Pieces of Me (7 page)

Life was slightly different for Vivian. I sighed. She worried about living to college age or if she was getting enough nutrition in her food or starving to death slowly because of the CF. Cystic fibrosis.
Yeah, just slightly different
.

“Excuse me?”

I should have known. He’d been thinking about art an awful lot lately.

Leif Leolin in an art supply store.
Will wonders never cease? He’s gutsier than I gave him credit for
.

Vivian looked up into eyes the color of lime zest (Pantone 7737) or maybe they were pure grass green (Pantone 15-6437). She knew those eyes, she studied him every time they passed in the halls. Senior star with tragic story—Vivian knew exactly who he was.

Figure out the color later! Stop staring at him and say something
. I wanted to blush in embarrassment for her.
Speak, darn it!

“Uh, hello?” he repeated.

Vivian blanched before turning a brilliant shade of red.
I wonder what Pantone color you are now, Viv?
I felt a grin spread across my heart. I wondered if she felt it in a flutter. “Oh, can I help you?”

Leif slouched, his hands deep into his pockets, and rolled back on his heels. I knew he was nervous and completely shocked by the nerve it took to walk into the store. Once inside, he even forgot what he thought he wanted.

“Are you looking for a gift?” Vivian set her box down and started toward the gift-set section assuming, wrongly, that Leif was there at someone else’s request.

“Uh, no.” Leif pointed toward the watercolor crayons. “What are those?”

Vivian paused and changed direction, recalculating. She recognized the curiosity and spark of delight in Leif’s eyes. “Let me show you.”

Misty slid the mailbox key
into the slot and pulled out the usual daily stack of bills. More doctors she didn’t know were present in her crisis. More surgeons who were there at the hospital during those dark days. More medications she had to take or else. Everyone needed, no … wanted, a piece of her. Their share of dollars she didn’t have. Her parents didn’t have. Despair choked her.

The hall light was out again. Smoke from apartment 3B’s daily burned meal coated the back of Misty’s throat. The stairs reeked of dog poop and old garbage. Unfortunately, the tiny apartment her family shared didn’t smell better, or appear much brighter, on the inside. There was nothing homey about her home.

Misty paused outside the apartment door. Was Papa laid off? Did he keep his job, his measly insurance? Or were the rumors true? Foreign-born workers, even legal ones, were always the first to go.

I hated it here. The smells of humanity living on top of each other. The desperation that seeped from everything. I wanted to shower and forget Misty lived like this. I knew she wanted to forget too. The start of voices arguing forced me back a step. I didn’t want to hear this. Misty stepped forward.

If there was better insulation in the walls, maybe any in the door, Misty might have been forced to press her ear against the metal to hear bits of the conversation going on inside. As it was, all she had to do was stand outside; the yelling was easily decipherable, even in highly accented English. Misty didn’t understand much of her parents’ native language; she refused to acknowledge it on the grounds that her grandmother refused to learn English. So some of the words were impossible to understand for either of us, but the tone was crystal clear.

I cringed. No one needed to speak the language to know they were at it again. Ear-splitting curses, table-pounding fists, and shouted demands. Every time I was here, I left depleted.

Misty wilted further inside herself with each screech. Their neighbors came and went, stepping around her, paying no attention to the commotion behind the walls. Scenes like it seemed to populate every floor of this building.
No wonder she lives at the library on Aston and Edison
.

“…  she’s your daughter too …”

An overused and obviously useless argument by Misty’s mother
.

“How are we supposed to feed the family …”

“They never should have talked us into allowing the surgery.…”

She would have died without the transplant, you idiots
.

“How am I going to find work that pays enough?”

“…  insurance will lapse …”

Misty listened to every word with her eyes closed and her face blank.

Her crazy grandmother shouted encouragement and frankly egged on the fighting. I felt as if this family was spiraling down
the drain with Misty caught in the undertow. With a choked sob, Misty stuffed the mail into her backpack and turned away from the apartment. She headed for sanctuary, and even I relaxed when her feet hit the pavement and left the screaming behind.

