Whoa. In an instant, all the red confidence has washed from his face. Maybe I’ve said too much. “Color doesn’t define the person,” I add quickly. “I’m sure there are many confident people who wear a lot of gray and many depressed people who wear bright red all the time.”
“Yeah, but I do wear a lot of purple.” His face sours. It’s lost its usual glimmer. Maybe it’s the lighting in here.
I splash some soy sauce on my plate. “So, it’s cool.”
“No, it’s not.”
Now I’m confused. “Why?”
“It’s not cool if you have to wear it.” He looks down at his food.
What, his mom works at the Purple factory? He belongs to a secret Barney cult run by crazed fans? “I don’t understand.”
“It’s just that … ” He takes a sip of his Coke. “No, it’s nothing, really.”
This time I reach across the table for his hand. “Graham, I told you about my mother, my father. Really, you can talk to me.”
How did a conversation about purple get so deep? Did I miss something?
“I don’t see the same way you do.” He pushes the chicken around in his plate, then drops his chopsticks.
I so called it. “You wear glasses? I think guys in glasses are cool.”
“I do wear contacts, but that’s not it.” He looks away from me, in the direction of the guy in the pink shirt.
He’s fashion-challenged? Color dyslexic? The last thing I want to do is give the guy a complex. At the risk of sounding like an overzealous teacher, I say, “We all see things differently.”
“No.” Graham shakes his head.
“No?”
His green eyes are like stone walls. “I’m colorblind.”
What? I’m stunned. Here I am, blabbing on about color like a know-it-all and he doesn’t even know what I’m talking about.
“I’m so sorry.” I put my hand over my mouth.
“Don’t be. I do see color, just not the way you do. I see shades and hues. That’s why I like bold, pure colors. Purple, even.”
I lean forward and my hands graze his. “But that’s what makes your artwork so unique. Your paintings say so much about life, and your use of texture is amazing.”
“Thanks. I’m glad somebody thinks so.”
“Whoever doesn’t think you’re an amazing artist is blind.” Ah, way to stick my foot in my mouth. I slap my forehead. “Stupid thing to say.”
“Relax.” He reaches for my shoulder. “I know what you meant.”
“How do you do it? I mean, without color?”
“I don’t know any different. And I notice other things. Like, for example, ketchup and chocolate syrup look the same color to me, but they’re clearly different consistencies. And for the record, I’ve never put chocolate syrup on my fries.” He laughs.
I laugh too. “It sounds a lot tastier than a ketchup sundae. Wanna taste my cold cashew chicken?” I slide the plate toward him. He scoops a little off my plate and I take a bite of his Volcano chicken. I need a refill of Coke after a few bites.
I fan my mouth. “So, when did you know you wanted to be an artist?”
“I don’t know exactly when, but I started drawing way before I started doing much else. The hardest part was convincing my parents.”
“Why? Your talent is obvious.”
“My mom couldn’t see why a colorblind person would want to put themselves in the position of working with color. She doesn’t know that there’s so much more to art than color.”
“Really?” I bite the inside of my lip, because she’s not the only one.
I look over at the Chinese dragon. It’s covered with a multitude of colors—crimson, jade, gold, black—but really, they could be any colors. It’s the intricacies of the design and carvings that make it amazing.
“At first my dad thought being colorblind was something I could turn on and off. See this?” Graham points to the scar on his arm. “I was helping him with some wiring at a job site when I was eleven and I mixed up the red and green wires and burned myself. Had to go to the hospital. It wasn’t until then that he realized I wasn’t going to get over being colorblind. Before that, he thought it was a disease I would grow out of.”
“It’s amazing how parents can make themselves believe whatever they want. Just like my dad thinking if we don’t talk about my mom, we’ll both heal.” I slide an amethyst bracelet, which Liz insisted I borrow, up and down my arm.
“I know what you mean. That’s why I didn’t let my parents stop me.”
