Lux Banning is haunted by a single night. Her only escape is through art, the sculpting her father taught her, the passion they both shared before everything changed. Her grief has driven her into a network of internal tunnels, all leading to one goal: finishing the sculpture her father never got to.
Wyeth Cooper is never going to be good enough. Even though he's booked gigs all over the state, his parents still don't believe in him, or his music. When the girl across the street loses her father, he watches her cave in on herself, that loneliness he's so familiar with festering within her. So he finally gathers up enough courage to talk to her.
But then she finishes her sculpture, and something strange happens. The statue comes to life. Together, the three of them navigate the tremulous waters of growing up, dealing with grief, acceptance, and self discovery. At the end of the summer, will Lux finally be able to let that night go, or will she give up the one person who might truly understand her?
* * *
Note: This is a tentative blurb. It might change as the story progresses, depending on whether or not the story does. It happens. :)
Chapter 1:
The
sound of glass shattering.
She slammed the curve of her palate
knife down, slashing a huge chunk of clay off the six by six square slab she’d
cut this morning.
Tires
squealing and the smell of burnt rubber, thick and suffocating, permeating the
air.
Tossing the access into the scrap
pile to her right, she made another swipe, angling the metal blade at the last
second, effectively creating a half circle across the top of the clay. She
rubbed the back of her hand across her left cheek, smearing tan colored
remnants across her pale skin.
Around her, the heavy notes of
Linkin Park, One Step Closer, blared, practically shaking the glass cups filled
with various art tools lining the walls. Her parents had insulated this space
three years ago when they’d realized she—like her father—preferred working to
music. Of course, back then, she wouldn’t have blasted it loud enough to quake
the ground. But things had changed.
A
scream—hers, his, she still didn’t know. A crunching sensation as the light blue
SUV tipped onto its side.
The walls had originally been pure
white, but now paint splattered in certain areas, and past works hung in random
sections. Corners were taken over by completed sculptures, some as small as
cats, others life size pieces of differing stages of skill level. The first
time she’d held a palette knife had been when she was ten.
That
weightless feeling as the car rolled downwards, tumbling over from side to
side, her seatbelt cutting into the tender flesh of her neck.
Her breathing elevated and she
pushed harder, forcing herself to block out the memories and concentrate on the
slab of clay before her. This wasn’t the project she wanted to be working on,
but she refused to touch his piece—his last piece—until she was certain where she
was going to take it.
He’d left most of it unfinished,
having done only the outline of a male torso at the time. She needed to define
things, bring them out. The statue was clearly of a man, standing tall and
proud, with broad shoulders. But her father hadn’t had the chance to complete
it. To take it further than that.
Generally, he sketched all of his
works out beforehand, but he must have decided to just go with the flow on this
one. Try as she might, she simply couldn’t find any notes on the sculpture, had
no clue what he’d intended the likeness
to actually look like. Had he been meant to be a man? A fit boy?
She’d decided last night that she
preferred the latter, a decision that had taken her now three months to come up
with.
The
coldness in her limbs, and the restriction of her lungs. Strangled breathing.
Blurred vision. The sight of red dripping downwards, pooling below her.
Numbness turning to pain. Darkness turning to flickering orange and yellow
light.
A
sudden burst of heat as something behind her caught fire.
With a frustrated heave she tossed
the palette knife onto the table with a loud clatter. It hit and slid, dropping
to the floor and pinging. She ran her hands through her sandy blonde hair,
scooping it out of her face, ultimately smearing more clay across her scalp and
through the thick strands.
The flashbacks were normal, she’d
been told, as were the crippling panic attacks that followed. She could feel
one rising to the surface, closed her eyes and willed it away. She was standing
in the middle of her studio, at home. Safe.
Fatherless.
She gulped on some air and quickly
ran over to switch the music off. The immediate silence was more deafening than
the angry sound of Linkin Park had been, and she bolted, letting the wooden
door slam shut behind her.
