Messed Up (12 page)

I began to say no, but then realized who he was referring to, “Mr. Miller? Yeah, he was my art teacher last year.”

“I’m taking art from him at the Junior College this summer. He’s great, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. Really nice,” I agreed.

“You should come to the class. I don’t think it would be too late to register. It’s awesome. I’m learning so much.”

He went on to describe the class in detail. I tried to listen attentively, but I was distracted by the enthusiasm that seemed to radiate from him. He’s cute, I thought. Conner had blond hair, the kind that turns green after a summer spent in chlorine pools. It was cut short, but still managed to stick out at funny angles. He had blue eyes, but nothing like Levi’s intense blue, more subtle, warm even. When he smiled, you could see it in his eyes. A splash of freckles ran across his tan face. Conner was definitely attractive in what my mom would describe as the
boy
next door
kind of way. The thing is, I couldn’t seem to separate his physical qualities from his personality, both seemed to work together to make him strangely appealing.

For the rest of the night I kept finding myself next to Conner. I wasn’t purposely following him, or him me, but we seemed to always be together; on the same team when we played water volleyball, next to each other at the fire pit roasting marshmallows, in the bathroom together holding Becca’s hair as she expelled every last drop of tainted Kool-Aid into the toilet. I felt so immediately comfortable with Conner, like I’d known him my whole life.

At the end of the night, as people started to leave, Conner helped me drag Becca out to her car. Together we situated her in the passenger seat.

“Thanks,” I said, closing the door on Becca and looking at him, “I hope I can get her into her house.”

“How about I help you and then I’ll drive you home?”

“Really? You don’t mind?” I asked, knowing he didn’t. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t accept help from a virtual stranger, but Conner didn’t feel like a stranger. He seemed like a longtime friend; a friend who I would have helped if the situation were reversed.

“No problem, really,” he said as he headed for his truck, “I’ll follow you.”

We got Becca into her bed without disturbing her mom, who had fallen asleep on the living room couch watching a
Law and Order
rerun on TV.

Conner stopped his truck in front of my house and reached over to give me a hug. For that brief instance, while I was in his arms, I felt as if every muscle in my body released into a place of deep contentment. I wished I could stay like that, but Levi flashed in my mind and I retracted my body.

“
It was nice to meet you, Chelsea,” he said as I jumped out of his truck.

“
I kind of feel like I’ve known you forever,” I said, not stopping to consider how weird that probably sounded.

“
I know what you mean,” he agreed, “I always feel like that when I meet someone who I know is going to be a good friend, which is why I know I’ll see you tomorrow at the art class,” he said smiling.

Maybe you will, I thought.

I had another nightmare that night. This time as I was struggling to climb up the steep hill, it wasn’t Toby I saw at the top, it was Conner. He looked peacefully at me. My body felt desperate to reach him. I knew I had to get to him, to protect him; that the person chasing me wanted to hurt Conner. But just as I reached him, he turned and all of a sudden I wasn’t on the mountain of dripping trash. I was inside a dark house running down a twisting maze of extremely narrow hallways. The further I ran the more constricted the hallway became, the ceiling descended lower and lower, the walls became so narrow that I could feel them rub against my arms. I reached the end of the hallway and it was a dead end. All that was there was a tiny cell, no bigger than a dog kennel. I could feel the man approaching me, his angry steps becoming louder and louder. I knew he was going to lock me in the cell. I tried to scream, but I couldn’t force the sound from my open mouth. And then I felt the pain in my back. The twisting, searing, burning pain, like my body was being split into two pieces at my waist. I jolted up in my bed, looking immediately to the window. It was wide open.

10

My heart went into overdrive as I ripped the curtains back. My eyes scanned the dark, silent street. I don’t know what I had expected to see, but I was completely certain that I had closed and locked my bedroom window, which meant somebody had opened it. Tugging at the back of my consciousness, ever since the last time this had happened, was the possibility that somehow, in some way, Levi was involved. I grabbed my phone, not caring that it was nearly three in the morning, and dialed his number.

The rings are too slow, I thought, they aren’t keeping up with the tempo of my beating heart. On the fourth ring, just before I expected to be sent to voicemail, I heard his sleepy voice.

“Hey Punky, what’s up? Can’t live without me?” his smooth voice was so sweet. I immediately felt my stomach flutter.

“It happened again,” I said, feeling suddenly self conscious for calling him. What did I expect to accomplish?

“What are you talking about?” he sounded confused, annoyed even.

“I don’t know why I’m calling you,” I sighed, “I just woke up from this terrible dream and my window was open. I know I closed it. I locked it.”

“And whenever you are freaked out you automatically think of me?” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“I know. Weird isn’t it?” I said beginning to calm down.

“I wish I wasn’t so far away, I would come over and chase the demons out of your room myself.”

“My hero,” I said, smiling to myself, “But what do you think I should do about the window thing?”

“Hmm… Maybe you should come up with a better excuse to lure me to your room,” he said.

“Shut up! That’s not what I’m doing. I’m serious Levi,” I said, a little annoyed myself now.

“Chelsea, settle down, I was joking. Do you want me to send Bryce over to check things out?”

“No.” That’d be fun, Brace Fanning at three in the morning. No, thank you.

“Listen. I know you
think
you closed the window…”

“Locked it,” I interrupted.

“Okay, I know you think you
locked
your window, but it is possible you’re wrong. Or maybe your parents opened it after you went to sleep. Be logical. Would someone really come into your room in the middle of the night just to unlock your window?” his tone was wavering on the brink of condescension.

“Fine,” I said, “But if you find out I was murdered in my sleep…”

“You can say ‘I told you so’,” he finished my sentence, “Okay, here’s what I want you to do. Close your window, and lock it.”

