My Not-So-Still Life (14 page)

“Those artist people are my friends.”

“Holly’s your friend. Nick. Think about that. Think about us.”

I can’t even look at her.

“You’re due at the school in one hour. I’m dropping you off, and then I’m picking you up and you are not leaving this house for the rest of break. We’ll stop at the hardware store on the way for paint.”

With that, she shuts the door and leaves me feeling once again like I might explode. I can’t handle sitting here quietly.

This kind of energy is what’s gotten me where I am. Which is … where? Noticed for the wrong things, the ones I’m not proud of. My messy insides.

What, what’s
wrong
? I fall back on the bed.

When I got what I thought I wanted with James, I wasn’t ready. I’m nowhere near ready for my own art show, either. I need to face it—I’m not ready. For a lot of things.

What a mess I’ve made.

I call Palette and leave a message for Oscar, telling him I’m sick and won’t be in. When I hang up, I start to cry. I’m glad I don’t have to lie directly to him.

Then I call Nick back and pace my room while we talk. “I’m not allowed to go to the Spring Semi. I’m sorry. I can’t be your date.”

He says, “I don’t really want to go.”

“But, you said …”

“Okay.” He breathes out. “I do want to go. I want to want to, anyway. It would make me feel … normal.”

This again?
“You’re not normal, Nick.… Maybe no one is. Maybe that’s what’s really beautiful in life.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds. I need to practice doing that. Thinking before I say and do things. “You could be right.”

*   *   *

When I get to the gallery room, I see that Alice and Jewel each got ribbons. Jewel won Best Sophomore Work and Alice won Peers’ Choice.

My wall, my bright wall, a version of what I did in the garage that day, is the most alive thing in the room. I could have done better. I’m not nearly practiced enough at spraying yet.

I wasted the chance to show people something good. Something I’d actually put some real thought into, instead of just a burst of energy.

I’m embarrassed looking at it, but painting chalk white over my bolts still feels like erasing part of myself.

Mr. Smith shows up when I’m almost done.

I stop and try to smile. “You’re checking on me?”

He runs his hand through his thinning hair, that way that he does. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“You and everybody else.”

He looks straight at me. That’s one of the things I’ve always appreciated about Mr. Smith. “I think you’ve been looking for yourself, Vanessa.”

“I guess … but not anymore.”

“I’ve noticed changes in you. But I don’t think anyone ever fully knows themselves. If we did, what would be the point of continuing to make art?”

He nods to the wall, where only a tiny bit of my work remains. “Your piece was kind of like a Pollock. I know how much you like him. But it was also kind of a mess, Vanessa.”

“I thought I was breaking out of bounds, just like he did.” Mr. Smith wrinkles his nose. “How was he out of bounds?”

“He was free. To make a beautiful mess.”

“But he still had boundaries.”

I can tell Smith wants me to say something.

I think about it.

And I realize. “The canvas.”

“The canvas. His was big, but it was still there. He still worked in a context.”

“But I wanted … to be beyond that.”

“Do you think that’s possible?”

I’m silent. Trying to think.

“There are always boundaries,” he says. “This time, yours was this wall.”

“But I’m … a continuation of the art. It’s a living thing. It’s me.”

“You’re an artist, yes. But we’re all just people. Did you ever think that maybe we need boundaries, we need the lines?”

I shake my head, looking him in the eye. “Absolutely not. I think people are free. At least, I know they should be.”

“But if we don’t have the lines, how does anyone know where to look? If the whole world was a Pollock painting, then would any of it really look beautiful? He needed a canvas. The lines. So do you.”

I don’t have an answer for that. Maybe he’s right. Maybe art is only beautiful when there’s also not-art.

He picks up a paintbrush to help me finish just as Mom walks in. “Hello, Ms. Almond.”

I start packing up the paintbrush and the tray. She shakes his hand. “Thanks for being here.”

“No problem,” he says. “I hope you’ll let Vanessa consider the summer job with the elementary kids.”

“Duh,” I say. “I’m obviously not the best role model.”

Mom doesn’t say anything.

