“Frances, why do you believe that your mother brought you here?”
Dr. Calaban kept quiet.
I fiddled with a loose thread on my sock. “Mama thinks I’m traumatized by the divorce. I can’t stand to be around her for extended lengths of time. She even stopped asking me about Thayer.”
“Thayer?”
I quit messing with my sock. Oh, God. Now I had mentioned his name, one of her own patients.
“Thayer’s this boy I know.”
She waited. I looked at her wrist, but I didn’t see the bone bracelet.
“We’re just friends.”
She scribbled in her notes.
“We hang out a lot. He’s teaching me how to do graf.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know this word.”
I thought about the buildings downtown, the tags we had left there. “Graffiti gives my hands something to do besides counting. It’s fun.” On the inside of my arm were three letters, FIN, which I had perfected in felt tip, the edges trimmed with stars. It was time I made my own tag. I held it up for Dr. Calaban to see. At first, I thought she might laugh.
She leaned closer. “Tell me what else you do for fun.”
“Draw, I guess.”
“That’s right. And before you moved, what did you like to do in Vermont? Did you play any sports?”
“Well, I used to go horseback riding. It was like being in another world. I could totally zone out, you know?”
Dr. Calaban smiled. She had this huge gap between her front teeth that I could’ve poked a pencil through.
When we moved, Mama promised I could find another stable and continue my lessons. That didn’t happen. I had a feeling she wanted me to quit. She said I’d fall off and break my neck. I could see Mama standing near the horse stalls waiting for me, pretending to do her crossword puzzle while the girls with the French braids stared and giggled.
I rode for three years in a row. Not once did I fall off.
Dr. Calaban pulled out a box of Prismacolors and paper and told me to draw.
“What is this? Art class?” I said, reaching for a pencil labeled “salmon.” This would’ve come in handy back in kindergarten, when I couldn’t find the right shade for people as sun challenged as me. For some reason, all the other kids used orange, which didn’t cut it for me.
Last week, we had tried relaxation exercises to help me with my so-called nervous habits. Dr. Calaban’s voice swirled around me, saying things like “Imagine your feet are getting heavier and warmer,” as if I had put on a pair of lead boots. We moved up from my toes to my fingers, but it never felt like the right order. Finally, she quit when I fell asleep in the chair.
Dr. Calaban said, “I asked if you wanted to play a game. You didn’t seem too thrilled with cards or checkers.”
“I hate board games,” I told her. They were called “bored games” for a reason.
“Fine,” she said. “But you’ve often mentioned that you love to draw. Did you know that I also draw?”
I put down the salmon pencil. “For real?” I said.
“Actually, I like to paint on the weekends,” she said, smiling.
This was too much. Dr. Calaban, the artiste? I tried to picture her spidery legs under a paint-stained smock, along with her weaponlike heels.
“I feel stupid trying to sketch with this thing in my lap,” I said. “Can I sit on the floor? Or is that too weird?”
“Do whatever makes you feel comfortable,” she said, tightening her scarf.
For once, I didn’t feel like a freak crouched in that chair with her eyes locked on me. I spread out on the carpet, arranging my colored pencils in perfect rows like the numbers in my solar system. When I did stuff like this, I wasn’t aware of it half the time. I felt like a robot on autopilot.
Dr. Calaban was still blabbing away, but I wasn’t listening. Her mouth opened and closed. I had never seen a brighter lipstick. It was the kind worn by television stars, not normal people.
“Art is therapeutic. Sometimes we become entrenched in the emotional experience of a dilemma. Drawing allows you to express yourself without words,” said Dr. Calaban.
I fixed my gaze on the blank sheet of paper. “What am I supposed to draw?” I asked.
“I want you to sketch something that represents who you are,” she said. Then she did something that threw me off guard. She slid out from behind her desk and knelt on the floor next to me.
