THE PICASSO PROJECT

by Carol Anne Shaw

  "There you are! Is Nicole sick or something?" Maya asks her.

  "How should I know?" Paige snaps, walking away.

  Maya stands alone in the hallway, hurt and confused. Was it something she said? Is she wearing the wrong clothes? Is all of this because of Mark?

  She asks Cora if she can use the phone in the cafeteria's office but Nicole doesn't answer her cell. Maya leaves a frantic message on her voice mail.

  When she comes out of the cafeteria she turns a corner and slams straight into Mark. He grabs her shoulders and holds on tight. "Maya, Maya, Maya...where you been hiding, girl? I've been looking for you all lunch. Whassup? I thought you and me had a date?"

  "Yeah," Maya says timidly. "I know. We do. It's just that Nicole isn't here. I mean, I guess she's sick or something. But I'm sure she'll bring you the pot tomorrow, Mark. She's probably just—"

  "What?"

  "It's Nicole. She promised to meet me this morning but she's away."

  Mark jerks his head to his left. "Who's that chick then? Her evil twin?"

  Nicole is standing with Paige a little further down the hall. She's texting, and Paige is picking raisins out of a muffin, looking bored.

  "Oh! Maya says brightly. "Finally! Wait here, Mark I'll be right back!"

  She runs down the hall and taps Nicole on the shoulder. "Nicole! Where have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you!"

  "Oh, hi Maya," Nicole says coolly. She looks at Maya's shoes disapprovingly and then goes back to her phone.

  "Wow, I thought you were sick or something!" Maya says, flushed but clearly relieved.

  "Sick?"

  "Yeah. I couldn't find you."

  "Well, here I am."

  "Yeah. Great. So..." Maya hesitates, waiting for Nicole to take over the conversation, the way she always does. When she doesn't, an awkward silence hangs in the space between them.

  "So?" Nicole says impatiently.

  "The..." Maya says, " you know. The "you know what," for Mark?"

  Nicole sighs. "Um...you're going to have to be a little more specific."

  "The pot," Nicole whispers, peeking over her shoulder at Mark. He's talking to Arianna Clark, a grade twelve girl in a very short skirt. Maya wishes he wasn't standing so close to her.

  "Pot?" Nicole says, looking over to Paige with raised eyebrows. "What are you talking about?"

  Maya laughs and gives Nicole a good-natured shove. "For Mark, dummy. You know. The hundred sack?"

  "Hundred sack?"

  "Nicole. Come on! The hundred bucks I gave you yesterday? Hello? Earth to Nicole?"

  "Listen, are you on crack or something?" Nicole starts laughing and looks at Paige, who looks awkward, but shrugs and smiles.

  The smile fades from Maya's face. "What? Are you kidding around or something?"

  "Listen, Maya. I have to go," Nicole says. "And, not to be a bitch or anything, but you've kind of got this reputation around school now, you know, because of your dumb ass move with Mark. So, I kinda need to put some distance between us for a while, you know?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Don't take it personally or anything," Nicole says. "I'm sure it'll blow over in a few weeks. But right now, I have my own reputation to think about, right? I'm sure you understand."

  But Maya doesn't understand. Not even a little. "But what about the money I gave you?" She can feel the blood draining from her face. She thinks she might even faint. "What about the hundred dollars?"

  Nicole snorts. "I do not know what you're talking about, girlfriend. But what I do know, is that if someone gave me a hundred bucks, I'd sure as hell remember it."

  "Yah," Paige says, nodding her head in agreement. "Totally. She would."

  The two girls smile sweetly at Maya, and with their arms linked together, walk off down the hall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  (May)

  "The world doesn't make sense, so why should I paint pictures that do?"

  - Pablo Picasso

  It's not like I need Pablo's permission or anything; I've been painting weird shit since the day I was old enough to hold a paintbrush in my hand. Not weird just for the sake of being weird, but more as a statement of the world we live in. Wait. I should qualify that—the world I live in, I mean. The world I live in doesn't make sense, as far as I see it.

  Assholes get ahead.

  Good people get stomped on.

  And, yeah, nice guys definitely finish last. And the whole way along the almighty buck is right up there, centre stage. There's no denying that. So I paint stuff that conveys that.

