I want that. I want someone to hold me, to kiss me, to ring in the New Year with me. I close my eyes and imagine what an arm around my waist would feel like, its heavy weight, a comforting warmth. What a pair of lips brushing over mine would feel like. What if that arm and those lips belonged to someone—someone I know? What if they belonged to Damian?
Keeping my eyes closed, I try to picture myself kissing Damian. My ears are burning, and I’m all alone. This is ridiculous. But my heart is racing a little bit, and I can’t completely ignore the tingling in my shoulders.
Chapter Eleven
I dream of walking alongside the creek, the trees and rocks, grasses and water lit by the moon with an icy silvery light. It is like walking through a ghost story. All is silent. Then suddenly, the white bird is standing before me, poised on its slender legs. Its neck is curved and sleek, shining feathers tucked tightly against its graceful body. The bird peers at me with an orange eye, head cocked to the side. A sense of wonder, electrifying, charges through my body. The ground seems to tremble and roll beneath my feet, yet the bird remains perfectly still, watching me. I struggle to keep my footing, and when I begin to fall, the bird suddenly stretches out its wings and soars into the air. It circles around me, its wings V-shaped and stark against the starry night sky. My breath runs away from me in a rush, I can’t catch it, and I fall to my knees, then I’m falling and falling…
I wake abruptly, my heart throbbing. The bird. Its unwavering gaze stays with me. If a bird could have an expression, this one seemed…expectant. Like it was telling me I had work to do. Yes, this bird that looked like the swash of a paintbrush seems ever to be propelling me toward my art, toward Nate’s art. It was the bird that made me realize how dearly art matters, that gave me this connection to Nate. Maybe, if I could show the world Nate’s sculptures, if I could convince Damian to show his paintings, maybe everyone could see this better side of both of them, and Nate could be remembered as more than a screwup, and Damian could have a second chance. He could go to art school.
7:52. Oh my gosh. My first day back, and I’m late. My neck and back are coated in sweat, my hair is plastered to my cheeks. I was dreaming so hard I slept right through my alarm clock. This morning, the notion of school doesn’t feel as unappealing as it usually does. I’m looking forward to art class, to talking to Helena about the kernel of an idea I had during the night. Mostly, though, I’m excited to see Damian again. Just the thought of him makes my stomach feel fluttery and light.
Quickly, I dress and run downstairs. My parents have already left for work. I putter around the kitchen, looking for something quick to eat, when I spot my dad’s crystal tumbler in the sink. The sound of his weeping still rings in my ears. Suddenly, I am gripped by an urge to see his den. I grab a strawberry Pop-Tart and race back up the stairs. The door to the den is open slightly. It creaks and groans as I push it open farther. The room is painted brick red and six long bookshelves line each of the walls. A large, worn, brown leather armchair takes primacy over the den like a throne, overshadowing the ornately carved antique wooden desk and a rattily upholstered couch that bears the scars of a long-dead cat’s claws. The armchair faces a flat-screen television and a small wooden stool crouches beside it. As I approach the armchair, which still bears the impressions of my father’s body, I notice something shiny underneath the stool. I kneel to see what it is. A facedown silver picture frame. I draw it out and pick it up. It’s a photograph of my dad and Nate that was taken during a vacation to Disney World when I was seven and Nate was eleven. They’re smiling, and Nate’s head is thrown back, like he’d been laughing. He holds a stuffed Dumbo in one hand and a puff of cotton candy in the other, and his tongue is bright blue. They both look so young, so happy.
There is a hairline crack in the protective glass, but other than that, the photo and its frame are unblemished. I run my thumb along the crack. It stretches down the middle of the picture, severing Nate from my dad’s arms. Does my father trace his fingers over this same crack while he cries? His sorrow lingers in the air, pressing on it, on me, heavily.
I replace the frame, and back out of the room. It’s impossible for me to think of my dad with anything but resentment now. There isn’t room for pity or for empathy anymore. Not since he left Mom and me to go on without him.
