by Inda Herwood
“I don’t want anything,” I tell her.
“Okay, what do you want, deep thinker?” she asks Catch.
Their voices echo down the hall as they leave.
As I’m about to shut the door so I don’t have to experience any more interruptions, Theo walks by, still holding the black sketchbook in his hands, curls bouncing with each step. His bare feet smack noisily on the wood floor before I stop him.
“Hey, what do you have there?” I ask him, nodding to his gift.
He stops and looks up at me, seeming unsure about whether to tell me or not. Finally, he steps into my room and parks his butt on the floor, flipping through the book until he lands on his pictures. He proudly holds them up for me to see.
Giving them a closer look, I see he drew Hawn in one of the pictures, emphasizing his big ears and goofy grin. Layers of graphite fur line his body and tail, making him look like a puff ball. The next one is a painting of a bird on the water with the beach in the foreground, the piece of paper he used looking like it had come from another book. But the picture after that is what has me pausing.
He tried to draw our family, or what looks like our family. There’s a tall figure with glasses that looks like Dad, and a slightly smaller one with shoulder-length hair that resembles Mom. And then there’s Catcher with his short hair and funny smile, and me with a pair of headphones over my ears. He drew himself and a slightly taller female figure that I would assume is Leigha. But then next to her is another girl. She’s short, her hair drawn to look like it’s up in a bun, colored in with yellow crayon.
Pointing to the figure, I ask Theo, “Is that Blaire?”
He nods, looking especially happy that I was able to deduce who it was.
“And this is our family?”
Another nod.
I go back to looking at the drawing, wondering how I should feel about him including this girl into our family circle so quickly. I trace her outline with my finger, noticing he drew her in the yellow bikini. It makes me chuckle.
He taps me on the arm, wanting me to look at him. When I do, I see the waiting question in his eyes. “Do you like it?” he asks silently.
I nod, clearing my throat. “It’s great, kid. You did a really nice job.”
He mouths, “Really?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, would I?”
He shakes his head.
That’s when Leigha’s voice calls up the stairs, asking him to come down for lunch. With one last smile, he runs out of the room and down the hall, Hawn racing after him. I shake my head at his energy, realizing a minute later that he forgot to take his prized sketchbook with him.
Picking it up again, I flip through the pages that my brother had drawn in, but before long, I’m looking at pictures that obviously didn’t come from an eight-year-old’s hand.
Going back to the front of the book, I see page after page of drawings and paintings, most of portraits, a few of landscapes. There’s one of who I assume is Blaire’s father, bent over the hood of a car. And another is of an older woman sitting in a rocking chair, her face smiling. A few of the landscapes are more like cityscapes, showing the view of a rundown street with power lines hanging low, the homes spaced tightly together. I find one of the ocean, the view coming from her bedroom window, I would guess. It might even be the one she was drawing in her window seat the other night.
The longer I look, the more I’m amazed at her talent. She has an easy way of catching the moment, of showing the bare minimum while still giving enough details to make you feel like you’re in the piece. It has me wishing I had more of these books to go through. They tell a story without words, something I would never have imagined I’d enjoy.
Moving back to the middle of the sketchbook, where Theo’s art was, I stop on the last painting of Blaire’s, feeling my lungs take in a breath of shock. My eyes devour the page, going over every detail to make sure I’m actually seeing what I’m seeing.
She painted me.
The girl who should hate my guts painted me in her own style, the rough pencil marks showing through the thin watercolors. In the painting, I’m looking out my window at her, the shadow of my room behind me. Reds and oranges color my face through the window from the sunset, my dark hair nearly blending into the background. She made it so my eyes were the real focal point, a light blue against all the darkness. But what really gets me is she painted me smiling. Smiling at her.
Listening in to see if anyone’s coming, I hear Catcher and Leigha downstairs, Leigha yelling at my brother for burning the grilled cheese. Coast is clear.
Ripping the page from the book, I hide it in my desk drawer with a grin Blaire would hate. I then take a quick walk down the hall and deposit the sketchbook back in Theo’s room, no one the wiser.
