“Tough game today,” I pout. I watch as Dad walks over to the sink to dump the cup of cloudy paint water. “We lost.”
“Nobody likes to lose,” Lucien says.
Exactly. Maybe I should’ve said to Ms. Cable, “What’s better, a nobody or a loser? Is it better to be a blip on the radar or a blop?” Okay, so blop is not an actual word, but it sounds like one big mess. Like a blown-up blip.
“It’s even worse when it’s all your fault,” I grumble.
He puts his arm around me. “All your fault? Impossible. You can’t carry the weight for the entire team.”
“Yeah, but I lost the ball and blew a very important shot,” I say to his shirt. You really have to work hard to keep linen clean. It picks up everything. Even the hairs from Lucien’s cat, Café.
“Then you go out tomorrow and show them what Cassia’s really made of,” he says.
I pull back a little and look at his face to see if he’s serious.
“Do you think I’m going to let one tiny spot ruin my whole outfit?” He holds up the corner of his shirt. “I doubt your coach would, either.”
I laugh. “But you should see the way Ms. Parker dresses. She’s no joke.”
“And neither are you.” Lucien gives my shoulder a tap and helps me up.
Dad sprays his painting with matte finish, and the aerosol smell quickly fills the air. I cough.
He gathers his stuff. “Ready to go, cherie?”
“She’s ready.” Lucien smiles at me.
–––––
Dad and I pick up takeout for dinner from Pasta Genie and eat in front of the TV. We end up twirling our spaghetti and watching Deal or No Deal, which turns into a conversation about what we’d do with the prize money. European travel is on both of our lists, surfing lessons for me and a new studio for Dad. We both agree a maid would be nice, too.
After the show, an ad comes on for the Miami Heat.
“We should go to a game sometime,” Dad suggests.
“Sure. That’d be fun.” If it would ever really happen.
Dad gathers the dishes. “What got you interested in basketball, anyway?”
“Well, I felt like doing something physical this summer, so I asked my P.E. teacher if he knew of a place I could play and he suggested the Y. He said I’m a good ball player.” I fold up the extra napkins.
“That’s great. It’s a good game,” Dad says.
I can’t tell him I’m on a passion-seeking mission. He was practically born with a paintbrush in his hand. He’d never understand.
After dinner I call Liz, but her voicemail picks up. I’m sure she’s with Harry. I flip the channels on the TV in my room but nothing grabs me. There are only so many matchmaking and self-help shows that one can take. Maybe a book will keep me occupied. I always find something good to read from the bookshelf in the living room. As I run my hands over the bindings, I see the book Mom made. Well, it’s not really a book, but a collection of pressed flowers bound into a scrapbook. I grab a copy of Of Mice and Men and the pressed flowers and head back to my room. I open Mom’s book first and run my fingers over the crinkly paper. Next to each flower she wrote the common name, scientific name, and its origin.
The first one is an Amaryllis belladonna or, as I like to refer to it, the Naked Lady. It’s from San Diego. The stem has no leaves and the pink petals are spread pretty wide apart. I wonder if my mom ever visited California. It’s a place I’ve never been, but I can imagine the naked ladies strutting their stuff; not much different than South Beach, really!
On the next page is a more subtle flower, the lemon bacopa or, scientific name, Bacopa caroliniana. It has four purplish-blue petals and a yellowish center. I flip past the bladderwort, African violet, and marigold and go right to my favorite, Cassia fistula, a native of South Florida. It’s hard to believe Dad named me after a plant in the pea family, but circumstance prevails. He first saw Mom when she was standing in front of the plant, waiting for a bus. He was eighteen, barely out of high school, and she was sixteen. I should be thankful they didn’t name me after the naked lady or the bladderwort. The common name for this yellow plant, with small delicate petals, is golden shower.
