by Mia Garcia
Her phone buzzed; it was David:
Solo diciendo hola.
She felt a sudden lightening of her heart. She texted back:
Hola.
When her father settled in beside her she couldn’t keep the smile off her face, making him smile as well.
“Good?” It felt like less of a question and more of a statement. Or maybe both. As the movie started she waited for the sadness, for the memories to come back and hurt, but they didn’t. Though she missed the time spent with her mother curled on the couch watching her favorite films, the memories didn’t sting. As she curled against her dad she knew they weren’t forgetting her, they were honoring her.
“Good,” she said, and it felt true.
Ryan
LEE FIDGETED. NORA giggled. Jess was quiet, eyes drifting far above Ryan. They’d all sat unofficially for portraits before in one way or another, usually while hanging out, then been told to stand still while Ryan’s hand flew over the paper. Ryan had drawn Lee in the past, carbon outlining the curve of her lips or the look in her eyes. But she’d never sat for Ryan on purpose until now.
“Is this okay?”
She wiggled her fingers at him.
“Stop moving,” Ryan chastised. “The sketch will be blurry.”
Lee rolled her eyes, a move Ryan wondered if he could capture on the page. He added another curl, and another, until the Lee on the page was an echo of the one that stood in front of him.
Good, he thought.
The spring and summer classes had blown the cobwebs from his bones, and though there was still a hesitation, still moments when sections of paper were rubbed raw with doubt, today had been a good day.
Enough to make Ryan forget about the self-portrait that still plagued him. And not just him. There were so many fellow students who hadn’t finished the assignment that Candace gave them “as long as they needed” to finish.
He wouldn’t think about that now. He didn’t need the doubt. Instead he focused on the task that Candace called “Mix and Match.” Three portraits, each requiring a new approach chosen to match the subject.
Lee would be watercolors, which he hadn’t told Lee. He could not explain why but there was something about watercolor that felt right for her, a combination of gentle and striking that embodied his vision of her.
He took in every angle he could until the weight of her hair and lift of her lips came naturally. His hand felt at home, gliding over the pages, watching another Lee come to life, almost like he’d never put down the pencil in the first place.
“Is it ready?” Lee asked, trying to sneak a glimpse of the portrait.
He flipped the sketchbook to face her. “Take a look.”
Lee smiled. Good. “What now?”
“Now you both disappear and I paint.” He rubbed the graphite off on his jeans . . . or into his jeans. “I need to yell at this thing on my own.”
“We can see it once it’s done, though?”
“Obviously.” Or he’d burn it . . . either/or.
Nora popped up from Ryan’s bed where she was reading. “God, you are such a demanding muse,” Nora said to Lee before turning to Ryan. “Don’t worry, I’ll be nicer when you paint me, and of course my mom will want to frame it.”
“I’m honored.” Not thinking about the possibility that it would be up on the walls of La Islita where people could see it and shit.
“When do I get to pose again?”
“Later.” He waved them away. “Okay, muses, time to leave me to my demons, or whatever dramatic shit people say.”
“Demons is pretty good.” Lee helped Nora up. “Let us know if you need a break, I can bring you a coffee.”
“Un cafecito.” Nora nodded.
“Some joe.” Lee’s lip quirked.
Back to Nora. “Java.”
He had to stop them before they kept going.
“Okay.” Ryan pushed Lee out of his room.
HE SPREAD OUT the sketches until he could look at each one head-on. Lee looked at him from each sketch, a delicate balance playing across her face. Ryan wondered if she knew how much he could see in her eyes: her compassion, her worry, and something new, close to happiness, but more like satisfaction. It teased at her lips.
Ryan settled his watercolors, sending a silent thank-you to his grandmother for the colors that shone from their containers. Stepping away from the paints, he lay on his bed, strumming his fingers on his stomach when his phone buzzed. It was Jason.
Jason: How is your grandmother doing?
His heart did a little shimmy.
Ryan: Better. She’s pushing herself a bit too hard and talking about planning her next trip.
Jason: Nothing can slow her down! She’s incredible.
Ryan: Pretty much. Wish I was like that.
Jason: Me too. Let me know if you need anything, OK? I know I’m Mr. Summer Internships and can’t be relied on for anything, but I’m here.
Ryan: Thanks!
Ryan wasn’t sure what else to say. He typed and deleted his message so many times he wondered what Jason was thinking on the other side. His grandmother would never be this confused. She’d dive right in and say just what she wanted with no hesitations.
But there were so many things. He’d wanted to ask Jason for a friend-date the last two weeks but had never been able to form the words. He also wanted to send Jason some of his work and maybe even invite him to the current plague of Ryan’s existence: a gallery show.
A damn gallery show. He’d even kept it from the girls, specifically Jess. Earlier that week Candace had announced there was a gallery showing open to students in the winter. There weren’t many slots available, so anyone interested—she’d said that part straight to Ryan—should sign up immediately. She’d followed it up with a group email.