Outside the sun was bright, casting
its warming rays down on the vibrant green grass and the flowers her parents
had planted around the front of the house last year. Most had sprung back to
life, returning to their full beauty without needing any help from her moms
green thumb. Gardening had always been her mother’s vice, the same as art had
been her dad’s.
Their large garage had been split
into two, the side closest to the house being her father’s studio, the one
farthest her own. The whole thing used to be his, but he’d separated it as a
gift for her thirteenth birthday, stating that it was time for her to have her
own space as an artist. She could still remember the awe she’d felt when she’d
stepped inside, that euphoric feeling that, to this day, she didn’t think could
ever be rivaled.
Now, she passed by the closed
second garage, resisting the urge to glance through the four glass windows
within. Her father’s unfinished piece sat inside, waiting for her. Collecting
dust until she could gather up the courage to complete it.
The garage was separate from the
white ranch style house, and the driveway attached to a white cobblestone path
that wound its way through the foliage all the way to the front porch. The
heels of her yellow converse—splattered in paint blotches from frequent wear
while working—clapped against the three steps leading up.
The screen door squeaked and when
she entered the house the smell of lilacs hit her. Her mom loved them, and
always attempted to litter the house with them. She made a beeline for the
kitchen, passing by the living room and the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
Low voices reached her before she was halfway there and she gritted her teeth,
already bracing herself.
Her mom was sitting at the round
kitchen table with her friend Jean. She was a willowy woman with dark auburn
hair that fell to her elbows. Her eyes were a soft gray, wide and all too
insightful. With a glance she had the ability to pick out a dozen harrowing
details about a person. It was unnerving, and being her child, annoying.
Try getting away with anything when
your parent could see through you like glass.
“Hi, firefly,” her mom’s voice had
a lilt to it still, despite having left her native Ireland at the young age of
fifteen.
She mumbled a hello and pulled out
a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. Because they had company, she opted
to grab a glass from the top shelf, filling it to the brim then downing it in a
matter of seconds.
“How have you been, Lux?” Jean
asked. Her gorgeous coffee colored skin was a sharp contrast to the otherwise
lightly colored room. Her long black hair hung like silk around her shoulders,
and she was still one of the most beautiful women in town, even at the age of
forty-one.
“Fine,” she managed, dropping the
glass into the sink.
“How’s the sculpture coming?” her
mom rushed on when it was clear she was about to make an exit.
She paused in the doorway and
barely contained an annoyed sigh. “Poorly.”
Her mom glanced away and she felt a
rush of guilt.
“I’m going upstairs to work on some
sketches,” she added, gentling her voice. She even managed to force a half
smile. “I’ll see you later. Bye, Jean.”
She wished that she and her mom
could communicate better. In truth, she couldn’t remember if this was a new
development, their lack of things to say, or if it was a byproduct of what
they’d been through. Every time she tried to recall the past, all she got were
snippets of her father, and then the flashbacks would start up and she’d be
lost at sea.
Things were too hard to grasp right
now, too dull and murky. The only thing she could really focus on was her art,
and she threw herself into it with even more passion than she had prior to the
accident. Which was saying a lot, considering she’d been accused of being a workaholic
many times before.
Her room was clear across the
house, putting enough distance between her and her mom for her to feel
comfortable. Inside the walls were covered in art, be it prints of famous works
she liked, or sketches/finished pieces done by either her or her father. Not a
single inch of the mint green walls could be seen now.
Her bed was across from the door, a
queen size with a comforter the same color of the walls and a headboard made of
twists of silver metal. Silver leaves sprouted from the curves, like vines. Her
father had made it for her.
On either side were small
bookshelves that doubled as end tables, the two shelves stuffed with art books.
She’d arranged them from tallest to shortest all the way across so that the
case to the right of the bed held all the smallest ones. They were painted
white, much like the wooden desk tucked into the left hand corner at the side
of the doorway. Another door leading to a small walk-in closet was in the
opposite corner.
