I'll Give You the Sun (2 page)

Mom lifts her eyes, the amusement wiped off her face. “Except I don't mean it metaphorically, Benjamin.” Dad used to make Mom's eyes shine; now he makes her grind her teeth. I don't know why. “What I meant quite literally,” she says/grinds, “is that the inimitable Grandma Sweetwine, dead and gone, was in the car, sitting next to me, plain as day.” She smiles at Jude. “In fact, she was all dressed up in one of her Floating Dresses, looking
spectacular
.” The Floating Dress was Grandma's dress line.

“Oh! Which one? The blue?” The way Jude asks this makes my chest pang for her.

“No, the one with the little orange flowers.”

“Of course,” Jude replies. “Perfect ghost-wear. We discussed what her afterlife attire would be.” It occurs to me that Mom's making all this up because Jude can't stop missing Grandma. She hardly left her bedside at the end. When Mom found them that final morning, one asleep, one dead, they were holding hands. I thought this was supremely creepy but kept it to myself. “So . . .” Jude raises an eyebrow. “The message?”

“You know what I'd love?” Dad says, huffing and puffing himself back into the conversation so that we're never going to find out what the freaking message is. “What I'd love is if we could finally declare The Reign of Ridiculous over.” This, again. The Reign he's referring to began when Grandma moved in. Dad, “a man of science,” told us to take every bit of superstitious hogwash that came out of his mother's mouth with a grain of salt. Grandma told us not to listen to her artichoke of a son and to take those grains of salt and throw them right over our left shoulders to blind the devil.

Then she took out her “bible”—an enormous leather-bound book stuffed with batshit ideas (aka: hogwash)—and started to preach the gospel. Mostly to Jude.

Dad lifts a slice of pizza off his plate. Cheese dives over the edges. He looks at me. “How about this, huh, Noah? Who's a little relieved we're not having one of Grandma's luck-infused stews?”

I remain mum. Sorry, Charlie. I
love
pizza, meaning: Even when I'm in the middle of eating pizza, I wish I were eating pizza, but I wouldn't jump on Dad's train even if Michelangelo were on it. He and I don't get on, though he tends to forget. I never forget. When I hear his big banging voice coming after me to watch the 49ers or some movie where everything gets blown up or to listen to jazz that makes me feel like my body's on backward, I open my bedroom window, jump out, and head for the trees.

Occasionally when no one's home, I go into his office and break his pencils. Once, after a particularly toilet-licking Noah the Broken Umbrella Talk, when he laughed and said if Jude weren't my twin he'd be sure I'd come about from parthenogenesis (looked it up: conception without a father), I snuck into the garage while everyone was sleeping and keyed his car.

Because I can see people's souls sometimes when I draw them, I know the following: Mom has a massive sunflower for a soul so big there's hardly any room in her for organs. Jude and me have one soul between us that we have to share: a tree with its leaves on fire. And Dad has a plate of maggots for his.

Jude says to him, “Do you think Grandma didn't just hear you insult her cooking?”

“That would be a resounding no,” Dad replies, then hoovers into the slice. The grease makes his whole mouth gleam.

Jude stands. Her hair hangs all around her head like lightcicles. She looks up at the ceiling and declares, “
I
always loved your cooking, Grandma.”

Mom reaches over and squeezes her hand, then says to the ceiling, “Me too, Cassandra.”

Jude smiles from the inside out.

Dad finger-shoots himself in the head.

Mom frowns—it makes her look a hundred years old. “Embrace the mystery, Professor,” she says. She's always telling Dad this, but she used to say it different. She used to say it like she was opening a door for him to walk through, not closing one in his face.

“I married the mystery, Professor,” he answers like always, but it used to sound like a compliment.

We all eat pizza. It's not fun. Mom's and Dad's thoughts are turning the air black. I'm listening to myself chew, when Jude's foot finds mine under the table again. I press back.

“The message from Grandma?” she interjects into the tension, smiling hopefully.

Dad looks at her and his eyes go soft. She's his favorite too. Mom doesn't have a favorite, though, which means the spot is up for grabs.