Blake had signed up and then continued to text Ryan about it every day since the announcement. Still he danced around it, sitting on the thing for a week, convincing himself that there were no spots left, so what did it matter?
In a move that was part procrastination, part self-hate, Ryan checked Jason’s feed. There were two new photos.
Two.
Ryan swiped through them. The photos were annoying, the faces too happy, too fake. This was the college life that would be too hard on a relationship? Whatever he hoped he would find in the photos, whatever justification he needed, Ryan couldn’t see it.
He should text him that: Why?
Until the answer satisfied him.
Why?
Until it made any sense.
Instead Ryan went back to the sketches, to the eyes staring at him in unison.
He filled several cups with water, wetting the paint: black, brown, white, blue, green, then red, so many choices to work with. He started with the dark brown of Lee’s skin, layering until the paper soaked in the paint, echoing the rich umber. He made her cheekbones sharp, popping out of the paper, and added red to her lips.
Her tight curls took in shades of black and strokes of blue, defining the tiny curls that haloed her face. Lee had worn her hair loose today. He added a hint of green to her brown eyes, like the echo of a lush forest and a wash of yellow all around her.
Ryan stepped back. “Not bad.”
It wasn’t a lie, and his heart flushed with a pride he hadn’t felt in a long while. But not only that, he looked down at the other Lees waiting for the brush, and all he wanted to do was dive in. He tackled them one by one, mixing new colors and combinations, excited to watch the colors interact. Ryan left one sketch unpainted and set the others to dry. His fingers ached, and the jars of water resembled mud puddles after a rainy day.
Tired but satisfied he opened up his laptop and read the email one more time.
His heart sped at the thought of the exhibit, of people seeing and judging his work. But he could always pull out—give some sorry excuse. He shook his head, not ready yet, and dove toward his paints, organizing his supplies in a way that would make Jess proud.
Ryan ir
oned out the next portraits: he would use pastels for Nora, to capture the eternal fae nature in her smile, the feel of sunshine that radiated from Nora at her best. He formed the image in his head, pushing away the growing fear that the exhibit was a horrible idea and he’d never finish that damn self-portrait and held on to the emotions the current portraits brought forth.
What else?
Her smile would be the focus, then you’d notice her eyes, and the way her short pink hair curled against her cheeks like a silent-movie star. A style that fitted Nora’s no-fuss attitude. His fingers itched to start right then.
Where had this itch been these last few months?
Keep going.
Jess would be acrylic, bold colors that required a quick hand on canvas. Would he paint her as a blur? Flashing across the canvas, long tawny legs claiming the path in front of her. Ryan hesitated. Something about the oils called out to him, something in Jess’s nature called for the patience of oils over acrylic.
Yes, he thought, oils are better.
He thought of painting her face, brown eyes looking straight at you, but his mind rejected it. There was something about Jess lately, making him think you shouldn’t be able to see her eyes, not fully. That something hid behind them. He made a mental note to think more about it later.
He was smiling, he realized. Actually smiling. His hand ached from working all day, but it was a good ache. One that would reach for the brush again if he let himself. A hopeful ache.
His second resolution rang in his head: show your work. For the first time in a very long time, he felt like maybe he could do that.
Seizing the feeling, he opened up his computer and replied to Candace’s gallery-show email, asking if there was still space. Her answer came almost instantly:
Yes. Took you long enough.
He felt a rush of anxiety but tamped it down. He could do this; he could believe in himself as much as others did—it was only fair, right? Ryan sent a quick text to Blake and the girls. Blake responded with a photo of giant bear giving a thumbs-up, making Ryan laugh and the anxiety disappear just a bit more. By the time it was officially in Jess’s calendar, his grandmother had also sent a series of odd emojis announcing that she would be there, hip or no hip and to make sure he invited the entire Denver Taiwanese community or she would.
There was one person left. One message left to send. Would he ride this wave of confidence and send it?
And if he did, if Ryan invited him to the show, would he even come? Not only had Jason never cared about Ryan’s art before, but the summer was riddled with failed date attempts. Still, he needed to talk to Jason, to sort out his heart. He needed to see him in person.
He sent the image of the flyer with the text:
Absolutely terrified, but excited! Want to come?
Ryan waited for a century for the reply, though actually it was more like a minute.
Jason: That’s great! Not sure if I can make it, but I’ll let you know.
Ryan’s heart faltered for a moment before recovering.
Ryan: Sounds good. Would love to see you but no worries if you can’t!
His art was not tied to Jason. No matter how hard his damn heart tried to convince him that it was.
Jess
WHERE WAS HER notebook? She’d put it down for one minute and now it was gone. Half of her scholarship research was in that thing. All around Jess little kids ran amok as they waited for their parents to arrive. Only a few minutes ago they’d been semi-angels while Jess read to them, but as soon as she closed that book it was anarchy.
Early in the summer Jess had tried to calm them down after they got like this, but eventually she learned that it was best to let them run until their little legs couldn’t carry them anymore.
“¡Elena, dije que no muerdas a Miguel!” Jess shouted as the little girl tried to take another bite out of her friend. What was it with kids and biting?
