“I don’t know. Your life. You’re probably worried about a lot right now. The campaign is a lot to throw at you. That, and you’ve been distant lately. You seem tired all the time.”
“Sorry,” I say. It’s an automatic response meant to push her away. I tend to clam up when anyone asks about my feelings. Almost like I don’t want to admit that I have any at all. Normal people can talk about what’s bugging them or why they’re angry. Not me. My thoughts loop through my head, overwhelming me. It’s all your fault. You’re a terrible person. It’s just hard to not ever live up to your own expectations, to see your flaws so clearly. “I’ll try harder,” I say, and I do mean it.
I don’t want to feel like this all the time. I don’t want to disappoint my parents or act pissed off at people who love me.
“I’m not asking you to try harder,” Mom says.
I twirl a strand of hair with my finger. It’s a nervous habit.
“What are you asking then?”
She’s standing there, thinking. I can see it on her face. She doesn’t know what to say. She’s dealt with my brothers, but she doesn’t know how to crack me.
Fortress me. She can’t do it.
“I just want you to feel like you’re a part of this family,” she says, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “And that you can talk to me.”
“Okay,” I say, knowing there’s no way I’ll ever talk to her about my problems, especially about the terrible thoughts I have about food or my body. She’s my mother. She could never understand why I hate myself so much. I barely understand it myself.
How can I be so messed up when I’ve been given every opportunity? Loving family. Good education. Wealth. My life checks all the boxes. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be grateful?
I’m about to totally shut down when Mom changes the subject. “How are your drawings going?” she asks. “Anything I can do to help with your portfolio?”
This makes me feel even worse. I wish I’d never told her about the gallery show. I probably won’t even be able to apply. I haven’t gotten anywhere with my sketches. I hate everything I’ve done so far. I keep trying to find inspiration in other work, but nothing’s clicking. I don’t have a coherent concept. Or a plan for the one painting I have to submit.
That’s another question I’m desperate to ask LeFeber. What do you do when you’re blocked? How do you find the motivation to paint when you can barely get out of bed? I don’t want my mom’s help. I just want to be left alone.
“No,” I say, suddenly remembering that I have to go on that date tonight.
I forgot to ask Mom earlier if she could take me. I’m not in the mood to go out at all right now and this definitely isn’t the best time to ask her for a ride, but I can’t just ditch Antonia. “But I’m supposed to hang out with Antonia and her cousin in Silver Lake tonight. We’re going to watch a concert. Can I get a ride?”
“We really need to teach you how to drive.” Mom sighs, standing up from the bed. “Sure. I’ll take you. But you’ll have to find a ride home.”
t w e l v e
“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart.
I am, I am, I am.”
—Sylvia Plath
When I finally show up to the Silver Lake Lounge, I see Antonia sitting with her girl and an older girl who I assume must be Mika, hunkered at a round table far from the stage.
Though she and Heather are sitting close to each other, her date seems apprehensive about the whole thing. The multicolored lights revolve around the room, bathing her in color as she keeps looking over her shoulder for anyone she might know to walk in and find her on a date with Antonia.
I don’t want to be here after the disaster that was our family dinner. I thought about canceling. Then I thought about how I’d hate to have a friend who was always such a flake. I try to remind myself to have fun. It’s just like any other night of hanging out with Antonia. This is about Antonia, I tell myself, and making her girlfriend feel comfortable. You talk to people you don’t know all the time. No reason to be nervous.
Antonia sees me and jumps up from the table. “Hey, girl!” she says, grabbing my hands. “This is Heather. It feels like I’ve been talking you up to her for months.”
Heather has the most amazing red hair that she wears in natural afro-tight curls. Her eyes are honey brown and her arms and legs are lean and muscular like a runner’s. I can see why Antonia is attracted to her. They look like they would make a great couple.
I shake Heather’s hand, imagining Antonia holding hers. Any girl would be lucky to go on a date with Antonia. I really hope this works out for them.
“Hey, Liv,” Heather says softly. “Antonia talks about you all the time.”
My nervousness begins to melt away. This isn’t going to be so bad.
“What does she say? That I’m a total head case?”
Heather laughs. “Not at all. She says you’re loyal, the best girl to have in your corner. And she’s always talking about your art. I’d love to see it sometime.”
Antonia turns to the girl with them. “This is my cousin. Mika.”
“I’m Olivia,” I say, holding out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I pull out my politician’s daughter tricks. Smile nicely. Speak as little as possible. It’s easy to give a good impression when you let the other person do all the talking.
Older than us by probably a couple of years, Mika seems more confident than Heather. She has black hair with dark pastel lowlights and is wearing skintight black leather pants and a white blouse that shows a lacy black bralette underneath. Fashionable. Intense.
Through her circular, John Lennon–esque glasses, Mika gives me the up-and-down, cracks a smirk, brushes the hair hanging in front of her right eye and shakes my hand. “Antonia says you’re an artist?” She pulls out a chair for me. “Are you a serious artist, or is it a side thing?”
