Impossible Things (13 page)

I nodded. “You should talk to my mom some time. She's an artist.”

“A really good one,” Victoria said. She'd seen a bunch of Mom's paintings at our house. She looked around the table. “You guys should all come to the opening of her art show tonight.”

“Oh, I wish I could,” Felicia said.

“Can't you?”

“No, I have to babysit the little monsters that live next door.”

I shrugged. “That's too bad. Well, come over after school sometime. Next week, maybe?” I had a feeling Mom might be home a bit more now.

Felicia smiled. “Thanks. I'd like that. Maybe your mom would show me some of her paintings.”

Nathan looked interested. “Where is her show?”

“A gallery downtown. It's connected to that coffee shop—the Purple Pear.”

Victoria nodded. “It's the coffee shop my mom works at.”

I looked at her in surprise. “You never told me that. Will she be there tonight?”

“She'd better not be. She's not supposed to work tonight.”

No one said anything. Victoria's face was closed off and her tone of voice didn't invite questions. Finally Joe started talking about something else, but I couldn't stop thinking about Victoria. Why didn't she want her mom to be there? Something was wrong, and I had no idea what it was.

“Cassidy, can you stay behind for a moment?” Ms. Allyson asked, just as the 3:20 bell sounded. She had to shout a little to be heard over the screeching of chairs and slamming of desks as everyone stampeded out of the room.

“Sure.” My heart sank. It had to be about my not-an-art-project.

Ms. Allyson sat on the edge of her desk and crossed her legs. She met my eyes and laughed. “Don't look so worried.”

I pulled my hat down more firmly on my head.

“Nice hat, by the way.”

I stared at her and thought, Get on with it.

She cleared her throat. “I just wanted to have a quick word with you about your art project.”

“You're disappointed, aren't you?” I tried to sound like it didn't bother me. “You hoped I'd be a painter, like my mom?”

“Not at all.” She shook her head, like the idea had never crossed her mind.

“I know my project sucked. I mean, I guess it wasn't really art, right?” I screwed my mouth to one side. “Sorry. I don't think art's my thing.”

She leaned toward me. “Maybe not painting, but your writing is wonderful. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Your writing blew me away. Are you sure you're only twelve?”

“Last time I checked.” My face was on fire. “Um. Thanks, Ms. Allyson.”

“I mean it, Cassidy. You've got heaps of talent.” She shook her head, and her long red curls swung slowly back and forth. “Keep writing.”

I shrugged. “I think I'd kind of miss it if I stopped.”

I was grinning like a fool as I left the classroom. I've always talked a lot—Mom says I was born talking and haven't stopped since—but who would have thought that putting all those words on paper would make me a writer?

Twenty-Three

“Well, I didn't win the art contest,” I blurted out as Victoria and I came through the front door.

Mom stepped into the front hall, looking surprised. “You never told me you'd entered one.”

“Our whole class had to.”

“Our friend Felicia won,” Victoria explained. “I bet she'll come first at the district competition too and win the free art classes.”

Mom was looking at me kind of funny. The house smelled like spices. “Did you make dinner?” I asked, changing the subject.

She took my arm. “Excuse us a moment, Victoria.” She pulled me into the kitchen. A tray of homemade burritos sat steaming on the counter. “Now, would you please tell me what is wrong?”

I blinked furiously. For some stupid reason, I seemed to be crying. “I don't know,” I said. My voice came out all choky.

Mom tilted her head to one side. “Honey, if you want the art lessons that badly, we can afford to pay for some classes for you. You've just never been interested before.”

I shook my head. “I hate art,” I wailed.

“Then what's wrong? Did something happen at school?”

“No, it's just, well, you…,” I trailed off. I felt like an idiot, and Victoria was waiting in the front hall.

“What is it?”

“Mom, are you disappointed?” I blurted.

“Why would I be disappointed?”

I pushed the heels of my hands against my eyes and saw tiny red stars. My throat was aching, and I had to force the words out. “Because you're an artist.”

She looked bewildered. “But that doesn't mean I want you to be one.”

“It doesn't? You don't?”