After a while, we sketched in silence. I concentrated on shading. It was easy tuning out everything around me—the air conditioner’s hum, sunlight dribbling through the blinds, voices chuckling in the hall, my stomach rumbling for no reason. I snuck a peek at her sketch pad. I expected lollipop trees and stick figures. Instead, she drew her own naked brown foot (no longer crammed into the pointy stilettos).
“That is majorly impressive,” I said. “Feet are difficult to draw. Mine always turn out like flippers.”
I kept staring at her paper. Her intricate doodle looked just like the real deal. She didn’t need fancy supplies. Dr. Calaban dragged a ballpoint pen across her legal pad, the lines bisecting her doodle, just like Mama’s “grid-transfer” method.
Even more surprising was her foot itself. I had always suspected that Dr. Calaban treated herself to weekly pedicures, most likely choosing a violent shade of red polish. But her toenails gleamed even without polish, the edges trim, yet uneven. No doubt a do-it-yourself job hidden inside those fancy shoes.
“Thanks,” she said. “So tell me about your drawing.”
I knew this was a trap.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I said. So there.
“You’re right. It doesn’t have to mean anything,” she said.
I sighed. “That’s what I hated about art class.”
“I thought you were taking orchestra?”
“I am. This was back in Vermont. My art teacher was obsessed with public speaking. We had to stand in front of the class and explain why we drew a unicorn or whatever.”
“And how did you feel about that?” she asked.
“Stupid. I mean, what a waste of time. Why can’t art mean different things to different people? Why should it mean the same thing to everybody? It’s like asking us to see the world the same way, which is impossible.”
Dr. Calaban leaned back and studied her drawing. “Would you want to live in that kind of world?”
“Of course not,” I said. “It’s like the people at school. Everybody’s so fake.”
“How so?” she asked.
“From the minute you start school, you’re fed a bunch of lies: Be yourself. Don’t follow the crowd, blah blah. What they really mean is: Follow the crowd. Just make sure that it’s the right one.”
“And if you don’t?” Dr. Calaban raised her eyebrows at me.
“Suffer the consequences,” I said.
My drawing hadn’t turned out the way I wanted. Stuck in the middle of the paper was this knobby-looking horse in a forest of skyscrapers. I shaded a line of thick, soft lead across the bottom, as if paving a road. Now the animal’s hooves appeared bolted into the ground.
Dr. Calaban squinted at my work. “How do you feel about this drawing?”
I chewed my lip. “I hate how this horse looks. I wish I could rip her out of the picture.”
“Why is that?” Dr. Calaban asked.
“So she could be free.”
We both looked at each other.
Dr. Calaban crumpled her paper and threw it in the trash can. “I think that’s good for now,” she said, rising and smoothing her skirt.
“That was a nice drawing. Why toss it?” I asked.
“Because I can always do another,” she said.
“That’s so odd,” I told her. “For me, drawing is always about finishing a piece.”
“And do you always take the time to finish them?” Dr. Calaban asked. She was back at her desk, in business mode again.
“See, I could spend days perfecting a doodle in the corner of my math book,” I
said.
“Except it never looks perfect,” she said.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “So true.”
Dr. Calaban smiled. I was actually beginning to like her. So I made a promise to myself. I would try a little harder to open up.
“Listen,” she said. “I have a homework assignment for you.”
“I don’t need more homework,” I said. I had enough trouble finishing my math worksheets on a nightly basis.
“Here’s your assignment. Whenever you feel like counting, I want you to take out your drawing supplies and concentrate on that instead. Can you handle that?”
“Deal,” I said.
“What are you going to do with today’s drawing?” she wanted to know.
As I folded the paper into quarters, I could feel her waiting to see what I’d do next.
“I’m taking it home,” I said.
Useless One
Mama never drove in the rain. After school, I saw the Nissan parked under a tree, the windshield flecked with sparkling droplets.
“Let’s go. Hurry,” Mama said as I slid into my seat. “The weather’s getting nasty.”
She spent the entire ride home talking about water spouts and sinkholes, all of which were spotted in Miami during the last five minutes, according to the Weather Channel.