I’m not sure how to answer the question. In my heart, I know that creating is the only thing that makes me feel halfway decent about myself, but I’m so blocked that saying I’m an artist makes me feel like a fraud. I’m only sixteen. How can I actually call myself an artist? I haven’t really achieved anything yet.
“I’m working on putting together a show,” I say, hoping that telling people will inspire me to work on my paintings more.
“I’ve always found painters to be sexy,” Mika says.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling awkward. I don’t think she’s hitting on me, but I’m not sure of her intention. Does she just say that kind of thing? “Me too, I guess.”
She’s focused on me, scrutinizing everything from my eyebrows to the stack of rings on my fingers, staring at me so intently with her intense dark brown eyes that she makes me nervous to sit across from her. I glance at Antonia. She turns to Heather and they start talking. This is good, I think. Heather’s comfortable for now. Mission accomplished. I can’t just leave though, or do what I really want, which is to find something to drink. With the music playing and the people talking and the chatter going on in my brain, my nerve endings feel raw and frayed. I could use an anesthetic.
“The show’s not until the summer,” I say to Mika, not wanting to explain the whole process. “But I’m behind on my work with school and everything.”
“You want to know what I do?” she says, not really asking me.
“Should I guess?”
Mika leans in closer. “Yeah. Guess.”
I don’t want to play guessing games. I’m glad I could be here for Antonia, but my stomach still feels sour after fighting with Dad at home. I’d rather be at home in bed.
“Do you work somewhere?” I ask.
“I write poetry,” she says.
“Oh, a poet,” I say, stumbling for words. “What kind?”
It’s a dumb question, but I don’t know
what to ask.
“The kind that splices life,” she says. “That’s what a poet does, you know.”
“Oh?”
“I splice from one part of my life into another, overlapping emotions and circumstances to give them greater meaning. I extract bits of soul. I write them in my journals. I read them to whoever will listen. I perform. I love. I wither. I grow.”
I may be an artist, but Mika is beyond my realm of understanding. She leans back. Her eyes meet mine. She’s doing that staring thing again.
“Antonia said that you’re from out of town,” I say. “Where are you from?”
“I’m not from anywhere per se. Poets must be nomads. Getting attached to one place is bad for the soul.” Mika twists a ring around her finger. “I’ve been camping near a vortex in Sedona, Arizona. It’s sort of near the Grand Canyon.”
“A vortex?” I ask. Antonia did say that Mika was into these sorts of things. I figure I should be nice and ask her about her interests. “What’s that?”
“It’s a natural site where spiritual energy converges into a giant vortex,” Mika says. She makes a sweeping motion with her hand like it’s a tornado. Antonia gives her a sideways glance, then goes back to talking to Heather. “They’re magical places where trees exhibit this swirling and twisting of the trunks. The energy moves in a big spiral that helps with spiritual transformation. I’ve been working through some issues there. Wanna see some pictures?”
“Sure,” I say. I mean, why not? I might as well learn all I can about whatever Mika’s talking about right now.
“Stupid WiFi,” she says. “I only have one bar.” She keeps trying to refresh her app, but when that doesn’t work she starts talking to me again. “Antonia didn’t tell me you had such a powerful aura.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re over twenty-one. Right?”
Mika nods.
“Could you get me a drink?” I ask. “I’ll pay.”
Antonia hasn’t said one word to me since I first arrived. I’m not trying to be critical of her spiritual beliefs, but Mika is pretty intense. If I have to deal with her all night, I figure I might as well get drunk.
“Yeah,” Mika says. “Sure. What do you want?”
Score.
“A double Jack and Coke,” I say. If anyone’s snooping on us, I can tell Dad that the drinks were just soda. “Actually. Would you mind bringing two doubles? That way you don’t have to go to the bar again for me. Do you mind?”
I dig my wallet out of my purse and give her some cash.
“Intense,” Mika says. “Let’s do this.”
Across the table, Antonia and Heather are deep in conversation. Antonia’s reaching over and lightly pulling at one of Heather’s curls. It’s really cute, but then I start getting paranoid about whether someone will recognize us. We may be at an all-ages venue—and I sort of have an excuse about the drinking—but Dad’s not going to like me being seen with Antonia about to practically make out with a girl from our school.
That’s his problem. Not mine.
Mika returns with the drinks and sets them on the table. “I took a couple shots at the bar already,” she says. “Hope you don’t mind!”
I grab one of the doubles and start slurping down the liquid. It burns in my belly, then warms my whole body.
“So...” I figure I better talk to Mika. “How do you find inspiration for your poetry? Like when you’re blocked?” Maybe she’ll have some answers.
“Oh there’s a lot that you can do. I really like to inhabit my body when I feel a creative blockage.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“It’s like having a sickness. You have to diagnose where the blockage is coming from. So I meditate, you know, get really quiet so my body can talk to me.”
Her words are unexpected, but there actually seems to be some wisdom in what Mika’s saying. I polish off the first double fast, then start on my second. It feels good to finally loosen up a little.
“What I would say usually happens,” Mika says, taking off her round glasses, “is that your Svadhisthana is somehow blocked. That creative energy can’t flow through.”
“My svadhistanawhat?” I blurt.
