his cross?”

  I nod to her because I can’t speak. The lump is back in my throat, and I really can’t believe I’m doing this; that I’m standing in this store again, and I’m going to buy jewelry for a boy. But at the same time, it seems like the most logical thing ever, because it will make Jamie happy, and that’s what I want more than anything right now.

  The woman takes the cross out of the case and hobbles back to her desk, ringing it up on an old adding machine. She carefully wraps it in white tissue paper before placing it inside a tiny silver box. As she closes the lid on it, I feel as though she’s sealed something else in there with it. Maybe my fate.

  “Knew that one was special when I was making it,” she muses, almost to herself. “It’s just been sitting here, waiting on you, honey.”

  “And how long has it been waiting?” I ask, almost dreading the answer. My skin is prickly, hot and cold at the same time like I have a fever, and I hate myself for it, but my eyes feel a little watery.

  She looks at me over the top of her bifocals and then begins to laugh—a small chuckle that unleashes into a cackle. “You’re never going to believe this . . . I made that one on Friday the thirteenth. I hope you’re not superstitious.”

  I laugh too, and she looks at me funny. I don’t blame her. My laugh is totally off, almost shrill. I sound like a complete lunatic. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. Thank you.”

  “I hope your boyfriend enjoys it,” she says in return, and holds out the box for me to take.

  Friday the thirteenth. Meg is never going to believe this.

  I mumble my thanks and make a hasty exit. Again, the shop is too small, too hot. I gasp for air on the street, kind of doubled over, clutching the box like it can save me. When my heart rate has returned to normal, I start walking in the direction of the bookstore.

  “Sam!” I turn and Jamie’s walking toward me, coming from one of the side streets. He jogs to catch up with me. “I thought you went to the bookstore.”

  “Got distracted,” I say, ignoring the box in my hands for the moment. “So . . . ?”

  Jamie beams. He’s a little breathless, and it’s coloring his cheeks a pretty pink. “She’s buying ten of my paintings, more if I email her photos of them later so she can see them. And she’s thinking seriously about having a show at the Green House for me. How crazy is that?” He pauses, raising a hand to cover his mouth like he’s in utter shock. “I could pay for school this way. I never even thought about that before . . . I never considered that I could make money for art school by making art, and I wouldn’t have . . . I wouldn’t have even told her I was an artist if you hadn’t been there. I can’t believe you showed her those pictures. I can’t believe you told her I was better than her friend. I can’t believe that I was mortified when you started talking to her!”

  I laugh, caught up in his excitement. The smile on his face makes my heart skip along in my chest like you see in cartoons, and we smile like goons at each other for a minute. Then I hold the silver box out.

  “I got you something.”

  Jamie looks down at the box, then up to me, puzzled. “What?”

  I shrug, and he shakes his head at me, like I’m beyond help, before pulling the lid off the box and digging through the white tissue. When he uncovers the cross, he makes a strangled little noise in his throat. “Sam . . .”

  “I didn’t get you a chain. I figured you might like it better on leather or hemp or something. I mean, if you even want to wear it at all. Just because you thought it was pretty didn’t mean that you’d actually want to wear it I guess, but if you—”

  Then I can’t talk anymore because Jamie’s kissing me. His mouth is pressed to mine and my words are clogged in my throat and to hell with what I was going to say, anyway. I reach up and take Jamie’s face in my hands, kissing him back like I need the air in his lungs, and I don’t stop kissing him until I feel his hand pushing on my chest.

  “Sorry,” I apologize, gasping for air. “I got carried away.”

  “No, I’m sorry . . . was that . . . was that too soon or . . . not good or . . .” His skin is bright red. “I’ve never really kissed anyone before.”

  I smile at him, so big that my face burns.

  “What?” he asks, nervous. “It was bad, wasn’t it?”

  “It was perfect,” I say, almost rolling my eyes at myself for using that adjective. “You’ve never kissed anyone before?”

