by Cassie Mae
“Do you know how to breathe?” I ask, my eyebrows sky high. Candace can talk, but I didn’t realize she could talk that much.
The guy chuckles at my joke, and I get a much deserved kick to the shin that he doesn’t see.
“That’s where I know you from.” His eyes drop to her chest briefly. “Candace…” he reads off her nametag. “Good to put a name to the face. How long you been painting?”
Candace opens her mouth, closes it, opens again, makes a croaking noise, then shakes her head hard. Oh this is painful to watch.
“Since you were about five, right?” I say, offering help. Not sure I can take much more of her attempts to flirt, as funny as they are.
“Umherm,” she mumbles, adding a nod. Good, ‘cause I guess whatever noise that was meant yes.
“Cool.” He drops his gaze to his brother crouched by the more expensive knick knacks in the front case. I move over to help the little guy out, give Candace her in without me being witness to it. Maybe that’s why she’s fumbling so hard; she probably knows that no matter how it goes, I’ll make fun of her for it.
“Got your eye on anything else?” I fold my arms on the counter and peer over.
“How much do I have again?”
“Well, after the football, that puts you at three-hundred and ten tickets.” The football was seven-fifty-five—overpriced in my opinion—but he seems happy with it.
“And I can save the rest?”
I nod, reaching for his card. “Just keep a hold of this for your next visit.”
He stands up and takes the purple card from me and puts it in his pocket. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“Zach,” he says to his brother. “Let’s do Zombie Killers before they close.”
“You done here?” Zach asks, and Candace’s lips turn down the slightest bit.
“Yeah. Gonna save them.” He pats his pocket where his ticket card is.
“Oh, we’re coming back, huh?”
“You owe me.” His brother juts his hip with some mighty pre-teen sass. Reminds me of my youngest sister… who is just over ten years old.
“All right.” He playfully punches his brother in the arm, then gives Candace a quick glance. “See you in a few weeks. If not sooner.”
“Yes!” she shouts, then clears her throat. “I mean, yeah.” She gives him an awkward smile, which hopefully the guy finds adorable and not off-putting. They head out of the arcade, and she slumps to the floor, her hands over her face.
“Don’t say it,” she says.
“That was sad.”
She glares at me. “I said not to say it.”
“Have you never flirted before?” I shake my head and join her on the floor. “’Cause, damn.”
“I’ve flirted,” she hisses.
“And… it’s worked?”
She growls and buries her face in her hands. “Zach is different from other guys I’ve liked. I feel so lame talking to him.”
“That’s different from anyone else?”
She gives me a quick smack to the shoulder, and I pretend it hurt way more than it did.
“He’s older. More experienced. Rides a motorcycle. Is totally ripped. And his tattoos…”
“You sure we’re not talking about me?” I tilt my head, my grin smug. She shoves me again.
“I’m from a small town in Idaho. I turn in pennies I find on the road. I go to bed at exactly ten-thirty and wake up at exactly seven. I’ve kissed two guys and both of them took me on four or more dates before I let them do that. I’m way too…”
She gestures to herself, unsure of how to finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to, though.
“Hey,” I bump shoulders with her, “you just need to loosen up a bit.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“It’s not hard.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“You got a ride home?” I say without thinking too much about it.
“Yes.”
“You want to cancel it? Hop on my bike, for a change.”
Her eyes narrow, and she gives me a look that clearly says I’m talking crazy.
I snort. “Okay, start simpler, then.”
“Example…?”
“Eat dessert first.”
She wrinkles her nose at me.
“What?” I laugh. “Even that too hard for ya?”
“That sounds like the lamest way to become… less lame.”
“Hey, you’re the one who doesn’t want to take a ride on good ol’ Gertrude.”
“You named your bike.”
“Yes.”
“And you named it Gertrude.”
“Just now, yes.”
She snorts, and then chokes, and then turns red, and I’m laughing at her while she gives me a right hook to the shoulder.
“Okay, I’ll start with dessert before dinner.”
“Good.” I push to my feet and put my hand out for her. “I’ll check in on Saturday, so you better do it.” She takes my hand, and I hoist her up. “You want to do closing announcement or should I?”
“It’s still two minutes before.”
I sigh and shake my head. Always a stickler. “Maybe closing early when there is no one in the arcade can be your next thing.” I wave my hand around the empty arcade, then hop over the counter and start shutting it down. Time for easy cleanup and a nice long ride on the bike. Unlike her, I don’t have a bedtime.
Candace
I roll over in my comfy queen bed with 1200 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. My alarm clock says 10:13, and I’m nowhere near sleep. My mind better shut the heck off if I’m going to be asleep by 10:30.
