by Kasie West
“I’m conducting an interview,” I said, perched on a rock. One of the many purple wildflowers that grew along the cliff tickled the side of my foot.
“Of who?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“It’s part of the rooting process. I am going to discover your fear. If you don’t know it and I don’t know it, you must’ve hidden it somewhere deep in your subconscious.”
“Okay, hit me.” He leaned back on his palms.
“What is your earliest memory?”
“Easy. Four years old. Clinging onto my uncle as he drove me on a quad. When we got back, my mom told him off.”
“You obviously have strong emotions attached to this or you wouldn’t remember it. So was it fear?”
“Nope. Pure excitement.”
“I could’ve guessed that.”
He laughed.
I jotted a note in my book. “Okay, how about this. You find out tomorrow that you’re going to die. What is the one thing you regret not doing?”
He seemed to consider this for a long moment but then said his answer like it was a throwaway one, like he’d really thought of something else but decided to keep it to himself. “Seeing the world, I guess. What does that have to do with fear, though?”
“I just thought that maybe fear was holding you back from doing something you really want to do.”
“No, that’s more about money and being underage.”
I chewed on the pen cap. “Seeing the world, huh? I don’t remember you ever talking about traveling.”
“Like I said, it’s not possible right now, so why dwell on it.”
“Okay.” I tried to decide what else to ask him. “Do you have any recurring nightmares?”
“Not that I remember.” He tilted his head. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Really? What happens?”
“I’m at school staring at the big brick wall by the amphitheater. You know which one I’m talking about?”
“Yes. The one that everyone always tags and the principal gives lectures about every year because apparently he wants it big and blank?”
“Yes, that one.”
“Okay. Do you destroy it? Because that thing is begging to be destroyed.”
“No. I paint it.”
“Of course you do. How is that a nightmare? It sounds like perfection to me so far.”
“Well, I paint it and then the principal tells me to try again. It immediately turns white. I paint the same thing. And again he tells me to try again. Over and over and over.” I’d analyzed this dream, and I knew it all came down to me not feeling good enough. Not good enough for Cooper. Not good enough for his parents, not even good enough for my mom sometimes. And definitely not a good enough artist. It sounded overly dramatic, and that’s why I wasn’t going to admit to that out loud.
“Wow. That sounds awful.”
I shrugged, committing to nonchalance. “It’s not like I dream it every night.”
“I was thinking you meant like monsters or demons, but when you put it that way, maybe I do have one.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m standing in a windowless, door-free room, and I’m the only one there.”
I wrote down his dream in my notebook. “Then what happens? Do you try to claw your way out or anything?”
“No. That’s it. I wake up feeling bad.”
“Scared?”
“Not really.”
I sighed. “You’re hopeless.”
He stretched up to try to peer over my notebook. “Those are the only questions? You’re done digging into my brain?”
“No. One more.”
“Okay.”
I looked him in the eyes. “What are you scared of?”
He laughed loud, throwing his head back. When he stopped, a smile still lingering, he said, “You thought this time I’d know?”
I smiled as well but then sighed. “No, but it was worth a try.”
He toed my bag. “Did you bring any towels? Or treats?”
“Both.”
He held up his hands and I threw him a towel, then a granola bar. He lay back on the rock, wadding up the towel and putting it under his head. “You know, you’re the only person I can sit still with.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I like to be in motion. I get antsy when I’m doing nothing. But you’re so good at it that I don’t mind it at all.”
“So good at what? Doing nothing?”
“That came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
“I just meant being laid-back. It was a compliment.”
I kicked his foot. “You need to work on giving compliments.”
He chuckled and unwrapped his granola bar. “I know.”
I opened my notebook again and started sketching the flowers growing through cracks in the rock. “Why do you think that is?”
“Why aren’t I good at giving compliments?”
“No. Why can’t you sit still?”
“I can. Look at me. I’m a study in Zen.” He took a large bite of granola bar and chewed it slowly.
“Are you afraid to be bored? Afraid of people thinking you’re boring?” I pointed at him. “Ooh. I got it. You’re afraid to be in your own head.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ah. Here comes the painful rooting-around-in-my-skull part.”
“So yes, then?” I wasn’t sure why I was so intent on finding his fear. I claimed it was for the list and to pay him back for the terror-filled quad ride, but part of me felt like it was something beyond that.
“No,” he said. “My head is the best place to be. There’s a constant party up here all the time.”
I continued drawing. This was a pointless exercise only reaffirming my belief that Cooper had no fears. It was time to change the subject. “How is your sister? Is she still upset about her goldfish?”
“No. She’s trying to talk my mom into a pet bird now.”
“She’s moving up the food chain. Nice.”
“Do you need her painting back so you can show Mr. Wallace?”
“Not yet.”
“You still have one more to paint?”
“No, well, sort of. If I count her fish, then I finished the fifth one last night, but there’s something not quite right about it.”
He hummed. “You’re stalling.”