***
Later that night I come into my room, dripping wet after having ridden the jet skis with Catcher and Leigha. Usually we just zoom around the shore a few times, looking for new places on the coastline to sit with the sailboat. But tonight, Leigha must have been feeling particularly upset with me, because out of nowhere, she hit me with a wave courtesy of her ski. It was a miracle it didn’t throw me off my own.
“What the hell?” I yelled at her once I got the salt water out of my eyes, my shirt and swim shorts drenched.
She bobbed on the water’s surface, giving me a satisfied smile when she said, “I was doing a friend a favor.” She then hit me with another wave before flying off, Catcher laughing like a hyena a few yards away from me. Since he thought it was so funny, I blasted him with my own torrential wave, though it might have been a little overdone, because he did end up falling off.
Ripping my water-logged shirt over my head, I try not to let it drip on the floor too much before I throw it on my beach towel, the air-conditioning sending a ripple of goosebumps over my skin. As I’m about to go take a shower to get the salt out of my hair, something stops me. Perhaps it’s the sound of music coming from next door, or because I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Either way, my attention goes to the window, smiling at what I see.
Just across the way, I see Blaire in her room, jumping around and singing to herself, Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” booming through her open window. I can’t help but laugh as I watch her use a hairbrush as a mic, her eyes closed while she gets lost in the music.
“With somebody who loves me,” she sings out, moving her hips from side to side, and I have to admit, she’s not a terrible singer. Not great, but certainly not the worst I’ve heard. Take Catcher for example. He sounds like a dying cat when he tries to sing karaoke with us in the basement.
Eventually she faces the window, the song slowly coming to an end on her stereo or whatever it is she’s playing music on. That’s when she sees me standing here, watching her with a far too happy grin on my face.
She looks so embarrassed that I’m sure the pink stain her cheeks have taken on is going to become permanent. My smile only grows the longer I stare, quickly turning her embarrassment into anger. She slams the panes of her window shut, mouth tucked in a firm, angry line that makes her look like a pissed off kitten. Cute.
Looking around my room, I quickly grab an old, unused notebook from school last year and the closest pen I can find. I write her a message and then hold it up to the window, hoping she hasn’t turned away yet.
Pressing the paper against the glass, I watch her expression as she reads: WHEN DOES THE TOUR START?
She then does something I didn’t think a shy, sweet girl like her was capable of – she flips me off.
I laugh, which seems to throw her off guard for only a second before her irritation comes back again. Writing another message, I ask: WHY WHITNEY?
Seeing her release a huff, she shuffles around before grabbing her own writing supplies, her hand scribbling fast before holding the paper up to the window for me to see. It says: WHY SHOULD I TELL YOU? P.S. YOU’RE STARING AGAIN. Staring is underlined. Because obviously I had forgotten or something
.
I write out: HARD NOT TO LOOK WHEN SOMEONE IS DANCING SO HORRIBLY.
She goes red again, her hand moving like lightning. She practically slams the writing pad against the window, shaking it.
KEEP YOUR EYES TO YOURSELF, LYONS.
Ignoring it, I hold up my previous message, asking why she was listening to Whitney Houston.
She shakes her head, but continues writing, saying: THIS IS SO LAME.
WHAT IS?
She writes back: THE NOTES. WHAT, ARE WE IN A TAYLOR SWIFT MUSIC VIDEO AND NO ONE TOLD ME?
What a brat. I wish her sass didn’t make me grin like it does. It’s hard to act like I hate her when she’s being so sarcastic. I love a girl with a quick wit.
ANSWER THE QUESTION, CROMWELL. I add the underline just to mess with her. I can tell she doesn’t appreciate its mocking tone.
She flips another page and writes: SHE’S MY MOTHER’S FAVORITE. I GREW UP LISTENING TO HER. THERE, ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?
I shake my head at her through the window, causing her to frown in confusion.
I write back: I WANT TO SEE YOU DANCE AGAIN. I HAVEN’T LAUGHED THAT HARD IN A WHILE.
YOU’RE A JERK.
