Love, Life, and the List

by Kasie West

  “Of course,” Amelia said. “I’ll keep it safe in the meantime.”

  The three of us stood back and stared at the painting like we were in our own art museum.

  Cooper put his arm around my shoulder, still looking at the painting. “My little Abby is growing up.”

  I rolled my eyes and pinched his side. “You always know how ruin a moment.”

  “And here I thought I always knew how to make a moment even better.”

  I sighed, but conceded. “You do.”

  We left Amelia in her room with the painting and headed toward the kitchen. “Last night, you and Lacey seemed . . . ,” Cooper started.

  “Seemed what?” I asked when he raided the pantry without continuing. He came out with a bag of Cheetos Puffs. “Isn’t it a bit early for that?”

  He looked at the clock on the microwave. “It’s eleven. That’s nearly lunch.” He opened the bag. “Chummy.”

  “Chummy? You mean cheesy?” I squinted to read the bright-blue print on the bag he held.

  “No, you and Lacey seemed chummy.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “I don’t know. I like her. We talk a little.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t friends with her.”

  “Yeah, well, things change,” I said, repeating her line from the night before. I studied his expression—tight around the eyes but trying to play it off as uninterested. I threw my head back with a groan.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You’re jealous.”

  “Yeah, maybe I am. You’re supposed to be my best friend.”

  I swiped the bag of Cheetos from him and headed for the front door.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To paint. You’ve given me all sorts of emotions to work with.” Frustration being the main one. I had thought the night before that Cooper had been jealous of Elliot. But I was wrong. He was jealous of Lacey. That’s why he’d been acting strange. That was definitely a check in the absolutely nothing has changed box.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket as I walked out the door. I pulled it out to read the text I already knew was from Cooper. If I must, I will challenge Lacey to a duel.

  I’ll relay the message.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The next morning after waking up and getting dressed, I surveyed the pantry.

  “Are you looking for your sugary cereal again?” Mom asked. “I think Grandpa ate it all.”

  “No. I’m looking for a sketch pad.”

  “In the pantry?”

  “I already searched the rest of the house. It was my last hope.” I hadn’t sketched out my ideas in a long time, but when, despite my frustrations with Cooper, I was left staring at an empty canvas the day before, I knew I needed to try something different.

  “I think I saw one. . . .” My mom stood up and went to a bin on the counter she put scrap paper and ads and coupons in. She dug through it and came up with a notebook.

  “I know it’s not a sketchbook,” she said. “But will this work?”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” I said, taking it from her.

  “That’s my line,” Grandpa said. He’d just come in the sliding door from outside. He carried a watering can and a misshapen cucumber. “What are you begging for?”

  I waved the notebook at him. “Nothing anymore. I’m going for a walk.”

  “I don’t think . . . ,” my mom started.

  “No,” I said, realizing she thought I was going to try to convince her to go with me. “Alone. I want to walk alone this time.”

  “Oh.” My mom almost looked hurt. “Okay. Have fun.”

  I glanced at my grandpa, who seemed just as confused by the interaction as I was. “Did you want to come?” I asked.

  She shook her head, and her normal smile was back. “Not at all.”

  “Tell Cooper we said hi,” Grandpa said as I headed for the door.

  “Cooper is not going with me. I really am going alone!” I called back and let the door shut behind me. “I can be alone,” I grumbled, walking down the steps.

  I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I’d shoved a few charcoal pencils in the back pocket of my shorts and now pulled one out as I walked. I flipped to a clean page in the notebook, then waited to be inspired.

  I had been walking for at least forty-five minutes, and all I’d doodled was a single bird that had been sitting on a fence. It wasn’t even a very good doodle. I was about ready to give up and head back home when across the street I saw Tree Man, chain and all.

  I looked both ways, waited for a car to pass, then walked across. I approached him with a wave. “Hi. You’re still here.”

  He pointed to the bulldozer. “I’ll be here until that isn’t.”

  He looked younger than what I had thought he was. Definitely not my grandpa’s age, but maybe close to thirty. It was hard to tell. His long, stringy hair was receding, leaving him a large expanse of forehead. His skin was tanned and looked slightly leathery, which made me assume that before becoming Tree Man he was definitely Beach Man or at the very least Long Walks Man.

  “Can I sit up there or is that missing the point?” I nodded toward a low-hanging branch.

  “Be my guest. I used to sit up there all the time.”

  “Like when you first started your save the tree mission?” I asked, taking my pencils out of my back pocket and tucking them into my ponytail.

  “No. Growing up. I have history with this tree.”

  “Did you grow up on this lot?” I set my notebook on the branch, then tried to swing up to join it. It was harder than it looked.

  “Twenty acres. My parents owned it and sold it six months ago. They made a verbal agreement with the purchaser that he wouldn’t tear this tree down. It’s a hundred years old. But they didn’t get it in writing. So . . .”

  “That sucks.”

  “It does. Are you a reporter?” he asked, nodding to my notebook.

  “Oh.” I was surprised by the question. “No, I’m an . . .” I paused, then finished with determination. “Artist. I’m an artist.”