I hoist my backpack onto my shoulder, go out to the garage and mount my bike. Pumping my legs hard and fast, I pedal away. Enough.
The school day passes and I feel like I’ve been walking through a cloud. Sounds seem muffled, I barely notice the other kids shuffling past me in the hallways, the teachers rambling in class. I don’t pay any attention to the fact that Rachel is still ignoring me, doesn’t look my way once. It’s like I’m not there. Without Helena around, I take my lunch to the library and eat alone.
At the end of the day, as I step out of the art room, I hear someone calling my name. Slowly, I turn to see Helena standing in the doorway of the studio, waving frantically at me.
“Hey, wait up for a second!” Helena calls.
I pause, still feeling slow, fuzzy. I wait for Helena to jog over to catch up with me.
“Hey, how are you? How were your holidays?” Helena starts, then coughs as she fights to catch her breath. “Are you all right? You seemed kind of out of it in art today.”
I stare at her curiously, hearing the words but not quite understanding them. “I’m—what?” Helena’s eyes widen as if to say, See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. “Oh, I’m fine. Just a little…tired,” I tell her, trying to snap out of this strange soupy funk. “You know, the holidays were…weird. How about you?”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You still seem kind of spacey,” Helena asks.
“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m okay. Just…I’m tired…It was a rough couple of weeks,” I try to explain.
“Did something happen? Hey—I know—want to go to the diner? We can share some pie and you can tell me all about it?”
I am thoroughly alert now. I think about what my mom would have to say about this idea, and that decides it for me. “You know what, I’d love that. Let me just tell someone…” We’ve been walking through the school, and have reached the door to the student parking lot. This morning I was so fixated on seeing Damian again, but then, after entering my father’s den, I couldn’t even look at him in class. Now, the notion of Helena’s company feels safe, soothing. I’ve needed a friend.
I should let Damian know I won’t be coming to the barn today, though, and I crane my neck to look for him. Then I spot the familiar black-cloaked back striding toward the blue El Camino. “Will you wait for me here a sec?” I ask Helena.
As she nods, I begin to sprint toward Damian’s car. “Hey, Damian!” I holler, not paying any attention to the many heads that turn in my direction across the parking lot.
Damian hears and turns, too. “Hi,” I say as I catch up to him.
“Hi,” he replies easily. “Did you have a good holiday?”
“Yeah,” I say, my pulse leaping. “You?”
“It was nice,” he says, smiling. “Hey, happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year,” I tell him, remembering how I’d thought about him on New Year’s Eve, and feeling my cheeks grow warm. Thank goodness he can’t read my mind. “So, I just wanted to let you know, I’m not going to come over to work today.”
“Oh, okay,” Damian says slowly. “Is anything wrong?”
I catch a glint of worry in his eyes. “No, no, nothing at all. I’m just going to go to the diner with Helena. She, uh, wanted to talk to me about something.”
“All right,” he says reluctantly.
“But can I come over tomorrow?” I ask, worried that he might be angry, might not want me to come over anymore.
“Sure, no problem.” His voice, dull.
“Hey, you’re not upset with me, are you?”
“No. It’s just that—you’re not not coming because you’re avoiding me or anything, are you?”
“Of course n
ot,” I make my voice sound light. “No, I just need to take a day and think about the map and what I want to do with it and everything.” He’s worried I was upset with him?
“Okay. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” Damian looks relieved, but with his brow wrinkled, I can tell he isn’t fully convinced.
“Cool, thanks.” I put my hand on his arm and squeeze gently before turning back to Helena.
As I come back over to Helena’s side, she says, “You know, I saw Calico had a canvas of his stretched out on her desk today. He’s really good. Like, an amazing painter.” She cocks her head and looks at me intently.
“I know,” I tell her. “He does these incredible paintings where he sticks objects—you know, like washers and screws and bits of metal—right into the paint. They’re unbelievable.”
“Really?” Helena asks as we—I’m wheeling my bike along beside me—stroll out of the parking lot and head toward Union Street. “I wonder why he doesn’t tell anybody, or show anyone.”