She dropped onto her bed and reached
over the edge lifting her easel off the ground. There was already a large piece
of watercolor paper stuck to it, and on the top of the bookshelf now at her
right was an array of charcoal materials.
Used to be she’d only work in
pencil on her bed, too afraid to mare the bedspread, but she’d since stopped
caring of such things, and now went to work with a vigilance.
She envisioned the sculpture out in
the studio, the curve of the “skull” her father had already started. Without
much preamble, her hand picked up a charcoal pencil and began moving
rhythmically over the page, all the while her mind searching for a hidden
image.
The
sound of glass…
Now that she was actually focused
on what she was doing, the memories faded to the background, nothing more than
fuzzy pressure at the base of her skull.
There was a scar on the side of her
left wrist that hadn’t been there three months ago, a sweep that trailed from
the middle of her thumb down towards the center of her wrist. She’d cut it on a
broken twist of metal from the passenger’s side door when she’d been pulled
from the car. She was no stranger to scars; both hands were covered in nicks
from the constant use of sharp sculpting tools.
This one, however, was different.
It served as a constant reminder of the worst night of her life. Of everything
that she’d lost.
Her father had been her best
friend. If everyone only got one person in the world, he’d been hers. They’d
been close from the beginning, a bond solidified when she’d turned three and
first began showing an interest in art. It might have started out more as an
interest in spending time with him, a child’s need to be close to their parent,
but it’d developed into more.
Art was her life. She lived it,
breathed it, dreamed. It’d quickly turned into the most important thing to her,
the glue that tied her and her dad to one another. How many hours had they
spent in his studio? Sometimes they worked together, other times separately but
sharing the same space. They’d had a million conversations there, private
things that she wouldn’t tell anyone else.
He’d understood her in a way no one
ever had, and she was certain no one ever would again. Now he was gone, and she
was lost. Art was the only thing still tethering her, and she clung to her
charcoals, paints, and clay blobs for dear life.
Her mom didn’t get it. She didn’t
think it was healthy. But then, her love for art had never even come close to
rivaling that of Lux and her father.
There’d been a spark in her father,
a light that drew people in, made them want to stay. Sometimes, when she’d been
younger, she’d attempted to emulate it while out at the store or at school. She
was pretty sure she always failed.
Popularity had never been her
strong suit. It’d never been something she’d cared about though. She spent most
of her time working in the art studio at school or sketching in the margins of
her notebooks during classes. She had laser like focus, and up until now, she
hadn’t had a problem with that.
Her dad always tried to convince
her to make more friends, had always said that she’d need people because one
day he wouldn’t be around. She’d always brushed him off.
Now she regretted it.
Her mom was grieving in her own
way, there was no doubt about that, but they were so different. And now Lux was alone.
Her best friend, Sophia, couldn’t
give two shits about art, leaving her with no one to share her love with, to
talk to about her work. Her passion. She felt utterly empty whenever she broke
out of her bubble long enough to notice the bustling world around her. Before,
she’d been gifted with the ability to find beauty anywhere, now when she looked
around, all she saw was loneliness.
Even knowing her father could never
be replaced, she’d found herself pouring all of her longings into the statue
he’d left unfinished. When she’d sculpted the legs, she’d been thinking of
someone strong enough to hike with her, all while carrying art gear so they
could draw when they reached the top. During the making of arms, she’d
envisioned arms banded around her, tugging her close, solid like steel.
She’d placed way too many details
into his hands, especially considering those sorts of things usually weren’t
done until the end as finishing touches. She’d painstakingly scratched out
every line, even creating the tiny swirls of finger prints. Originality had
been her goal here, making something real, tangible.
She knew he wasn’t real, that the
statue would still be a statue at the end of the day, no matter how many
lifelike details she added. But that only fueled her flame. She was determined
to make this the best piece she’d ever done.
The contours of his abs had been
especially daunting. She’d spent a week alone working on that. Smoothing out
the clay in eight bumps for an eight pack. Admittedly, she’d gone a little
overboard when it’d come to working on his manly bits. She’d gone against the
more traditional small parts, instinctually making her sculpted man well
endowed.
