My Not-So-Still Life (3 page)

I take Nick’s hand and lead him to the snack table, where there’s raspberry fizzy water for us youngsters. I’m tempted to sneak some white wine instead. Escape.

Nick drops my hand and pours us each a paper cup of the fizz, and we look at the work on the walls. I keep my back to Jewel, but it’s like he’s true north to my body’s compass. I sense where he is.

I try to focus on the moment, the way Nick can. Breathe. Sip.

The first photo we check out is of the Fremont Troll, a
sculpture that lives near Jewel’s house. It’s all big and creepy and weird. That’s what he loves about it. Me too. This photo is a close-up of the troll’s eye, a hubcap.

We drift to another photo. A snail’s head. Black-and-white.

There’s something gorgeous in that snail. I stare.

“Wishing you had a shell to hide in?” Nick asks.

“That would be nice.”

“Come on,” he says. “You don’t cower.”

He’s right. “I’m gonna go say hi.”

As I step toward Jewel, he breaks from his group to meet me. If I could fall into his arms right here, I would. In front of everyone. In front of Alice.

“Nice stuff,” I say.

“Glad you like it,” he says. “Your hair looks awesome. Doing the walk tonight?”

I touch my hair without wanting to. Smile. He knows I do the walk every month. We’ve done it together. I nod. “And meeting a friend.”

He knows Nick is gay, but maybe he’ll think the friend is another guy. Maybe he’ll think I’ve fallen for someone else.

“Gotcha,” he says. “Thanks for stopping by. Have a good night.”

“I will.” I turn and go out the door with Nick.

It kills me that no night without Jewel will ever be as good as the few we spent together.

*   *   *

Nick and I get to the gelato shop before Holly. I send him in to grab a table while I wait for her outside, leaning against the brick building and watching the neighborhood breathe.

Lots of people are out tonight, strolling with dogs, doing the art walk, browsing the shops, eating at the Thai restaurants, and starting to crowd the bars. The sun is low, but the sky’s not completely night-black. Some blue survives.

I relax to the music of car engines and car tires and car doors as people get out and join the night. I don’t know how I’d ever survive living anywhere but the city. Everywhere else is too quiet. In the country, if you stop to think about a boy who broke your heart, you might never get jolted back into life.

Headlights swim past. People laugh. A dog barks. I stand straight: Girl Waiting for a Friend. Not Girl with a Mashed Heart.

Here comes Holly, bouncing. The girl is a true light. She’s got long blond hair and big blue eyes. She’s as perfectly gorgeous as the cliché, classically beautiful and tall in a flowery skirt and a ruffly yellow top under her denim jacket. If she went to public school with me instead of Saint Agatha’s, she’d probably be prom queen.

Her school doesn’t have a prom, let alone a queen. Her
mother thinks dressing her in a uniform and forcing her out of the sight line of boys will keep her pure or something. It’s kind of working. Girl is innocent.

She’s the only person from Ocean Tides I still hang out with on a regular basis; we’ll always be tight at the core.

“Love the pink!” She gives me a hug.

There’s definitely something to be said for the Ocean Tides brand of hippiedom, where we got to go skiing Fridays in the winter and cook lunch for ourselves whenever we wanted, with an oven and using real knives, and where we were encouraged to spend time and energy on the things we were naturally drawn to.

I bet I wouldn’t know anything about Jackson Pollock or Duchamp or modern art if not for Ocean Tides. Holly spent half of middle school in the music room with her cello.

I often wonder how much more free I’d feel if there had been a high school version of our school.

I squeeze her.

Pulling back, she says, “I only have an hour.”

“Inside, pronto.”

We find Nick sitting with a coffee at the table by the back window, perfect for people-watching. Holly waves at him, and he lifts his cup.

We wait behind a family with three kids who can’t make up their minds.

“I’m feeling chocolate tonight,” I say.

“Me too.”

“So how was your week?”

A magazine-ready grin stretches across her face.

“What’s up?”

“Last night was practice for the city youth orchestra.…” Holly’s in three different orchestras, but this smile is so not about the cello.

“A guy?”

“I’m totally crushing.”

“Sweet!” I say. “Tell me.”