I roll to my back and stare at the ceiling, blowing out a long breath. My fan rotates in the corner, even though it’s the dead of winter. It’s easier to sleep with the white noise and bundle up under a thousand duvets than to hear the endless quiet of my house.
I have my own place—kind of. I mean, Dad technically owns it. And it’s on his property. Like his backyard.
But when I graduated high school I said, I need independence! And he offered me the guest house at the Indiana farmhouse we use for about half the year. It was tempting. Too tempting. And I’m weak and frail and scared to death about being on my own.
But I was determined to have the same college experience as someone who didn’t grow up with all that I did, which is why I applied at Troublemakers and pledged as many sororities as I could and took the maximum amount of classes available for my major.
Freshman year I spent by my lonesome. No sorority accepted me, and the classes became way too overwhelming with my job on top of it. I wasn’t able to keep my sleep schedule, and I was crab-tac-ular on my best days and a downright… b-word… on my worst.
When enrollment came around again, I bit the bullet and transferred my credits to art school instead. My parents are supportive as heck, and they backed me up completely… and financially.
I’ve heard it my whole life—spoiled, privileged, trust-fund baby. I’m not insane enough to argue the point, and I may be a bit naïve. It does put a hitch in making friends sometimes.
Speaking of friends, I frown at the thought of trash talking one of them tonight. My tongue was a rabid dog, taking off and biting at whatever it could to make a connection with Zach. (Mmmm, Zach…) In the process, I’m pretty sure I called my best friend in the world dumb.
Guilt pops its head up like a meerkat in the corner of my mind. Yep, it’s definitely the guilt that’s keeping me from my perfect sleep schedule.
I push up on my elbow and flick the horse-carved lamp. The entire house is a combination of rustic cabin and modern mansion, and it’s the best inspiration for my off-kilter style of art. My gold iPad sits neatly next to my phone, both of which are on the charging station. I take the iPad, preferring to work with that at night and my phone during the day. They equally need to be used so I can justify owning both.
After using my thumbprint to unlock it, I tap my way to Amb
er’s message feed.
Hey,
I need to apologize to you. I was trying to impress a guy tonight, and I may have said you were dumb, and I didn’t mean to, but I did, and I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.
I miss you. Hope we can get together soon.
Candace
I read it over to check my grammar and correct any autocorrect blunders. Once it’s perfect, I nod once and send the apology off with a whoosh. A sigh of relief escapes me, and I tap the edges of the iPad while I wait for her response, refreshing every few seconds. (Okay, exactly every fifteen seconds.)
Two minutes and forty-five seconds later, I refresh to her response. My heart thuds uncomfortably, my eyes narrowing at the three laughing faces. There’s nothing else.
Why are you laughing at me? I AM sorry.
I refresh some more, and it’s only thirty more seconds this time.
Was he impressed? ;)
Not at all. Boy was he not impressed by me. He probably thought I was on something.
Too bad. Throwing a friend under the bus and not even a phone number. She sends more laughing faces before another message comes in. Look, we’re good. I’ve called you much worse behind your back. ;)
Like what??
I’m kidding! Relax, Candace. I’m not mad, and don’t beat yourself up about it. I am dumb sometimes. You can sleep easy. I mean, you’re bed time is in ten, right?
I grimace at the message. *your
GO TO BED, GRAMMAR POLICE. Love ya!
A small chuckle rumbles my lips, and I exit our chat. 10:21, and my mind is not any more de-cluttered. Amber didn’t give two fluffs about what I said, and she never would’ve known if I hadn’t said anything. And why did I have to message her? Guilt? Why did I feel bad? How dare I say something negative about anyone, ever.
A flicker of a memory projects in my mind like an 8mm. Dad was watching some horror show, don’t remember which one, and I defended the demon.
He just wants to make friends. Maybe he’s a good demon.
My dad raised his eyebrow, and I swear he thought I was a demon. But really, I was afraid of getting possessed, so I said nice things about the scary ghost. I made it a point to never watch a horror movie after that.
I push my face against the iPad and hit my forehead a few times, grumbling under my breath. As much as I hate to admit it, Pete might be right. I have got to loosen up some.
I watch the clock tick over another minute and nibble on the inside of my cheek. Start small… I could, well, stay up past my bedtime. It’ll be okay if I get a couple minutes less sleep.
My teeth slide off each other, and I hiss as I accidentally take a chunk off the inside of my bottom lip. Ick, I hope that heals quickly.
To keep myself from further nervous-tick-caused injury, I scroll to my journal app. My journal is more or less a bunch of incoherent babbling and doodles. Art is the only place I allow chaos. It feels okay, somehow, to be however I want without worrying if it’s right or wrong. It just is, and I like that.
I take my stylus out and pull up a color code generator. I’ll let randomness pick what colors I use tonight.