“I know. I tried to tell him that he should. He’s being stubborn.”
We approach the diner, which, with its shiny aluminum exterior and big windows covered in paper snowflakes, looks like something from the 1950s. We settle into one of the booths, and I recall how, just a few weeks ago, sitting across from Damian, I’d felt so sad, helpless, and sorry. But now I feel hopeful, buoyed by some sense of promise. Maybe I can do something, something good and meaningful. After we order hot chocolates and a slice of strawberry rhubarb pie, I begin to tell Helena everything.
“Actually, I was wondering if you could help me. I…” My voice trails off as I try to figure out how to form the right words, how to explain what I want to do, how to tell her about Nate.
“Help you with what?” Helena asks eagerly. Her eyes shine with a brilliant curiosity.
Her enthusiasm floats over the booth like birdsong. She has always gotten what I’ve tried to tell her in the past. Maybe she really can help. There’s only one thing to do. Leap.
“Okay, here goes. You know Damian and my brother, Nate, were best friends, right?” I wait for Helena to nod her assent, then continue, “Well, they were both artists, and they set up a studio in this barn across town and made all these sculptures and paintings. And, like I told you, they’re amazing. Just amazing.” Helena nods again. “So, I’ve been hanging out at Damian’s studio working on a big map—all of those little pieces I’ve been doing in art class are studies, pieces of the larger map, actually. Anyway, I want, somehow, to show Damian’s and Nate’s art to everybody. I want everyone to know they’re not total screwups. That they have been doing something great all along.” I stop and look at Helena, half expecting to see an expression of disgust or disbelief on her face. But I see neither. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
Helena sits back and folds her hands beneath her chin. She shakes her head then looks straight at me. “You’re not crazy. You’re brilliant. I know what we’re going to do. We are going to have a gallery opening, a party!” She claps her hands excitedly and blows a lock of pale hair out of her eyes. “Oh my goodness, this will be incredible; we can ask Ms. Calico and get permission from the principal, Mrs. Brown, to include Nate’s art in this year’s art show, and his sculptures can be the centerpiece of the show! We’ll make a big event out of it and advertise to the whole school. Then everyone will see!” Helena hops around in her seat, her zeal getting the better of her.
“Really? You really think we could do this?” I ask as a bubble of hope rises up in my chest.
“Of course! Why not? All you have to do is convince Damian to bring Nate’s sculptures, and we’ll have to get him to bring his own paintings—they should be there, too. And, actually, you should be able to take Nate’s stuff yourself, right?”
“Right…”
The catch. I have a feeling that convincing Damian may not be as easy as strawberry rhubarb pie.
I have no idea how to broach the subject with Damian. After school the next day, I go to the barn with him and stare at his back as he hovers in front of a canvas. He has stepped outside of his workshop and is now playing with a new set of oil paints.
It seems strange that Damian and I have been spending so much time together, yet no one else in our lives—aside from Helena, now—knows. I’ve never met his mother, and while I know Mrs. Archer works two jobs, I can’t help but think that it is strange to spend so much time with Damian and not know this most basic piece of his life. It’s strange to think about how I used to hate him, used to think he was a monster. So much has changed.
I crouch in front of the map and stare at it, letting the colors and textures blur before my eyes. The longer I stare, the more the piece seems to break apart and float lazily in layers, the dried-out stems of grass and wheat that I’ve glued down for the cornfield suspended on top of the flakes of the oil pastels of the ball field. These places meant something to me once. Meant so much. The anatomy of my childhood, a body marked by the games Nate and I played, by dizzying joy and scraped knees, by tears for lost toys and wild imaginings, by time shared and, now, time lost. Will I ever feel that happy again? That free or heedlessly anchored again?
I trace the painted white-blue swirls of the skating pond. Unbidden, the thought that it is probably cold enough to go skating now flits through my mind. I cock my head and sit up.
I want to see the skating pond.
“Damian?” I call softly.