Once on Aston Boulevard, Misty used the little-known side entrance and returned the security guard’s wave. They knew her here. No one knew her name, but book people recognized themselves in others and accepted her presence among them. It was as if everyone here understood that covers told them nothing about what happened inside.

Misty kept her head down and wove through the white marble pillars in the grand lobby of the Carnegie Library. Used by several independent colleges in the area, and as a public facility, it cradled the love of words with majestic stained glass and rich, gleaming wood. No chrome, or plastic, or beveled glass. It smelled of yesterday’s lessons and tomorrow’s promises.

The more time we spent here, the more I felt the humble and special appeal it held for Misty. There was peace here. Answers.

Between college kids with their gadgets and tomes of research, and the white-haired before-tech-ers who read printed newspapers and played games of chess, Misty glided silently back toward the historical biography section. Up a short, almost hidden, flight of stairs until she found a landing and the bank of computers she considered her own special place.

Dropping her backpack on the ground, she slid into a massive leather armchair that was surprisingly comfortable. She kept her hood up and her face buried in its folds. She had three more massive volcano zits along her jawline. She sighed, shifting in
her seat as wispy fingers of ache filtered up her ribs and under her abdominal scar.

Logging in, she opened up her email inbox to see if MiracleMan had responded. There were two messages. I felt her surprise. As if she thought her email would be as unwanted by him as her presence was at home. Hope was all she had left and it fluttered faintly. She read his first message and she flipped off the screen in frustration. Think positive? Why was that everyone’s stupid advice?

But then she opened his second message:

Misty’s lips twitched with the tiniest smile as she reread his message ten times. “Total dumb fortune cookie.” Did he understand? Could he?

Better than you think he might. Write him back!
I wondered if I was the only one of us to recognize the much needed lifeline he’d tossed her.

But what was her story? What would she say to him? Would she be honest? I waited, holding my metaphorical breath.

Her screen blinked and there was a messaging request. She clicked for info. “Who is it?”

Samuel aka MiracleMan. Ah, good job, Sammy!

“Wanna chat?” Misty read out loud. Did she? What did he want? What was his angle? Without overthinking it, Misty clicked on the blinking icon.

Why had she asked a stranger? The Internet’s
Daily Miracle
newsman. Misty pictured an old guy, like a loony professor in a suit and never-combed hair. The cursor blinked at her. Waiting.

A wave of intense dizziness squeezed the breath out of Misty’s lungs. Her vision grayed. She breathed through it. Forcing her feet to feel the insides of her shoes, the carpet beneath. Insisting her brain register that she still sat in the armchair. But her fingers curled off the keys and her ears rang with internal screams. The cursor mocked her.

Come on, Misty, talk to him. He cares
.

Misty blinked back tears. Weariness laid heavy hands on her shoulders and shoved her deeper down. She slid bonelessly
toward the earth. Under the far desk caddy, beneath the Russian poets and surrounded by theologians’ and philosophers’ lives etched in words.

Misty huddled in her sweatshirt, tucking her knees against her stomach. No one saw her. No one used this section. She closed her eyes and forced herself to find a place where she felt safe. It was there. Somewhere deep and far down in the dark.

Vivian saw Leif staring up
at one of her most recent pieces, hung high on the studio wall. Mathilda No-last-name. She knew the portrait of this one-hundred-year-old homeless lady was haunting and disturbing. It drew viewers in and didn’t let them go. People either loved it or hated it. Curiosity stroked her forward.

“Hi,” she said, approaching cautiously. Why was he back again today?

Because art is in his blood, he just doesn’t see it yet. And he likes you
. I grinned.

“How’d they do this?” he asked, without looking directly at her.

A common question that no one really wanted details about. “Bunch of different kinds of paints. Layered. Blown through various diameter pipes and straws.” Vivian shrugged before she gave herself away.

