My Not-So-Still Life (12 page)

Not for school.

I try to look like everything’s normal. I give Mom a hug before I get in the shower. I tell Grampie to have a great day in the garden.

Then I do what I want to do.

Picking a place is the hardest part. I don’t want to destroy anything. I just want to create art that people can see.

I head to the park near school, before anyone’s around.

I use the basketball blacktop.

My symbol: a lightning bolt. A field full of zap.

Everything I’ve been feeling lately is like electricity. Shooting through me, making my life light up. Strong, flashing, bright.

Squeezing it out in purple on the blacktop feels even better than practicing in the garage. I feel so alive. This color cannot be contained.

I make at least twenty before my breathing calms and I feel okay.

It’s nearly impossible to force myself to go sit through a day of school after that, but I do it.

All week, I visit the park in the morning, and during lunch, I hide in the library with Jackson Pollock.

Grampie notices the garage at some point on Wednesday.

Over dinner, he says to Mom, “Have you seen Nessie’s latest masterpiece?”

She shakes her head. “Go get it, Nessie. I want to see.”

I realize what Grampie means, and I panic. But he doesn’t seem mad.

He says, “It’s in the garage. It looks almost like a Pollock. But more … girly.”

It’s probably the best thing anyone’s said about me in months.

“Thanks, Grampie.”

Mom goes out to look, right in the middle of dinner.

Grampie and I keep eating. When she gets back, she says, “Wow. I’m just glad your hair never got quite that colorful.”

I guess I’m allowed to spray-paint the garage. Cool.

More than cool, now I know what to do for the school art show.

*   *   *

Holly calls on Thursday after school. “I got a dress,” she says. “I just wanted you to know. Nick and I went shopping last night.”

I don’t know what to say.

“It felt weird not to tell you. It felt weird not to have you there.”

It’s more than weird. It’s me losing my friends. I should have been there. I should be listening to every little thing she has to say about Wilson and the dance and the rest of her life.

I’m crying but I don’t want her to know. Fortunately, she keeps talking.

“He’s just worried about you, you know? He’s not mad. I’m not mad. We both think you’ve gotten a little … out of control. We needed some space.”

I created that space. I know it. But I’m not quite sure how to close the gap.

I gulp and breathe deeply. “So, Wilson asked you?”

“Monday night at rehearsal, yep.”

“You’re getting exactly what you want. That’s great.”

“What is it you want, Nessie?”

“I want … to live without boundaries.”

She sighs. “What does that even mean?”

It means her kind of life is too small for me. Nick’s kind of patience is too much for me. “It means … growing up.”

“We all are, Ness. I’m gonna go practice.”

We hang up, and I think about it. Maybe we’re all growing up, but why am I the only one who wants it to happen faster?

The school show’s on Friday night. I signed up a long time ago to help with setup after school. I won’t let Mr. Smith down.

During lunch, I get a text from James. My ID is ready, and we arrange a meeting at the skate park at six-thirty.

Perfect. I had no intention of going to the actual art show anyway. I haven’t even told Mom or Grampie about it. Other parents will be there, and Smith, of course, and all the kids who take art.

I’ll let my art speak for me.

Other people are setting up too, including Jewel and Alice. They’re in charge of the cheese cubes. They look really happy. Maybe I really am over Jewel. There’s definitely less of a sting.

It’s my job to hang up the work on the walls in the lobby and in the small gallery room next to the office.

Jewel’s done some photos. They’re perfect, of course. Black-and-white shots of flowers and fruit down at Pike Place Market.

Alice made a collage out of old magazines. Lots of
nature. I like what she did; you can tell the pieces are trees and rivers and rocks, but she’s put them together in a really interesting way, so they’re something new.

I hang Nick’s rebel Prince Charming sketches. He did it all himself. Pencil, ink, color. The character has a personality, just in the lopsided way his crown sits on his swoopy hair. Nick’s gotten really good. How did I not notice that before now?

I finish, shut the door, and get to work on my own entry.

I brought all my colors, and three different tips, but sharp pink feels the most right. Hot pink, like my hair.

I didn’t have space to pack a drop cloth, but I kept everyone else’s work away from one wall.

I go crazy.