Then why am I such a coward? I forgot to mention that red symbolizes courage. Maybe that’s why Dad uses a lot of red in his paintings. Why I choose it, too. “My mom’s birthday is in eight days,” I announce, like we’re guests on a new talk show called Spill It All.
“That’s awesome.” Graham smiles. “You should do something for her. In her honor.”
I nod. “I don’t know what yet, but I plan to. This is a big one for her. For us.”
The waiter comes over to clear our plates. “Any dessert?”
I look at Graham. He turns to the waiter. “Sure. Do you have fried ice cream?”
The waiter clears our plates and promises that the ice cream will be right out. I’m in no hurry.
“So, tell me about your ceramics class,” Graham says.
I jerk my head back. “Who told you I’m taking ceramics?”
“I have my sources.” He laughs.
“What? Did Dad post a status update on Facebook?” I scan his eyes for an answer but come up with nothing. “It’s great. I really get lost when I’m at the wheel. It’s much more intense than I ever imagined pottery to be.”
“Enthusiasm will do that to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what it feels like to really love something, have passion for it?” Graham’s eyes sparkle wide.
I’ve only been searching forever for that feeling. I’ve only had Ms. Cable’s ominous words in the back of my head for months.
I stare down at my lap. At my lilac tank top. Purple doesn’t go well with the yellowish tone of my skin. “No, I don’t, actually.”
He takes a sugar packet in his hand and taps it against the table. “It’s that feeling you got when you realized you liked ceramics. That’s what carries you from one project to the next.”
“What if you don’t have a real passion?” I look down at my hands, at my painted fingernails. I tried three different polishes of Liz’s before I settled on the mulberry. “I get this grim image of myself in twenty years. I’m working behind the grill at Paloma’s Diner, passionless. Then, after work, I go home to my efficiency in a seedy neighborhood. I eat tuna straight out of the can and share it with my cat.”
“Hey, you’ll find yours. You have to trust yourself first, though.” Graham taps my arm with the sugar packet. He makes it seem so simple. “Besides, I’m sure you’d at least put the tuna on a nice plate!” He laughs.
“You’re such a punk!” I laugh back.
The fried ice cream arrives. I let my spoon sink in. Then I slowly bring the ice cream and melted chocolate to my lips. Now this, I have passion for. I look over at Graham’s scrumptious lips. Ditto. “You’ve got a speck of chocolate there.” I point to his mouth.
He dabs with his napkin. “All gone?”
I shake my head no.
A sly grin emerges on his face. “Then help a guy out, will you?”
I lean across the table with my napkin. His grin is now a smile. I reach for his face—my lips are inches from his. My heart is beating like crazy. I focus on the redness of his lips. The color of courage. I let the pure-white napkin fall from my hand. I press the tip of my tongue against the spot of chocolate syrup on his bottom lip. He grips my shoulders and kisses me. His kiss is sweeter than the ice cream. Sweeter than the hot fudge.
Oh my freakin’ God, I just kissed Graham Hadley. I have been struck by lightning a thousand times over. When the trembling subsides, I ease back into my chair and re
alize the edge of my shirt is now covered in ice cream. I dab at it like crazy with my napkin and Coke.
Graham takes the bill from the waiter. “See, and I’m colorblind, so I wouldn’t have noticed the stain on your shirt if you weren’t scrubbing at it like a mad woman.”
I know that’s not true, but it still makes me feel better.
lime and burnt orange
It has been two days since I kissed Graham at our non-date at China Moon, but I can still taste the chocolate from his lips. I hope he can’t taste the Pink Vixen lipstick that was on mine. He left town the morning after our date to spend a week with his grandparents in Boca. It’s only an hour away, but it feels like he left for another country.
I went to the doctor again today and he cleared me for all physical activity, but he did say to take it easy. How you do that in basketball is beyond me. I’m looking forward to playing ball again, to being in the center of the action.
I start jogging when I round the corner to the court. If I show up as a ball of sweat, then it’ll look like I never left. Dad wanted to come to practice, but I told him to wait until the big game on Thursday. I definitely won’t be in top form today, but hopefully my body will remember what to do.
