Zero (5 page)

He
called
.

Okay, Z, calm down. Got plenty of time. He liked what I wore Friday, right? Or at least, he didn’t
not
like it. I can figure it out tomorrow.

When I go on my date!

I catch a glance at my canvas. One more ruined. Pieces of the original landscape peek through the black and red
destruction, like a yearbook photo of That Guy that you blot out with Sharpie. I should pick up kickboxing or something to work out my issues instead of punishing my innocent canvases. Had to pick an expensive dream, didn’t I.

My phone rings again. It’s going to be Mike, isn’t it. Him and all his friends will laugh at me, call me an idiot, and hang up; I know it.

I pick up anyway. “Hello?”

“Um—hey. Did you just call?”

Maybe it would have been better if it was a prank call from Mike and the band. But no, it’s Jenn, sure as hell.

“Uh … sort of,” I mumble. And even though I do not want to talk to her, I have to resist gushing about Mike’s call, since it’s
not
him calling to say he was joking.

“You okay?” Jenn asks.

“Me? Yeah. Sure.”

“Oh.”

I should hang up. Yes, I should.

“Well, since I’ve got you—” Jenn starts.

“Look, I gotta go, okay?”

“Z, come on. Please? I hate this.”

Me too. But I don’t say it.

“Jenn, look, I … I can’t, okay?”

I hear her sniff. “It’s
not
okay!”

“Yeah, you’re right, it’s not. But I can’t do this right now.”

She sniffs again. Is she, like,
crying
? “Okay,” she says. “But can you at least promise me we’ll talk soon?”

“… Sure.”

Jenn makes a little snorting sound, like she doesn’t believe
me. Well, that makes two of us. “Fine,” she goes. “Can I call you?”

“I guess.”

“ ’Kay. Thanks. See ya.”

I hang up without saying goodbye. Dammit, I was feeling pretty good there for a sec.

I pick my brush back up and face the painting.
Hole in the Wall
, I chant as I blend gel into my acrylic.
I’ve got a date tomorrow, Hole in the Wall, I’ve got a date
.

It helps.

A lot.

Who needs best friends or parents or art school, right?

Hole in the
Wall Café is aptly named. It’s this low, gray cinder block building with a dirt parking lot and perpetually flickering orange neon sign that attracts only the likes of … well, me. Me
and
Jenn, once upon a time. It’s owned by this artist, Eli (no last name), who converted it into a coffee shop, redesigned with several rooms with their own unique decor. Local artwork hangs haphazardly on the walls, each piece with a small white price tag affixed. If you like one, you just take it up to the register and buy it.

I debate a lot whether or not to approach Eli about showing my own work. I have the whole scene written out in my head:

I show him my best painting, should such a thing be possible, and his mouth drops open in orgasmic delight at my brilliance, which shines like the light of a thousand suns. He
tells me this doesn’t belong at the Hole; it should be hanging in the Met, and he knows the Supreme Chief Super High Curator personally, so it’ll just take one phone call and I will be rocketed to international glory, fame, and wealth.

Or he’ll, like, laugh and tell me to stick with kindergarten handprint turkeys.

That’s why I’ve never tried. I mean, for real—if the Hole won’t hang my work, why would anyone else? The vibe here is cool and all, but not every piece is exactly outstanding. The art here is equivalent to garage bands: cool, fun, and full of potential, but only a couple of real standouts. Would I be one of them?

I order an iced mint mocha and head to my favorite room in the Hole. It’s painted eggplant purple and has hundreds of glow-in-the-dark star stickers attached to the ceiling. The light level is kept low in here to better show off the stars.

I check the time to see if Mike’s late. He’s not; not quite yet. Okay. Breathe. Whether or not this is a real live Date, and not just a Hanging Out, I’ve got to know why he called. I mean, hey, he gets top marks for interrupting a crappy mood last night, but honestly, part of me wonders if he’s even going to show.

I shuffle through the random flyers advertising bands, art classes, and garage sales that litter all the tabletops, then pick up a discarded copy of
College Times
, flip through it, mock everyone in the photos, envy everyone in the photos, hate everyone in the photos, get depressed when I realize I’ll be
among
them soon. I’m about to toss the paper away, except a headline on the last page catches my eye:

Why, hello there. What are the chances, right? I start reading.

Wow. This chick is either having great heaping buckets of sex or hasn’t ever.

Not that I would know. Must ask Jenn. Someday.

Hey, I was at that show. Maybe the writer interviewed Mike, and he told her all about this awesome girl he met.

Heh.

“Whatcha reading?”

I jump. Mike is standing across from me, holding a mug of something steamy in one hand and a skateboard in the other. A Vision Gator. The underside is scratched and scraped, testifying to its use and abuse.

“Oh, hey, hi,” I say, and almost crumple up the paper like it’s evidence needing disposal.

“Anything good?” He sits across from me with a little smirk. “Ah,
College Times
. It’s the review, isn’t it.”

I feel absurdly guilty, like I was spying on him. “Yeah.”

“What’d you think?”

My mouth goes suddenly, painfully dry as it sets in that we’re actually here. Together.

And his
eyes
—

“It’s a pretty good review,” I say.

“Yeah, I heard,” Mike goes.

“You … didn’t read it?”

“Nah.”

“How come?”

“It’s just one person’s opinion. Selling tickets, on the other hand, harder to argue with.”

Touché. Why hadn’t I ever thought of that? I mean, how are you supposed to know if you’re any good unless the critics say so? But now that he says it, I see that Mike’s got a point. I don’t always agree with the reviews I read in
ARTnews
, either.