  That's my truth. So, like it or hate it, I really don't care. It's what I want to say, and I don't paint for anyone else. I paint for myself. If it touches a nerve with someone, well, that's good. If you hate it, that's good too. It means you're alive. It means you feel something. It means you're a human being. And the way I see it, the world needs more human beings who feel things.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Jasmine and Eddie are side by side at the sink, both washing their brushes.

  "So," Jasmine says. "Did you think more about art school?"

  "What?" Eddie says. He's heard her just fine, but he's stalling.

  "Coastal Academy of A & D?" she says, rolling her eyes. "Hullo? Remember? Are you submitting your portfolio and what not?"

  "Dunno," Eddie says. "Haven't really given it much thought."

  "Why do you say things like that?" Jasmine drops her brush in the sink. It's caked with red and blue and white paint all the way up the handle. Jasmine Hammond is a ridiculously messy painter.

  Eddie doesn't answer her. He's been talking to her too much lately. He needs to stop doing that. He needs to stop talking and thinking about Jasmine Hammond altogether.

  He walks back to his easel.

  "What's wth you, anyway?" Jasmine says angrily. "Why would you do that?"

  "Why do I do what?"

  "Just ignore me and walk away. It's so rude!" She folds her arms over her chest. Today she's wearing a polka dot vintage skirt over black leggings, an AC/DC t-shirt and red Chuck Taylors. Only Jasmine can pull off wearing stuff like this.

  "Jasmine?" Eddie says. "Can I just paint, please?"

  "Be my guest!" she snaps. "But I don't know why you bother. What's the point, Eddie? What's the point if it's all a giant waste of time?"

  Eddie puts down his brush and looks at Jasmine straight in the eye. God, she has a great face, he thinks: dark brown eyes and nice teeth, and that regal Roman nose. Has she always been this cool looking? He looks away and shakes his head. "I never said it was a waste of time," he says. "But thank you for your rant. I hope you feel better now."

  "I just don't understand why you have to be so bloody negative all the time." A few students stop their work to look in their direction and she lowers her voice and leans forward. "You have more talent than all of us put together, but you don't take yourself seriously at all. It really pisses me off."

  Here we go again. Eddie suppresses a smile, but Jasmine catches it anyway. "Really? You're amused? You find this entertaining? Just what are you so scared of, DuMont? That you might actually be good? That you might actually have to do quit playing the victim and do something with your life?"

  This time, Eddie can't ignore her. He turns and faces her, his paintbrush tight in his fist. "Look Jasmine. Save it, okay? Your reverse psychology crap isn't working."

  Colour rises in her cheeks. "You know what?"

  "What."

  "You're nothing but a fake. You're completely full of shit."

  "Okay."

  "No. Really. You go on about all those brilliant Picasso quotes, but you don't get them at all. Hey. Remember this one? 'The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.'"

  "Yeah. I know that one," Eddie says, adding a touch of black paint to a puddle of white on his pallet and mixing with the end of his brush until a soft grey appears.

  "Really? I dis
agree. You don't get it at all. You've been given this great kick-ass gift of being able to paint like a bloody rock star, but you won't share it. You're not even going to try. You just plod along and make these lovely little masterpieces and then hide them away and go back to feeling sorry for yourself."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I've snuck a look in that sketchbook you keep. I've read your rants and the drawings that go with them."

  This surprises Eddie. "Really." He avoids her eyes. "You look through other people's journals? That's pretty low, Jazz." By now, most of the class is listening. "I knew you were excitable but I didn't think you were an asshole."

  "Well, what if I am?" Jasmine hisses. "I don't care. I wanted to see. Because you're good. Like, really good. I mean, honestly! What are you waiting for? Until you're dead?"

  Eddie adds some grey to one of the clouds in the corner of his canvas. It was too white. Too stark. The grey is much better. The muted tone works.

  "Did you even hear me?" Jasmine says angrily. She unties her apron behind her back, then reties it. She fidgets when she's upset. Eddie has noticed this; this, and other things about Jasmine Hammond.

  "Yeah, I heard you. And I'm pretty sure everyone else did, too."

  Snickers from the class.