Well, the sweat thing works and I have to take a big swig of water as soon as I reach the court. A few people are already stretching.
“Hey, you’re back.” Maria stops to give me a high-five.
“Yeah, all better,” I say, and walk over to the water cooler where Coach Parker is standing. I duck my head. “Uh, Coach, can you use another player today?”
She looks up from her roster book. “Cassia, hi, of course. I’m glad you’re back, and just in time too. We have to win next Thursday to be in the finals.”
I grit my teeth. “I know.”
“Do you have a note from your doctor?”
I hand her my clearance paper. “I’m also wearing a brace, just in case.”
“That a girl! A forward thinker. I like that.” Coach looks past my shoulder, then waves to someone. “Hi, Julia, looking good.” She quickly turns back to me and pats my arm. “Excuse me a moment, Cassia.”
“Sure.” I nod and turn around. The lady making her way over here looks very familiar. I jog my memory: blond hair, long skinny legs, early forties …
“Hi Patricia, how’s your summer going?”
“Great. Keeping busy!” Coach says with her usual pep.
The lady looks at me. Her eyebrows cling together like they’re holding on for dear life and her Cindy Crawford mole winks at me. “Cassia?”
“Ms. Cable?” I can only imagine what my sweaty face looks like.
“How’s your summer going?”
All I manage to get out is, “All right.”
She’s wearing biking shorts and a tank top. Her hair is up in a ponytail and despite the sweat, she looks pretty. I’m used to seeing her in khakis and assorted button-down shirts in primary colors.
“Did you think about some of my suggestions?” she asks.
Did I ever! I want to scream out that she gave me a major complex, that I can’t get her words out of my head. But something stops me. Maybe it’s the way she’s smiling and has her head cocked patiently, waiting for me to answer.
“Well, I’ve been playing basketball, and I took a ceramics class too. Plus, I’ve been drawing again.”
I look out of the corner of my eye to see if Coach is going to rescue me, but she has her back to us. She’s talking to Maria’s mom. I’m stuck.
“That’s lovely,” Ms. Cable says. “Can you share some of your work with me?”
“Yeah, I can.”
“Great. I hope I wasn’t too hard on you, but now is the time to shine. Your junior year of high school is the most important year for colleges.”
“Tell me about it,” I grumble.
“I never said it was easy. Why don’t you set up an appointment with me as soon as school starts up again.”
“Okay.” I nod. I guess I can give her another chance.
“You’re a talented young lady.” She smiles.
Whaat? Did I hear her right? Perhaps she said you’re as talented as a baby or you’re a tacky young lazy. Maybe she thinks I’m someone else? Could there be another Cassia at Dolphin?
“Cassia, get moving.” Coach blows her whistle at me and winks at Ms. Cable.
I look back over at Ms. Cable before I run over to the court. She tells me to enjoy the rest of the summer.
I’m in a total fog when I find myself inches from Thunder’s backside. I guess her shoulder injury was short-lived. She’s stretching, in the last row. Usually Thunder’s a front-row girl. Not today. I look at her long torso. I know she knows I’m here, but doesn’t say anything.
Liz works her way toward me while we’re doing squats. She leans over. “It’s good to have you back on the court.”
“Thanks. Sorry to have left you hanging with the elements.” I point to Thunder.
Liz laughs and gives Thunder’s back the finger.
“So, did you see who I was talking to a few minutes ago?” I ask.
Liz whips her head around; her ponytail flies. “No, who? Where?”
“Chill,” I whisper. “Ms. Cable.”
“Your counselor came to check up on you?” Liz gasps.
We break into a jog around the court with the rest of the team. “No, it looked like she was exercising. Probably going to the gym inside.”
“So what’s her deal then?”
I struggle to keep pace with Liz. “She was actually nice. Said I was talented and told me to check in with her once school starts.”
“Really?”