I did as I was told, “Okay.”

“Now, your bedroom door. Close it and lock it.”

“Done.”

“Get back in bed and turn off your light,” I could picture him finding this whole routine hilarious.

“Okay, I’m in bed.”

“Light?”

“Off.”

“Okay, now slowly and seductively take off your shirt.”

“Did I tell you that you suck?” I asked, giggling.

“I was just beginning to enjoy myself,” he replied, “Do you want me to talk to you until you fall asleep?”

“Would you?” I asked quietly.

“I would do anything for you, Chelsea,” he whispered.

I’m not sure how long he talked to me, but his level voice eventually lulled me into a deep and, thankfully, dreamless sleep. When I woke up in the morning, I found my phone still pressed to the side of my cheek. I wondered when the impressions of number keys would finally fade from my face.

I called to check on Becca. She was overly thankful for my discretion in getting her home without arousing suspicion from her mother. Apparently, Milo was worse off then she had been and was extremely apologetic for not being more careful with the alcohol situation at his party.

“He feels so bad for making me sick,” she said, gushing.

“Well, he didn’t exactly force feed you,” I pointed out.

“Still, isn’t it cute that he feels bad though?”

“Yes, guilt is certainly an attractive attribute,” I agreed sarcastically.

“Thanks again for helping me.”

“You should really be thanking Conner. I couldn’t have carried you by myself. You’re heavier than you look.”

“Isn’t Conner the best?” she said enthusiastically.

“He seems like a really nice person,” I answered seriously.

“How committed are you to that Levi guy?” she asked conspiratorially, “I seriously think you and Conner would be perfect together!”

“Pretty committed,” I replied, dashing any hopes she had of being a matchmaker, “But I do hope Conner and I can be friends. I think I’m going to take that art class with him.” I hadn’t realized until that moment that I had every intention of showing up to the class.

“Sounds fun,” she said indifferently, “Maybe you’ll change your mind about Conner.” Maybe I will.

I had to work at the yogurt shop that afternoon. It was my first shift where I was all alone, and I found it to be pretty nice. The mall was quiet, so I spent most of the time sitting on a stool reading a book of short stories by David Sedaris. I served a grand total of seven customers, one being Levi’s friend Noah. He’d come by looking for Bryce and I talked him into a chocolate yogurt with peanut butter cup topping. I tried, unsuccessfully, to elicit conversation from him, but his monosyllable speaking style quickly became tiresome, and I gave up. Bryce’s little sister, Sophie, came to relieve me of my duties at five, giving me just enough time to shovel a six pack of McNuggets down my throat before driving over to the J.C. for the art class.

I had never taken a class at the Junior College before, and I felt very mature walking into the ivy covered art building. The people who passed me in the hallways looked so grown-up. I wondered if they thought I was a lost child looking for her mommy. I tried to stand up straight, to look more confident. Just before I found the classroom, I heard Mr. Miller’s voice. He was describing the process of wet-on-wet watercolor.

I walked into the large, light room hesitantly. Mr. Miller paused to smile at me, and directed me with a nod of his head to a seat next to Conner. I felt my body relax as my eyes met Conner’s smiling, kind face. It was exactly like walking into a party full of strangers and discovering your best friend was already there waiting for you. I took my seat and tried to concentrate, like a good college student should, on the technique that Mr. Miller was describing.

After he was finished, everyone got to work on painting a still life of a vase full of blue and purple hydrangeas.

Conner leaned over, “Hey Chelsea, I’m glad you made it.”

“
You predicted I would,” I pointed out.

“
True, but my predictions aren’t always accurate,” he said concentrating on his pencil sketch of the flowers.

I got to work too, carefully drawing the flowers. I felt my mind relax into the task. Unlike my high school art class, where I was self-conscious about taking it too seriously, here that was the expectation. My mind, usually over-analyzing and never quiet, became immersed in the process, almost still. Mr. Miller put on some music, probably Bach or Beethoven or one of those dudes that are supposed to make you smart and creative.

I was finishing my pencil sketch and beginning to work with the watercolor paints, when Mr. Miller reached my seat, “Hi Chelsea. I was glad to hear from Conner that you would be joining this class,” he said looking sincere.

“
Thanks. I’m enjoying it already,” I replied pleasantly. Poor Mr. Miller, I thought, how he must dread leaving the sanctuary of higher education to slum it with the kids at Montecito High.

“
Nice flowers,” Conner complemented me, “They look so light and airy.”

“
Yes,” agreed Mr. Miller, “You have really captured the buoyancy of the hydrangeas. Keep that intention in mind as you apply the paint.” I wasn’t sure that
intention
had been all that
intentional
, but I appreciated the sentiment, non-the-less.

I glanced over at Conner’s painting, and felt myself blush. He had taken a completely different approach to the assignment. Rather than painting the flowers alone in their vase, as I had, he’d chosen to paint me looking at the flowers. The expression I wore in his painting was of complete concentration. I was the subject of the painting; the flowers practically disappearing in the background.

“
Shouldn’t you have gotten my permission first?” I asked.

“
Probably, but I wanted to capture that look on your face, where you seemed so entirely absorbed,” he said looking critically at his painting, “I think I did a pretty good job.”

“
Not bad,” I conceded, “But I hope you don’t mind if I destroy it after class.”

“
You can do whatever you want with it. It’s you, so therefore it’s yours,” his smile lit his face, before he went back to adding a few last details to his painting.

The three hour class sped by, and suddenly it was time to leave. Conner and I walked out together laughing about the nude model that would be the subject of our next still-life. I made him promise that he wouldn’t draw the look on my face as I was sketching a naked person. I didn’t think that expression would be one I’d like to have preserved in black and white charcoal.