Unforgiven (21 page)

2.

I left school totally depressed.  Art was subjective.  I didn’t know anyone who got an
F
on anything in Art, as long as they put in the effort.  That’s why it was such a popular class!  It was considered an easy
A
, and here I was, facing an
F
.

My feet followed their route automatically as I twirled the twine securing my
F
-worthy painting.  Maybe I would ask Alex; he might know what was so bad about it.  Alex was two years older than me and studying to be an architect, not an artist, but maybe he knew about these things.  But asking him would require telling him what had happened.  I wasn’t sure I wanted that embarrassment.  ‘Oh, by the way, your best friend and aspiring artist is looking at taking an
F
in Art if she doesn’t redo her latest project.’  I knew he wouldn’t laugh at me.  Alex never did that.  But he might be disappointed—a fate I considered worse than death.  I thought about my baby brother, claimed by the disease, and reconsidered.  Okay, maybe not
worse
than death, but darn close.

The construction site was only about two miles from school.  They were building another housing complex or something.  I wasn’t really paying close attention when Alex told me.  He graduated last year ahead of his class and was working as a contractor to pay for his tuition at the local trade school for architectural design.  It was hard labor, but Alex was built for it.  Muscular and tan, he never seemed bothered by getting his hands dirty.

We’d been friends since I could remember, long before Joey died, it seemed.  He lived up the street from us as a ward of our neighbors.  The District paid them to take care of him.  He was lucky.  They treated him well.  Not warmly, but he had everything he needed.  He always said he never felt like they were family, not like our family did, but he was grateful to them.  Some wards ended up one step above homeless while the families kept all the money the District gave them and spent it on themselves.  The disease claimed Alex’s family one by one. His dad died from the quest for the cure when Alex was about two, and his mom died from the disease right after he was born.  Since then, Alex lived with our neighbors, at least until he started school last fall and got an apartment of his own.

I approached the site and spotted him standing up after setting a couple of two-by-fours on the pile.  Outfitted in his normal construction attire, jeans and a white t-shirt, he stretched his back, removed his hard hat, and ran a hand through his blond hair. 

I pointed my rolled-up
F
at him.  “Ya know, that gold-on-gold look isn’t really working out for you.  Maybe you should think about dying your hair a different color.”  I snickered.  “Or you could wear makeup to lighten your skin.” 

“Whatever,” he said, and took me in a headlock before releasing me.  “What do you want, ya little brat?”  He noticed my painting and snatched it from me before I could react. 

“I wish you wouldn’t.” 

He started to unfold it.  “Why not?  You’re going to be famous some day, and I’d like to think it will be a portrait of a gold-on-gold Greek God that will make it happen for you.”  When he saw what it was, his demeanor changed immediately.  “Oh.  Hey now, Macey.  You can’t be painting stuff like this.”  He rolled it up quickly and glanced around, checking for people nearby.  Handing it back to me, he asked, “What did your teacher say?” 

I shifted my weight and avoided his eyes.  “She said if I didn’t redo it, I’d get an
F
on the project.”  I said it quietly, and some of it was drowned out by the hammering that surrounded us. 

“She said what?” 

I looked up at him.  Although I couldn’t see, I just knew his blue eyes were challenging me behind those dark glasses.  “She said I’d have to take an
F
on the project if I didn’t redo it.”

He tilted his head.  “I get the impression you’re considering not redoing it.” 

“Well, look at it!”  I offered it back to him, but he didn’t take it from me.  Instead he glanced back and forth, making sure no one was watching us.  I sighed.  “Alex, it’s good.  The project was supposed to be graded on technique.  It’s not perfect, but I’d be willing to bet it’s the best in the class.” 

Taking a deep breath, he reached for the painting and unrolled it.  “It really is quite special, Mace, but you can’t turn this in.” 

“I don’t understand why.”  Tears started welling, and I forced them back.  I didn’t like to cry, let alone in front of Alex.  Crying was for babies and invalids.  I was neither of those things.  The headache I gained was the reward for my efforts. A battle scar I always wore with pride and without complaint.

“Mace, where did you even see something like that?”  He pointed to the flag.

“I saw it in our history book.  I don’t understand why it’s so bad.  It was in our book, for heaven’s sake.”

“What did your history teacher say about it?” 

“Just that it was a symbol that people got overly attached to, so the government took it away.” 

I followed him across the site to the cooler where he grabbed a bottle of water.  He sat down and nodded.  “Yeah, I guess that’s about the gist of it.” 

“So, if that’s all there is to it, why does this deserve an
F
?”

His blue eyes looked deeply into my own.  I hated it when he did that.  He knew I was powerless against that stare, only because I could tell he meant business and I didn’t want to let him down.  “Did you think about what might have caused the government to ban this symbol in the first place?  Or even that the symbol is banned?  What do you think might happen to you if someone at the Facility got a hold of this?” 

I snorted.  “Well, I think the people at the Facility are a little busy trying to find that ever-elusive cure to care much about what a tenth-grader paints in Art.” 

“You’re missing the point.  Once you turn this stuff in, it stays with you.  It doesn’t just disappear.  It will follow you forever.  No one will let you into their school, no one will hire you.  You’d be too much of a risk.  Too much of a loose cannon.”

“Why, though?  It’s just a painting.  And a darn good one at that!”  I looked longingly at the painting.  Why was it so wrong to be proud of it? 

“Hey, Bowman!  Break’s over!  We’ve got a lot to finish up here!” a man called across the construction yard.