  “Cool,” he said, like he meant it.

  I’d finally managed to hoist myself onto the branch and sat against the trunk, my feet dangling. “Have you been getting lots of reporters?”

  “Sadly, no. I was hoping for some buzz to get more support.”

  I stared up at the branches above me. They were heavy with leaves dancing in the breeze. It made the tree look alive. I pulled a pencil out of my hair and grabbed my notebook. “It’s a beautiful tree. When is it scheduled for death?”

  “I’m sure they would’ve done the deed already if I weren’t here.”

  “Isn’t there a way the housing development can build around it?”

  “I guess when they drew up the plans they realized the road would have to come right through here.”

  “And the tree is in the way.”

  “Yeah.”

  My conversation with Elliot came to mind, how we’d talked about what we loved enough to chain ourselves to. “You must have some great memories that involve this tree.”

  “I do. I have read no less than fifty books in the exact spot you are sitting.”

  “Really? I don’t think I’ve ever read in a tree. It seems like the best place to read though.”

  “Now I just knit by the tree.” There was a green reusable grocery bag by his feet that he kicked as he said this.

  “You knit?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never knit. What are you knitting?”

  He reached down, more easily than I thought he’d be able to, being chained to a tree and all, and picked up the bag. He pulled out a multicolored hat that looked close to completion. “I’m making this.”

  “Is knitting hard?”

  “At first, it can be. But with practice, it gets easier.”

  “Like most things.”

  “Exactly.”

  My phone rang in m
y pocket and I looked at the screen. Cooper. “Hold on a sec,” I told Tree Man. I didn’t know his name. Why had I not asked his name? I answered the phone and said to Cooper, “Wait.” Then to the man chained to the tree I said, “What’s your name? I’ve been calling you Tree Man in my head.”

  He laughed. “I’m Lance.”

  “Lance. I’m Abby. Okay, hold on.” To Cooper I said, “Hey.”

  “Who’s Lance?” he asked.

  “The man chained to the tree.”

  “You’re hanging out with Tree Man?”

  “Yes. I am sitting on a branch that I climbed to.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know.”

  “So you’re actually staying there?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “Don’t know. Until after bulldozing hours.”

  “Bulldozing has hours?”

  “I assume they work during the day. Gotta run. I’m sketching.” I hung up before he had time to respond. Had I ever hung up on Cooper like that before? I thought about calling him back to make sure he wasn’t mad about it, but didn’t. I really did need to sketch. I’d call him later.

  For the next thirty minutes I sat on a branch sketching, and Lance sat on the ground knitting. As my hand moved across the page, I realized it had been a while since I hadn’t felt pressure across my shoulders while creating. The pressure of expectation. I was happy, relaxed. So I kept going. My first drawing had been of the leaves above me. Now I was focused on a one-inch section of bark and was drawing a close-up version of it.

  My hand began to cramp and I stopped and stretched it. “What other stories do you have involving this tree?” I asked, filling the silence.

  “My brother fell from that branch there and broke his arm.” He pointed to one above my head.

  “Bones should be stronger than they are, considering they’re what holds us up.”

  “I agree. Sometimes it seems we’re very fragile creatures.”

  On the trunk of the tree by my ear I had noticed some carved initials. “What about this? One starts with an L. Is this you?”

  He didn’t look up from his knitting. “My first kiss.”

  “Right here? I’m sitting where momentous events happened in your life.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “Well, when I go home tonight, I will write a strongly worded letter to . . .” I paused. “The television station? The mayor?”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “It’s not my cause, so I can’t sit out here with you for the next month or whatever, but I am good at strongly worded letters.”

  “How many strongly worded letters have you written?”

  “Okay, fine, it will be my first, but I wanted you to have confidence in me.”

  He smiled. “I have confidence in you.”

  I leaned my head back and looked at the tree towering above me again. “I can see what made you do this,” I said. “Do you mind if I take a picture of us?”

  “Sure.”

  I held up my camera and took a pic of the two of us—me on the branch, him right below me. I thought I’d include it in an email to my dad, but there was also someone else I wanted to send it to. Elliot.

  Chaining myself to a tree for my art.

  You’re chained to that tree? He responded back almost immediately.

  Not really, but I just learned the story of what made him want to and remembered your chain-worthy sculpture. I still want to see it.

  You’re welcome to see my art anytime.

  When I got home, I flipped through the notebook of sketches I’d done. Then I combined some of each and painted a tree with its memories—a broken branch to represent the broken bone, two branches twisted into a heart shape to represent the kiss, words carved into the side for the books, and at the bottom I painted a chain. The chain represented Lance. I used one of my bigger canvases, and the tree’s branches filled every corner. Now I knew why Elliot often made trees his subject. They were gorgeous.

  But still, my painting was missing something, because no matter how gorgeous it was, I knew this wasn’t a tree I’d chain myself to.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The next day I sat on my bed with my notebook trying to add something more personal to the sketches I’d done of the tree. I’d told Lance’s story in my painting, but what about mine?

