by Angel Lawson
“Does she want to go?”
“I haven’t asked. I’m worried her mom will say no and it’ll just create problems.”
I cut the dough into pieces, the right size to fit in the pan. “I hear that. Things have been tense between them, right?”
“I think so.” He adds another lemon, juggling them. That’s the weird thing about George, he can barely walk sometimes without breaking everything in the room, but he’s got a delicate hand when it comes to painting and can actually juggle. “I think it’s about college.”
“Me too.” Starlee is definitely procrastinating on her applications and changes the subject every time it comes up. I consider his dilemma. “Maybe that’s your in.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell Mrs. Jones you want to give her the chance to visit the college—see it for herself. The pressure will be off since it’s not one she really wants to attend. Starlee will just think she’s there to help set up and give support during the show.”
He catches the lemons and drops them back in the basket one by one. “That’s a pretty good idea.”
“You’re welcome.” Instead of a thanks, George sighs. “What?”
“Can you at least make it chocolate next time? You know how I feel about lemon.”
“Dude, let it go.” But when I look up he’s laughing—trying to get under my skin. “If you’re going to stay in here and bother me, start peeling those.”
He grimaces but walks across the room for the right tool. He flicks on the iPod in the process, pulling up some music. The talk we just had reminds me that he’ll be leaving soon—that the four of us won’t always live together—and as much as he annoys me, I’ll miss him.
Change is coming to the wayward sons, good stuff for once. I hate that Sierra is missing it—but I’m also proud that we’re able to manage it on our own.
13
Starlee
“How did you get my mom to agree to this, again?”
We’re pulling up to the SCCAD campus after a long three-hour drive. The back of the Jeep is crammed with George’s carefully packed artwork. When we’d left at 7 a.m. my mother just gave me a hug and told me to be safe and to have fun before sending me off on an overnight trip with a handsome boy.
George looks over, grabs my hand and winks. “I worked my charm, that’s all.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not that charming.”
He shrugs but doesn’t say any more. I wondered when we left, whose soul he sold to get her to let me go—his or mine. Now that we’re here, hundreds of miles away, I don’t really care.
“The paperwork says we should go to the exhibition hall first and unload everything.” I point to the building on the map and we make our way to the parking area.
I have to give George credit. This is a pretty big undertaking. The college makes them do everything on their own for this. Pick out the work, make tags with descriptions and pricing. Together we load everything on a dolly and he pushes it toward the entrance. He introduces me to Ms. Sparks, the woman that came to tell him he’d been accepted to the program. She seems genuinely excited about George’s work and pride for him swells in my chest. There’s something about seeing him in this setting—in his element, that makes me view him differently. He’s not the goofy boy from next door, painting murals on the coffees shop wall, but a real aspiring artist.
It takes a few hours to get the art up on the walls. He’s a perfectionist, placing and replacing things over and over again. He asks for my opinions and I give it, but I can tell he’s in his own world. When he’s finished we pack up the boxes and leave them in the back of the car. Lunch is in the dining hall and a tour of the campus is right after.
I tug him to the side as the tour group gathers. “You okay if I go back to the room and take a nap?”
His eyebrow raises. “You sure?”
“Yes. I’m beat and want to shower and get ready for tonight.”
“You want me to go back with you?”
I shake my head and squeeze his hand. “Nope. I’m fine. Go look around. Bond with the other artists. This place is really amazing.”
A slow grin spreads on his lips. He looks so happy here—content. I feel a little jealous. Not over him finding such a great fit, but not knowing how to find one for myself.
“Okay, I’ll be back in a few hours.” He kisses me quick, making my heart thrum, and dashes off with the others. Using the map, I find my way back to guest housing.
The room is small—like a hotel room or a small dormitory. The bed is a queen, luxurious compared to my tiny single back home. I shower first, getting off the dust and grime from carrying all the artwork in, and with my hair wrapped in a towel I get into soft, comfortable bed. I drift away easily, not waking again until I feel the dip of the mattress.
“Can I take a nap with you?” George whispers close to my ear. I nod and feel him climb in behind me. Soon his body is spooned against mine. I exhale, feeling a slice of contentment, wrapped in his strong arms.
The next thing I hear is the alarm buzzing and we both rouse.
“That was the best nap of my life,” George says, rubbing his face. He shifts in the bed and I can’t help but notice the hard arousal in his shorts.
“I like sleeping with you, too,” I say, about the awesome nap and waking up with desire in my belly. There’s not time now—no way I’m letting him be late for his show.
We both dress quickly and for the first time in my life, I feel grown up. Like a couple getting ready for a big night. There’s something jarring when George steps out of the steamy bathroom, scrubbed and clean. He doesn’t look like an awkward, too-big-for-his-frame boy anymore. He’s a man.
I see it in his face. The lines of his jaw and the way he turns me around and zips up my dress, fingers lingering against my skin. For once I can see the future—where things will go, how things could be once we settle down and go for our dreams.