“As I was saying.” This time Mom's using her normal voice, husky, like a cave's talking to you. “I was driving by CSA, the fine arts high school, this afternoon and that's when Grandma swooped in to say what an absolutely perfect fit it would be for you two.” She shakes her head, brightening and becoming her usual age again. “And it really is. I can't believe it never occurred to me. I keep thinking of that quote by Picasso: ‘Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once one grows up.'” She has the bananas look on her face that happens in museums, like she's going to steal the art. “But this. This is a chance of a lifetime, guys. I don't want your spirits to get all tamped down like . . .” She doesn't finish, combs a hand through her hair—black and bombed-out like mine—turns to Dad. “I really want this for them, Benjamin. I know it'll be expensive, but what an oppor—”

“That's it?” Jude interrupts. “That's all Grandma said? That was the message
from the afterlife
? It was about some
school
?” She looks like she might start crying.

Not me. Art school? I never imagined such a thing, never imagined I wouldn't have to go to Roosevelt, to Asshat High with everyone else. I'm pretty sure the blood just started glowing inside my body.

(S
ELF-PORTRAIT
:
A
Window Flies Open in My Chest
)

Mom has the bananas look again. “Not just any school, Jude. A school that will let you shout from the rooftops every single day for four years. Don't you two want to shout from the rooftops?”

“Shout what?” Jude asks.

This makes Dad chuckle under his breath in a thistly way. “I don't know, Di,” he says. “It's so focused. You forget that for the rest of us, art's just art, not religion.” Mom picks up a knife and thrusts it into his gut, twists. Dad forges on, oblivious. “Anyway, they're in seventh grade. High school's still a ways away.”

“I want to go!” I explode. “I don't want a tamped-down spirit!” I realize these are the first words I've uttered outside my head this entire meal. Mom beams at me. He can't talk her out of this. There are no surftards there, I know it. Probably only kids whose blood glows. Only revolutionaries.

Mom says to Dad, “It'll take them the year to prepare. It's one of the best fine arts high schools in the country, with topnotch academics as well, no problem there. And it's right in our backyard!” Her excitement is revving me even more. I might start flapping my arms. “Really difficult to get in. But you two have it. Natural ability and you already know so much.” She smiles at us with so much pride it's like the sun's rising over the table. It's true. Other kids had picture books, we had art books. “We'll start museum and gallery visits this weekend. It'll be great. You two can have drawing contests.”

Jude barfs bright blue fluorescent barf all over the table, but I'm the only one who notices. She can draw okay, but it's different. For me, school only stopped being eight hours of daily stomach surgery when I realized everyone wanted me to sketch them more than they wanted to talk to me or bash my face in. No one ever wanted to bash Jude's face in. She's shiny and funny and normal—not a revolutionary—and talks to everybody. I talk to me. And Jude, of course, though mostly silently because that's how we do it. And Mom because she's a blow-in. (Quickly, the evidence: So far she hasn't walked through a wall or picked up the house with her mind or stopped time or anything totally off-the-hook, but there've been things. One morning recently, for instance, she was out on the deck like usual drinking her tea and when I got closer I saw that she'd floated up into the air. At least that's how it looked to me. And the clincher: She doesn't have parents. She's a foundling! She was just left in some church in Reno, Nevada, as a baby. Hello? Left by
them
.) Oh, and I also talk to Rascal next door, who, for all intents and purposes, is a horse, but yeah right.

Hence, Bubble.

Really, most of the time, I feel like a hostage.

Dad puts his elbows on the table. “Dianna, take a few steps back. I really think you're projecting. Old dreams die—”

Mom doesn't let him say another word. The teeth are grinding like mad. She looks like she's holding in a dictionary of bad words or a nuclear war. “NoahandJude, take your plates and go into the den. I need to talk to your father.”

We don't move. “NoahandJude, now.”

“Jude, Noah,” Dad says.

I grab my plate and I'm glued to Jude's heels out of there. She reaches a hand back for me and I take it. I notice then that her dress is as colorful as a clownfish. Grandma taught her to make her clothes. Oh! I hear our neighbor's new parrot, Prophet, through the open window. “Where the hell is Ralph?” he squawks. “Where the hell is Ralph?” It's the only thing he says, and he says it 24/7. No one knows who, forget where, Ralph is.

