St Mary's Academy Series Box Set 1

by Seven Steps

  “Careful, Princess,” Ollie said, picking up his bookbag. But his voice was different now. Less confident. “You know what they say about curiosity and cats. And I’m the biggest cat of them all.”

  Then, in one final insulting move, he winked at me and walked out.

  4

  I walked up to the door of my condo and stopped. My parents were at it again, screaming at each other inside. I placed my ear to the door, trying to hear what they were fighting about now, but the soundproofing was top-notch, preventing me from hearing anything specific.

  I placed my key in the lock, then stopped. I could feel the tension through the door. The same tension that had driven my brothers away. The tension that was destroying my family.

  We used to be so close. Now, we were reduced to arguments and silence. I hated coming home. I hated walking on egg shells and I hated when my parents pretended like they didn’t want to claw each other’s eyes out. Why couldn’t they just get along? They had loved each other once, right? Why couldn’t they love each other again?

  If you stopped loving someone, could you ever start loving them again?

  I had to use the bathroom, so I pushed the door open. The sound immediately put my parents back into pretense mode.

  “Jasmine, darling,” Mom said, stepping toward me. Her hair was messed up, like she’d been running her hands through it. Her skin was red and sweaty, and her hands were hidden behind her.

  “Five more months until Yale,” she sang.

  Dad stood behind her in the doorway, wearing his typical sour expression.

  He walked past her, then past the hallway where I was standing. He gave me a detached wave but barely looked at me. “Hi, honey,” he said before walking into his office and slamming the door.

  Mom’s smile only wavered a little.

  “Men,” she said. “Always so forceful.”

  An uncomfortable smile settled on my face as I toed off my shoes.

  “You know, when you get older, you don’t necessarily have to deal with this sort of thing.”

  I frowned at her as I moved out of the hallway and into the kitchen.

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Having a man around. Being a single woman is perfectly acceptable in this day in age, no matter what your father’s backward family says.”

  I was sure she was referring to my father’s family in India. They were old school and believed women should get married as soon as possible.

  I reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. I never thought about not getting married. In fact, I wanted to get married. Some day.

  “Sure, Mom.”

  “I just don’t want you to feel any pressure to date or get married. Focus on your schooling and graduating and getting to be the best doctor you can be. That should be the only thing you worry about.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “I spoke to Doctor Lipman today. She’s so thrilled to see you this summer.”

  Dr. Lipman was the Yale Doctor who ran the internship program.

  “Great.”

  “I’m thinking that you and I can get an apartment out there for the summer. We can explore New Haven, go to the casinos, visit your aunt Chi in Greenwich, eat tacos. It’ll be great.”

  Nine weeks trapped in New Haven, Connecticut, with my mother. Alone? It sounded like a nightmare.

  “Sure,” I said. “Sounds great.”

  Inside, I screamed at myself. Why couldn’t I just say I didn’t want to do this? Why couldn’t I just tell her the truth?

  I polished off my water and threw it in the recycle bin, while my mother did some texting on her phone. I walked past her and reached the doorway to the kitchen. It felt like I should have said something else. Like goodbye or talk to you later or I’m going to my room now.

  But she was already distracted and I had homework to do.

  So we ended our conversation the same way we always did.

  With nothing really said at all.

  I walked to my room and closed my bedroom door.

  My friends thought I had the perfect family because I had two parents when literally my parents tried to assassinate each other on a daily basis. My parents spent most of their time at each other's throats, clawing each other's eyes out with words and hurled insults. It was literally like World War III.

  I wished they’d stop fighting and just go back to being happy.

  It made me feel horrible when they fought. Like it was all somehow my fault. I knew it wasn’t. I’d heard whispers of other women, though I never believed them. That was probably the cause behind their bickering, not me. Still, a piece of me wondered if there was something I’d done or said that made them this way. If that were true, I wish they would tell me what it was so I could fix it.

  I put down my bookbag and lay on my bed, disrupting a large, gold ball of fur.

  Raja, my cat, had been lying on the left side of the bed when my vibrations apparently woke him up. He yawned and stretched like he’d been asleep for the last hundred years. Then he stood and walked over to me, bumping his head into mine in his own version of hello.

  I smiled and ran my fingers through the tangerine fur stripped with white.

  “Hey, boy. How was your day?”

  He yawned again in reply. I swear Raja slept about twenty hours a day. The other four hours were filled with eating, licking himself, and stealing my hair ties. He hid them in various parts of the condo in his own strange game of hide and seek.

  I petted Raja for a few more minutes before starting on my homework.

  The front door slammed, shaking the entire condo.

  That was Dad’s daily exit. He normally left around dinner time and came back late at night, if he came back at all.

  About an hour later, the front door opened, then closed again. Mom had started leaving too, staying out until the morning hours. I had no idea where they both went, but I did know that the quiet they left behind was deafening.

  I finished up my math homework, then walked to the kitchen to scavenge some dinner. Luckily, Maria, the house keeper, usually left me a plate to heat up in the microwave.