Her therapist had said it was more
than likely due to the residual anger she still felt about the accident.
Whatever.
The curve of his back: thinking
about someone with grace. The globes of his ass: someone who looked good in a
pair of low slung jeans. Her father had already made him tall, the stature
towering over her at least six inches, but she’d made sure to give him a
longish neck.
All that was left was his head—or
rather, his face—and on that she was stuck. She’d already done a dozen sketches
and tossed them all. It had to be just right. Her first few attempts had been
of an older gentleman, as that was the direction she assumed her father had
intended. Then she’d changed direction, creating a younger model, then another,
and another. None seemed to be right, and she refused to touch the actual
sculpture again until she had it perfect.
She turned her thoughts on what she
found attractive, what she’d want in a boy. Truthfully, she’d never had a
boyfriend, couldn’t be bothered to waste the time that could be spent on art.
Now, thinking about it, she imagined someone with almond shaped eyes, exotic. Her
gaze trailed upwards for a split second, catching a view of the beautiful
summer day outside.
Blue eyes, like the calm sky.
Comforting, and filled with understanding. Eyes that would see through her,
understand her. Grip her and hold her.
He’d have an aristocratic nose,
like the ancient sculptures found in museums. A testament to his artistic
abilities, because of course, he’d be brilliant and talented. His mouth had to
be full, kissable, for all the times words weren’t enough to ease her grief.
For all the times that even talk of art failed to distract her.
Not that she’d be making out with a
statue, but still. The more she thought of it, the more fun she began to have.
He’d have a sharp jaw line, a smooth chin, ears that curved outwards slightly.
As an added bonus, she added stud earrings in the shape of tiny stars. She made
them very small, so that unless someone was standing a few feet away, they
would merely look like regular stud earrings, not girly at all.
Because he wouldn’t be girly, not
butch by any means, but not girly. He’d be passionate, and inquisitive. He’d
seek out knowledge, would love spending time pouring over books with her,
delving into the classics and absorbing all the art history ones Sophia called
stuffy.
She paused when it came time to add
his hair, unsure how she wanted it done. On the one hand, it needed to be long
enough for him to sweep aside while lost in thought, on the other, not long
enough to be the cliché ponytail. She settled on a length that curved slightly
around his ears.
Her eyes caught the curve of her
scar, followed it all the way down to her wrist. His hair would be red, she
decided instantly. Like copper, that shiny shade that everyone called ginger.
The taste of blood the look of pennies.
The
sound of glass shattering.
She shoved the flashback away
vehemently, extending her arms to take a look at the sketch she’d completed.
Her eyes widened at what she saw, mouth opening slightly in surprise.
He was beautiful. More than.
Without thought, she’d curved his lips into a closed mouth smirk. False light
sparkled in his eyes, ones that stared at her from the page as if alive. Shadows
played over his face, highlighting the swirls of his slightly curly hair, the
curve of his jaw. The length of his neck which faded off the end of the page. He
looked the same age as her, maybe a year older.
This was it.
He
was it.
With renewed vigor, she unfolded
from the bed, grabbing the can of fixative off of her dresser before heading
back outside.
Chapter 2:
Dinner was awkward.
Jean had gone so it was just the
two of them, and her mother had made her favorite, mac and cheese. A huge glass
pan of it sat in the middle of their rectangular dining room table, only about
a third of it missing.
They’d been sitting for near
forty-five minutes and only a handful of words had been spoken. Lux tried to
come up with something to say, anything, but past thanking her for making
dinner, she was blank. Even the gooey cheese and pasta couldn’t help. She ate
slowly, forcing herself not to rush through the meal so she could return to her
work outside.
She’d sprayed the charcoal drawing
with fixative before coming in, but wanted to add another coat just to be safe.
The piece was fairly large and she didn’t want to risk any smudges. She wasn’t
entirely sure she could recreate it if it got ruined.
