Pure Red

by Danielle Joseph

  “Stay centered,” I add.

  “Exactly.” Mr. Parker hands me a ball of clay. “If you need any help, give me a holler. I’m finishing up the recommendation before the rest of the students get here.”

  I nod that I’ve got it all under control and sink my hands into the wet clay. It’s slimy and soothing at the same time. The fact that you can mold it into almost anything is amazing. It’s hard to believe that humans could quite possibly be formed from the Earth’s clay. Did God just sit around one day and create Adam and Eve from the very substance I hold in my hand?

  I start the wheel and carefully guide the clay to the center. The clay spins to the side and I have to ball it back up and start over again. The classical music that is playing in the background is my focus today. I’m not going to think about my dad or my mom. This afternoon is mine.

  I slap the clay down on the wheel again and this time it centers. I’m in synch with Beethoven, creating my own symphony. The naked clay and I engage in a stare off. Terra-cotta. The color of history. Ancient artifacts, thousands of years old, just dug up, don’t look much different than the bowl I’m making. This piece will outlast me for hundreds of years and never lose its beauty.

  Looking at it now, I don’t even know if I want to style it up with glaze. The natural beauty of the clay is amazing, like a beautiful girl without makeup. Like a cake straight out of the oven, all golden brown, right before you add the frosting.

  I know if I try to make an opening again I could ruin everything. “Eli,” I call in a panicked yelp. “I need help.”

  I don’t want to move my hands in case the whole thing leaps off the wheel like a flying saucer. Mr. Parker rushes over to me.

  By now I’m in full panic mode, and I don’t want to move my hands even a centimeter or I’ll ruin what I already have. “I’m trapped!”

  “You’re forgetting rule number one,” Mr. Parker says sternly.

  “But my hands are wet, I’ve got the wheel at the perfect speed, my centering is dead on, and … ”

  “You’re not relaxed.”

  “Oh, that again.” I let out a puff of air and slink my shoulders.

  “I’m waiting.” Mr. Parker taps his fingers on the table.

  I think about how this bowl is mine. I exhale once more, then ask Mr. Parker to show me how to make an opening in the clay again. It’s overwhelming and I really want to make sure I don’t miss a step. I try to appear as calm as possible, so that he believes me.

  He tells me to use both hands. One hand must steady the other. I press my thumb into the middle of the mound. It starts off as a small hole, but quickly deepens as I press harder. Much better than my other attempts.

  I’m using both hands to widen the center when a vibration goes off in my pocket. It makes me jump and my right thumb slips. It takes a second to register that it’s my cell going off. I quickly smooth out the ripple in the clay. Whoever it is can wait, unless it’s Graham. He better not be calling to cancel our dinner tomorrow night.

  Nia sits down and takes the wheel next to me. “Wow, you’re really getting the hang of it. Don’t tell him I told you, but it took Scott like ten tries to center.”

  “Really? Thanks.” I look toward the front of the room and see Scott leaning over Mr. Parker’s desk. “It’s pretty intimidating, but I like it,” I say.

  “As soon as you get the opening you want, slow your speed.” Nia dips her hands into the bowl of water. “Then it’ll be much easier to pull up the walls.”

  My cell vibrates again, but I can’t stop now. I’ll lose my momentum. My thumb is stuck in the middle of the clay like that nursery rhyme where the boy sticks his thumb in the Christmas pie.

  Nia and I sit side by side the whole class. She reaches over whenever I need a little guidance. I don’t have to call Mr. Parker even once.

  I’m one with the clay. We have a rhythm going like two singers in perfect harmony. Around and around it dances, securely on the wheel with my foot manning the pedal.

  I’m ready to move to the next step—the walls—when the classroom door busts open. It’s the burgundy lady, only now she’s wearing sea foam. “Do you see her, Mr. Bernard?” she says, trying to catch her breath.

  Mr. Bernard? Holy crap! It’s my dad and he looks like he just swallowed a venomous spider. I let go of the pedal momentarily and the wheel skips a beat. My soon-to-be bowl goes flying and lands on the ground with a loud plop. My symphony ends on a deafening note. Squashed Beauty.