“Hmm,” he answers, turning and wiping his hands on a spotted rag.
“Do you feel like going for a walk?” I ask.
“Sure, I could use a break,” he responds easily. “Are you ready to go?”
I nod, then follow Damian as he bounds out the door. The sky has reached that hazy violet-and-blue shimmery brightness that comes midway between a winter’s day and dusk.
“Thanks,” I say breathlessly as we step out the front door into the chilly air. “Thanks for coming with me.”
“No problem,” Damian returns, smiling. “Any particular direction?”
I start to head in the direction of the skating pond. We walk beside each other in amiable silence, our paces matched. I have to keep my hands in my pockets—I forgot my gloves—and I watch plumes of breath burst in front of me.
We are led through this world by our breath. There can be no going back. Breath fans out, little beads of life, dissipates, and vanishes. And there can be no going back.
Finally we reach the pond, and sure enough, there are skaters, mostly little kids with their parents, wobbling back and forth across the ice. Damian and I walk over to the snack stand and buy a couple of hot chocolates, then sit down on a bench to watch.
I begin to speak out loud, even though I am pretty sure I sound like a complete weirdo. “I’ve been thinking about what it means to be ‘grown up.’ You know, when you can look back and say, I’ll never be a little kid again. I’ll never again be a small child who is sure of my parents’ love, of their protection, who knows that whatever mistakes I make, it doesn’t really matter. It’s not a big deal. Because the worst I can do is break a vase or track dirt onto the carpet. Or forget a book at school or maybe get a bad grade.” I stop and look down at my hands. My fingers twist and knead and turn each other white. “Then, then, there’s this place called home, and it’s the safest space in the world. But when we go off to college or whatever, eventually it won’t be home anymore. So, when we’re old enough to realize all of these things, we have to make the choice to either mourn the loss of that time, the innocence, the safety and ease of it all. Or we can feel excited to be free, relieved of the weight of this giant safety blanket, and released into the world to explore.”
“Unless you already stopped feeling safe a long time before you grew up,” Damian interrupts.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…my dad took off when I was a baby. I never knew why, but it shook my whole world to its core. As soon as I was old enough to realize he wasn’t coming back, I figured out that I was never safe. I
f he—my dad—could do that, just walk out and not even look back, anyone could.”
I open my mouth, to say what, I have no idea, but Damian cuts me off with a sharp look. “Anyway, I think I’m way past the point of being able to make mistakes without them mattering. I’ve screwed up everything.” His brow is wrinkled, his eyes downcast, portentous and dark as a thundercloud.
“Damian,” I start, very, very cautiously, “what if there was a way to fix it?” He looks up quickly, surprised. “I know you’re not a screwup. What if you could show everyone who you really are? What you’ve been doing—making?”
He cocks a wary brow at me. “And how would I be able to do all that?”
“We-e-ll, I’ve been talking with Helena Carson—you know who she is, right? From art class?” He nods. “So, we’ve been talking about, well, remember the school art show? We want to have, like, a gala opening or something. And I, um, I wanted to show Nate’s art. And the map. And I think you should show your paintings.”
“What? No. No way.” Damian is shaking his head vigorously, gripping his hot cocoa with whitened knuckles. “No way,” he repeats.
“Why? Why not?” I press. “What are you scared of? Remember at the coffee shop, you said you wished you weren’t such a coward? This is your chance, Damian. Don’t you see?
“I mean, I’m totally freaked most of the time. Some days I just live in this snail’s shell of memories, wishing I could go back and be a little kid and have it all safe and easy, and other days I feel like I’ll die if I don’t get out of here, out of my freaking house. And believe me, losing Nate doesn’t make the survival instinct in me feel very strong. I’m so scared I’ll mess up.
“I’ve got this image in my head of how I want my life to look, and I have absolutely no idea how to get there. And I’m so scared that I’ll make some wrong decision—just one—and everything will get messed up and go wrong—for good. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. But I have to think that doing this, showing Nate’s and yours and my art can only help. I truly believe it will help you.”