“That’s just hype, Mama,” I said. “It’s not even raining hard.”
“This is only the start of it,” she said, ultra-serious.
I laughed and she pinched my arm.
“Ouch. Quit it,” I said.
“You better straighten up, young lady. I’m getting sick of this attitude,” she said.
I was already sick of hers.
As we turned onto Useless One (otherwise known as US 1), passing a Honda throbbing with bass, I noticed a pair of chewed-looking Keds dangling from a power line.
“Do you think there’re gangs around here?” I asked.
“Of course not. This is a nice neighborhood,” said Mama.
“How do you know? I mean, there’s a lot going on that we don’t notice,” I said.
“Mmm,” said Mama. She turned on the radio and hit scan.
“I mean, don’t you ever wonder if the stars in the sky are really there or if—”
“Hush, Fin. I’m trying to hear this,” she said, as an announcer came on and read the news in a dead monotone, just the way Sharon and her dumb friends read the morning announcements at school. “Somebody was blown up in some country. And today’s lunch special is tater tots.”
When we got home, I left the drawing on the kitchen counter, hoping that Mama would find it and say something like, “Wow. This is really good. I didn’t know you could draw so well.”
I took a long bath, just sitting in the tub, thinking. My head buzzed like a cassette tape on fast forward. I got a whiff of our leftovers burning behind the door. We’d probably end up eating sandwiches again at the rate Mama was going.
I got out and toweled off my hair. The tips were still black, almost touching my shoulders now. No more mophead. Or as Thayer called it, a Purdey cut, like Emma Peel, the bad-ass chick on that old-school TV show, The Avengers. Even my eyebrows were thickening back into place.
As I shrugged into my robe, I pretended it was a crime-fighting catsuit. I cocked my fingers like a gun and aimed for the light switch.
“Mrs. Peel…we are needed,” I whispered.
Mama began knocking. “Blah blah…Wasting water…,” she said.
I flung open the door and brushed past her in a cloud of steam.
She brandished a can of low-sodium soup. “We’re having a cleansing meal.”
I groaned.
“Do you want creamy tomato or chicken noodle?” she asked.
“Neither,” I said. That fat-free, condensed stuff made me want to hurl.
“I’ll use milk instead of water, just like your father did,” she said.
“That’s okay.” I was rooting around in the cupboard looking for the can opener. Besides food, our kitchen lacked the basic cooking gadgets. Once, I caught Mama straining soup through the diamond-shaped hole she had cut with a can punch.
Not only was Dad the designated cook in the house, he was also its emotional thermostat. Mama, the hard-hitting fact finder, only showed her feelings when she was upset with me. Lately this seemed like an ongoing event.
I turned to the kitchen counter. “Where’s the piece of paper that I left here?” I asked, digging through yogurt lids and Chinese menus speckled with crusty stains.
Mama frowned. “What paper? I’m always picking up your papers.”
“Oh, right. I forgot,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Always.” I went back to searching the cupboard.
“Frances, don’t raise your voice,” she said.
“I’m raising my voice because I’m frustrated,” I said, banging the cupboard shut. “I can’t leave anything around without you throwing it out. You don’t even ask.”
“If I didn’t clean up, we’d have a mess,” she said, reaching into the trash. “Is this it?”
“Yeah,” I said. Gross. I couldn’t touch the paper after it had sat in garbage, even if it had just rested on top.
“So, why are you standing there? Take it,” she said.
I gritted my teeth. “It’s dirty now.”
“What’s gotten into you?” she asked, cramming the paper into my fist. “I feel as if we’re having this constant power struggle and I’d like it to stop.”
I unfolded the drawing. The top left corner looked soggy. Before I knew what I was doing, I tore it off.
Mama watched me rip away the background until nothing was left but the mare I had drawn in the middle.
“I didn’t think you drew anymore,” she said.