  Dad stands in the center of the class, scanning the faces like a vulture scans the landscape for prey. His eyes stop on me and zoom in like a wide-angle lens. He lets outs a huge sigh of relief that I can hear all the way in the back. “Yes, that’s her,” he says, pointing to me.

  All heads turn. Suddenly, ten pairs of eyes shoot me sympathy missiles. Dad thanks the burgundy lady and walks toward me, pounding the linoleum with each step. I can’t move. Not even to pick up my mush of clay. What’s he doing here? And why is he so pissed off all of a sudden? Mr. Parker is a few steps behind him. What does he think? Dad’s some kind of deranged psycho who might go postal any minute?

  Mr. Parker and Dad speak in a whisper. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I can tell Dad’s apologizing for barging into the class. He’s wearing his cheddar-yellow T-shirt that says Got Cheese? and has sweat stains under the armpits. How embarrassing. No matter how much Shout I put on his shirts, I can never get the pit stains out.

  Dad’s standing in front of me now. “Cassia, I was looking all over for you.” His face is red. I don’t know if it’s from the heat or anger or a combination of both, but I’m not sure if I want to know the answer.

  “Why? What happened?” I gasp.

  Dad tucks his head into his chin. “I thought I’d surprise you and go to your basketball game today. When I didn’t see you there, I got worried.”

  Worried? Most of the time he has no idea where I am and now, when he actually looks for me, he’s worried? Puhleese!

  “But Dad, I just got off my crutches today. I can’t play yet.”

  I notice Nia has left her wheel and is cleaning up my mess on the floor. I mouth, “Thank you.” She gives me a quick smile and transports my now-defunct bowl to the bin of recycled clay. Hopefully it’ll get better treatment from another potter.

  “Didn’t think about that.” Dad shakes his head. “I asked a few people watching the game and they had no idea where you were.”

  “Liz’s mom knew I was here,” I say to the wheel.

  “She eventually saw me and told me where to find you.”

  I stare down at my hands. They’re stained with dried, cracked mud. Worse than any of the clothes Dad’s ever left in the dirty-clothes hamper. “Oh. That’s good.”

  “You still should’ve told me that you were here.” Dad sighs.

  I throw my hands up. “Why?” My words hang in the air.

  I quickly realize that Dad and I are the only ones talking, and that everyone in the room can hear us.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I say.

  Dad thanks Mr. Parker for his hospitality and I follow him out.

  “Call me Eli. I’m a big fan of your work,” Mr. Parker replies.

  Dad pats him on the shoulder. “Stop by La Reverie any time, Eli.”

  “I should’ve put the two names together,” Mr. Parker says to himself as we make our way out.

  After he shuts the door, Dad pulls me by the arm and says we’ll take a taxi and talk at home. But we don’t even make it to the corner where the taxis usually line up.

  “You’re limping,” Dad says. “Let’s stop here.”

  We plop down on the first bench in the Spirited Gardens, a block from the Y. It’s a little garden that a widower set up after his wife died back in the 80s. The place is small but beautiful, and for the most part goes unnoticed. I’ve never seen more than one or two couples here. Today, there’s nobody.

  Dad opens his mouth to speak first. I know he’s composing his words. He
can paint anything, but when you ask him to talk, he’s tongue-tied.

  I’m not at a loss for words. I know what I want to say. Have wanted to say. I’m tired of pretending everything is fine. “Why don’t we ever talk about her?” I blurt out.

  “That’s what this is all about?” He crosses his legs.

  “Yes,” I yell, but then am not quite sure. “And no. I mean, we tiptoe around our feelings. But I didn’t tell you where I was because you never asked. Where did you think I was when I couldn’t play ball all these days?”

  Dad fumbles with his cigarettes. I shake my head and point to the hand-painted no smoking sign behind him. Tiny daisies surround the letters. The daintiness of the flowers and harshness of cigarettes make such a weird combo.

  Dad shoves the pack back into his pocket without turning around. “I thought you were taking it easy at home or going out with your friends.”

  “That’s your problem. You always assume things instead of asking.”