Naturally, when I learned my name’s meaning, I thought it meant a shower of pure gold. However, about five years later, a psycho kid in my fourth grade class, Allen Farnsworth, told me a golden shower is when you piss all over someone because you really like them. I thought he was a total liar until he asked if I wanted a demonstration. I didn’t stay past him unzipping his fly, but cried all the way home. I couldn’t pee for the rest of the night. My dad was sure I had a bladder infection. He bribed me with a trip to the toy store the next day if I went to the bathroom. It worked. Needless to say, I haven’t shared the secret meaning of my name with anyone. Not even Liz.
I stare at the yellow flower, trying to see what Dad saw when he first laid eyes on Mom. I bet the golden yellow flower was the perfect backdrop to her ink-black hair. She probably wore it loose, like she does in most of the pictures. I don’t think I live up to her. How could I? She was the love of his life.
colorless
Dad wakes me up at nine to go to the gallery. He never gets up that early, but he promised to meet Graham for a couple hours before his lunch date with a potential buyer. I don’t see what I’m going to do there while they’re talking shop, but it’s not like I have anything to do at home, either. I can’t stare at Graham’s butt the whole time, so I stock my bag with a magazine, pencils, erasers, and a mini-sketchpad.
I’m really not in the mood to think about my outfit. I just throw on a white T-shirt and khaki shorts. It’s one of those days following one of those nights, I can feel it. Liz didn’t even call me back yet. Wench.
As Dad and I make our way down Collins Avenue to the gallery, we pass a men’s store with a gray suit in the window. I know it’s designed to make a man appear powerful, but standing alone, it looks so drab. I can’t help but wonder what if all the storefronts were gray. If the clothing racks were only filled with white shirts and gray pants. A futuristic science fiction society where everyone wears the same thing. Extracting color is like removing parts of people’s personalities. A world void of color is like a world void of individuality. Okay, I know color does not make you who you are, but it helps express how you feel. And right now I feel blah to the core.
–––––
Surprise, surprise, Graham’s already waiting for us at La Reverie. The place opens at ten, so Dad goes ahead and lets us in. Graham’s carrying an oversized portfolio case with him. What’s next? A moving truck filled with everything he’s drawn since preschool?
Dad grabs us a few waters from the mini-fridge and we trudge up to the studio. There’s a table and chair toward the back of the room, so I set myself up there. Dad pulls out a couple of folding chairs from the closet and sits with Graham in front of the easels.
“Feel free to join us anytime, Cassia. I can set you up with an easel, too.” Dad goes back to the closet to grab more supplies.
“Thanks,” I say, flipping open the latest issue of People Magazine. Some of these celebs are pretty hot and scandalous. I’m especially digging the shot of the Ed Hardy model on the beach with no shirt on. Yum, yum.
I glance over at Graham. He’s wearing an everyday, navy blue pocket-tee. I can only dream about what he’s got hiding under there. He is a surfer dude after all, so I bet he’s ripped. Now if I had my x-ray glasses with me, I could snag a better look.
Graham has this swirly, abstract, bold-colored painting balanced on the easel. He’s used colors I would’ve never thought to put together, but somehow they work. Bright reds and deep purples, with a thin line of brown. He’s explaining the image to Dad, telling him how it was painted during a really bad tropical storm. I wonder how long I have to stare at Graham in order for him to think I’m a wacko. I make sure to look away every few seconds, but my eyes keep diverting back to him. There’s something so genuine about the way he talks, even his ge
stures. He’s all smiles for every sample he shows Dad. He doesn’t make excuses for any of his pieces, like “this one is not my best” … no, everything is his best.
I’m totally checking Graham out when he shouts, “Hey, Cassia, what are you working on back there?”
I quickly shut the magazine and pull out my sketch pad. “Nothing much yet. Still getting started.”
“Can I take a look at nothing when you’re done?” He laughs.
“Absolutely,” I say.
I pull out a pencil and flip to a blank page. I don’t know what to draw. In classes I doodle happy things like butterflies or flowers, but I’m not in the mood today.
