Afterlife (Second Eden #1) (5 page)

Amber groaned.
Not this again
.
 

Jason chuckled. “Close them tight!”

Mr. Engel slapped Jason’s shoulder. “You shush. Amber Blackwood, close your eyes so we can
work
.”

Amber gripped her paintbrush and obeyed, sealing her eyes from the world. She felt Mr. Engel slide behind her. Slowly, his hands gripped her forearms. His palms were rough and cracked, dry as sandpaper and lumped with callouses.

“Now paint,” he murmured.

“But there’s not even paint on my brush. I can’t even see the color.”

“This isn’t about technique and its not about making something pretty. It’s about acknowledging what’s within you and bringing it out. It’s about giving your soul a voice. I’m going to move your hand over the pallet. You place your brush where you think it feels best, and that’s the paint you’ll use.”

Mr. Engel gradually positioned her hand to the side. Amber bit her lip, and her brows pinched together. She wanted to crack an eye to find the right paint. There were so many colors on the palette, so many thick, oily blobs. She wouldn’t pick right. She’d pick ugly. She’d—A twinge twisted her heart, and she plunged the brush onto the pallet.

“Good,” Ben whispered. “Now I’m going to move your brush toward the canvas.”

“I don’t know what to paint. I really don’t.”

“Don’t paint a thing. Paint a feeling. No apples. No trees. No vases or other silly things. Just paint what’s within you.”

But what was within her? Amber listened to her breath and delved deep inside her mind. Earlier that morning, her mom had finally texted from her basecamp in Borneo. She told Amber she landed safely and but would go off the grid for the next few weeks and that she couldn’t wait to share the pictures of all the wonderful things she would film. No mention of Toby polluted her cheery message, but his name is all Amber saw while she read the words.

Chris hadn’t bothered calling since Toby’s birthday. Her dad? Hopefully he was having fun wherever he lived. Nobody knew for sure.

A fire flared in her heart, and she clenched her teeth into a wall. With a quick jab, she swiped the brush over the canvas. The stretched material bent inward from the force. Mr. Engel’s hands rested on her arms, but they didn’t hinder her strikes against the canvas. They protected her from the world beyond them, reassured Amber that this was her space and no one else’s.

The ripe stench of wet paint accosted her nose. Everyone in her life ran: her mother, father, and brother. Every single one of them. No one remembered Toby. Nobody wanted to show Toby they still cared. They hid from his memory. They feared it. Why? He was part of their family—their
family
—and they just abandoned him because he died.
 

He drowned, and they left him. She left him.

Wet heat lined Amber’s eyelids. She could have saved him. They were just playing. At eight and nine, they were just little kids. They couldn’t have known better. They had played explorer hundreds of other times. Toby should have known the pond was too deep and too wide. Even then, he went swimming just a few days before that at the public pool. Why didn’t he swim out of the pond?
 

The memory flared in painful colors.
 
Spindly trees with ashen trunks crowned by fluttering emeralds circled a glassy pond. Her shoes crunched on the tall reeds as she called Toby’s name. Mud bubbled around her feet, water seeping into her white socks. Mom would be so mad about her socks, but she had to find her little brother. She called his name, but he wouldn’t answer. He was always too good at explorer. He would always try to go places they’d never been before.

Grasses tinged the green of an old glass bottle appeared beneath the shallow water. A mild current teased the blades like a breeze might if the pond hadn’t drowned them.
 

She called Toby’s name again. No answer. Her gaze, fixed on her shoes, drifted toward the deeper waters until they settled on a point in the center of the pond. Something floated there. Someone.

Toby
, she whispered.

Amber’s eyes snapped open. She recoiled from the canvas, but Ben’s arms went rigid and kept her still. “Good, Amber, good!”

“Get off me!”

She wrenched out of his grasp, and her chair crashed onto its back. The low murmurs and hushed giggles peppering a room of bored classmates died. All eyes turned to her.

Amber swallowed despite her sandpaper throat. She brushed her hands down her shirt and blinked. Tendrils of her hair plastered her cheeks. She brushed an errant strand behind her ear and forced a nervous chuckle. “Sorry, I, uh, thought I saw a spider.”

Those eyes turned away. The conversations revived, and the giggles were given new life. What tension weighed the air evaporated as Jason plucked her seat off the ground. “You okay?”