“I’m not. I have time.”
We were silent for a couple of beats while Cooper finished his granola bar. Waves crashed against rocks in the distance, sending water filtering through the tide pools and closer to us. In a couple of hours the spot where we were sitting would be underwater with high tide.
“What happened with Elliot, Abby? We never talked about it.”
“What do you mean, what happened? We hung out at a party. Were you expecting a wedding invitation?”
“You didn’t like him?”
“Who said that?” My voice rose an octave, and even I could hear the defensiveness in my tone.
“I can tell. I thought you said your relationship goals were that you wanted to date an artist.”
“How did you know he was an artist?”
“He told me.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
I shut my notebook and sat forward, but Cooper didn’t move from his reclined position. “I thought the first time you met him was at the restaurant.”
“It was,” he said.
“And the second time was at the party.” I could feel frustration rising in my chest.
“Yeah, but maybe I asked around.”
“Why?”
“I like to know who my friend is about to go out with.”
I hit him with my towel. “Don’t ask around, Cooper. Not for things like this.”
“So why don’t you like him?”
He’s not you, I wanted to say. “I don’t know. He’s nice. We’ll still be friends.” At least I hoped we would be.
“You don’t
need another guy friend.”
I crossed my arms. I wasn’t used to Cooper being so serious. We sniped at each other occasionally, but where was this coming from? “Excuse me. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not supposed to mean anything but what I said.”
“Maybe I don’t need the guy friend I already have.”
He scooped up a pile of sand from beside him and threw it in my direction halfheartedly.
“That was a toddler’s response,” I said, the tension dissolving a little.
He smiled. “It’s just that you frustrate me sometimes.”
“Ditto.”
He pulled a piece of the towel over his eyes. “Fine. I’ll drop it.”
“I’m fine. I’m happy. I don’t need a boyfriend. Maybe you always need a girl to make you feel special or whatever, but I don’t. Okay?”
“Okay. I said I’d drop it.”
“Good.”
“Good.” He took the towel off his face and sat up. “I don’t always need a girl.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t.”
“I said okay . . . it’s just, you seem to always have one.”
“I don’t.”
“Maybe that’s your fear.”
“What?”
“You fear being alone. Stuck in a room with no door or windows and no way out. All by yourself.”
“Why are you so hung up on my fears? Maybe you should analyze your own dream, Abby. Your own fears. Dig around in your brain for a while. Find out why you keep painting the same thing over and over. Find out what’s holding you back.”
I swallowed a surprised breath. Nothing was holding me back. “I’m pretty sure I’m transparent.”
He scowled at me, then stood. “I should probably get home.”
I stood as well. “Yep. Me too.”
TWENTY-FOUR
I paced my room when I got home, back and forth, forming a thick line in the carpet. Cooper had no idea what he was talking about. I was trying to paint better. I was trying to grow. I was trying to change. Wasn’t I?
The image of that brick wall and that same painting I kept painting for the principal flashed through my mind. I knew it was just a dream, but why had I painted the same thing over and over? Why did I never change it up?
I was scared of change.
The thought came to me like a revelation, and I knew it was true. I claimed I wanted to try to grow and change, but really everything I did lent itself to things staying exactly the same. When confronted with change, I dug my heels in. When Grandpa mentioned a therapist for Mom, I stopped it. When Lacey tried to be my friend, I kept her at arm’s length. When Cooper showed the least bit of resistance to my feelings, I shut them off. I wanted to stay in my perfect bubble, where I knew that even if everything wasn’t perfect, at least it was manageable.
This realization made me angry with myself. I marched to my art room. I tugged off the coverings on all my recent paintings: the sunrise, Cooper on the dunes, the stage, the tree. It was time to stop resisting change. To stop digging my heels in. Whether my paintings were ready or not, I needed to try.
I’d faced fear before. It was time to do it again, regardless of the outcome.
I stood at Cooper’s front door and knocked. His sister answered.
“Hi, Amelia,” I said.
“Hey. He’s not here.”
I hadn’t talked to Cooper since our fight on the beach two days ago. We’d get past it, I was sure. But right now wasn’t about Cooper and me. “That’s okay. I actually came over to see if I could borrow my painting back.”
“You’re going to show it to the art guy after all?” she asked with a big smile.
“Yes, actually.”
She clapped and bounced on the balls of her feet. “He’s going to love it.” She took me by the arm and pulled me through her house. Her parents were in the kitchen and I waved as I hurried past them.
The painting was on her wall, and she jumped onto her bed and helped me take it down.
“If it doesn’t sell, I want it back when the show is over.”
“Of course. I will bring it back that night or I’ll paint you a new one.”
She squeezed my hand. “Good luck, Abby.”
“I’m gonna need it.”
I hoped Mr. Wallace was otherwise occupied as I carried two of the five paintings into the building. My nerves were buzzing. Last time, I’d marched in here with my portfolio so sure that if he’d just look, he’d love them. Now, I didn’t know. I wasn’t even sure how I felt about them.