“His name’s Wilson.…”

The family’s done paying, and the old guy who owns the gelato shop is standing there in his black T-shirt and orange apron, holding little pink sample spoons. We usually try a few flavors—Holly always dares me to try the weird ones, like rose and persimmon—but tonight’s quick.

“Medium chocolate, please,” I say.

“Make it two.”

We go sit with Nick with our scoops.

Nick opens his mouth, but I say, “Wait! Holly’s telling us about a boy.”

She’s still sparkling. “Wilson. He plays violin. So good. And so adorable! Super-short hair. Cute Harry Potter glasses. And he wears this T-shirt that looks like a Boy Scout shirt.”

“Ironically or earnestly?” I ask.

Nick says, “I know that guy. He’s in my gym class. He’s a junior.”

“Wait,” I say. “Do I know him?”

“Wilson! Brown hair?” Holly asks. “Dimples? The glasses?”

“You’ve seen him around, I’m sure,” Nick says.

“Gah!” I don’t remember him. “I’ll have to keep an eye out.”

“I can’t believe this! I knew he went to public school, but not where. Nessie, why don’t you come to our concert next week? I promise it won’t be too boring,” Holly says. “You too, Nick. It’s on Friday.”

“Not sure,” Nick says. “That’s the start of Superhero Origins Weekend on the SyFy channel. I want to check out the movie lineup.”

“Text me the details,” I say. “I’d love to go.”

Nick’s got a far-off look. “Small city,” he says.

“A nice city, too, but tell that to my mother,” Holly says. “To hear her tell it, we live at the crossroads of Hades and Gotham. Evil.”

“Oh, your mom isn’t that bad.”

“She can be,” Holly says.

“Besides, small places can be evil,” Nick says.

“For example, Gates High,” I throw in.

“Not to mention Saint Agatha’s,” Holly says.

“I’m sure,” Nick says, with a sparkle in his own eye.
“All those girls. Not a single prospect in sight for any of us. Real tragedy.”

“As if we have any prospects now,” I say. “Except for Holly and her Wilson.”

“
My
Wilson. I wish.”

Nick doesn’t say anything. He’s got this thing about how he won’t date until college, or after. He’s not the only guy at school who’s out, but he’s not into any of the others. He says they’re boring.

“So, what do you have going on this weekend?” Holly asks.

“Nada mucho,” Nick says.

“I’ve got my interview tomorrow,” I say. “You guys. Imagine—it would be perfect. My first job. In the art store I’ve loved my whole life. I’d get a discount on all those beautiful supplies. I could make cash
and
hang out at Palette.”

This job would be the first step to my dream: the true life of an artist in the real world.

“You’ll get it,” Holly says.

“I hope so, because Palette’s the only place I want to work, and I need to start earning some cash. I want to save for my tattoo.” They don’t know how much I want to help Mom with bills, too. So she can work a little less and live a little more.

“Like I said. Don’t worry,” Holly says. “A tattoo … Not me. My parents would freak.”

“Grampie has one. A sockeye salmon on his bicep. So he can’t complain.”

Nick asks, “What about your mom, though?”

“We’ve talked about it. She doesn’t like the idea, but what’s she gonna do?” I shrug as I lick my spoon.

They exchange a look. Holly says, “Um, say no? Ground you?”

“I told her I’ll wait till I’m eighteen, but I’m not sure I can.”

“I’m going with you when you get it.” Nick’s excited now.

“Oh, me too!”

“You are both cordially invited.”

Holly and I enjoy our gelato, Nick sips his coffee, and I savor this window of time: there’s art waiting to be seen, I’m with my friends, love’s on the horizon, and maybe a dream job, too.

I’ve managed to push my mashed heart far away from my brain, although I’m not sure it’s a good idea to try and forget a thing like that.

After Holly heads home, Nick and I art-walk for another hour. The glass studio has a show of huge paintings, all at least seven feet tall and wide, abstracts with blues and greens. They look alive. They look as if they’re breathing.

“Kind of like Pollock,” I say.

“Him again?” Nick knows I really love Jackson Pollock. “Will you ever get over that guy?”

“Probably not. He’s pretty much perfect.”

“Except for the extreme alcoholism and the whole being dead thing.”

“Yeah, except for that.”

We keep looking around, and I realize these paintings aren’t actually much like Pollock’s work. They’re much more thought out. Possibly too organized.