“Goddamn stupid parrot!” Dad shouts with so much force all our hair blows back.

“He doesn't mean it,” I say to Prophet in my head only to realize I've said it out loud. Sometimes words fly out of my mouth like warty frogs. I begin to explain to Dad that I was talking to the bird but stop because that won't go over well, and instead, out of my mouth comes a weird bleating sound, which makes everyone except Jude look at me funny. We spring for the door.

A moment later we're on the couch. We don't turn on the TV, so we can eavesdrop, but they're speaking in angry whispers, impossible to decipher. After sharing my slice bite for bite because Jude forgot her plate, she says, “I thought Grandma would tell us something awesome in her message. Like if heaven has an ocean, you know?”

I lean back into the couch, relieved to be just with Jude. I never feel like I've been taken hostage when it's just us. “Oh yeah it does, most definitely it has an ocean, only it's purple, and the sand is blue and the sky is hella green.”

She smiles, thinks for a moment, then says, “And when you're tired, you crawl into your flower and go to sleep. During the day, everyone talks in colors instead of sounds. It's so quiet.” She closes her eyes, says slowly, “When people fall in love, they burst into flames.” Jude loves that one—it was one of Grandma's favorites. We used to play this with her when we were little. “Take me away!” she'd say, or sometimes, “Get me the hell out of here, kids!”

When Jude opens her eyes, all the magic is gone from her face. She sighs.

“What?” I ask.

“I'm not going to that school. Only aliens go there.”

“Aliens?”

“Yeah, freaks. California School of the Aliens, that's what people call it.”

Oh man, oh man, thank you, Grandma. Dad has to cave. I have to get in. Freaks who make art! I'm so happy, I feel like I'm jumping on a trampoline, just boinging around inside myself.

Not Jude. She's all gloomy now. To make her feel better I say, “Maybe Grandma saw your flying women and that's why she wants us to go.” Three coves down, Jude's been making them out of the wet sand. The same ones she's always doing out of mashed potatoes or Dad's shaving cream or whatever when she thinks no one's looking. From the bluff, I've been watching her build these bigger sand versions and know she's trying to talk to Grandma. I can always tell what's in Jude's head. It's not as easy for her to tell what's in mine, though, because I have shutters and I close them whenever I have to. Like lately.

(S
ELF-PORTRAIT:
The Boy Hiding Inside the Boy Hiding Inside the Boy
)

“I don't think those are art. Those are . . .” She doesn't finish. “It's because of you, Noah. And you should stop following me down the beach. What if I were kissing someone?”

“Who?” I'm only two hours thirty-seven minutes and thirteen seconds younger than Jude, but she always makes me feel like I'm her little brother. I hate it. “Who would you be kissing? Did you kiss someone?”

“I'll tell you if you tell me what happened yesterday. I know something did and that's why we couldn't walk to school the normal way this morning.” I didn't want to see Zephyr or Fry. The high school is next to the middle school. I don't ever want to see them again. Jude touches my arm. “If someone did something to you or said something, tell me.”

She's trying to get in my mind, so I close the shutters. Fast, slam them right down with me on one side, her on the other. This isn't like the other horror shows: The time she punched the boulder-come-to-life Michael Stein in the face last year during a soccer game for calling me a retard just because I got distracted by a supremely cool anthill. Or the time I got caught in a rip and she and Dad had to drag me out of the ocean in front of a whole beach of surftards. This is different. This secret is like having hot burning coals under my bare feet all the time. I rise up from the couch to get away from any potential telepathy—when the yelling reaches us.

It's loud, like the house might break in two. Same as the other times lately.

I sink back down. Jude looks at me. Her eyes are the lightest glacier blue; I use mostly white when I draw them. Normally they make you feel floaty and think of puffy clouds and hear harps, but right now they look just plain scared. Everything else has been forgotten.

(P
ORTRAIT:
Mom and Dad with Screeching Tea Kettles for Heads
)