I wanted him to see all the paintings at once, so I snuck across the high-glossed tile of the museum. It felt like I was in some spy movie. I passed paintings hung on display and tried not to look at them. I was already intimidated. I didn’t need to compare myself to the professionals at the moment. A couple of patrons looked at me curiously as I passed, but I had yet to see Mr. Wallace.
The painting in my left hand was longer than the one in my right and it gave me an awkward gait. I reached his door and tried the handle. It was unlocked. And when I swung the door open, it was dark. I sighed in relief and flipped on the light. It was still as messy as ever, and like I’d hoped, the stack of broken easels still lined the wall on the right.
I carefully leaned my paintings against the closest wall and went to inspect the easels. I found five that if propped just right—one against the desk, two against each other, two against the wall—would hold my paintings. Then I rushed out and retrieved the others.
Sweat beaded along my lip as I finished placing them each on an easel. The tree on its large canvas was the centerpiece. I stepped back to analyze. My heart pounded hard in my chest. For a moment I allowed myself to look at them objectively, not as their creator. And in that moment I thought they were good. Really good.
I wiped at my upper lip with the back of my hand, steeled myself, then went to find Mr. Wallace. He was talking to a woman in a pantsuit. They stood in front of an impressionist painting. Maybe now wasn’t a good time. It would never be a good time. It had to be now. Now or never. He turned toward me.
I gave him a slight wave. The woman moved on to another painting and Mr. Wallace didn’t follow her. He waited. So I took the thirty steps between us.
“Are you busy?” I asked.
He glanced at the woman. “No. I didn’t think you worked today.”
“I don’t.”
“I need you starting Wednesday to help with prep work for the show. It’s coming fast.”
“I know. I’ll be here Wednesday.”
“Okay, good.” He started to walk away, like that was what I’d come to say.
“Wait,” I called a little too loudly. “Wait,” I said again, quieter. “I need to show you something.”
“What is it?”
“Follow me.” I led him toward his office.
“Did a mouse get into the storage room again?” he asked.
“No, no mouse.”
The doorknob was slippery. I wiped my palms on my jeans and took hold of it again. Then I opened the door and stepped aside, gesturing for him to go first. He did. I stood there for two beats with my eyes closed, then followed after him.
He saw them right away. They were impossible to miss. He walked to each one, analyzing them, not saying a word. I had taken up post by the door, like a guard. Maybe it was so I could run at the first sign of rejection. Maybe it was to give him a moment to process alone.
I swallowed hard, then stepped forward.
“These are yours?” Mr. Wallace asked.
“Yes.”
“They’re interesting.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. “Yes, I’ve been working on emotion.”
“I can see that.”
“I want to be in the show. I want these pieces to be in the show.”
“I already informed the winning applicants. We’re full.”
My heart dropped to my feet, and I was so tempted to flee like
I had last time. I didn’t. I stood my ground. “What? You said you weren’t doing that for a couple more days.”
“I did it early.” He looked at my tree painting again. “But . . .”
“But?”
“Maybe,” he continued, “we can analyze the layout and see if we can squeeze an extra artist onto the sales floor.”
“Yes? Is that a yes?”
“What happens if you get no offers?”
“I’ll be fine with that. I just want the opportunity.”
“You have a lot of drive, Abby.”
“Sometimes.”
“Okay, I want you to draw up a chart of a new layout that can include everyone and bring it in for me to approve.”
I clapped my hands together once. “So that’s a real yes.”
He smiled. “Yes.”
I let out a short scream and threw my arms around him. “Thank you so much!”
“This is not professional, Abby.” There was a smile in his voice.
I dropped my arms. “You’re right.” I gave him a handshake instead, pumping his hand way too enthusiastically. I couldn’t control the adrenaline coursing through me. “Thank you.” I started to rush the door before he changed his mind, but then I whirled back around, remembering my paintings.
“Just leave them here,” he said. “So you don’t have to haul them back in. Stack them against the wall. Did you bring some cloths?”
“I did.”
I made quick work of the paintings, then left in a blur of happy emotions.
TWENTY-FIVE
I made it to the car without falling all over myself and climbed inside. I immediately texted Cooper: He said yes! He said yesssssss!!!
His response came seconds later: You asked someone to marry you?
I couldn’t even conjure up a sarcastic response, I was so excited: My paintings are in the show. He said yes. All five! I guess my heart has grown to epic proportions.
It’s about time he recognized your genius. I’m taking you out to celebrate. Your house in ten minutes?
Give me thirty. I need to pretend like I didn’t share this with you first and tell my family.
“Mom! Grandpa!” I burst into the house.
My mom jumped to her feet, her book clattering to the floor. She stepped over it and rushed to me. “What is it? Did something happen? A car accident? An earthquake? Did you get fired?” She’d grabbed me by the shoulders and was examining me from head to toe.