  "God, Eddie," she says, going back to her own easel. "Why do I even bother with you?"

  Eddie looks up to see Mr. Mac watching both of them over the top of his glasses. He has a big smile on his face.

  ***

  Eddie cuts his last class. It's Science, and he's already finished the unit, not to mention the bulk of the labs. He walks along the main hall and then disappears down the stairs at the end. Frank, the school custodian, has his office there, right next to the furnace room. It's not really an office; it's just a room with a radio, a television and an old green couch, but it's nice and quiet, and sometimes Frank lets Eddie hang out there if he has a spare block. Frank isn't nosy or judgmental. Eddie appreciates that about him.

  He hasn't gone far when he hears voices: one male, the other female. He stops in the hallway, trying to pinpoint the source. The steel door to the furnace room is shut, and the recycling area is always locked up tight. But he can still hear the voices. There is a shout, followed by a dull thud. It's coming from Frank's supply cupboard. Eddie rests his hand on the doorknob, knowing he is very close to breaking two of his own rules: rule number #1 being: stay invisible; rule #2: don't get involved. But when he hears someone crying, he twists the knob and swings open the door.

  Georgia Baines is standing on the other side of it. She's holding a hand to her face, and all her makeup is smeared.

  "We're fine!" she says too quickly. "It's okay."

  Mark Johnson is leaning against an industrial-sized mop and bucket. He's red in the face and Eddie can see sweat stains under his arms.

  "You sure about that?" Eddie says to Georgia. "You don't look fine."

  "Get lost, DuMont," Mark says acidly. "This doesn't concern you."

  Eddie can see a red welt forming on Georgia's left cheek. "What's that?" he says, pointing. "Did this son-of-a-bitch hit you?"

  "Eddie," Georgia pleads. "We're fine. Really. Just go. It's okay."

  Eddie's mouth grows dry. He feels adrenaline building in his body. This scene is just too familiar. His left eye twitches. He can't stop himself. "Okay? This, is okay?" he says. "You like getting knocked around by this asshole, Georgia?"

  Mark says something, but all Eddie can hear is his own pulse thudding in his ears. Mark's face blurs in front of him, but just past it, Eddie sees the all-too-familiar image of his mother cowering on the floor, her hands in front of her face, only it's not his mother. It's Georgia on the floor. It's Georgia, terrified.

  Eddie extends his hand to her. "Come on."

  Mark steps between them. "Do I need to show you the way out, DuMont?"

  "Try it," Eddie says. "And see how well that goes down in the school hallway."

  "I'm fine, Eddie," Georgia pleads. "Please! We were just leaving anyway."

  "You heard the lady," Mark says. "She said she's fine."

  "Really?" Eddie says. "Last time I heard, hitting a woman in the face is a criminal offence."

  Mark laughs. "No shit? Well, why don't you head on down to the cop shop right now and report me to Constable Johnson? I'm sure my dad would be real interested in anything you have to say, dick wad."

  "Chief Johnson," Eddie says under his breath, more to himself.

  "Yeah. There are some perks when your old man heads up the department in your own hometown. Comes in handy at times." He winks at Georgia, who forces a weak smile. But her scared rabbit eyes say something different.

  "Come on, Georgia," Eddie says, his hand still extended. "You ready to go?"

  Mark grabs hold of her arm. "You'd better not be."

  "Why don't you let her speak for herself?"

  "Why don't you shut your fucking mouth?" Mark places a finger under Georgia's chin, lifting her face until it is just inches from his. "Georgia is staying here with me. Right, sweetheart?" He picks up the delicate chain at her throat and twists it slowly in his fingers until it pinches her skin.

  Georgia nods and Mark lets go of the necklace. "But I actually do have to go now, Mark. I...I have a dentist appointment."

  "I'll walk you out," Eddie says.

  "The hell you will," Mark says.

  "It's not a big deal, Mark," Georgia says. "I'll...I'll text you later, okay, babe?"

  She turns to Eddie but Mark yanks her back. "What the hell, Georgia! Maybe you didn't hear me right?"

  "Ow!" Georgia whimpers. "Mark! You're hurting my arm!"