If all went well, tomorrow she’d
start on the actual sculpture, working the face. She was estimating numbers,
trying to figure out how long it would take her to finish, when her mom broke
the silence, startling her.
“How’s Sophia?” Her mom kept her
gaze downcast, finding intense interest in a particular macaroni.
“Fine,” Lux answered, swallowing
her bite.
“I haven’t seen her,” she went on.
“With school over, I figured she’d be around more.”
Junior year had ended four days
ago, and usually the first week of summer was spent with Lux and her best
friend hitting all of the beaches. They’d broken tradition this year, but not
for the reasons her mom so clearly feared.
“She’s on a trip,” she explained.
“She got into this summer program in Connecticut for marine biology.”
“Oh, how long will she be gone?”
“About three weeks.”
“So she’ll be back in time for you
two to enjoy some of the summer at least.”
“Yeah.” Lux didn’t point out how
that actually left them more than half the summer, or how she didn’t need her
best friend in order to enjoy herself. She didn’t, however, because part of her
had to admit that she was lonely and it had to be pretty obvious.
Her mom was only looking out for
her. It wasn’t her fault any more than it was Lux’s that they’d never clicked
like her and her dad had.
“What about you?” she asked then,
forcing her voice to sound more upbeat. “Got any great plans with Jean?”
“Well,” she cleared her throat, “we
were thinking about taking a trip to North Carolina.”
Lux paused with her fork halfway to
her mouth. For a second the world blurred around her, the soft hum of the
refrigerator in the other room taken over by the phantom squeal of tires on
slick road. She gripped the metal utensil in her hand tightly enough that it
bit into her, fortunately snapping her out of it.
“You and dad’s trip, you mean?” she
couldn’t do anything about the wispy way she spoke this time. It was all she
could do to hold herself together.
“Yes,” she agreed just as softly.
“I already have the days off and the reservations were already made and
everything. I figured I’d change the rooms, obviously, but it might be nice to
follow through with it.”
Her parents had met in a small
quiet town in North Carolina when they’d been twenty-five. According to the two
of them, it’d been love at first sight, the gross sort of insta-love that more
than two thirds of the population didn’t believe in. It’d been pure coincidence
that they’d both been there, her having been passing through with friends on a
road trip, him checking out an art gallery.
They’d ended up ditching their
friends and staying the week. Afterwards, they’d discovered that they only
lived a few hours away, him in New York and her in Rhode Island. He’d moved down
less than a month later and that had been that.
Each summer they made the trip back
to that same town, and stayed at the exact same hotel. They never missed it,
not for as long as Lux could remember. Part of her felt a bit of betrayal in
her father’s defense, but the other part understood. Her mom needed to cope in
her own way, and it wasn’t fair for her daughter to judge her for it.
She told herself that, anyway, but
it was hard to follow through with it.
She wanted to rant and rage and
accuse her, biting her tongue until she tasted blood to keep herself from doing
so. Still, her mom must have seen her expression because her face tightened up
defensively and she straightened in her seat.
“I need this, Lux,” she stated
firmly.
They sat in silence for another
moment before she gathered enough strength to respond.
“When are you two leaving?”
“Not for another three weeks or
so,” she replied. “Chances are Sophia will be back by then. You could always
stay at her place like you did last year.”
Lux didn’t like staying home alone,
despite loving being alone. It was an oddity her parents had always made fun of
her for. She thought about it, but realized that the idea of staying with
Sophia didn’t sound as appealing as it once had.
“I’ll be fine,” she shrugged. “I’ve
got work to do anyway.”
“You’ll be finished with the
sculpture by then, won’t you?” A tear formed in the corner of her mom’s left
eye, a sign that all of this talk of her dad was really getting to her.
That was something Lux had gotten
from her; her ability to cover up her emotions, to mask over what she was
really feeling. As an artist, her father had been so open with his own, but she
and her mother wore their skin like armor. It came in handy now, at a time like
this, for the both of them.