“Really?” Leif frowned, as if he was thinking about arguing.

Great, Leif, you sound like she’s making stuff up and you don’t believe her. Way to woo a girl
. I wanted to smack his shoulder, but settled for rolling my eyes. At least thinking I did.

Since it was her work, Vivian felt very comfortable answering him with a smile and incredulous expression. “Really.”

“Oh, sorry, that sounded rude, didn’t it?” Leif rubbed his knuckles. “I’ve just never seen anything like it. I wanna do that.” He pointed.

“That’s, um, difficult to do—” Vivian broke off. How was she going to explain the years it took to master these techniques? She didn’t want to discourage him, but he wouldn’t off the bat be able to paint portraits full of mini pictures—definitely not with blowing. Maybe on the computer with Photoshop.
And plagiarism
.

“I don’t m-mean … obviously … I m-mean,” Leif stuttered. He stopped staring up at the picture, then focused his gaze on his hands while blood crept up his neck. Finally, he made eye contact before his gaze flitted away from hers. He was a doofus when he got nervous. She seemed to like it, though. I didn’t understand why Vivian’s heart continued to tizzy and surge, but whatever. “Can you show me what to do? I mean, what do I use to, uh, ‘blow,’ you said?” His face flushed.

These two spend more time blushing than talking
.

“Now?” Vivian expected him to lose interest and move on. Go back to the gym instead.

“Yeah, can you?” His face lit up.

“Sure.” Part of her job was demonstrating and helping customers with their work, she did this all the time for others. Why did showing Leif seem more intimate and personal? “We’ll start easy.”

She headed toward the back of the studio space. Several painters worked with music blaring only in their ears, others
chatted with each other. This wasn’t the place to work as a loner who didn’t like people.

Leif followed. “Do you, uh, blow?”

Good god, Leif
.

“Paint, blow paint,” he corrected, but Vivian didn’t even acknowledge the double entendre of his words.

Girl needs to watch some Showtime. Mistake #1 for Jessica Chai—thinking there’d always be a next time
.

“Yeah, I know the technique.” She stopped at that.

Why? Tell him that’s yours up there on that wall! Tell him people pay you thousands of dollars to blow. Please? I want to see his expression
.

“Cool.” Leif nodded.

In instructor mode, Vivian commandeered a workstation. “We’ll start with scrap paper and watercolors. It’ll give you a feel.”

“Sure … sure,” Leif answered.

Vivian prepared paints and straws while Leif wandered, observing the other artists. She and Leif obviously struggled for conversational topics any time they were within each other’s range. When she was ready, she motioned him over. “The key is to really just play with how hard you exhale and point the straw in the direction you want the medium to go. Don’t inhale the paint.”

“Can you show me?” Leif looked like a lost little boy.

“Yeah.” Vivian demonstrated several times, making it look astoundingly easy.

“You’re really good at this.” Leif was impressed.

Cassidy heard him and cracked up as she went by, carrying fresh canvases.

“What?” Leif frowned. “What’d I miss?”

Vivian shook her head, trying to get Cassidy’s attention.

“That’s her painting.” Cassidy pointed at the lady’s portrait. “Oh, so is that one. And that one just sold to a guy in Iman or Iran or—”

“United Arab Emirates. Thanks, Cassidy.” Vivian swallowed.

“Oh, that’s right. No problem.” Perky and undisturbed, Cassidy returned to the front of the store.

Leif froze in his chair. His leg fidgeted under the table. He hated feeling stupid.

Vivian hated the ugly silence (Pantone 3985) that wedged between their chairs.

“I’m sorry,” Vivian apologized, to break the silence. “I don’t know how to tell people about my work. I don’t want to sound like I’m showing off, or make anyone feel like they need to compare.” She stammered, trying to find words for the colors she felt. “I was afraid—”

“I get it. It’s not like I ever greeted the crowds with a list of my stats. It could be interpreted as rude.”