She nodded and slid into the chair. “Sorry, Mr. Engel, I could’ve sworn there was a spider on me.”

Mr. Engel had his sharp elbow cradled in a hand while a finger slowly slid over his chin. “
Mmhmm
.”

Amber couldn’t see his eyes through the smudged portholes of his glasses, but she could tell he looked past her, behind her.
 

Jason leaned to her shoulder. He, too, stared behind her. “You did that with your eyes closed?”

“It’s awful, I know,” she said, swinging around to see her disaster of a painting.

When she saw the canvas, she reared back. “I made
that
?”

“You did,” Ben said.

“Maybe I need to start closing my eyes,” Jason added. “That’s some fierce shit.”

Mr. Engel cleared his throat. “Jason.”

“Sorry, sorry, but it is!”

A tempest of blues swirled around the canvas, focused on a central point. Heavy arcs and spirals gave it dimensions and layers and depth she’d never achieved before in any of her other works. Looking at the vortex on the canvas, the blues almost moved around that point, as if it drew them in like water down a deep, deep drain.

“Very good, Amber,” Ben muttered. “Very good indeed. Your soul has quite a bit to say to the world. You should let it out more often.”

Jason pointed toward the center. “Kind of looks like something don’t you think? There, in the swirls, if you look just right.”

Amber narrowed her eyes and slowly leaned toward the painting. She turned her head to an angle as she did and stared unblinking at her creation. A faint outline appeared, hardly noticeable at first but clearer the closer she came. A jaw. A brow. Eyes. A mouth, open in a cry, or maybe a scream.

“It’s nothing,” Amber said, leaning back.

Jason mirrored her movement and threw his arm around the chair’s back. “Really? It kind of looks like a face to me.”

“I think you’re reading too much in to it,” she shot back. “Stop critiquing my work and paint your own masterpiece.”

“Okay, okay.” He rolled his eyes and turned to his canvas. “Still, it’s really good.”

Ben muttered in agreement as the bell rang. Amber bolted from her seat and swung her bag over her shoulder in a single, smooth motion. “Ready?”

Jason pitched from his chair and followed her toward the door. She clasped the knob, preparing to yank the door wide when a strong grip on her shoulder stopped her. “Hold on, Amber,” Ben said. “You know you have a project due, correct? This class is for more than just playtime. You’ll need an acceptable grade if you want your college credit.”

Amber sucked in a breath through her nose and nodded. Jason shrugged.

“Might you want to know what that project is?” Ben asked.

“Yes, Mr. Engel—Ben,” she replied.

“Good. While you paint beautifully, I’m interested in seeing what that soul of yours might say when worked on something with more … depth. Class,” he bellowed, halting the flow of students heading for the door. “You have one project and the entire semester to work on it from now until finals. I want you to create a painting of something meaningful to you, using ordinary things that have meaning to other people, and not you.”

“That’s all? That’s easy,” Jason smirked.

“Unless it’s obvious you half-assed it, Jason. I’m looking for emotion and I’ll have you know I’m quite good at spotting a fake. You’ll have to go before the class to defend your piece, explain what it means to you and how it makes you feel. Then you’ll need to give me references from the people you used, so I can independently confirm that they are truly strangers, and not your mothers and fathers.”

A spattering of annoyed gasps and groans bubbled through the crowd. Mr. Engel clapped his hands and waved toward the door. “Art is all about vulnerability, so be vulnerable! Good day, students, good day!”

Jason threaded his arm around Amber’s and tugged her into the hallway. “Be vulnerable, Amber, vulnerable,” he muttered in a voice that poorly mimicked Mr. Engel’s.
 

Amber chuckled as they wove in and out of underclassmen. “It’ll be easy for me. Since my family’s MIA and all I have is you, finding some stranger’s junk will be a breeze.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen. We’re art geeks, remember? The auditorium is in the South Hall.” He cleaned dried paint from his knuckles and huffed a sigh. “Amber, I can’t wait to move to New York. We’ll learn about real art and be real artists. Then you can sell mounds of smashed bricks or something weird like that for a couple grand a pop. Just don’t wear all black, cut your hair into an awful bob, and talk about how existential you are to a bunch of overpaid stock brokers.”

“That sounds awful. I look horrible in a bob. Still, if it got me out of Portsmouth….”

“We’ll get out of this town soon enough. Don’t you worry about it.”

She squeezed his arm. “I know.”