  He presses his fingers against his temple. “Time always seems to escape me. There are not enough hours in the day.”

  “That’s your excuse for never coming to any of my games before?” I lean forward and rest my elbows against my thighs.

  “I had every intention to, but things got in my way. I know that’s no excuse—that’s why I showed up today.”

  “A bit late,” I scoff.

  “I realize that, Cassia. Will you just give me a chance?”

  “But you’re always absorbed in your work. I feel like you never have enough time for me.”

  “No, no.” He shakes his head. “You come before my art. Always.”

  “But even when you’re here, I feel like you’re somewhere else.”

  “I’m working on being a better listener. You have my full attention now.” He looks me straight in the eye. His eyes are like soft-serve ice cream. Mine are as hard as ice.

  “I’m not even sure if you know anything that’s going on in my life.”

  “I want to know everything that’s going on with you. You’re the most important thing to me. From the moment you were born, I fell in love with you. Your mother used to say that if I stared at you any longer, there would be nothing left to paint.” He cups his hands and looks me in the eyes. “Sorry I’ve been distracted.”

  “It’s her, Helga, isn’t it?” I grit my teeth as I say her name.

  “Her what?”

  “Has she been what’s distracting you?” I don’t look at his face. I just can’t. Instead, I turn to the bush next to me and pick at the purple flowers.

  “Listen, Cassia, she’s important to me, but not in the same way you are. My love for you goes deeper than anything I’ve ever known.” His eyes are melting. “But I like Helga. Is this about me dating?”

  “Part of it.” My head’s pounding. “There’s so much that’s been building up. Unresolved stuff.”

  “Start from the beginning,” he says gently.

  “Why don’t we talk about Mom?”

  Dad’s eyes follow a fluffy black cat that scurries through the garden. It’s feet pitter-patter along the paved area. Dad is still.

  “Well, in the beginning, it hurt too much. Everything reminded me of her. How much I missed her. I was scared … it seemed easier to keep it inside. I thought you were young enough when she died that it didn’t affect you.”

  I stand up. “But it did, Dad. Maybe not in the same way as you because I didn’t know what reminded me of her. I wasn’t sure if she hated lemons or loved them. If she took two spoonfuls of sugar in her tea or one. But even though Mom was gone, I wanted to be reminded of her. Desperately. For six months I sprayed my feet every morning with Lilies of the Nile, her perfume. I sprayed my feet so I could keep the smell just for me. I didn’t want to share my memories of her with anyone, so mostly I kept quiet, too.”

  Dad’s eyes are wet. His lashes are sticking together. “I’m so sorry, ma cherie. I didn’t realize that my sadness and guilt were taking such a toll on you.”

  Now I’m in tears, too. It takes only seconds for my tears to become full-blown blubbering. I can’t stand to see my dad cry. For a long time I thought his stoic attitude mirrored the way he felt inside, but now I know that’s far from the truth. He missed her so much that he wanted to protect me from the hurt he lugged around with him every day.

  I lean over and hug him. My dad. The man that loved my mother with all his heart. My tears leave a wet spot on the shoulder of his yellow cheese shirt.

  “I’ll finish the painting of you and your mother. I promise,” Dad whispers into my ear.

  His words leave a smile on my face.

  ketchup sundae

  You know you’re pathetic when … you take over three hours to prep for a date that’s not really a date, even if your best friend thinks so. Liz was really sweet and came over to help me get ready for my big dinner with Graham.

  So here I am, standing in front of China Moon in complete date gear—full mask of makeup, black mini, and a lilac tank top. Purple is usually not my color of choice; I had to grab this one off the sale rack at the GAP, but if Graham likes purple, Graham gets purple. Now, if his favorite color was puke green, we’d have to talk.

  Again, Liz means well but always goes a little overboard with her enthusiasm. So that’s why I’m wearing mulberry glitter nail polish and eye shadow. I had to put my foot down when she wanted me to use a tube of Purple Pizzazz to fill in my lips. We compromised with Pink Vixen.

  I check my cell clock—7:04—and poke my head around the corner. No sign of Graham yet. Another five minutes and I’m gone.