I wonder how Ms. Cable keeps all her students straight. Does she have case files on us, like the FBI does for criminals? Maybe she has a task force of minions doing the investigative work.
Coach blows her whistle at us. “Girls, enough chatter. Break up the party.”
Liz moves ahead of me and I find myself jogging next to Maria. One more lap and we all hit the water cooler.
We quickly move on to lay-ups. I look for Baldwin, but decide any of his brothers will do. I grab a ball from the middle of the rack and wait my turn to shoot. Liz is right behind me.
“I thought you had a favorite,” she says.
“How did you know?”
“Please, I know you.” She rolls her eyes and laughs.
“Okay, then watch this.” I run up to the basket, shoot, and miss.
I hear her laughing, but it’s all good.
In a way it feels like I haven’t missed two and a half weeks of basketball. Getting back in the groove isn’t as hard as I thought. I’m not going to make any official announcements now, but maybe I’ll try out for the school team this year. Did you hear that, Ms. Cable?
Thunder sneers at me when I fumble for the ball in our practice game. Otherwise, she’s pretty much a mute, only whispering to Zoey now and then. The fear factor has dissipated after the rumor about Bulldog roughing her up. I mostly pity her now.
Coach blows her whistle and summons us to where she’s standing, next to the water cooler. We all sit down, some on the bench, others on the grass.
“I’m really proud of you guys this season. Several of you I’ve known for a few years and others are new this year, but you’ve all played well as a team.”
Ha, I want to say. Have you forgotten about Thunder?
Maria lets out a “wahoo” and soon everyone joins in. Coach waits until the noise dies down. “Let’s kick some butt on Thursday so we can make it to the finals!”
Everyone cheers again and gets up to leave. Coach points to Thunder, then me. “I need to see the two of you.”
So she did notice Thunder threatening me after all. Hallelujah! I know I said I didn’t care, but after all, justice should be served. Bon Voyage, Thunder girl. Apology not accepted and no end-of-the-year trophy for you, sucker!
Coach gathers her belongings. “I wanted to have a little talk. If you’re both free, we could gr
ab a cold drink at Paloma’s Diner.”
I’m half expecting Ms. Cable to jump out from behind the tree with a grill scraper and announce that she’s joining us for our first training at the diner. But she disappeared before practice even started, so maybe she had a change of heart. It’s weird to agree to a little “talk” with your coach, but it’s a hundred times better than if it was a school counselor.
“Sure.” I shrug and so does Thunder. We follow Coach across the street. She buys us each a Coke and we sit down at a table. At least we’re out of the heat.
We all pop open our drinks. Thunder abandons her straw and takes a huge swig; fizz rises out of her can. She wipes her chin with the back of her hand. “No offense, but why are we here, Coach?”
“I think you two have a lot in common, but this rivalry has to end.” Coach scoots her chair closer to the table.
Something in common? That’s like saying lime and burnt orange would be the perfect color combination for a prom dress. I nearly choke on my straw and soda escapes from my nose. Ouch, that hurt.
“Exactly.” Thunder scoffs.
Coach doesn’t seem fazed. “Sometimes we need to look beyond the superficial. You’re both strong women, but each of you needs to trust yourself more.”
What is it with this whole trust thing? First Graham, and now Coach? “What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well … ” Coach points to me. “You’re very talented, but you don’t allow yourself to reap the benefits of those talents.” I look over at Thunder. Her nose is all scrunched up and her freckles look like they’re going to pop off any minute.
“In basketball?” I ask.
“Sure.” Coach gives me a peppy smile. “But also in other things.”
“Well, I really like ceramics.” I swat at a fly hovering above our table.
“Then you should think about pursuing it,” Coach says.
“But you can’t have two passions.” I shake my head. I’ve never seen Dad stray away from his art to “pursue” something else. Who ever thought of Monet taking up ballroom dancing or Picasso playing water polo?
A little boy at the table next to us squeals with delight. His older brother has a spoon hanging from the tip of his nose.
Pure Red Page 15