“No, I mean, I don't mind if you are or not. I want you to be happy. I hope you and Ben both find something to do that you enjoy as much as I enjoy painting. I don't care if that is teaching, or acting, or—or bricklaying.”

“Bricklaying?”

“You know what I mean.” She shook her head slowly and smiled. “You funny thing.” “I ran in to your old teacher today,” Mom said over dinner.

I'd almost forgotten about him. “McMoron? Ugh. I'm glad I wasn't there.”

Victoria giggled. “Me too.”

Mom frowned. “Have some compassion, would you? That poor man. Turns out he's the brother of a friend of mine.”

“Poor man?” I stared at her. “Hello? Poor us, more like. He was awful.”

She shook her head. “Well, he's had reason to be unhappy, that's for sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“He had a terrible car accident a couple of years ago and his wife was killed. And it sounds like he's had chronic back pain since then too.” She looked thoughtful. “That's probably why he was drinking.”

“Mom! Does that mean it's true that he was drunk in class?”

She shook her head. “I shouldn't have said that. I don't really know. But anyway, it sounds like he's doing much better.”

“I hope he's not coming back yet,” I said. “I love Ms. Allyson.”

“My mom used to drink a lot,” Victoria said quietly. “When I was little.”

“She did?”

“Yeah, but she quit years ago. She goes to meetings now. You know, AA.”

I was kind of shocked, but Mom just nodded. “Good for her.” Then she smiled. “Victoria, that reminds me. Your mother called this afternoon. She said to tell you her schedule got changed, so she'll be there tonight after all.”

I glanced at Victoria. Her eyes were wide and shocked, and I remembered what she'd said in the lunchroom.

Mom wasn't looking at her. She was cutting up her burrito, still smiling. “I'm looking forward to meeting her,” she said.

Victoria and I headed up to my bedroom to get changed while Ben and Sydney tried to finish a game of chess they'd started a couple of days ago. I wouldn't play chess with Ben because he took so long to make a move, but Sydney was just as bad as he was.

I rummaged through my closet. “Black and white outfits and no T-shirts with words on, Mom says.” I blew a long disgusted raspberry. “You wouldn't think artists would be so uptight, would you? Aren't they supposed to be more, I don't know—”

“Relaxed?”

“Yeah.” I pulled a long-sleeved, ruffled, white shirt off a hanger and held it up against myself in front of the mirror. “And, you know, Bohemian. What do you think of this shirt?”

“It's nice. I like the buttons on the sleeves.”

“Hmmm.” I tried on a black leather cap and took it off again. “So, how come you don't want your mom to be there tonight? You usually get along okay, right?”

She shrugged and didn't answer.

“I don't get it,” I said. “What's the big deal?”

Victoria bit her lip and tucked her hair back tightly behind her ears. “I'd just rather she wasn't there, that's all.” She picked at a loose thread in the cuff of her pants.

“There's more, isn't there? Something you aren't telling me?”

She looked down at her hand and started winding the thread around her finger. “She just doesn't understand anything. I can't tell her stuff because she'll just freak out.”

“What kind of stuff?”

Victoria didn't answer.

I felt hopelessly out of my depth. “Are you sure you don't want to talk to my mom or someone about all this? Ms. Allyson? I bet you could talk to her.”

She was shaking her head. “Don't tell anyone, Cassidy. You promised.”

I held my hands up helplessly. “Okay. Okay. I won't say a word.”

Twenty-Four

We pulled our winter coats over our black-and-white outfits and piled into Mom's old station wagon. I sat in the front seat beside Mom. She'd put makeup on, and between that and the new hairdo, she looked all glamorous. I wished Dad was here to see her. In the backseat, Ben was squeezed between Victoria and Sydney, talking a mile a minute about some new kind of solar-powered car. I pressed my nose against the window, and my breath left a foggy circle on the cold glass.

Main Street was crazy busy. I walked down here pretty often in the daytime, but everything looked different after dark. Cars zipped by, throwing up a spray of slushy water, as Mom drove slowly past the gallery. All the parking spots right in front were already taken.