But Smith goes on, “Oh, I think you can be.” He takes the bag of supplies from me.

“Thank you, Mr. Smith. We’ll see.” Mom is formal.

She’s angry. I want to tell her it’s just a wall. It was art. But I also know it’s not true. It was about wanting to be noticed, too—but not like this. I shake my head. I can’t think about this anymore.

I follow her to her Jeep, and we ride silently home.

I’m still thinking about it the next day.

The spray paint can’t be all bad. It felt too good. Maybe I do need a canvas. Like Mr. Smith said. There’s no rule saying I can’t spray a canvas.

I need to go tell Oscar I’m done. Maye, too. Apologize.

Mom’s in the garden with Grampie. I walk out there, enjoying the damp grass under my bare feet.

“I know I’m not supposed to go anywhere, but I need to quit Palette in person.”

Mom stands up. “I’ll come with you. I need to pick up laundry detergent. We’ll stop at the store.”

“I really think I need to do this alone.”

“I’ll wait outside, but, Vanessa, I mean it when I say you are grounded over this break.”

I have to accept that, I guess. “Let’s go.”

The drive to Palette feels like an important journey. Today I’m stepping back.

I stare at the cherry blossoms lining the block and wonder how I missed them yesterday. I’m paying attention now.

Oscar’s behind the cash register, fiddling with the receipt tape.

I step up and wait for him to notice me.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says.

But I don’t feel like playing around. I hold his gaze, not sure if I should go into details about why I’m quitting. I decide that it doesn’t matter exactly why. He knows enough about me and James. “Thanks for everything, Oscar. I’ve really liked working here, but I just don’t think it’s the thing for me right now.”

“You’re quitting.”

“I’m really, really sorry. I hope I’m not letting you and Maye down,” I say. We’re silent for a moment. “Are you surprised?”

“Not really,” he says. “It’s okay, Vanessa.”

I don’t want to bring up James. But I need Oscar to help me. “Just one more thing.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“You know that calendar?”

He nods again. “Maye will get you out of it. She’ll threaten to pull out herself if James doesn’t get another model to fill in for you.”

Just then, a girl comes through the door in jeans and a black hoodie. She walks up next to me. Oscar continues, “Right? You’ll get Vanessa out of the calendar?”

Maye?
I turn to look. It is her. “Where’s your hair?” Her magnificent platinum dreads are completely gone.

“Took ’em out. Time for a change. They’re just synthetic extensions.”

“Oh.”

I look at her. None of her tats are visible, and her real hair is kind of a mousy blond. But she’s still her. Maybe a little more vulnerable.

I think maybe it is time to shave my head.

Then I think, no. I’d just be doing that for the attention. But it’s time to go more natural with it.

She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’ll personally erase
your shoot from his camera, from his computer. Everywhere. It’ll be like it never happened.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I owe you. Big-time.” What I don’t say, but I know she understands, is that she was right.

I know that now. I’m too young to be in that calendar. Just thinking about people ogling the moments before James and I almost … It’s too much. Too real.

Maye gives me a hug. I walk out of there, a different girl from the one who walked in a few weeks ago hoping to change her life.

I got a change. Just not the one I was expecting.

When Mom and I get back from Palette, and then the drugstore, I carry my bag straight to my bathroom.

I cut the string off my wrist. That’s the last time.

My art can be the statement.

I get out my supplies.

As I work on my hair, saturating every strand, I feel as if there’s an imaginary breeze blowing.

Once I’m done, I find Mom sitting on the couch reading. She looks up. Cracks a smile. “Hey. You kind of look like me with your hair brown.”

“I think so too. I like it.” I settle in, our feet touching on the couch again. “I always thought …” I’m not sure
how to put this. Mom waits. “I guess I always thought that if I looked like this, no one would notice me.”

She laughs. “You are so much more than a hair color, Vanessa.”

When I was looking in the mirror, what I saw was me. A girl figuring things out. A girl with a good family. Great friends. Lots to look forward to. “Do you think things will be different now?”

“Now? As opposed to when?”

“When I was trying to … break everything.”