  Okay, now it’s 7:07 and my makeup is starting to melt. I should’ve known he’d stand me up. He’s probably too busy painting a self-portrait. He’s so going to pay for this. I stare at my cell clock again as it changes from 7:08 to 7:09. This sucks royally. I’m so out of here. I’m walking past the door to the restaurant when it swings open.

  “Oh, there you are. I was waiting inside,” Graham says. He ushers me in.

  “Oh, sure, right,” I mumble. Only a real doofus, me, would wait outside when it’s August in Miami.

  Graham asks for a table and the hostess leads us to the back. Not to the romantic table by the Chinese dragon that I’d fantasized about (two burly guys in muscle shirts are at that one), but near the huge bamboo plant is good, too.

  Graham looks down at my leg as we walk to the table. “No more crutches.”

  “Thank God.”

  “I guess you’re ready for your first surfing lesson, then.”

  “I’d like that.” I stretch my foot, trying to ignore the pain. Maybe I wasn’t ready for heels just yet. “It’s supposed to feel close to normal in a few days.”

  Graham pulls out my chair and waits for me to scoot in before sitting. Double points for being such a gentleman, especially on a non-date.

  I’m surprised that he’s wearing a crimson Polo shirt. Did he wear red because he knows it’s my favorite? Or were all his purple clothes dirty?

  Damn, he looks fine, like royalty. I heard that in China, the bride wears red instead of the traditional white. I wonder if the groom still wears black. Red symbolizes passion and lust and I’m all about that tonight. Graham is so hot, I can hardly speak.

  “You hungry?” I manage to squeeze the words through the paste of Pink Vixen on my lips.

  “Yeah, I am.” Graham peeks over the menu.

  “I mean, if you are, they have big portions here,” I say, trying to sound like less of a Neanderthal.

  I decide on chicken with cashews. Lo mein is a definite no for a first non-date. Graham orders Volcano chicken. Does that rule out a kiss at the end of dinner? I have no problems kissing a fire-breathing dragon.

  Graham unfolds his napkin and places it on his lap. “You look really nice tonight.”

  “Thanks.” I blush and instinctively tug the bottom of my shirt. “This is a new color for me.”

  Graham leans forward. “Good pick.”

  “You
r favorite?” Could I be any more desperate?

  He shrugs. “Yeah, you could say that. I like a lot of colors.”

  “Me too.” I unfold my napkin. “I’m constantly analyzing everything by color. It’s almost a sickness.”

  Graham leans forward. “Tell me more.”

  “See that guy over there in the pink shirt?” I gesture with a nod of my head.

  Graham turns to his left. Then right. “Where?”

  “One table over. Sitting with the blond lady. Can’t miss him.” Not only is his shirt bright, but so is his skin. He’s sporting a lobster sunburn.

  “I see him now,” Graham says. Maybe Graham could use a pair of glasses—he’d look cute.

  “In his case, I think the pink is a sham. Pink usually means love and happiness. He’s definitely a blue guy—cocky on the outside, insecure in the inside—but he chose this color because he thinks it will get him what he wants.”

  Graham looks perplexed. “What’s that?”

  “In her pants.”

  He bursts out laughing. “What does my shirt say about me?”

  I twist the napkin on my lap. “It means you have confidence to go after your dreams.”

  Graham smiles big. Not a tooth out of line. “Huh. You could be right.”

  “Well, this is the first time I’ve actually seen you in red. You wear purple more.”

  “Right.” His chin drops. “What’s the scoop on purple?”

  “Purple means imagination and balance. It’s a favorite among artists. It can mean other stuff, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “That you’re trying to overcome obstacles in your life. But really, this isn’t a science. I pick up a lot of info from books, the Net, my dad … ” I’m blabbing on and on. I didn’t even realize our food is sitting in front of us, untouched. “Should we eat?”

  “Good idea.” Graham unwraps his chopsticks, cautiously.

  “Listen, I’m not trying to make assumptions about you because of what you wear.” I pick up a cashew with my chopsticks. “I must sound like such an idiot.”

  “No, you’re right.” He hangs his head low.