For a second Lux felt closer to her
mother than she had in three months, as if that tiny similarity could bridge
the gap between them. Then her mom dropped her fork onto her plate and the
harsh clatter jolted her out of the moment, effectively severing it.
“Yeah,” the legs of her chair
scrapped against the hardwood floor as she stood after her mom, “I will. But
I’ll be onto another project, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” she agreed, a slight
smile touching her lips. “I’ve got this, honey. You go do what you want to.”
“Are you sure?”
“Just don’t stay out there too
late, it’s still pretty chilly for this time of the year.”
Lux excused herself and left,
grabbing her thin dark gray sweatshirt from the coat rack in front of the door
as she went. Outside, the moon illuminated the sky, turning the clouds into
swirls of glowing white. Stars dotted all around, and she paused on the front
steps to stare up at them for a long moment.
She’d never been obsessed with the
sky before, too consumed by her art and the tangible things around her she
could sculpt, but now she found herself drawn to an aspect of the world she
hadn’t been before. She could watch nothing but the sky for hours on end if her
memories would let her.
Of course, if she let her mind
wander for more than a few minutes, her recollections would assault her, so she
was always forced to look away far too quickly for her liking.
Even now, as she turned away and
continued towards her studio she regretted it.
She’d opened the garage door, so
that her entire space was open to the chilled night air. She could see the
yellow light spilling out onto the driveway from the path. She’d left her
drawing propped up on an easel in the center of the room, close enough to the
opening for the toxic fumes to be released. She’d spray it again then have to
return inside for another few minutes to allow these ones to dissipate.
She was already planning out a
sketch she’d do in her room while she waited when she turned the corner. And
came to a halt beneath the raised door.
There’d only ever been four people
in her studio before, including her parents and herself. Sophia had been given
permission and often times lounged on the stool at the wooden table watching
her work. But that had been it. Her family and her best friend.
Her brain struggled to register the
intruder, as if it was too confusing a concept for her to even grasp.
He was tall, the top of his head
reaching the top of her easel in fact. His hair was dark brown, slightly curly
at the ends and hung just past his ears. His back was too her, and she got a
good look at the corded muscles there, just beneath the stretched material of
his black t-shirt. He was wearing skinny jeans in the same color, and bright
green high top converse.
He was looking at her charcoal
piece, staring at it really, and obviously hadn’t heard her approach.
Suddenly, the night around her
seemed very cold, the darkness bleak. It was as if the world stretched around
her, infinitely vast, terrifying, and her studio was a beacon, filled with
warmth and purpose and hope.
Which was ridiculous, and a notion
that only managed to piss her off.
“What are you doing?” her harsh
tone cut across the expanse between them.
He spun on his heels, the rubber of
his soles squeaking. A strand of hair fell over his left eye and he flicked his
head to remove it. His expression was sheepish for only about a heartbeat
before he switched tactics and was grinning at her.
His eyes reminded her of freshly
brewed coffee, warm and inviting. She got the distinct impression he was trying
to cover up his embarrassment at being caught.
“Hey,” his voice was smooth,
“sorry. I saw you out here earlier and got curious.” He motioned across the
street towards the large two story light blue house, as if she didn’t know
where he came from.
The last time they’d spoken, she
was six. A few kids had laughed at her for stumbling during a summersault and
he’d come to her defense. She’d had a crush on him for months after that, but
he’d quiet gymnastics shortly after, cutting any ties between them. Despite the
fact they were neighbors, they both tended to spend their time doing their own
thing, as opposed to hanging outside.
Being that he was also a year older
than she was, they never had the same classes at school so…aside from that one
moment, there’d never been any friendship between them. Which was what made his
sudden appearance so strange.
“This is really good,” he stepped
to the side, exposing her drawing at his back. When it became painfully clear
she wasn’t going to respond he licked his lips and rocked on his heels. “I’ve
seen some of your stuff around school. You’re really talented.”
“Thanks.” Somehow, the single word
managed to break her out of it and she crossed her arms over her chest then,
summoning more of that initial annoyance.