I spray and, just like the other times, it’s like the can is part of my body, an extension of my thoughts. Then my thoughts go blank and I’m feeling, making something.

Doing this.

It doesn’t take long.

I don’t care if I win the art show. This isn’t about some art show. If I want more people to see it, I can make my own show on the street somewhere.

But this is more important than winning.

When I get to the skate park, I’m a little late
because I got so wrapped up in painting, but James isn’t there yet. I sit on the same bench I tried to use for drawing last weekend. How far I’ve come since then. How much farther I’m going.

I can’t even sit still right now, so I walk over to the skate bowl, do laps around it.

He shows up, in the usual jeans and his Vespa jacket with a patch on the shoulder. It’s olive green, and really sets off his blond surfer hair.

I almost leap into the air as he walks up to me. For a
second, I wonder if I should take him to the art show, go after all. Show off what I did.

He taps his jeans pocket. “Got somethin’ for ya.” He pulls the ID out. “Here you go, Jennifer.”

My new name is Jennifer Jones, and I turned twenty-one about three weeks ago. He’s not so imaginative with the names, but I’ll give James this much: it looks authentic.

“Thanks.” I’m grinning.

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about asking you, actually.” He’s been thinking about me?

“Shoot,” I say.

“Miss August dropped out.”

It takes only a second for me to realize what he’s talking about. “The calendar?”

“Yeah, so I need someone last-minute to fill in, and you’re a natural in front of the camera. Want to do it? Pays two hundred bucks. We could call the ID square, and you’d still make some cash.”

Do I want to pose as a pinup girl in the same calendar that Maye’s in, for James? Yes! Yes! Yes! So much better than showing him my painting.

“Sure,” I say. “Sounds fun.”

“Great, ’cause my deadline is looming and I’ve got time to kill right now.”

Right now?
I have nothing to wear. “Wardrobe?”

“Junk shop in Fremont’s open.”

It’s perfect. “Let’s go.”

“All right,” he says. “Ever ridden a Vespa?”

“First time for everything,” I say.
You gotta live
.

“I like your attitude.” He leads me back toward his apartment, holding his skateboard, and I feel a zing: this is our
second
adventure together.

We go into the garage, walk over to a scooter that’s part blue, part orange, all used, and a bit rusted, but still decidedly adorable. “It’s my monster scooter. Like Frankenstein,” he says. “Made from a bunch of different parts.”

James hands me a white helmet, shows me how to strap it under my chin, then fastens his own: a little black shell with a silver star on top that doesn’t look like it would protect anything in a crash, much less a skull. That’s okay, though; nothing will happen to us. Nothing can. I’ve waited too long to feel this free.

He drops the scooter off its kickstand, straddles it, and says, “Get on.” I situate myself onto the tiny bit of seat left behind him, not sure what to do with my hands. He reaches back and pulls me so that I’m hugging him. “You’ll want to hold on.” I could’ve told him that much. I slide my arms around him.

When he first turns the throttle, we lurch forward, and I love the way my body presses into his back.

Then we get out of the garage, out of the alley, onto Market Street, and we really go.

I keep my arms around him and watch my world go by
from this whole new perspective. I know we’re not going crazy fast—it’s only a scooter—but it feels as if we’re zooming. The air whips at my face, waking me up.

I don’t care if we never get to Fremont, but, finally, we dismount, take off our helmets, and put them on the scooter seat.

“Like the ride?” James asks.

“Oh, yeah.” Can he tell how much? Is he picking up this vibe I’m sending? It feels like we are the only two creatures on this weird planet. How can he
not
be feeling that? And I haven’t even told him about my new spray-paint thing yet. He doesn’t even know who I really am.

The junk shop has a window display up for Easter, a four-foot-tall white bunny in all his fuzzy glory wearing a bow tie, with plastic eggs all around. James gets to work browsing the racks. I follow his lead.

It’s like he’s the artist and I’m his canvas. Or, even, his muse.

He seems to forget I’m even there, until he holds up a black-and-white polka-dot bikini, the kind with boy-shorts and a halter top. “Perfecto!”

“Bikini?”

“You’re Miss August. It
has
to be a bikini.” His eyes sparkle.

“Fine by me.”