“It’s your second chakra. It’s between your pubic bone and your navel. It’s the main site on your body for creativity and sexuality. Those two aspects of your life are very much linked together,” Mika says, leaning into my personal space.
“Oh.” I take another gulp of my Jack and Coke. “I see.”
“It’s part of our nature to create. We’re also sexual beings. I have to be in a relaxed mental state to create, like with sex. You don’t want to be all anxious, otherwise nothing will work.”
“I’m anxious all the time,” I say awkwardly. The drinks are loosening me up. I can’t believe I’m talking to a random weirdo about my problems, but what she’s saying makes sense.
“Here. I want to show you something.” Mika stands up from the table. “Come on. Stand up. Yeah. Seriously.” I slam down the rest of my second drink. I need to be way more buzzed to deal with all this chakra talk, but I stand next to Mika anyway.
“So I want you to use your hand to close your right nostril. Then I want you to inhale and exhale through the left nostril for about eight to ten breaths.”
I look around. People at the other tables are totally staring at me, but I go along with Mika’s suggestion. Maybe whatever she’s talking about will actually help me to unlock my creativity. Why not?
“Good,” Mika says. “Now I want you to do this.”
She inhales, pushes her knees together, puts her hands on her hips and starts making these huge circles with her pelvis while exhaling.
Is she crazy? That’s where I draw the line.
I may be drunk, but I’m not doing that in public.
I look over at Antonia for help. She’s running her hand along Heather’s neck. Their legs are hooked around each other’s under the table. Heather looks pretty comfortable to me.
“I’m going to run to the ladies’ room,” I say.
I lean over and whisper in Antonia’s ear to meet me at the bathroom in a couple of minutes, then I’m up and hurrying away from the table, trying to regain some control of my senses. My head is spinning from the drinks and I’m nearly tripping over my feet as I walk to the bathroom. Now I have to act happy about hanging out when I’m not.
When I get to the bathroom, I check myself out in the mirror. I’m really unhappy with my outfit. Everything—my fat knees, my underarm flab, the loose skin around my stomach from losing weight—disgusts me. My body is a map of all my past sins.
I wish I could wash everything clean. Start over. The fact that I haven’t started working much on my sketching or paintings nags at me again, like I’ve just been watching my dreams wither and die and I’m doing nothing to help them grow. And I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with my second chakra.
I’m smoothing down my frizzy hair when Antonia saunters in like she’s having the time of her life.
“Antonia...”
“What?”
“I know she’s your cousin, but...”
“Spit it out,” Antonia says.
“I’m not against talking about spiritual energy or chakras or whatever, but Mika’s weird. Really weird.”
“I warned you.” She looks up at the mirror and fixes a piece of stray hair. “Talking to her can’t be that bad. She’s chatty. She does all the work for you.”
“I know the purpose of tonight is to make Heather feel comfortable and that you’re on a date and everything, but could you just join the conversation for a few minutes? Save my sanity?”
“Chill. You’re doing awesome and Mika really likes you.”
“Too much. Did you see her trying to help me unblock my chakra?”
“What?” Antonia laughs. “That seems lik
e her.”
“What am I supposed to do now?”
“Just sit across from her. Talk to her for a little bit longer. Please? It’s working. Heather is loosening up. She’s starting to see that being out with a girl is not such a big deal.”
“Okay,” I say. “But only this once. And only for you.”
Antonia winks at me. “That’s my girl. Now try to have a good time, you deserve it. Relax a little.”
She checks her makeup in the mirror on her way out of the bathroom, then disappears into the lounge’s darkness. Even though I said I would stay, I start thinking about how I can get out of the situation anyway. Why did I get tangled up in this mess?
I’ll just go out there and see what’s up. I hear a band starting anyway, so at least I won’t have to talk to Mika for too long. Tonight’s opener is International Criminals. There’s a small crowd gathered around the band. As I try to move through, I see that Heather and Antonia are talking again. Mika’s nose is in her phone.
Then I spot Zach and Jackson in front of the stage.
Zach looks like he just stepped off the set of Sisters & Mothers. Everything about him is perfect. That head of dark hair, those cheeks tapering into a strong jawline around his pouty mouth. And I look like a lumpy sack of potatoes. I try to duck behind a tall guy next to me so they won’t see me, but Jackson spots me and summons me over to them.
I’m really not trying to ditch Antonia, but I can’t ignore him.
“What are you doing here?” Jackson asks. “Haven’t seen you around much lately...” He smiles like the thing on the boat never happened and hugs me, lingering a little longer than normal. I really don’t want Zach to get the wrong impression, so I pull back as soon as I can.
“Hey, Liv,” Zach says. “What’s up?”
I glance at him, taking in his sinewy arms that I wish were touching me. I want to say something, but I hesitate for too long. He turns his attention to the stage.
All right. He’s watching the music.
He’s not even acknowledging my presence at this point. What about those looks at the party? Did I imagine the chemistry? I don’t get why he’s acting so hot and cold. Maybe he was just trying to be nice on the boat. Or maybe he had had too much to drink and felt like I was far enough outside his world that he could confide in me.
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