Simon Says (25 page)

My smile turns into a grin. "Come on."

Adrian hesitates a moment then nods. We walk back down his hallway, side by side, and he smiles or jokes with students as we go by—not just strange feces to him, but people he's taken the trouble (
risk
) to know. We cross the quad to my studio building, climb the stone stairs, reach my locked door. I undo the hasp lock, heft it for a moment, then slide the key into its slot and lean around the corner to toss the pair of them down the stairs. Let someone else lock themselves away from life.

Adrian pauses in the hallway. "Charles—you don't have to—"

But I do. Graeme asked me,
What do you want, Charles? It must be wanting something, knowing what you want.
And Adrian just told me,
Pretty soon, you're not asking
how
can I any longer, but
who else
can I play it for.
To me that translates into: Who else can I show? This is what I want—what I've always wanted, even though I hid from it for so long. To show my paintings. To whom? To my friends, to start with. To Adrian.
What did you really want, Graeme? I think you wanted to make a difference to people when you wanted to show them new ideas, new perspectives—maybe you became a writer because your mother told you to, but what you chose to do with your writing was up to you. And you did make a difference—to me.

I push open the door. "Come in."

And then I stand there watching him. I've only felt this way—this mixture of hope and fear and joy at being me—once before, for real, when Graeme stood where Adrian is now. But Adrian's expression is different. He doesn't look astounded; he looks like he's come home, like he belongs here. I realize I'm going to paint him. I want to capture the rusty halo of his hair.

"And this is only the beginning," I tell him.

He looks up, smiling, from the painting of the figure striding beneath the cluster of restless birds. "What next?"

"I'm going to show them, and sell them—well, if anyone will buy them." Then—"Except one. The cityscape."
I remember Graeme's face, gazing at it His key. "That one's bought and paid for."

Adrian's smile dims, and he looks away. Perhaps my outburst this morning still hurts him. Perhaps you have to earn forgiveness over time. I'm willing to do that.

He turns to the draped easel and lifts the cloth, revealing the unfinished painting of the shadow on the parapet Cocking his head to one side, he studies the abyss that waits below. Somehow I couldn't force the shadow to ML "Graeme was wrong to try to make you responsible for his decision, whatever actually happened," he says quietly. "We all make choices along the way toward figuring out who we really are, but we have only ourselves to blame if the choice is a mistake. Usually we can try to make up for it"
I will,
I promise myself, and Graeme's spirit.

Adrian nods toward the painting. "If the shadow crashes, he gives up on the future. Graeme chose to give up, and it was a horrible mistake that he can't undo." Then he turns to me. "But I don't think this one's giving up. I think he's going to soar through the clouds and come out the other side." He pauses. "And whatever Graeme may have written to you—he didn't make his choice because he saw these." He sweeps his arm around the studio. "Your paintings are a promise of
life,
not death."

My voice sounds choked as I tell him, "The cityscape—it was a long time ago." I clear my throat, realizing the truth in my words. "He was blown away." But Adrian isn't—he's the one whose vision has always been
true, even truer than my own. I'm grateful to him for echoing my conclusions about Graeme—and even more grateful for his faith in my future. "When you see one that speaks to you, it's yours." I grin at his expression of delighted surprise, and start out of the studio. "Well, you were the one who showed me what Simon Says really was, the only one who knew."

"But I said you didn't need to play." He looks puzzled when I glance back.

"You told me an artist would be Simon, doing the saying," I remind him. "I think..." I pause, working it out in my mind. "I think some people know who they are and what they want out of life, but others aren't sure. They're going to look for somebody to tell them what to do, or tell them who they are. And not all of them are artists," I point out ruefully. "I can testify to that" But I didn't have to let the kids and teachers chase me away. I didn't have to strike out with my sketches. That was just another way of crippling myself.

I go on, "I think we need a lot of Simons, offering lots of different options. If somebody who isn't sure of himself hears only one Simon saying what to do, then he'll do it But if he hears a lot of them, then he's forced to choose the option that feels right and hell start to find himself."

Now Adrian grins. "Come on, Charles. With these paintings shouting so triumphantly, do you really think anyone's going to listen to any other artist Simons?"

"They'll listen to them. But maybe they won't decide to do what they say."

I feel so incredibly full of life that I'm bouncing off the walls. How did I ever manage to stay inside this room for so long?

"I've got to get out of here—there's so much to do." I gesture at the images surrounding him. "You take your time."

Smiling, he flutters the fingers of his right hand in a cheerful wave and turns back to the paintings. I no longer wonder why he acts like that Adrian knows who he is, and he isn't about to reflect anyone else's expectations. Good for him. "I'll see you later," I promise.

As I hurry down the tiled hallway, through the press of strangers I suddenly wish I'd taken the trouble to get to know, I imagine Adrian's pleasure when I tell him that I want to paint him. And I wonder which painting he'll pick for his own.

I head for the student center, knowing the offices will be open. I can feel a grin stretching crazily across my face.
I'm going to show my paintings!
Then I catch sight of the bank of phones in the front hall. I grab the receiver and make a collect call. I can't stop smiling.

Not the machine this time, or my mother's office—where I'll hear her guarded, cautious voice shying away from my paintings because I haven't made her look at them, only feeling safe talking about my grades, about her college hopes for me, about the future she wants for a son who conforms to her image. Instead, I call my father's office—where I'll find a parent who's at least trying to reconcile my art with the dreams he's had for his son.
You can't give up, and you can't give in, can you?
His secretary accepts the charges.

"Charles—what's wrong?" My father's voice is tight and sharp. I can picture him standing at his desk, his face drawn with worry, staring at the painted football receiver straining for the ball in defiance of the defenders who want to crush him.