My sixth grade art teacher, Mrs. Francis, always said if you don’t know what to draw, think of what you really want. At the time I wanted a new bike, so I started with that. It wasn’t the easiest thing to draw with the spokes and all, so I told Mrs. Frances I changed my mind and drew a scooter instead. I know it’s a cop-out because I already had a scooter, but I still got an A.
What do I want? More sleep. Maybe a new haircut. A passion to call my own. Time alone with Graham. Graham. Yeah, I could draw him, but his back is to me. Not that I’m complaining.
My pencil hits the page before I can change my mind. I sketch Graham’s backside from the waist down. I hardly have to look up because I already know his ass by heart. I’m glad he chose a pair of jean shorts today instead of his baggy cargo pants—the pockets on those things really take away from his natural shape. I can’t let my imagination do all the work.
I use the eraser only for shading. Otherwise, I’m pretty happy with the way the drawing is coming out. I should do a whole series on people’s derrières. If I get well-known, maybe celebrities will fly me in to sketch their behinds. Or the whole thing could backfire and I could be known as That Creepy Butt Girl!
“Lemme take a peek,” I hear Graham say, about a foot away from my little setup.
“What?” I pop up from my butt-induced coma. “At this? No way.” I throw the top half of my body over the sketchbook.
Graham’s standing next to me now. “I know it’s rough.”
How did I get myself into this mess? “Not today.” Not ever.
Graham holds a small square of paper in his hand. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Huh? And risk being labeled the Psycho Butt Girl? I hover over the book and flip the page.
“Come on, I’m sure it’s great.” He leans in closer to me.
My shoulders tense up. “No, it’s not.”
“All I can make out is a heart and … ”
I look down at the paper. Damn, why couldn’t I have flipped to another page? And why did I have to write I love Juan? I haven’t loved Juan since he got suspended freshman year for peeing in the cafeteria trash can. However, it can’t be as embarrassing as the butt.
Graham’s still holding up his piece of paper. On the page is a thumbnail sketch of a stool. I’m going to give up the butt for that? He’s got to be crazy.
I’m sweating, and I’m sure my face is bright red.
“It’s not much.” Graham shifts back and forth. “Just a quick drawing to warm up. We’re working on definition today.”
“Oh, no, it’s a very fine stool,” I say, only too thrilled to take the attention off of me.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“No, I’m serious.”
Dad walks back into the studio. “Found the charcoal I was looking for.”
“I’ll get a look at yours later,” Graham says, then joins Dad over at the easels.
Hmmm, we’ll see about that. I clench my butt cheeks. I better start doing some toning exercises if I’m going to expose all.
How about a modeling career? Not. It’s one thing to sit still every year so Dad can paint my portrait, but to hold a pose to sell a handbag or new frosty lipstick sounds painful. To me it seems devoid of passion because other people are controlling what you do, how you look.
For the rest of the session I don’t even dare pull out my sketchbook again. I stick with the known and resume reading my magazine filled with people selling handbags and frosty lipstick. My phone rings as Dad and Graham are talking about their favorite game shows. What that has to do with art, God only knows.
“Hey, Cass. What’s up?”
I whisper into the phone, “Liz, where have you been?”
“Why, is something wrong?”
“I can’t really talk right now.” I crouch down a bit.
“What is it?” I can sense the panic in her voice.
“I’m at the gallery and my dad is with Graham.”
“Great. I’ll be right up.”
“Here? Now?” I come up way too quick out of my crouching position and bump my head on the corner of the desk. “Ouch.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, fine.” I rub my head.
“I’m down the street. I had to return a shirt to Old Navy.”
Before she even asks, I’m waiting downstairs for her. I don’t even bother excusing myself because Dad and Graham are back to work, engrossed in a discussion on definition again.
I quickly pull Liz inside. “So where’s Graham?” she asks.
I love Liz to death, but she is loud. “Shhh.” I point to the staircase. “I don’t want him to hear us.”
She looks me up and down, then scrunches her eyebrows together.
“What?” I ask.
“That is no outfit to snag a guy in.”
“Who says I’m trying to snag him?”