Alex handed the painting back to me.  “Yeah!  Ok!” he hollered back.  “I gotta get back to work.  Listen, whatever you decide on this one, please don’t paint stuff like this for school again, okay?  It’s just not…constructive.” 

“Yeah, I guess.”  I wasn’t sure I agreed with him.  How could it not be constructive to express myself?  Although, when I really thought about it, I didn’t know what exactly I was expressing with the painting.  Why did it have to have such a controversial meaning behind it?  Why couldn’t it just be a beautiful painting?  That was all I meant it as.  Maybe if I explained that to the teacher she’d accept it.  I frowned, doubting my conclusion. 

On my walk home, I looked at my neighborhood with new eyes.  What about that stupid flag had made it the way it was?  On the surface, everything seemed fine, which was by design.  The streets were well-manicured, although not fancy.  Trees were evenly spaced and all the same height, homes were equal distances apart and all the same.  Everything, down to the frequency of grass cutting was tightly controlled to maintain a uniform and “clean” appearance.  The government said it provided fewer distractions, and thus would help lead them to a cure faster.  My mom commented once before Joey died that it had turned into a “Stepford community” overnight, but Dad shushed her before I could ask what that meant. 

What did it look like when the flag and the freedom it represented existed?  Were the homes different colors?  Different shapes?  Different sizes?  Did everyone choose what their lawns looked like?  Was the image really that distracting?  Growing up with such uniformity, the image was difficult to picture, but I couldn’t imagine something so minute was all that damaging. 

As I turned the corner and walked down yet another identical street, I thought about just redoing the project.  I mean, I had the likeness of the fruit in my original painting.  It wouldn’t take me very long to do it.  It was just the principle of the thing.  Why should I redo something that met the requirements of the project?  I shouldn’t.  It was as simple as that. 

Resolved, I walked up the driveway to our home.  It looked exactly like all the other homes in this neighborhood, right down to the two sycamore trees in the front yard. We weren’t the first family to live in it and probably wouldn’t be the last, but for now, it was ours.  That made it perfect to me. 

The pale yellow siding always greeted me with a smile.  Rosie unlocked the front door when I approached. 

I stood in the doorway as she sanitized me, making sure the disease didn’t come inside.  “Welcome home, Macey.”  She said in her soothing but still robotic voice as the beam covered me in a green glow.  It wasn’t as sophisticated or intense as the one we had at school, but I guessed it didn’t need to be.  That one was super high-powered and worked much faster.  It was meant for higher volume.  Here at home, Rosie only had the three of us to keep healthy. 

“Hey, Rosie.  What’s new?” 

“Your arrival at home.”  She always answered the same way, but I still asked because some part of me found it funny. 

Rosie was what we named our home.  Mom said it was a reference to some cartoon from the twentieth century, but I never figured out which one.  Rosie was an automated system, the latest technology when the house was built, but now pretty outdated.  She suited our needs, though.

I tossed my backpack on the stairs and parked myself on the couch.  “Rosie, are Mom and Dad on their way home yet?”

“Your mother is seven minutes and forty-two seconds away from home.  Your father is still at work.”

Satisfied, I unrolled the painting and rested it against the red glass vase that lived in the middle of the coffee table.  Leaning back on the couch, I studied my work. 

The colors were perfect.  Lines, a little shaky, but getting better.  Proportions, right on the money.  These were the things I was told we’d be graded on.  The more I thought about it, the more I felt this was the piece I would turn in.  Convinced my teacher would change her mind once she’d had time to think about it logically, I folded my arms over my chest, pleased with my accomplishment. 

My resolve wavered, though, when I heard the garage door, signaling the arrival of my mom.

First, thanks be to God, for His glorious gifts to my family and me.  I’ve been afforded the time to write, the money to fund the books, and the ability to craft stories and characters I love.  For these things, and so much more, I am grateful.

Second, thank you so much to my wonderful husband.  You are the logic to my emotion, the rock to my ocean, and I can’t wait to see how far we can go together. 

To my team, what can I say?  You guys are freaking amazing.  Jamie, my constant beta, even when she’s off to Europe in like two days, makes time to read my crap.  Where would I be without you?  Angela and Cynthia, my editors, your turd polish is something I need to get the recipe for.  Because when I hand you a steaming pile of you-know-what, I get back solid gold and I love it!  Thank you!  And of course, the amazing designers at Damonza, your covers continue to be works of art.  Hats off to you!

My friends, Mary and Dannie, I love you.  You curse at my failures and toast my victories, even if I just have pop in my glass.  I couldn’t ask for better friends.

And of course, Christian.  You’ve helped me so much with this career change.  Despite the fact that you’re technically my boss, you’re one of my biggest cheerleaders, and will spend hours talking book covers and word count with me.  I hope you know how much you are loved and appreciated.

My family, I love you (the mostest).  And Shane, you’re a pain but I’ll make a reader out of you yet.  Seriously, thank you for reading my stuff, and for your genuine support.

This time, I have a few special thanks as well.  Shannon Mayer, I am so lucky to count you among my colleagues, and more importantly, my friends.  Thank you for your continued council and help.  I’m forever in your debt.

And The Literary Connoisseur.  Words cannot express how much I heart you.  Friends, if you’re looking for an awesome book blog, hers is it.  Your passion for the written word is astounding.  Thank you so much for your support. 

Lastly, thank
you,
dear reader.  You’ve sacrificed most of all for this book, your time.  For that, I am deeply grateful.

I’ll see you in September.

—S

Stephanie Erickson is an English Literature graduate from Flagler College. She lives in Florida with her family. Unforgiven is her fifth novel.

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