  Eddie claps a hand over Mark's wrist, but Mark shakes it off and pins Eddie against the closet wall, his thick forearm pressing hard against the tendons in Eddie's neck.

  "LET GO OF HIM!" Georgia yells. She lunges, but Mark catches her and shoves her into the wall where she stumbles against the bucket and falls to her knees.

  "You're a slow learner, bitch?" Mark hisses.

  A slow learner.

  Bitch.

  A hot, red mist fills Eddie's head and clouds his vision.

  You know what happens to slow learners, don't ya, Sooze?

  Mark turns around at the same moment Eddie's fist slams into his face. The spray from Mark's nose is instant, and he touches his hand to his face, staring at the blood in disbelief. A second later, the bell rings, and the hallway above them fills with thundering footsteps. Eddie pulls Georgia up from the floor and out into the hallway. They are half-way up the stairs when they hear Mark bellow from somewhere behind them.

  "You're fuckin' dead, DuMont!"

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  "What took you so long?" Eddie asks when his sister shows up late. It's been a shitty day, and he doesn't like to hang around any longer than he has to.

  "Whatever," Maya mutters, hitching her backpack up on her shoulder. She walks past him, but Eddie grabs hold of her jacket.

  "Hey!" Maya says. "What?"

  "Maya! What's with you lately?"

  "Nothing!"

  They walk toward the rugby field when Eddie suddenly stops. "Shit! Calc test tomorrow. I need my textbook. Wait here. I'll be right back."

  "NO!" Maya says. "I'll come with you."

  When they reach Eddie's locker, Maya is nervous and twitchy.

  "Are you sure nothing is wrong?" Eddie asks. "You seem like you're wound pretty tight."

  "I said I was fine."

  "Eddie," Ms. Bailey, the math teacher sticks her head out of her classroom door. "May I have a second of your time?"

  Eddie sighs. With Ms. Bailey, it's never just a second of your time. The woman loves the sound of her own voice. "I'm kind of in a hurry," Eddie tells her. "Can it wait till tomorrow, Ms. Bailey?"

  "Nope. And like I said, I only need a second. It's about your exam." Ms. Bailey goes back inside the room, clearly expecting Eddie to follow.

  "Wait here," Eddie tells Maya. "I probably bombed the pre-te
st."

  "Well, hurry up!"

  Maya leans against the wall, drumming her fingers on the side of her backpack. Everything is messed up, she thinks. Why would Nicole set her up like that? And Mark...Mark is going to flip shit! She scans the hall again and decides she might be better off being a little less conspicuous until Eddie is through with Ms. Bailey.

  She makes a beeline for the girls' washroom, but Mark appears seemingly out of nowhere and blocks her at the door. "Going somewhere, babe?"

  "Oh!" Maya says, feigning surprise. "Hi, Mark. I just have to pee. I'll be out in a second."

  "Nope." Mark rests his hands on either side of the doorframe. "You're going to talk to Mark. You can pee later."

  Maya forces a smile, trying her best to look relaxed. "Oh, come on. Let me by, please. I really have to go!"

  He doesn't let her by. Instead, he leans in close to her face. There are beads of perspiration on his forehead and his nose is red and swollen with dried blood in one nostril. "Why," he says acidly. "Do I get the distinct feeling you're avoiding me? Didn't we have a date this afternoon? Did you blow me off, Maya?"

  Maya feels her throat tighten.

  "I asked you a question."

  "Mark. It's Nicole...she..."

  "She what?"

  "She's being so strange. And she won't give me the money back." Maya doesn't like the flash of anger she sees in Mark's eyes.

  "Well, I just talked to Nicole," Mark interrupts. "And she tells me she never got any cash from you. Not one cent. So, you tell me, Maya DuMont, just what kind of game are you playing here?"

  "I'm not playing a game! Nicole is totally lying! I gave her the money yesterday. You have to believe me, Mark. You have to!" Maya is crying now and looks back over her shoulder toward Ms. Bailey's classroom. The door is still closed.

  "And why should I believe you, over Nicole?"

  Maya is shocked. Isn't it obvious? "Because...I'm your girlfriend?"

  Mark laughs out loud. "My girlfriend? Is that what you think?"

  Maya blinks at him.