The artist is there, holding hands with his boyfriend.

I nod toward them. “No one’s looking at them weird or anything.”

“What’s your point?”

“We live in a city that accepts two dudes holding hands. Doesn’t that make you feel good?”

“Sure,” he says. He turns to look at a painting in shades of turquoise.

“That’s it?”

“What else do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say why you refuse to ever tell me who you like, or to ask anyone out. There’s no reason you can’t have a crush just like Holly. You could meet someone online, I bet. And there are, like, groups who do this kind of thing. Mingling. Art nights. Game nights. Bowling.”

“Bowling?” he says. “Look, this is hard to explain to you because you’re … normal?”

I put out my arms like airplane wings. “Look normal?”

“Okay, but you’re straight. And that’s all you really need.”

“For what?”

“For … I don’t know. For a certain comfort level. To be able to crush-gush over gelato.”

“But that’s just what I’m saying. Holly and I don’t care. The general public doesn’t care. You can gush!”

“The thing, I think, is that once people know you’re gay, they can’t look at you and not think about sex.”

“But you don’t have sex. That’s my point.”

“Yeah, and I won’t until I’m away from people who knew me as a kid. Away from my parents. Until I’m in a place where sexuality is expected.”

“What place is that?”

“College, I guess.”

I snort. “Yeah, no one has sex before college.”

“I’m serious. I’m waiting till I’m ready. And I’m not ready now. For any of it.”

“But when I looked at those guys, I didn’t think about them having sex. I just thought they were adorable.”

“Are you in the habit of envisioning the sex lives of your elders?”

I think about it. “No.”

“See?”

“But I’m not in the habit of envisioning the sex lives of anyone.” Except Jewel and Alice. I wonder …

“But if people come across two high school guys holding hands, they just see them as these sexual deviants and nothing else.”

“Um, I doubt it.”

“Well, I’m not ready to test your doubt. I’m fine on my own.”

The shop is closing, so we head out to the sidewalk. I hold Nick’s hand.

“This conversation is over for now,” I say. “But not for good.”

We ride the bus to the stop by his house.

He bids me good night, with a bow and a flourish.

Jewel encounter and semi-disagreement with Nick aside, it was a decent night out.

When I get home, I open the front door to find Mom cuddled up on the couch with a blanket, reading a thick mystery. She’s wearing her at-home sweats, as opposed to her at-work sweats. The work ones smell like the docks, grimy and fishy. The home ones smell like rain-scent fabric softener. She uses too much of that stuff. I’m glad to do my own laundry.

Airport-style novels are to my mom what I suppose bubble baths are to some people: a way to decompress and escape.

She tosses her book on the coffee table as soon as I shut the door.

I drop my jacket in the tiny entryway, where the beige linoleum tiles mash up against the ancient green shag rug.

I sit down at the other end of the couch, take off my boots, grab a corner of her blanket, and curl up, our feet touching.

“How was your night?” I ask her.

“Fine.” Her curly hair is half out of its ponytail. She’s only thirty-four, but she looks older. She looks so tired. She works so hard.

I have more of a life than my mother. That must be depressing for her.

“Tell me about the book.”

She does, and sitting there with her is the perfect way to end a night. Maybe Nick’s right, I think. Everything doesn’t have to happen right this second.

It’s interview day.

After I shower, I tie a blue string around my wrist and dress in my dark purple netty top with the V, a shiny black tank, and shortish black pleated skirt, full like a cheerleader skirt. Then, my hot pink fishnets—which make the cheerleader thing ironic and which are awesome because they match my hair and it’s finally warm enough to wear them.

I consider doing something all-out with my makeup, like using glitter or drawing on liner like cat eyes. Black lipstick? But I just keep it simple—dark purple on the eyelids, soft pink lips. More professional.

Mom’s at the kitchen table with her tea. She barely looks up as I get my cereal before she says, “That outfit is not appropriate for a sixteen-year-old.” She likes to pretend she’s strict.

“I’m not changing.”

She catches my eye. She looks like a painting as the steam from her tea rises in front of her face.

We’ve had this discussion before. It’s not about my hair. Mom doesn’t mind if I dress “a little bit wild” and “colorfully” but she “will not put up with too sexy.”

“It’s almost summer, Mom. This is totally appropriate.”