  She probably felt bad for me, with my parents gone most of the time. Her pity made me feel helpless. Weak. Stupid. Like I was a charity case or something.

  At least when my brothers were home we ate dinner together as a family. But when the last of my brothers left, that tradition fell by the wayside. My family hadn’t eaten dinner together since September.

  I tried not to feel bitter about it. After all, if there was no family dinner, then I wouldn’t have to watch my parents argue over my mom’s lack of cooking skills and my dad always being on his phone.

  Small favors, right?

  I ate my tofu salad and pea soup in the too quiet kitchen and tried to keep the loneliness at bay. My family was never close, but I missed what we used to be anyway. Especially in these moments when I was alone.

  I dropped a piece of tofu on the floor for Raja and made my way into the living room to watch TV. I didn’t care what was on. I needed some background noise. My house was either ridiculously loud or eerily quiet. There was no in-between. I almost favored the loudness. Loudness meant there were people. Life. Quiet meant I was alone, with just my cat to keep me company. Not that Raja wasn’t good company. He just wasn’t the talking type.

  I clicked on the TV and the news flashed before me. I fished in the couch cushions for the second remote to turn on the surround sound. A Hispanic woman in a trench coat and a microphone talked quickly and intensely to the camera. Behind her, painted on a wall, was a picture of three dark-skinned children sitting in the circle. Their hands were up in the air, and their smiles were bright and excited. Between the children was a ball painted to look like planet Earth. They appeared to be playing catch with the ball. Beneath the painting were the words RATZ STRIKE AGAIN in big, white letters. The RATZ were a group of graffiti artists that tagged different walls around the five boroughs.

  Well, tag was the wro
ng word.

  They spray painted beautiful pictures on blank, brick walls around the city. And the local police and news stations weren’t thrilled about it. I didn’t see anything wrong with it personally. It wasn’t like they were writing their names or anything obscene. Their pictures were always beautiful and full of emotion and meaning. If I were the mayor or police chief, I’d applaud the RATZ instead of condemning them.

  But I wasn’t in charge of anything.

  I wasn’t even in charge of my own life.

  I found the remote and turned on the sound. Then I flipped through the channels until I found a show about rich housewives living in New York. I knew some of these women through my father. They were just as rude and spoiled in real life as they were on TV.

  Well, maybe they were a little worse on TV.

  After my modest, quiet dinner, I retreated to the small bedroom next to mine that my dad had converted into an art studio six years ago.

  It was plain, with high windows, industrial gray walls, wood floors, and steel shelving, but it wasn’t the walls or floors that drew me here. It was the peace. This was my space. My oasis. The soundproof walls allowed me to play my music as loud as I wanted. The lighting was bright and cheery and, best of all, my paintings were here to remind me that there was more to life than school, annoying boys, and bickering parents.

  There was beauty.

  Friendship.

  Love.

  And most of all, art.

  I closed my door tightly and picked up the small remote that sat on a round, three-legged stool next to the door. I pressed play, and my favorite song came on.

  “Freedom! ’90” by George Michael.

  The lyrics spoke to the deepest part of my soul. The words perfectly embodied how I felt these days. Like there was someone else I had to be. Someone different.

  Not a fraud or a phony. But someone real.

  I walked over to a blank canvas and sat down on the stool in front of it.

  I picked up my brush and worried my lower lip between my teeth.

  Every artist has a moment of panic.

  To authors it’s the first page of a new novel.

  To sculptors it’s a fresh hunk of clay.

  And to painters it’s a blank canvas.

  There’s so much pressure in a blank canvas. It's like someone wrote paint something good, right across the middle of it.

  Good was the key word.

  I couldn’t just paint something.

  I had to paint something good. Something other people would see and appreciate.

  This morning I didn’t think that would be a problem. I considered myself a good painter, and painting a good picture went along with that.

  But now, after Mrs. Meredith’s comments and my friends’ looks, I wasn’t so sure.

  Maybe I wasn’t a good painter.

  Maybe I was just a painter.

  Or worse, maybe I was a bad painter.

  I sat there in front of the canvas, brush in hand, colors waiting, but there was nothing.

  No spark.

  No muse.

  No sudden hit of inspiration.

  Just a blank canvas staring back at me. Baiting me. Mocking me.

  I stared back at the white square, trying to be brave. To show it who was boss. But each passing second made me feel more and more like a failure.

  A deer in headlights.

  Frozen.

  I had no idea what to paint.

  And even if I did, would it be any good? Or would it be more of the same? Flat. Emotionless. Boring.

  Tension filled my chest until I couldn’t take it anymore and I threw down my brush in frustration.

  It was official. I’d lost my ability to paint.

  And all it took was a few well-placed comments and an especially sucky day.

  But what about my dreams?

  What about my internship?

  What would I do now?

  5

  I arrived at school early the next day with tense shoulders and red-rimmed eyes.

  I'd stayed up until nearly midnight, staring at the blank canvas until my eyes burned. Even now the crisp white sheet haunted me.

  I was annoyed at the canvas, at Mrs. Meredith, and even a little bit at my friends. But, for the most part, I was annoyed with myself.