She spotted her notebook among the chaos and rushed to pry it from a little boy’s hands before he colored over her meticulous scholarships notes even more.
He smiled up at Jess, not caring about the hours she’d spent jotting down specifics and due dates.
Breathe.
How many times had she told herself that today?
She hid the notebook behind the mini library and waited as patiently as she could for each of the parents to come retrieve their children. It helped to stay active, to pick up stray crayons and wrappers from half-eaten granola bars, even though every time Jess picked up one thing the kids dropped five new things on the floor.
But she couldn’t sit. Sitting made her anxiety travel up her spine like an itch. It made her squirm in her seat and her hands fidget until they found something to do.
It was an hour later on the dot when the last child was picked up. He left kicking and screaming, declaring he never got to do anything fun EVER.
Jess waved goodbye, already tucking away the toys he’d been playing with just moments ago.
Finally.
She just needed to wipe everything down with the strongest disinfectant known to man and she was free until she had to set up for the weekly domino game they’d recently introduced.
But first things first, she snagged her notebook, locked herself in her mother’s office, and turned off the lights. She felt her way to the chair and placed her head on the table, relishing the quiet.
Then deep breaths until she no longer felt the need to run out of the center and keep running until her legs gave out.
Though her body could use another ten minutes in the dark, her mind reminded her of everything still waiting to be done. Fumbling for the switch, she flipped the lights back on and found her laptop.
Between the time Jess had put down her notebook and when she’d found it later, five pages of scholarship notes were colored over. Some were still visible, but one particularly ambitious drawing had ruined a page to the point that it was impossible to figure out what was once on it.
She thought of turning the light off again so she wouldn’t be able to see all the wasted work. She should’ve just jotted things down on her laptop from the beginning, but the notebook was a lot lighter to keep on her as she was running around the center.
This is all your fault.
She’d have to redo most of whatever was on that page.
Placing her hand on her face she took three deep breaths, reminding herself that she could worry later and just get things done now. She stretched out and tackled the pages she could still read. Opening her laptop, she wrote down scholarship requirements and deadlines, pausing to double- and triple-check them online. Once confirmed she added them to her calendar, blocking out times to write her essays and ask for letters of recommendation.
Rolling her shoulders, she started a list of teachers and people at the center she could ask for recommendations and made notes as to which scholarship each letter would be better for.
Jess ignored the gnawing in her stomach as she added task after task to her punch list. Each time she wrote one deadline down she thought of ten more things to add to the list; every thought a never-ending string of reminders.
Think smarter.
She would save time by writing one central essay and adjusting for each scholarship.
Good.
The ruined research page was a mess of black and brown crayon, but she was able to suss out what had been on it from a previous scholarship list she’d made. Now she only had to look up deadlines and requirements all over again.
“Jessica!” She heard her mother at the door. “¡Abre la puerta!”
Saving her work, she quickly opened the door. “Sorry. I was hiding.”
“Did you get all your work done?” Her mother came in, dropping a folder on her desk.
All the work? Not even close. She still had to research the scholarships from that ruined page. Once those deadlines were in her schedule, she had to start writing the essays. A thought that made her just a bit queasy. What would she say? Between all her
work at the center, research, and track, she could barely keep one thought in her head for more than a panicked minute before they spiraled into a thousand other thoughts.
“Almost!” she replied.
“Do you mind helping me set up early?” her mother asked. “You are free to disappear once we are all set up.”
“Really?” Her mom always asked her to stay for domino night to help clean up after.
“Really. I’ll ask someone else. You’ve helped enough today, and I can tell you’re tired.”
Jess stood up straight. She felt tired, but she thought she was hiding it better than that. “I do?”
Her mother nodded, placing a hand on Jess’s cheek. “This place has a way of making even the strongest person tired, Mija.”
“I could use more time to look into scholarships.” Like a hundred more hours in a week.
“Then let’s get going!” They left the office. “The faster we set up, the sooner you are released.”
They carted out the folding tables and chairs, spacing them out on the main room of the center. Each table got four chairs and a set of dominos. When that was done they set up a table for drinks and snacks brought in by the players.
“In record time!” her mother declared, turning on the salsa music over the speakers. “You are free to go.”
Images of the productive night ahead swam in her head. She would get so much done. But once she reached her room, it didn’t take more than a few minutes for her body to give up on her and for her eyes to close.
Jess passed out, sleeping through the whole night for the first time in two weeks and right through her alarm for work at the center.
Nora
THE BLINDFOLD WAS a little itchy, but Beth assured her they would be there soon. She kept her hands folded on her lap even though all they wanted to do was tug at the little pink spirals that haloed her face. Each time she thought of the decision to dye her hair pink there was a rush of energy and pride.
She could feel it all the way down to her heart that she’d made the right decision. The certainty was what kept her going despite her mother’s silent-treatment tactic that was now on its second week. Nora could still see how her eyes widened and her shoulders squared when Nora revealed her hair.