YEP.
GO AWAY.
NOPE.
Finally she writes: WHAT WILL IT TAKE TO MAKE YOU STOP?
I think about that for a second. I don’t want to stop the note passing. It’s kind of fun. But then I think about the piece of paper sitting in my drawer, and I find that there actually is a question she could answer for me.
Holding up a finger to have her wait, I walk over to my desk and grab her painting, dying to see her reaction when I show her what I have. When I’m back at the window, I stick it up against the glass, letting her realize what it is first before I write the question for her.
Her eyes widen like saucers, her face a thing of horror when it finally hits her. She tries to hide it, but I see the panic, and I know she’s probably wondering how it got in my possession.
HOW DID YOU GET THAT? she writes back, and even her handwriting looks like it’s shaking.
THEO FORGOT YOUR SKETCHBOOK IN MY ROOM, I answer her, my cheeks starting to hurt with how much I’m smiling.
AND SO YOU WENT THROUGH IT?!
Hell yes I did.
THAT’S NOT WHAT’S IMPORTANT, I write back. WHAT’S IMPORTANT TO ME IS WHY YOU PAINTED IT. ANSWER ME THAT, AND I’LL STOP BEING A DICK TO YOU.
At first I was just going to tell her I’d stop writing, but really, what’s my anger at her going to do for me? My resistance to her entire presence? My family likes her, which means it’s already too late for me to put an end to it. And besides, messing with her is kind of fun. I can see this becoming my thing, taking a piece of paper with a note on it every night and putting it against the window, waiting to see her face of fury on the other side.
I DON’T THINK YOU’RE CAPABLE OF NOT BEING A DICK, her paper says, pairing it with a doubtful expression.
OUCH, I write back, still grinning.
I’M JUST BEING HONEST.
GOOD. THEN ANSWER MY QUESTION HONESTLY. WHY DID YOU PAINT ME?
She shakes her head, and I can see her muttering something to herself. Before long, she’s holding her note up for me to see.
ARTIST’S EYE.
What?
WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?
GOOGLE IT, OR ASK YOUR DAD. EITHER WAY I DON’T CARE. On a separate card, she writes: GOODNIGHT, BECKHAM. And with that, she shuts her curtains, closing off all communication. That’s when I remember that I told her I’d stop writing if she told me the truth. I really should have thought it through before I promised such a thing.
I’m also mad that she’s going to make me work for the answer. But after what I’ve done to her, I guess it’s only fair.
Grabbing my laptop from my desk, I sit down and go to a search engine, typing in artist’s eye. Before long, I have a hundred different articles to look through, but none of them seem to be what I’m looking for. Some are for eye conditions; others are for art books with the same title. I even go to YouTube, hoping maybe someone on there can explain it to me. But all I find are a bunch of hippy people talking about chakras and sixth senses.
It leaves me with only one option left.
“What does an artist’s eye mean?” I ask my dad the next morning at the kitchen island, the two of us being the early risers in the house. Everyone else is asleep while we grab first dibs on coffee.
Handing me my mug, Dad leans his elbows on the counter, taking a sip before asking, “Where did you hear that?”
“From Blaire,” I answer vaguely, hoping he doesn’t ask how we got on the topic.
“Oh,” he says, nodding his head like that makes sense. “It’s a term some artists use. I personally like to call it stroke of inspiration, but some have–”
“Dad,” I say with a look that says, please get to the point. When it comes to art stuff, he can go on rambling for hours. It’s better to stop him early.
“Right,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “It’s kind of hard to explain, but artists see the world a bit differently than everyone else. Whether it be beauty in unsuspecting objects or scenes, or finding symmetry, there are some things that just catch our eye, and we have to recreate it.” When I look at him with the same amount of confusion as when he first started his explanation, he tries again. “In simple terms, it means the artist becomes attached to the subject that caught their artist’s eye. Most people think we like to create from things that are obviously beautiful, perfect. But that’s not always the case. The majority of us enjoy an interesting subject, but with something slightly off about it. Take a face for example. An artist could be drawn to a face’s symmetry, but what inspires them to draw it is the slight imperfection of it. Say a scar, or an uneven eyebrow, or a discoloration in the eyes. It all depends on the artist, but that’s the general idea: a subject that has all the qualities the artist enjoys recreating.”