I just have to figure out what mine are.
14
George
“Tell me about this piece,” a man says, holding a glass of wine. He’s studying a piece of street art created with spray paint and chalk. It features a black and white image of a fist holding a tiny red heart. Blood droplets drip from the grip and reshape to make a face of a boy. Tears slide down his face, dropping to the bottom of the canvas where a garden blooms wild and tangled.
“Uh,” I start, feeling exhausted. I’ve had to do this countless times tonight and it’s a strange process. Art is where I’ve always poured my pain and hurt. It gave the energy a place to live without saying the words. But these people want to know what it means. “It’s called Resilience and is a commentary about what’s created when the larger authority figure in his life squeezes the heart out of a child.”
The man, maybe in his fifties, looks me up and down. I’m glad the scar on my forehead is covered by my hair. “That’s a lot of emotion for a kid your age.”
“In my experience, age has nothing to do with trauma.”
Starlee leans against a nearby wall, watching the whole conversation. I don’t mind her presence; she fills me with a steadiness I never knew I could possess. She’s beautiful in her black dress and clunky boots. A black leather band wraps around her wrist three times, drawing my eye to the tattoo visible on her forearm. The same one branded in my skin.
I look back at the painting. It’d only taken me one night to create. A night where I was filled with anger and rage about my dad and everything he’d done to me and Charlie. I almost didn’t bring it because it felt so personal. In the end though, Ms. Peterman convinced me that it was essential to my portfolio and told me that if I had hesitations about selling it, I should just price it high.
The little tag next to the painting declares the price; five thousand dollars.
The man stares at the painting as though he’s absorbing it, taking in every detail. He rubs his chin and then suddenly says, “I’ll take it.”
“You will?” I’m stunn
ed. I didn’t anticipate this one selling at all—especially not at the inflated price. It’s not the first piece I’ve sold tonight, but it’s the most personal one. “I hope you enjoy it.”
I grab the tag and hand it to him to take to the cashier. Before he walks off, he hands me his card. Darnell Parker—Mansour Galleries, San Francisco. I look up but he’s vanished into the crowd. A moment later, Starlee is by my side.
“What’s that?” she asks, taking the card.
“He’s a major exhibitor in San Francisco—this gallery is down near the wharf. He gets thousands of shoppers in there every year. Most of the work he displays is well-known, but he usually carries one or two emerging artists.” I look up at her. “He just bought Resilience.”
“For five grand?” she asks, her face paling slightly. It’s big. Really big, and when Starlee takes my hand in hers, I realize it’s shaking.
She doesn’t offer congratulations. Doesn’t tell me that she’s proud of me, but I see it in her face—her green eyes. I feel it in the kiss she gives me and in her fingertips.
A weight lifts from my shoulders, the one placed there by my dad every time he told me I wasn’t worth it. That I’d never succeed.
I just proved to him and myself how wrong he is and I’ve never felt freer.
15
Starlee
George is different on the way back to the room. Quiet, calm, like a balm has been soothed over his soul. I’ve never been so proud of him—of anyone, maybe. I know how hard it’s been for him to find faith in himself. In his skills.
The attendant at the front desk simply nods as we walk through the lobby and head to the room. The nagging sense that we’re breaking the rules by being alone, that we’re too young, too…something, lingers as we take the elevator. But my heart pounds as I get a glimpse of the future, one not that far off, where we no longer have supervision, where we’re responsible for school and work and everything in between.
Our bodies. Our souls.
The instant we’re in the room, George assures me he’s thinking the same. He presses me to the back of the door, our chests against one another’s, and he says, “All the adults in my life would kill me for the thoughts running through my head all night.”
I look up at his handsome face. “What kind of thoughts?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“I’m out there, selling art, getting notice from these buyers—even a gallery owner, but most of my thoughts were on you, how amazing you look in that dress, how much more amazing you’ll look with it off, how I want to get back here to spend as much time as I can in that bed with you.”
“Interesting, I was thinking the same thing about you. Except the dress part.” I touch the cool metal of his belt buckle and the muscle in his jaw feathers signaling restraint. “You were great tonight, George, you’re going to kill it when you get here in the fall. I’m so proud of you.”
His eyes hold mine and they simmer like molten lava. Tired of waiting, I push up on my toes, brushing my lips to his. He responds in kind, eagerly. His hands are in my hair, on my shoulders, down my arms. I touch his chest, his waist, feeling the taut muscles beneath his shirt. When you live like we do, where there’s limited time alone, kissing like this is a luxury. I don’t want it to end—I don’t want him to rush through it and I keep him focused, using my tongue, my breath and lips.
His hips push into me hard—he’s hard—but uncharacteristically, he takes his time. Something has transformed in George since we’ve arrived here, and the results make my blood thrum.