She puts her hand on her hips. “Who are you trying to fool, girl?” She rummages through her Old Navy bag and pulls out a pink tank top. “Here, put this on.”
“But he’s already seen me in this.” I tug on the bottom of my white tee.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Liz shoves the tank into my hands.
There’s no use arguing with Liz, so I follow her into the bathroom and throw on the shirt.
“What do you think?” I turn sideways in the mirror and suck in my stomach.
“Much better.” She pulls a tube of pink lipstick from her purse and gestures for me to move closer to her. She fills in my lips like she does this every day.
“Isn’t this a bit obvious?” I look at myself in the mirror and purse my lips together. Not bad. I don’t look so washed out.
“Do you want him to notice you or mistake you for a piece of furniture?”
“I was going for the ottoman,” I laugh.
“I’m serious.” Liz gestures for me to straighten my back.
“All right, I get the point.”
Liz lathers her hands with mousse. Then runs her fingers through my hair and fluffs it out. “Now you’re ready.”
“For what?”
“Just trust me.” She leads me back into the gallery and immediately heads for the stairs, but Dad and Graham are already coming down.
“Hi, Jacques.” Liz waves to Dad.
“Hello, my dear.” Dad smiles.
Graham emerges from behind Dad, but his portfolio case covers half of his body. “Hi,” he says.
Liz bops up closer to him. “I’m Liz, Cass’s friend. Came to pick her up. We’re going to the beach. Want to come? You won’t be the only guy. We’re meeting my man Harry there.” She says this all in one breath, and it actually comes out sounding natural. I think she was one of those door-to-door salespeople in her past life.
“Well, I got this thing.” Graham holds up the portfolio case.
Liz looks at my Dad. “So leave it here.”
“It’ll be safe upstairs,” Dad says.
Oh my God, I can’t believe he’s really coming with us. I hope I don’t do anything else stupid.
“Perfect.” Graham swings the handle on his case. “I’ll be right back.”
This makes me nervous. I eyeball Liz.
“Trust me. It’ll be fun.” She winks at me.
After the whole sketchbook incident I’m really not sure what he thinks
of me. He hasn’t looked at me. I mean, really looked at me the way I look at him.
I kiss Dad goodbye and the three of us are on our way. We’re meeting Harry at the entrance to the beach by the playground.
“I’m so glad we got some color into you.” Liz slides her shades on. “Don’t you agree, Graham?”
Oh, how embarrassing. I duck my head.
“Yes, that’s a very nice color.” He blushes.
It takes us about ten minutes to get to the beach and another ten to wait for Harry. We sit on a bench near the entrance and sweat it out. Harry runs up to Liz, throws his arms around her, and gives her a big kiss on the lips.
Their PDA makes me a little uncomfortable, but it doesn’t seem to faze Graham. He stands up and introduces himself to Harry. The two high-five like they’re old pals. Of course, maybe Graham’s an expert in PDA. I’d love to see his relationship resume, but there’s no way I’d share mine. It’s only two lines long. Third Grade: Kissed Kevin Smith on a dare. Reward: A box of animal crackers. Eighth Grade: Sloppy kissed Franklin Morris at the Valentine’s Day Dance. Had to use a napkin to wipe his drool from my face.
We walk down the pathway toward the beach front, weave through a few families and a bunch of girls slathering on suntan lotion before choosing a spot near the water where the sand is damp. This time of year the beach is overrun by tourists, so a place near the water is prime real estate. None of us are dressed for the beach, but we all kick off our shoes and try to squeeze on the one orange towel that Harry brought. Liz and I end up occupying most of it, with the guys on either side of us.
There’s a nice breeze over the ocean. I inhale the fresh salt air. Nobody talks. There’s a lot to take in. The magnificent view. The cruise ship out at sea, the group of guys playing water volleyball and the mass of sunbathers soaking up the rays at every angle.
A really tan blonde in a black micro bikini sashays by, flanked by an older guy with a hairy chest. Harry does a double take. “Damn, she’s fine.”
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