“You weren’t trying to break anything. Everyone knows that. You just …”

“I got ahead of myself.”

She nods. “What were those lightning bolts about, anyway?”

“I think I just felt like something … I needed to zap it out.”

“You know, Nessie, real growth doesn’t happen in a zap.”

I nod. “It can be kind of sad, actually.”

“Sad?” She puts her book on the coffee table.

“Have you noticed that Grampie’s looking older?” My voice is cracking. “I sketch him. I want to remember him.”

She nods. “Of course you’ll remember him. Yes, Grampie’s getting older. We all are. But he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“But don’t you think it’s sad? Watching someone get
old? Like he’s running out of time.” It’s how I’ve felt about her, too, now that I think about it.

She’s quiet for a few seconds. “Actually, I think it’s kind of beautiful. I had to deal with death young, Nessie. When my mom died, I was so angry.”

I feel my throat tighten.

Mom continues. “But then I realized my life was still going. We all have a life span. Everything does. Maybe that’s what I love so much about the salmon.”

“I’m not following,” I say. I’m still stuck wondering how you ever get over the death of your mother.

“Salmon travel incredible distances. They spawn in high altitudes, in fresh water. Only a few even grow out of the first stage of being an egg. The ones that do spend a few years out in the open ocean. Then they make amazing journeys—hundreds of miles—back to where they were spawned themselves. Pacific salmon, the ones we have here … they all die within a few days or weeks of spawning.”

“But they’ve created the next generation.”

“Exactly. I find comfort in that.”

For a second, I think she means that part of her died when she had me. But it hits me that she’s saying there’s something good in knowing that the cycle continues. That the things that happen out in the wide ocean are as varied as anyone can imagine.

Maybe this is why she likes working at the docks so
much. I bet it reminds her of this belief I never even knew she had.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for making my life so good.”

She smiles. “We did it together, Nessie.”

“Us and Grampie.”

“Yes. But your own life, now, that’s mostly up to you.”

She’s right. I’ll make plenty of decisions in my lifetime. I’ve got so much time left. “What if I said I want to teach those kids this summer?”

“I think Mr. Smith is probably right. You’d be good at it.”

I actually believe her.

That’s enough.

Spring break was quiet. I got to interview for the art camp job. Did some gardening with Grampie.

School on Monday is a blur. People stare at me all day. This time, it’s because I’ve stopped looking like a work of art. Could be the graffiti drama too. Who cares?

“There’s a shock to not being shocking,” I tell Mr. Smith when he asks me to stay after workshop.

“Interesting observation,” he says. “Did you think all art had to be about shock?”

I consider. “Maybe I did.”

“What do you think now? What makes art into art?”

I want to quip, say “I wish I knew,” something like that. But instead I just think. I breathe. “I think … I’m not sure. I think it might … defy definition. But what I know is, I don’t want to stop looking for that definition. I like the way it feels to create.”

He nods. “Another interesting thought. You are becoming a real student of life, Vanessa.”

A student of life
. I like that. “Thanks. And I’m excited to become a teacher this summer, too.”

“Excellent. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The training program starts next week. The elementary school called to say they’d love to have you.” He hands me a schedule. The tardy bell rings. Another class is filling the room.

Mr. Smith writes me a late pass and I walk to gym, glad that I have the teacher training coming up. Glad that I’m going to take the time to learn how to do this summer job well.

When I get my one and only Palette check in the mail, Mom cashes it for me. She keeps most of the cash and writes the check for the blacktop. The rest she hands over. “You did earn it.”

Even though I’m not going to use it, I still owe James for the ID.

I take the money, feeling stupid that I already spent it on something so pointless.

After school the next day, I pedal over to the Vespa shop.

Part of me wants him to be there, and part of me hopes I can just leave the envelope.

It feels like a big moment, but I tell myself: It’ll pass. This is something I have to do. James was never anything but good to me.

He’s there, taking a break, reading the
Weekly
, sitting on the workbench with an energy drink next to him.

“Hey.”

He looks up. “I like the hair.” He smiles, and for a few seconds, I want to sink. But I need to stay clear.