The wall of tightly-packed uniforms barely registered as they turned the corner. Amber latched onto Jason’s shoulder and swung him to the side as her eyes met the students marching lockstep down the corridor.
 

Her heart dropped a little then, even though she managed a smile. The uniforms stopped their steady pace and angled toward Jason and Amber. Five girls stood before them, five grinning, plastic faces framed by hair streaked with shades of blond.
 

The girl in the center stepped forward, her eyes lighting up with hollow delight. “Amber? Oh my gosh, it’s so great to see you! I’ve been looking all over for you. Where were you yesterday? We missed you in Lit.”

Amber pressed her back against the lockers and forced a smile. “Hello, Tiffany. I’m sorry, I, ah, I had other things to do. Didn’t feel like going to school.”

Jason sucked in his breath. “Why’re we even talking to this basic—”

“Jason!” Amber snapped, and his lips slapped shut. Amber turned her attention back to Tiffany and broadened her smile. “I’ll be there today.”

Tiffany Holt was a blonde beast, a lioness that prowled the halls of St. Luke’s with little fear of any others. She owned every tile of linoleum, knew every teacher’s first and last name, muscled her way into being the soccer and tennis team captain, and ran for class president—unopposed. Not a single wrinkle marred her starched uniform, the shirt of which she kept unbuttoned low enough to tease and high enough to avoid the infraction. A silver cross hung over her chest and shimmered in the fluorescent light.
 

“I’m glad to hear you’ll be there! You’re so lucky I was there to calm Ms. Calloway down about it. I probably couldn’t stick my neck out for you two days in a row.” Tiffany bounced onto the balls of her feet and held up a finger. “I’ve was looking for you, Amber, because we really need more seniors in the Faith Leadership Council. I thought you’d be perfect to join.”

Amber tightened her jaw and swallowed. With her back to the lockers and the wall of Tiffany’s friends before her, she had nowhere to go in the stuffy, hot hall. “Honestly, I’m not really a church person. Going to Mass here is enough for me.”

Tiffany puckered her lips. Her hand shot out, and before Amber could react, she was playing with the strands of Amber’s hair. “Oh gosh, I know. They say you’re not even Catholic. But don’t worry, you don’t even have to be Catholic to join. The FLC really isn’t all that bad, plus it’s a great way to get to know some of the other girls. You’ve been going here for so long and nobody really like, you know,
knows
you. You’re just some kind of shadow that floats around here and there. Kind of sad, right? You don’t want to be sad, Amber. Do you?”

Jason stuck a finger in his mouth like he was about to puke. Tiffany’s smile flattened, and she angled between him and Amber. Her fingers tightened around a lock of Amber’s hair. “You’re so pretty, did you know that? I bet you’d be stunning if you ever tried doing anything to your hair or wore a little makeup.”

Amber winced at the words. The girls behind Tiffany noticed, their lips quivering as they struggled to hold their snickers in their throats.

“Thank you for the … compliment? I just haven’t been in the mood to do anything,” she said, suddenly hyper-aware of the wrinkles in her uniform.

“What, since freshman year?” Tiffany slapped her hand on Amber’s shoulder. “Just come to one FLC with me. You totally won’t regret it. It’s a safe place, a place where you can talk about anything and everything.”

“What do you mean?”
 

“Oh, well, you know….” Tiffany arched her brows and leaned forward, looping the strand of hair she held behind Amber’s ear. “
Things
. It’s okay if you’re a lesbian. No one cares. You can come out and still find Christ.”

“I … Why are you talking to me about this?” Warmth blossomed over her cheeks, and she pushed Tiffany’s hand away from her. “I’m not going to join the FLC. It’s not just my thing, and I’m not a lesbian.”

Tiffany’s smile soured. “Then would you stop being the weird girl for once? I’m giving you the opportunity to be something cool for once in your life. Just take it!”

“What’re you getting at?” Jason asked Tiffany. “There’s only one girl here obsessed with another girl, and it’s not Amber. Take your judgment somewhere else. Bye now.”

Tiffany’s friends collectively gasped.
 

She shot a poisonous glare at Jason, jerking her hand off Amber’s shoulder. “Why are
you
talking to me? You’re just some pathetic sideshow who desperately wants to be cool and you think being a flamer gets you noticed. Guess what, Jason? Nobody cares. Just. Go. Away.”