Maybe it’s the fact we have time. Or that real adulthood is around the corner. Or the taste of success that he finally had today. When he takes my hand and leads me to the bed, I follow, riveted by the person in front of me. His body and soul. When he moves above me, taking control, there’s no desperation—not like the first time. There’s just the two of us and it feels so good.
16
Starlee
My mother needs burlap.
Or rather, my grandmother does. I think. Something has gone awry with the wedding planning, but the week after George’s art show I’m coaxed into driving my mother three towns over to a general store that may have what she needs.
Burlap.
“This isn’t the first wedding in Lee Vines,” Mom says as we cut through the Sierras, “so there’s already a bit of infrastructure that we need—like the archway. I found it back in the storage building.”
“Okay.”
“And we’ll just use the regular vendors for chairs and any other rentals. I think Tom already has enough tables and Sierra had a stockpile at the coffee shop for when they did festivals and things.”
“Good, good.” In situations like this, I find myself falling back into old patterns, letting my mother take control. It’s fine. I don’t have many opinions on weddings and stuff. I also know, from experience, that when she’s focused on something her attention is not on me—and right now I’m perfectly fine with that.
“I’ve also made an appointment for us at a boutique in San Francisco for dresses.”
I glance over at my mother. “Seriously? We’re going all the way to San Francisco for a dress?”
“We certainly can’t find anything around here,” she mutters, scrolling through her To-Do list on her phone.
The GPS leads me to a small shopping plaza and I park the car. The store is massive—kind of a catch-all for everything. My mother could probably get everything she needs from in here. She gathers her notebook and tape measurer—all her gear to make this a successful mission. She enters the store and I realize I’ve left my phone in the car.
“Go in without me,” I say quietly. “I forgot my phone.”
My mom is already deep in the rows of supplies.
It only takes me a minute to find where it fell between the seats and when I stand, I see a woman with long dark hair that falls in waves down her back walking across the parking lot. I do a double take.
“Sierra?”
She pauses and looks my way. A flicker of emotions crosses her face. There’s a moment of hesitation—a beat—before she exhales and says, “Starlee, hi.”
“Hi,” I say, crossing the parking lot and embrace her. A well of emotions erupts as I reconcile seeing her out here—just a few towns away. Has she been this close the whole time? Does Dexter know? “How are you?”
She looks thin. Pale. But it’s winter and we all kind of have that same desperate-for-summer skin.
“I’m okay. Just still working through some things.”
“How about you? How is everyone?”
Everyone. Her brother and three foster kids. I catch the vacancy still in her eyes. She’s still struggling for sure.
“Good, actually,” I say, holding back on specifics. If she wants to know what’s happening in their lives, she can ask them. I’m not filling that gap. “Oh, big news. Leelee and Tom are getting married.”
Her gray eyes widen and the first genuine smile crosses her face. “Wow, seriously? That’s amazing!”
“I’m up here with my mom getting some things. Apparently, burlap is required.”
She gives me a confused laugh. “When’s the wedding?”
“Right after graduation.”
That information registers as well and I get the feeling she’s like a lost ship being slowly pulled to shore. “I bet they’re excited—I’m sure all of you are.”
“It’s quite the production,” I say. “Mom has gone into full planning mode and Dexter is making the cake, which means he’s working on it in his spare time.”
“How is he?”
I hold her eye—the ones that match her brother’s. “He’s doing good. Different now that the probation and stuff is finally behind him. He misses you.”
“I miss him too.”
I throw out a lifeline. “You know you can come back whenever you want—they’re not mad.”
“I know.” Her fingers run down her forearm, over the words of her tattoo. One that I now
share but is hidden beneath the sleeve of my hoodie. “I’m not ready.”
I nod and I feel her slipping away. “Sierra, just remember that sometimes help comes from being with people that care about you—people with the strength to get though the things you can’t. It was a lesson I learned when I got here. Something I learned from them and you.”
Her eyes gleam and I feel for her. I feel for how lost she seems and that she won’t let anyone help her. I reach out again and pull her into a hug, even though I’m not sure she wants it.
“We’ll keep it all running until you’re ready, okay?”
“Thank you.”
I can tell she’s ready to leave and she gives me a tight smile and walks away. I feel like I failed the boys—Dexter the most—by not bringing her back home, but I know she’s allowed to make her own choices. I walk into the store, between the packed shelves of tools and housewares and everything in between, I hope she can find her way like I have—that she can find her own wayward sons to guide her home.
To her credit, my mom waits until we’re in the driveway unloading our purchases to make her move.
“What’s the status on your applications?”
The clock is ticking—literally—I’m days away from them being due. The familiar flare of annoyance burns under my skin but I know some of this is a defensiveness over my own lack of action.
“They’re ready,” I say. Which is true. I filled them out. They’re on the computer—all I have to do is press submit. I just can’t bring myself to do it.
“What’s the hold up?”
Good question, Mom. Good question.
“I don’t know,” I say, carrying a box of supplies into the lodge.
“Then send them in. It’s all online, right?”
I grunt, dropping the box on the couch.