Huh. So Blaire painted me because I have the kind of face she likes to paint? It doesn’t mean anything more than that?
Maybe the better question is: why does that bother me so much?
A loud yawn breaks the silence, Mom sleepily making her way into the kitchen. She’s wearing a robe with a bunch of Winnie the Pooh’s on it that Theo gave her last Christmas, her hair a rat’s nest on her head. It’s the only time I ever get to see her not looking so perfect; more like a normal mom.
“Good morning, dear,” Dad tells her with a kiss on the cheek.
“Morning you two. Did you leave me any coffee?” She walks over to the pot and sighs in relief when she sees that it’s half full. “Come to mama,” she tells it, pouring a very large amount into her travel mug.
“Big day ahead?” Dad asks her, smiling when she groans.
“A long day ahead. Like usual. You?”
“I figured I’d take Theo to work with me today and bring home a pizza later. Maybe we can rent a movie, too,” he says, taking another sip of coffee.
“Did Leigha mention her idea to you?” I suddenly remember to ask.
“What idea?”
“She thinks Theo should have his own sketchbook so he can give Blaire’s back to her.” Saying the words twists my stomach a little. I’d kind of like to keep the book, but I know she wouldn’t let that happen in a million years. And she’d definitely notice if Theo never gave it back.
But I’m keeping my painting.
“How did he get Blaire’s sketchbook?” Mom asks, looking more alert with a little caffeine in her system.
I explain about Theo’s impromptu art lesson, and how Blaire was kind enough to let him play with her book. And if my parents didn’t already like Blaire before, I think they love her now. Surprise, surprise.
“What a kind gesture. I never thought Theo was even remotely interested in art,” Mom says, looking a little stumped.
“Neither did I,” Dad says, wearing a similar expression. “I’ll definitely have him pick one out today so he c
an give the other one back to her. They painted you said?”
I nod, pointing to the fridge where Leigha hung his painting last night. “She taught him how to paint that,” I say, bringing their attention to it.
“Wow, how nice of her. I’ll have to thank her the next time I see her,” Mom comments, still looking at Theo’s work. “I’m surprised she hasn’t been over here in the last few days. Catcher and Leigha made it sound like they really liked her.”
“You can blame your oldest for that,” Leigha says, walking into the kitchen like a zombie, her hair in a similar state to Mom’s. Her bunny slippers only add to the ensemble. “He scared her away last week, and now she won’t play with me.” She pouts like a child as she takes the barstool next to mine.
I stick my tongue out at her like the mature, college-bound guy I am.
“What did you do?” Dad asks, giving me a stern look that I haven’t received since I was at least thirteen.
I mutter a curse under my breath.
Leigha smirks.
“He told her to go away, and since she said she doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, she’s been keeping her distance from the house, like he asked.” Giving my parents a heartfelt look that I know is total crap, she says, “How are Catcher and I supposed to make friends if my cousin is a bully to anyone that comes around here?”
“Beckham, is that true?” Mom asks, eyes narrowed. It’s not easy to look like a disciplinarian when you appear as though you’ve been through a tornado, but she somehow manages to pull it off.
“I wouldn’t call myself a bully per se –”
The narrowed eyes turn into dangerous slits. “I’m talking about you asking that sweet girl to go away. Did you do that?”
“Uh…maybe.” I feel like hiding under the island, if only to escape the disappointment on their faces. I knew I’d face some backlash for how I treated her, but I didn’t know it’d upset them this much.
“We raised you better than that,” Dad says. “I expect you to go over and apologize to her.”
“I will,” I tell them, already having planned to anyway.
“Good, I miss her. She smelled like coconuts and sunshine,” Catcher says, coming into the kitchen with a sleepy looking Theo stumbling behind him. I help my little brother up onto the stool after two failed attempts, his eyes still half closed.