"Nothing. Not a single thing. Not now." Surely he can hear the grin in my voice. "Dad—I want you and Mom to come to Whitman when the semester's over."
They'd wanted to take me here last fall, but I wouldn't let them. Will they come now?
"I want you to meet my friends."
I want you to meet Adrian, and Alona. And Rachel? "I
want you to meet my teachers."
I'll give Ms. Katz the wind-crippled tree for a final project. Then she'll know where the road leads. Even if Mr. Wallace never gets it, I think she might. And maybe I can learn something from her after that—next semester.
"And Dad—" I pause. "I want you to see my studio. My paintings," I add, in case he didn't understand.

"Charles—"

I hear relief in his voice, and guarded pleasure. Maybe he'll be proud of me for real, even if he can't fully understand. Maybe they both will. I'll just have to give them the chance.

Finally, I climb the stairs, avoiding the groaning elevator. I walk past the windows and push open the door to the
Ventures
office. The same girl stares at me, probably wearing the same stretched-out T-shirt. "Yeah?"

"Hi, Buffy," I tell her, that crazy grin exploding all over the place. "Where's Rachel?"

She tries to tell me I have to wait, that Rachel is busy.

"Hey—I've waited too long, Buffy. Trust me—I'm way late to see her."

The puzzles are back in their places. Kaleidoscopes pick up flickers of light from the narrow window. Rachel's face is wary now—the long swept-away fragments of the shattered kaleidoscope still lie between us. But my chest tightens again at the sight of her, and I wonder if it's not too late, after all. I'm willing to take the time to earn her forgiveness.

"I'm sorry," I tell her, simply. "I—I didn't mean to hurt you. I was angry at myself, and I took it out on you." Words can't make up for my actions, but she deserves them. Whether she tried to fix me because she thought that's what I wanted her to do, or whether the impulse really came from within, the way Adrian's comfort did, doesn't matter in the end. What she did was her choice. What I did was mine, and I have to accept responsibility for it.

Perhaps she realizes intuitively what I'm thinking. Her eyes focus on me in a different way, suddenly—dissecting me. But that doesn't frighten me now.

"You once said you wanted to print one of my paintings. I should have listened to you."
It would still have been too late for Graeme ... He chose to let it be too late, after all
"Would you like to print one now?"

Her eyes light up. If she still wants the painting for
Ventures
then she still wants to look inside me, take me apart analyze my potential, and edit me into shape. Fair enough. Maybe I can withstand her scrutiny as long as she helps my paintings be seen—there'll be time enough after that to work out my relationships with other people,
beyond painting. I think of Graeme standing in my studio, of Adrian's smile. How will Rachel react? And I wonder what Alona will say when she sees my work.
Cool—you're home free.

Rachel is talking about layouts and the deadline for the graduation issue. She wants a photographer in my studio now, yesterday, at least this afternoon. "Whenever's fine," I tell her. I can't undo the hurt—I was part of what killed Graeme and I may have broken something in Rachel, too. But I'm not facing a dead end any longer. I don't have to keep looking back, to resurrect the crippled sketch artist in his Harlequin mask. I've redrawn myself this morning. I believe I really can soar through the clouds and come out the other side.

I stand for a few minutes outside the student center, alone but not isolated. I do belong at Whitman—but more than that I belong in my parents' home, and in this world—in all the worlds around me. And they belong to me. They're mine to transform through paint to share with the people I care about.

I promise I will find the courage to show my paintings, and I will use them to inspire people to change this world of expectations that made Graeme believe he had no choice but to kill himself. I promise them all—Graeme's spirit Adrian, Rachel, Alona, my parents, everyone I have yet to meet.

But most of all, I promise myself.

This book has been many years in the writing—and rewriting—and I would like to thank the numerous people who helped bring it to life. I wrote the first version during my senior year in college, and I would like to thank my roommate, Karla Painter (who always wanted to see more of Adrian), and my friend Susan Taylor for participating in late-night brainstorming sessions and offering such discerning insights at the birth of these characters. I appreciate my parents, Richard and Janice Bonilla, for the inspiration they gave me. I am grateful to my Rice professors, particularly J. Dennis Huston, Terrence Doody, Sandy Havens, and Frank E. Vandiver, who believed in me and pushed me to grow as a writer.

I would like to thank early readers Tom Reveley, William Goyen, and George Williams for their comments and encouragement. As I grew as a writer and
Simon Says
grew as a book, I received invaluable critical help from the members of my critique group, Pamela F. Service, Marilyn D. Anderson, Elsa Marston, Pat McAlister,
Keiko Kasza, and Marcia Kruchten. I would also like to thank later readers Charles A. Finn HI, James M. Janik, and Jean Gralley for their thoughtful feedback.

When I was striving to launch my writing career, I received generous encouragement and heartfelt advice from Stephen Sondheim, who urged me to believe in my vision for this book, but warned that I would have a hard time finding a publisher who was willing to gamble on a complex, demanding novel that kept the reader thinking as the work unfolded. Then he added that it was better for me to realize this so young than to break my heart at forty-five over the discovery—a prophetic comment, until Harcourt decided it was willing to take the gamble. I would especially like to thank my editor, Karen Grove, and managing editor, Lynn Harris, who have been committed to
Simon Says
from their first reading. I cannot imagine an editor who could have been more dedicated, asked better questions, or offered wiser guidance in shaping this book than Karen.

Finally, I would like to thank my husband, Arthur B. Alphin, who listened patiently to the story of this book on our first date—and went on to support me unfailingly as I pursued my dream of showing my own work to readers. Although this is my only published book written before I met him, his love and faith in me have become an integral part of its final version.