Mike scratches his head and says, “Ah, I’m sorry, that sounded really arrogant. I didn’t mean it quite like—”

“No, no, it’s cool,” I tell him. “I think that’s a great way to look at it.” Not that I’ll ever be able to when it comes to my first showing. I’ll probably have an aneurysm waiting for my first reviews. But I respect Mike’s point and oh
god
his eyes are beautiful.

“So …” Mike snaps his fingers. “I meant to tell you, I liked your belt.”

I glance down. “Uh, you can’t
see
my belt from there.” Perhaps my whale blubber has oozed up over the table of its own accord, taking my belt with it.

“The one you were wearing the other night. Green leather, with the watches and stuff. Where’d you get it? It was cool.”

Mike: I will bear you many children. We can start now. Let me just clear off the table.

It’s only a stupid belt, I know. But he
noticed
.

“Thanks,” I say, knuckles popping in my lap. “It’s sort of a Dalí tribute.”

“A dolly? Like, for moving stuff?”

“Oh, no, no, no!” I lean across the table to take his hands, to emphasize the error of his ways. I’m halfway there before I realize that I’m doing it, actually about to
make contact
, and it’s way too forward a move for little old me, but to pull away now will look brain damaged to the tenth degree. I give one of his hands a quick pat instead of taking them in mine, which would be awesome because I would give anything to feel his hands, his palms, how they must—

Shut. Up.

I withdraw my hands. “Salvador Dalí. The artist. Underline
thee
.”

“Oh,” Mike says. “Okay, yeah. Him. That sounds familiar.”

Well, it’ll do. For now.

“So you’re really into art?” he asks, looking around at the walls.

“An epic understatement, but yes.”

“You paint?”

“And draw. Yeah.”

“You any good?”

What
the hell did you say? I mean, I clearly know the answer already, but dude, you don’t have to remind me.

“Um … I don’t think I can answer that.”

“Why not? It’s yours.”

“Are you a good
drummer
?” Haha, zing! That’ll teach—

“Not bad,” Mike says with a shrug. “Not great, but I mean, it’s drumming. Not a ton of skill required. At least not what
I
play. Art’s totally different.
Are
you any good?”

This isn’t the conversation I’d hoped for. My mood shifts from eggplant purple to grayscale.

“I thought I was,” I mumble.

“You’re not anymore?”

I pull my fingers apart and shake my hands. “Now’s not the best time to ask if I think I’m any good or not.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that. What happened?”

“Nothing,” I say helplessly. “I mean, literally.”

Mike tilts his head. I meet his eyes, and—I dunno, it’s not like I want to talk about this, but his curiosity feels genuine, not judgmental. All right, hell with it.

“There’s this school I really want to get into,” I tell him. “The School of the Art Institute of Chicago? And I got accepted, but my portfolio wasn’t good enough for the merit scholarship I needed. They said I had potential but—how’d they put it—I ‘lack the level of technical excellence demanded of first-year fine-arts students.’ Words to that effect.”

Exact words, in fact. I don’t even know what they meant, other than that the scholarship went to someone more … what’s the word … 
talented
.

“And SAIC is a private university, so tuition is freaking huge, and I needed this damn scholarship to pay for it,” I say. “My dad has this school savings account thing for me, but it’s only enough to cover a community college. Maybe a year at an in-state university after that if I’m careful.”

Mike looks confused. “So aren’t there other schools? Other scholarships?”

I choke back a sigh. I can’t help it. “Not exactly,” I mutter. Bottom line, and I don’t want to get into this with Mike at the moment, Dad makes too much money for me to be
considered for a lot of scholarships out there. My
expected family contribution
is too high. Neat, huh? Makes you wonder where all his money goes.

Mike’s expression switches to something that looks like disappointment, and I straighten up in my seat. I’m being a bummer. Not cool.

“I mean, yes, there are,” I amend. “Lots. I just sorta had my heart set on this one.”

He nods. “You don’t want to settle.”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“But you still enjoy it, right? Painting, drawing?”

“Well, yeah.”

Mike shrugs again. “Then you’re good. Maybe that’s enough. For now.”

For one moment, I
forget
that I am scared to death to be sitting here. “Hold on a sec. You’re saying as long as a person enjoys doing something, they’re automatically good at it?”

“If a person enjoys doing something, they’ll probably only get better with time.”

“So as long as a serial killer keeps practicing, he’ll kill more people, more efficiently.”

“If killing people is his goal, yeah.”

I bust up. Can’t help it. This is ridiculous, and a hell of a lot of fun, and
man
, his eyes are killing me here. And come to think of it, it’s not just his eyes anymore, either.

Mike leans back in his chair and grins, just a little. He takes another look around the Hole, and jerks his head toward one wall where several paintings are hung.

“You ever put anything up here?”

“Oh, no.”

“Why not?”

“They wouldn’t want it.”

“Ever ask?”

“Not … exactly?”

“Hm. Well, you should. Someday. Like, when you’re ready.”

He makes it sound so easy. Poor kid.

Mike grabs a neon-pink flyer from a nearby table and holds it up. “What about classes?” he asks. “Taking anything this summer? Maybe you just need a little practice. I know I do.”

The flyer is advertising a life drawing class, held in one of the Hole’s rooms, starting next week. But the price per class is ridiculous. For what they’re asking, I may as well sign up for summer school at my college and get the credit for it. And since I did
not
look for a job today, it might not be a bad idea. It’ll help keep Mom off my back,
and
get me out of the house.