I’m pale, but that’s kind of retro. Pale is kind of pinup girl.

He holds the top up to me and definitely sizes up my chest, which isn’t nearly as spectacular as Maye’s, but I know I’m perky. He shoves the bikini at me and goes to look for shoes, still on a mission. All lit up.

I hover around a stack of old magazines, thinking I’ll take a minute to study the poses. I find the one I like, a cover girl posing by a bicycle that looks a lot like mine. She stands with her legs together and bent, with her arms up over her head as if she’s about to dive into a pool that isn’t there.

I’m smiling at the image when someone taps my shoulder.

Jewel. “Hey, Vanessa.”

I’m surprised to see him, though when I think about it, I shouldn’t be. We came here to get my Halloween Bloodbath prom-queen dress.

“Hey.” Did he see me with James? Does he know I’m not alone? Is he alone? Do I care?

“Find anything good?”

I show him the magazine.

“Cool. Is that for an art project or something?”

I nod. “Something. Hey, shouldn’t you be at the art show?”

“I’m on my way. Wanted to pick up this polka-dot tie I saw here last weekend, but it’s gone.” He looks toward the door, then back to me. “Shouldn’t you be there too?”

My mind flashes to what I left there. I wonder how he’ll react. I wonder how everyone will react. “I’m not …”

I see James walking toward us before Jewel realizes anyone’s behind him. “I’m not going to the show. I’m busy with …” James reaches us, and I grab his arm. “Him.”

James is oblivious to the importance of this moment. Something clouds over Jewel for a second. He looks at the bikini in James’s hands, then at me.

“This is James,” I say. “And this is Jewel.”

“Hey.”

“Hey.” James barely even looks at Jewel. “Let’s get a move on.”

Jewel’s gaze catches my eye. “We’ll miss you at the show.”

I nod. “Have fun. Good luck.”

He heads toward the door without looking back.

After Jewel’s gone, James and I flip through vintage sunglasses. I check out old jewelry. Then I spot a pair of saddle shoes. “I want these.”

“Cool,” he says. “Just to have, I mean. Not right for the shoot. You’ll have to do barefoot. Can you paint your toes?”

“No problem.”

“Great. We can stop by Maye’s, actually. Get the right color and maybe borrow her hair stuff too, and makeup. Accessories.”

“Sure.” I don’t mention that I have all that stuff at my
house. How would I explain him to Grampie? Plus, I
want
to stop by Maye’s; I want the whole world to know I’m doing this with James.

We buy the bikini—he pays; I would’ve if he’d asked, ’cause I’m planning on keeping it—then hop back onto the scooter.

Maye lives right here in Fremont, just on the other side of the bridge, it turns out. She’s got a mother-in-law apartment, I think that’s what they’re called, over someone’s garage. The place looks cozy, with an A-frame roof, white lace curtains, and fairy lights around the front windows.

James goes up the wooden steps and taps on the door.

Maye opens it in her bathrobe. I smell tomato sauce cooking. Today’s the day the other Palette staffers work so Maye and Oscar have a day off to spend together.

She registers surprise at seeing me, but says only, “Hey.” She turns to James. “I guess you did ask her to do it.”

“Yep, you’re looking at Miss August.”

I do a little curtsy.

She doesn’t invite us in. Which seems rude. Not like her. And why did she know about him asking me to be in the calendar before I did?

“We need to borrow some nail polish,” I say. I wiggle my fingers at her.

“And one of your scarves for her hair,” James adds, and pushes his way in. Maye lets him, and I follow.

Her place is sort of like James’s. It’s decorated much
better, but it’s one room with a kitchen. There are fabric scraps and yarn in plastic containers in one corner, and stuffing. Bowls full of buttons, beads, sequins. The makings for her dolls take up most of the space.

The supplies are the first thing I notice. Then I see Oscar on her bed, wrapped in a white sheet.

He’s sitting up, and his smile is kind of like the fake one the Dazzle lady put on. “Not the best timing.”

James is at the sink pulling strings of spaghetti out of Maye’s strainer.

Maye roots around in her top drawer—the dresser looks kind of old Hollywood; I love it—and hands me a bottle of pale pink nail polish and a red and white polka-dot scarf, the perfect match to the bikini.