If he noticed the change he ignored
it, instead turning back to her drawing. “So what was that you were doing?” He
moved his hand in front of it, mimicking her earlier movements.
“Spraying it with fixative,” she
answered, heaving out a sigh. Clearly he didn’t intend on going any time soon.
Stepping up to the other side, she felt a renewed rush of pride at how well
it’d turned out. “It’s to keep the charcoal from smudging.”
“That’s pretty cool,” he said,
nodding his head. “Sorry, I don’t know anything about art. Guess I probably
should have kept my curiosity to myself, huh?”
For some reason, she found herself
wanting to ease his embarrassment.
“No, it’s fine,” she rolled her
blue eyes towards the high beamed ceiling. “You just caught me off guard,
that’s all. Sorry I was so rude.”
“Hey if someone invaded my space
I’d probably react the same way,” he told her. “I mean it though, this is
really good. I always see you out here. This is pretty intense.” He moved then,
circling the studio, eyeing everything hanging on the walls and cluttering the
shelves and workbenches.
She felt his interest as if it were
directed at her personally, and she supposed, in a way it was. This was more
than just her space, it was her. She
put so much of herself into her art, and what’s more, there was so much of her
father here as well.
“My dad did that one,” she found
herself saying when he’d stopped in front of a two feet tall sculpture of a
dog. “I asked him for a beagle one year after watching Shiloh and this was what
he came up with.”
“Nice,” he chuckled. “All I got
when I asked for a dog as a kid was a ‘yeah, right’ from my parents.” For a
second it looked as if he wanted to say more, but then he was moving on, past
the sculpture towards a mural painted on the fair right wall.
It took up half of it, and depicted
the ocean filled with tons of different types of sea creatures. She’d done it
when she’d first gotten the studio, and the paint was a little pale and
chipping towards the edges of the walls.
Lux wrung her hands as she watched
his eyes trail from the starfish in the corner up towards the beluga breaching
the surface at the top. It’d taken her almost three hours to complete that one
whale, and she’d been so proud of it afterwards.
“I’m thinking of redoing it,” she
blurted.
She’d been thinking about it for a
couple of months now, and hadn’t told anyone yet.
“Into what?” he asked, pulling his
gaze away from the mural so he could look at her. There was no judgment there,
and he didn’t say what she knew her mom’s response would be: don’t.
“I haven’t settled on an idea for
certain yet,” she told him, “but I was thinking something to do with the sky.
Maybe birds. Or the stars.”
“Either would be cool.” He turned
back to the wall, as if imagining it different. “Yeah, that’d be really cool.
Revamp the space.” He glanced back at her. “I’m always redoing my room. Moving
my amps around and whatnot. Sometimes a new view is the best inspiration. You
know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” she smiled, “I do.”
They stared at each other, both
smiling for a long pause. A breeze blew in, ruffling the ends of his hair,
causing goose bumps to break out over her skin.
His phone chimed in his back pocket
and he glanced away, tugging the device out, already heading towards the open
door. His fingers typed away furiously as he went, carefully avoiding walking
into any of her easels or paint cans without having to look away from the
screen.
“Gotta run,” he told her then,
shoving the phone back into his pocket. “Thanks for letting me look around.”
“Any time.” She had no clue why she
said that.
He grinned and waved and she
watched him disappear down the drive and cross the street to his house. He
didn’t go inside, instead getting onto his motorcycle. He waved again as he was
speeding away and she found herself lifting her hand to wave back.
What had just happened?
She turned to find the eyes of her
charcoal drawing staring straight at her.
“So that was Wyeth,” she told it,
as if the paper had actual ears and could understand her. She clapped her
sweaty palms hard against her thighs. “Right.”
Lifting the can of fixative off the
side table, she sprayed the drawing down and darted back inside. It wasn’t
until she was safely sequestered into the confines of her room that she
realized he hadn’t done the thing that every single person she encountered over
the past few months had.
He hadn’t asked how she was holding
up.
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