“Try Alma Street,” I suggested.

Mom turned the station wagon onto a quiet residential street just past the gallery and squeezed into an empty spot between a blue pickup truck and a small red car. We all got out and walked back around the corner to the gallery entrance. It was so cold, the inside of my nose crinkled with every breath I took.

I nudged Victoria. “Brrr.”

She smiled, but her face stayed tense and anxious. I sighed. I still didn't know exactly what was wrong, but tonight wasn't going to be much fun unless Victoria lightened up a bit.

A purple sign in the shape of a pear and a mug blinked in the coffee shop window. Next door, the art gallery's front door displayed a poster advertising Mom's exhibit. I pushed open the door and stepped into the empty room: high ceiling, hardwood floor and Mom's paintings hanging on stark white walls. Mom ushered us through to the kitchen at the back. On the counter, large trays of tiny sandwiches, cut vegetables and dip, little cookies and squares were laid out.

“Good, the food's been delivered already.” Mom looked at the four of us. “There are smaller trays there so take what you can carry and wander around.”

“That's it?” Ben asked.

She frowned. “Say hello, be friendly, ask people if they would like anything to eat.”

She looked nervous, I thought. She'd had lots of shows before, but I guess Dad was usually there to help with the details. “It all looks great,” I told her. “We'll be fine.”

“Thanks, Cassidy.” Mom met my eyes and smiled. She pointed at a door on the other side of the counter. “That's the coffee shop through there. It's a shared kitchen. They close in an hour and will be back here to put things away. Make sure you stay out of the way.”

“It's just my mom,” Victoria said.

Mom smiled. “That's right. I'll just pop through and introduce myself.” She disappeared through the door, and I watched it close behind her.

“Come on,” Ben said. “Let's get ready.”

Victoria turned and started silently arranging tiny sandwiches on a tray. I opened my mouth to ask her what was wrong, then closed it again. Whatever was wrong, she obviously didn't want to talk to me about it.

By eight fifteen, Mom was pacing around, checking her watch every thirty seconds and complaining that it didn't look like anyone was going to show up. The rest of us stayed in the kitchen. Ben and Sydney goofed off, making up trays towering with cookies.

Ben's cookie tower tumbled and a couple of cookies fell on the floor and broke. “Smarten up, Ben,” I hissed. “Just make up the tray properly. You won't be able to carry it if it's piled up like that.”

He picked up the broken pieces and took a bite of one. “Mmm.”

“It's more efficient to pile the food high,” Sydney informed me earnestly. “Otherwise we'll have to keep coming back here to replenish our trays.”

Replenish.
I tried not to laugh. Sydney was so much like Ben.

Victoria ignored Sydney and made a face at Ben. “Gross,” she said. “I wouldn't eat off the floor here. Mom says they have rats.”

Ben's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to say something.

I wasn't in the mood for one of his long speeches about rats and the bubonic plague. “Come on, Victoria.” I grabbed her arm. “Let's go. I think I hear people arriving.”

A few more people trickled in, and then dozens arrived in a great rush. By eight thirty, the room was packed, the coatrack was overflowing and maneuvring through the crowds with the trays of food was an athletic feat. I kept catching snatches of conversation and couldn't resist eavesdropping. It felt funny to hear people talking about Mom's paintings.

A tall, skinny, blond woman with bright red lipstick was oohing and aahing over one of them. “It's absolutely perfect for the living room,” she gushed.

Ugh. I didn't know how anyone could walk in heels that high. I tried to keep my face neutral as I approached, bearing my tray of sandwiches.

“Right above the couch, don't you think?” The woman turned to her companion. He was shorter than her, heavy and balding, with a jutting jaw and a face rather like a bullfrog. “Of course, we'd have to get rid of the rug. The colors would clash horribly. I saw a nice rug last week.”

They were discussing the painting like it was nothing more than a decorating accessory. I felt a bit indignant on my mother's behalf, but I guessed if they were willing to spend the money, Mom wouldn't care why. I held out the tray. “May I offer you something to eat?”

The woman looked down at me like I was pond scum. “Certainly not,” she said.