  My computer, which was sitting next to me, dinged with an instant message.

  Hey, kid.

  I smiled, set the book down, and typed back. Dad! Can you video chat?

  Calling now.

  My computer rang and I moved the arrow to the video icon. His face came up on the screen.

  “Your hair is so short,” I said.

  He ran his hand over the buzz cut. “It’s hot here. Had my buddy clip it yesterday.”

  “Should I go get Mom too?” I stretched up in my bed to look at the door, like she might be lurking there, waiting for the invite.

  “I just got off with her. She’s in her room.”

  I laughed. “I like how you know that and I don’t.”

  “It’s nice knowing more than you about home life every once in a while.”

  I smiled, and his smile slid off his face. “How is she?” he asked. “She was putting on a brave face, but I’m sure you know much more about that than I do.”

  “She’s okay. She’s been on a few walks lately. That’s good. She promised me she’s going to my art show.”

  “So you’re in the art show now? Your heart list worked!”

  “Well, no, not yet. I mean, I haven’t shown him my new paintings yet. I will.”

  “I’m still not happy that Mr. Wallace said you have no heart. You have the biggest heart I know.”

  I blew air between my lips. “You have to say that because you’re my dad. And because you hardly know me.”

  He narrowed his eyes, and I laughed.

  “Just kidding. You sort of know me.”

  “I know you’re more sarcastic than . . .”

  “You went down that comparison road knowing you were going to crash and burn.”

  “Your grandpa!” he said, finally producing an end to his sentence.

  “Yeah, nice try, but I think Grandpa might still have me beat. He is older and much more experienced.”

  “Speaking of your grandpa, how is he?”

  “Still alive.”

  A door opened and closed behind Dad, and he looked over his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he said back to me. “I have to go. Email me some pictures of your latest paintings. And Abby, don’t let anyone tell you that you have no heart.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “I wish I could be there for your art show.”

  I shrugged. “There might not be an art show. I mean, I might not be in it anyway, so it’s fine. . . .”

  “I love you,” he said.

  “Love you too.”

  He clicked the End button and a grainy image of him froze on my screen for a moment. I reached out and touched the smooth surface.

  I was busy trying to change the bark sketch when a head appeared around my door.

  “Hey,” Cooper said.

  “Who let you in?”

  He smiled and came all the way into my room. “You’re not happy to see me? Is that why you hung up on me?”

  “I hung up on you because I was busy.” I smiled.

  “Are you still mad at me for wanting to duel Lacey?”

  “No. I’ve learned long ago that you’re a dork.”

  His eyes went to my hands. “What are you doing?”

  “Drawing.”

  “Drawing? When’s the last time you drew?” He sat down next to me and looked at the open book. “What is it?”

  “Bark. Up close.”

  “Okay,” he said skeptically.

  He was right. It didn’t look like bark anymore. It had at one point, but I’d drawn over it so many times, trying to make it cooler or better or more dynamic, that it
now looked like a bunch of scribbling. “I know you’re impressed.”

  “Why aren’t you painting?”

  “I was . . . sort of. I’m letting my mind brainstorm.” I pushed his shoulder. “Now stop mocking me.” I went over a line again on the page.

  He took the book and pencil from me and placed them on my nightstand.

  “Hey! Give them back.”

  “I’m saving you from yourself.”

  I sighed. “Fine. Let’s do something on the list then.” Maybe that would help.

  Cooper let himself fall onto my bed, then glanced across the room at the list and gave a noncommittal shrug. His enthusiasm over the list had been declining steadily, much to my disappointment. But I still had a show to earn my way into. I couldn’t quit while there was still time. Plus, the things I was experiencing had been fun. Yesterday, after talking to Lance, I’d marked “learn a stranger’s story” off the list. I hadn’t even set out to do that and I had.

  “Let’s do the ‘Cooper faces a fear’ one,” I said.

  “I still haven’t thought of anything for that.”

  “Yeah, right. I’m convinced you know your biggest fear, you’re just too afraid to tell me. Come on, I’m going to root it out of you.” I stood and held out my hand.

  “That sounds painful.”

  “I’m willing to make that sacrifice.”

  “I meant painful for me.”

  “I’m willing to make that sacrifice as well.”

  He smiled. “And why do we have to leave the house to do this?”

  “It’s part of the rooting.”

  He let me drag him to his feet and out the door.

  Cooper and I had a spot by the ocean. One we liked to go to that wasn’t overrun with tourists. Most days, there wasn’t another soul there. Mainly because it lacked what most people went to the ocean for—a beach. This place didn’t have yards of sand littered with shiny seashells dying to be collected. It didn’t have a place to anchor an umbrella and build sand castles. Or even a rock-free zone to jump waves as they crashed onto shore. No, this place had to be hiked to. It was secluded and small and pitted with tide pools and obstacles. It smelled like fish and seaweed and salt. But this was where we came sometimes to escape everything else. I’d grabbed my notebook along with my beach bag as we had left the house, and I turned to a clean page and held my pencil ready now.