  I thought I was a strong person with a thick skin, but at the first sign of criticism I fell apart.

  Maybe I wasn't as strong as I thought.

  Maybe it was just another part of my fake life.

  Happy parents.

  Daughter on her way to medical school.

  Strong, creative genius.

  They were all pieces of the mask I wore.

  The mask that was finally starting to slip.

  I parted ways with Ariel and Bella, who’d ridden the subway with me to school, and pushed my way through the crowd of students, flowing to their first period classes.

  The bell had just rung when I arrived. To my surprise, Ollie was already seated.

  That was two days in a row he’d attended classes, which was the most I’d seen him in school consecutively. Ever.

  I hadn’t even fully slid into my seat when I was met with his angry glare.

  “You did this, didn't you?” he hissed.

  My eyes widened at the sudden, unexpected attack.

  “Did what?”

  Mrs. Meredith clapped once to get our attention.

  “Okay, class. Good morning. Today Mr. Mann will announce the winners of the school’s annual art contest.”

  My sinking confidence slid even further. If Mrs. Meredith didn't like my art yesterday, then I was most certainly not going to win the contest today.

  I pouted.

  Goodbye hopes.

  Goodbye dreams.

  Goodbye summer internship.

  Mrs. Meredith walked out into the hallway, gesturing for us to follow.

  “If you would all follow me, we can get started.”

  I stood, feeling dejected and foolish for even thinking I could be an artist, when Ollie pulled up behind me and growled in my ear.

  “This is the worst thing anyone has ever done to me.”

  What was he talking about?

  I tried to turn around and ask him, but a bunch of students stepped between us, and I lost myself in the flow of the crowd.

  It didn't matter what Ollie was talking about. The fact was that my life was about to turn in a new direction.

  Goodbye art.

  Hello medical school.

  Which sucked since I hated the sight of blood. Or vomit. Or anything else that emitted from the human body.

  We stood in front of the display case, and my heart started to flutter. This was it. In a few moments, I’d officially become an ex painter. This loss would cement all my fears and kill my dreams. My stomach was doing back flips and tears ate up my throat. If I wasn’t good enough for a school art show, there was no way I’d be good enough or Devinta’s summer internship. Not now. Not ever.

  To rub salt in my own wounds, I pulled out my phone and pulled up her website. I scrolled down until I saw the number of open spaces left.

  Nine.

  Nine slots I couldn’t fill because my art was boring.

  I jammed my finger on the lock button, then slid the phone into my pocket.

  Mrs. Meredith stopped the crowd in front of a covered, glass display case. There were about a hundred students here. She must’ve pulled her art students out of all of their classes. I wondered which one had won.

  Mrs. Meredith held one side of the emu-colored cloth covering the display, while Mr. Mann held the other.

  “Students of St. Mary’s Academy,” Mr. Mann bellowed. He was a middle-aged man, with dark skin, a bushy mustache, and bushy eyebrows. “It is my privilege and pleasure to announce the winners of our annual art show. First, I’d like to congratulate all students for entering. Every piece of art will be on full display in the school library for the next several weeks. Please, keep drawing, painting,
and sculpting. This world needs the beauty only you can create. And now, may I present our winners.”

  Winners? As in plural?

  I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

  Mr. Mann and Mrs. Meredith pulled off the tarp, and my stomach plummeted.

  “Jasmine Patel and Oliver Santiago.”

  My flower painting was on one side of the display, and Ollie’s crinkled drawing of the man with two faces was on the other.

  My heart raced.

  What did this mean?

  Who would paint the mural?

  And who entered Oliver’s work in the contest?

  “Jasmine and Oliver will have the privilege of painting the school mural together. It will be unveiled in three weeks’ time. Congratulations to the winners.”

  He clapped and grinned at me, while I thought I was going to puke.

  I had to paint a mural with Oliver? We barely liked each other, and now we had to work together?

  This could only turn out bad.

  Really bad.

  I turned to scan the crowd for Oliver. I needed him to agree with me that this was a bad idea. And then, I needed him to tell Mr. Mann I should paint the mural by myself. That was the only way to fix this.

  I scanned the crowd for a few seconds, then found him.

  But he wasn’t facing me with a happy expression like everyone else.

  He was walking away from the crowd and, something told me, from this mural. Well, at least I’d gotten my wish. I would be painting this mural alone.

  But, I didn’t feel the joy I should have felt.

  I had won the art contest. Yes, it was a tie, but I was one of the winners. That should have made me happy.

  I was going to paint this mural alone. Yes, Ollie hadn’t exactly said that, but I was almost sure he would not take kindly to be trapped next to me for hours a day doing a school project.

  I’d gotten what I wanted.

  So why wasn’t I happy about it?

  Why was my heart so torn in two?

  I remembered Mrs. Meredith’s words about my painting, and that was when I knew. It was because my paintings were boring and empty. And Ollie’s were not. And now, Ollie wasn’t going to help me with the mural. And I needed him to help me. Because that was the only way this mural would be any good.