  He looks away from me, fingering the little cross in his hands. “Well, I played spin the bottle in sixth grade, but . . . no, no one else.” He looks back up at me, searching my face. “What? Oh my god, why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I’m just flattered. Never been anyone’s first kiss before.”

  He looks skeptical. “Are you sure it was okay?”

  I answer by wrapping an arm around his waist, pulling him to me, and kissing him. This time he lets me lead, teach, and I slide my tongue between his lips. A hum vibrates in his throat, a singsong little noise of appreciation, and I swear that I could do this forever. I could spend the rest of my days on this street corner, kissing him with every ounce of everything I have, feeling him kiss me back the same way, returning it all.

  When I pull away, his eyes are shut and he looks like he’s dreaming. “I like kissing,” he breathes.

  I laugh. “Good. But if we stand here any longer our lips are going to freeze together, and in spite of how nice that sounds in theory, in reality it might be quite painful.” I release him from my grip and he kind of stumbles backward, and I have to give myself a couple of points for making him weak in the knees. “It’s my turn now, Mr. Big-Shot Artist. We’re going to the bookstore, and I’m finding you some suitable literary material to read.”

  “God help me,” Jamie teases, and hand in hand, we set off to the bookstore.

  Jamie falls asleep on the drive home, exhausted from the excitement of the day. In the backseat of my dad’s old car are our purchases: Jamie’s art supplies, a half-eaten bag of German raspberries, a silver cross, and a brown paper bag filled with used books. Some of the books are his—classics he’s avoided reading for far too long, and a few of my favorite authors—and some are mine. A few of my own choices, but also some bestsellers that Jamie swears by, a handful of Stephen King’s finest, which Jamie promises I’ll love, and even a graphic novel written by Neil Gaiman. It turns out we both love Neil Gaiman, so we’re going to take turns reading it.

  I let Jamie sleep and listen to the Cure. It reminds me of Travis, but only in a distant way, and I don’t think of him at all on the way home. Instead, for the en
tire two hours I think about Jamie, about who he is and what he will be, and try to see myself as part of that future. By the time I pull up to his house my face hurts from smiling. I give his knee a gentle squeeze to wake him and he opens his pretty eyes, blinking at me in the darkness until he gets his bearings.

  “Thank you,” he whispers to me, voice hoarse from sleep. “Today was . . .”

  I smile. “Yeah. It was. Can I call you?”

  He nods. “I’ll be home tomorrow. I don’t work until the evening.”

  “No, I mean tonight. When I get home.”

  Jamie stares at me, lips twitching into a smile. “Really? You want to talk to me after spending the whole day with me?”

  “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not irritated by you. Yet.”

  Jamie laughs. “Sure. I’ll be up. Goodness knows I don’t need the sleep. Sorry I wasn’t much company on the way home.”

  My thoughts were more than enough company. “It’s okay. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  He starts to gather his things from the backseat, carefully dividing our books into separate bags. He leaves the raspberries for me.

  “Good night, Sam.”

  “Night,” I say, and lean toward him. He meets me halfway, and this time the kiss is short but deep and kind of sexy, like it holds secrets we’re not ready to share yet. Then he climbs out and I wait until he’s inside and a light is on before driving away.

  That night we fall asleep on the phone together, and I dream about birds flying through a breeze that sounds a lot like soft laughter.

  Twelve

  It’s Tuesday before I hear from Travis again. Well, not Tuesday, technically. Wednesday morning. Three a.m., to be exact. That weird, dark time when people usually, you know, sleep.

  My phone rings, and I’m sprawled, facedown, on my bed. My hand shoots out and grips my phone. I pull it to my ear and mumble, “What?”

  “What are you wearing?”

  Slowly, my brain pieces together that it’s Travis’s voice. “Travis?” I push myself up on an elbow, look at the red, squared-off numbers on my alarm clock, and try to make sense of them. It’s not often I see my clock flash that number. “What did you say?”