I threw the scraps in the trash and washed my hands, then headed straight for my room. As I locked the door, I realized how barren it seemed, not counting the wing-shaped finger stains near the doorknob. I decided to Scotch tape my drawing to the door.
Standing back, I surveyed my work. The horse wasn’t stuck in the ground anymore. Without the buildings behind her, she could’ve stood anywhere, getting ready to run.
DECEMBER
4 5 3 5 13 2 5 18
Archaeological Evidence
It’s official,” Thayer said. “I’m now the oldest kid in our class.”
When I saw him leaning against my locker at lunchtime, I wanted to choke him. He was fiddling with his tape recorder again, hitting the “play” button on and off so Ms. Armstrong’s week-old lecture on plate tectonics resembled a complicated rap anthem.
“I haven’t seen you in centuries,” I said, struggling to balance my violin case. God, I sounded obnoxious. “I mean, I heard you got suspended.”
“I’ve been hella busy,” he said, rubbing his nose.
“Doing what?” I asked.
“Getting suspended,” he said.
“For smoking?”
He glared. “No. For skipping a Saturday detention.”
I almost laughed. “Why did you do that?”
“Because I forgot.”
Classroom doors slammed. Jocks prowled the hall, grunting and swearing. Sharon’s high-pitched giggle floated above the noise.
Thayer said, “Let’s make like a tree and leave.”
We couldn’t hide in the music room anymore, not after Mr. Clemmons had caught us eating there, so we met in the grassy clearing behind the science lab, on a marble bench beside a stranger’s memorial.
“I’m almost the same age as her.” Thayer brushed off the slab. “This girl died, like, a decade ago.”
“What happened?”
“A car crash. She was at the wheel, drunk. Can you guess why she gets a memorial?”
“No. Why?”
“Who the hell knows?”
“I bet her family had a ton of money,” I said, reaching into my backpack and finding my pencil box. Inside was the mangled jigsaw of Ms. Armstrong’s trombone-playing son. I sprinkled the pieces over the memorial.
They fluttered at odd angles, cartwheeling into the weeds.
Thayer pulled out his pipe. I couldn’t believe he had the nerve to smoke at school, much less an illegal substance. No wonder he had been held back.
“Happy birthday,” I told him.
“Muchas gracias,” he said. “So where’s my present?”
I wasn’t sure if he was joking. His stare was making me nervous, so I changed the subject.
“There’s nothing historic to see in Miami.”
“Except me,” he said, coughing.
“You’d be lucky to find a fifty-year-old building. And they’d probably knock it down and build a giant condo.”
“You don’t really know this city,” he said. “I understand why you hate it here. But you have to look a little harder.”
“For what?”
“Mysteries.” He stood. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“You’ll never guess.”
I could hear people laughing, talking on their way to class. “We have to get back.”
“Says who? Oh, ye of little faith.”
Not for the first time, I was ditching Ms. Armstrong’s lecture on forces and motion to ride the Metrorail downtown, a half-hour ride from my house. One moment I was a hostage at Miami Dade High, and the next I was on a bridge with Thayer.
Mama would flip if she knew I used public transportation. I associated it with germs. She associated it with thieves and rapists.
We stood near a construction site, looking down at a smattering of holes. The Miami Circle. Or, as Thayer would suggest, a landing pad for spaceships.
Just a few years ago, a real estate mogul was going to build a million-dollar condo on the banks of the Miami River. When the old apartments on the site were demolished, archaeologists swooped in and discovered the holes chiseled into bedrock.
How had the Circle remained undiscovered for so long? The site lay buried beneath rusty pipes and slabs of cement. So far, the archaeologists had dug up thousands of artifacts: beads and bones.
“I saw this psychic on TV,” Thayer said. “She thinks the Tequestas made human sacrifices here.”
“Tequestas?”
“The People of the Glades.”
Now the sun had slipped behind a clump of gleaming skyscrapers. We walked closer. Thayer was sweating in his army jacket. He peeled it off, exposing his pale shoulders.
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