#E826A4, #58EE44, and #D0CFCF. Unconventional, and I smile as I set them inside my empty page for use. The clock up top says it’s 10:29. Oh my gosh, I’m going to do it. I’m going to stay up past my bedtime.
My hands start to shake, and that’s super ridiculous. I’m excited to break a self-imposed rule. I really hope I’m not crabby tomorrow. If I am, I’m blaming Pete.
I let out a small laugh, starting the sketch template I use for drawing girls. Realism has never been my forte, and I prefer the illustrator look anyway. I can exaggerate features, which is fun. It’s… against the rules.
10:30.
My light should be off. My iPad should be down. I should be cozied up with my fluffy pillows and way too expensive sheets. My mind usually drifts away, my body knowing that I don’t have time for tossing and turning.
An itch springs up my spine, and I cringe and squirm, trying to rid myself of it. Just focus on drawing, Candace. You got this.
I get the basic shapes of a face—the imperfect circle and the curved lines I run through it so I know where to put the eyes, nose, and mouth—before the clock hits 10:31.
“I did it!” I exclaim to my fan, because that’s the only darn thing here. A victorious grin hits my lips, and I flip to Pete’s name in my contacts.
10:31! I’m up past my bedtime. See? I can rebel.
The response bubbles dance almost immediately after I send, and my stomach dances with them at the thought that he’s answering right away. Kind of nice he doesn’t see my name and roll his eyes and ignore.
A whole minute. I’ve had sex that’s lasted less than that, so props.
I make a face, and a shiver goes up and down my spine. Visuals… oy.
My thumb hovers over the keypad, but before I can respond, my Facetime bings, and Pete’s goofy face and mussed brown hair appears on my suddenly too-big screen.
“Nononono.” I shake my head hard. I’m in bed. No bra. Messy bun. Overnight zit cream in the crease of my nose and on my chin. I reject his call so fast my finger slides completely off the screen, then I toss the sucker across the bed like it bit me.
Okay, I stayed up. That’s my rebellion for the night. I’ll call him back in the morning… or some time when I’m dressed.
Careful to not touch the screen in case he calls again and my thumb accepts it, I pick the iPad up and set it in its spot next to my phone. I click my horse lamp off and cuddle under my sheets. If I’m not asleep by 10:40, I’ll start my meditation track.
The room lights up, and I peek above my duvet to see Pete’s face again. “Take the hint,” I lilt, hiding under my blankets. He can make fun of me all he wants when I see him Saturday. For now, he’s just going to have to deal with radio silence.
I roll over, keeping my head covered. Zach… that’s who I’m doing this for. I’m going to loosen up, get his number, fall in love, and have his babies.
After six minutes of Zach-channel and not much luck in the sleeping department, I turn on my meditation, ignoring that I have four missed facetime requests from Pete.
Candace
Zach is late.
Again.
The smell of paint and fun settle around me, and I nibble on the inside of my bottom lip, playing with that canker sore. If I’ve really fallen in love with the guy, I better start being way more flexible, beginning with my tolerance level for punctuality.
I tap my paintbrush against my palm, letting the well-used bristles flick against my skin. The door stays stupidly closed, the hallway just outside the classroom empty. I glance around the room, many people already dabbing into their paints and brushing away. Guess I’m the only one concerned that our model is MIA.
I stop playing with my lip and rest my gaze on my work in progress. The canvas is large—I opted for the twenty-four by thirty-six when I saw Zach’s heavenly body walk through the door. I’ll paint his face and stick it up on my wall for him and every one of our babies to see.
My color palate for him is unlike everyone else’s in the room. Most are going for the traditional colors, of course. His complexion is mid-tone brown. His tattoos are monochromatic with only slight differences in shade, most likely depending on when he got them. His eyes are a piercing ice blue, which is romantic and amazing and so rare a student actually asked him if he wore colored contacts.
The room is filled with these three colors, each easel holding a bottle or two… except mine.
When he walked in, I instantly went Bozo red, heart eyes and blushy cheeks and all. All I see from him is fiery red.
So I went with a deep shade of blue.
Next to my blue, I have cascading shades of violet, lavender, and periwinkle. His tattoos will be painted in various shades of maroon, while his stunning eyes will be painted the deepest black with gray flecks.
I kept my colors ice cold—the exact opposite to how he makes me fee
l. It’s my signature.
I hope he likes it.
The door creaks open, and my heart floats up my throat for two seconds before it sinks back down where it belongs. It’s just Miss Barley.
“Our model will join us in just a minute,” she says. She only addresses the entire class once, maybe twice during the two hours we’re here. The rest of the time she spends floating from canvas to canvas, offering up suggestions or asking us our motivation behind our creative choices.
Her clothing is always the same, too—a loose hanging tank top over a brightly colored sports bra. Her bottoms are oversized gray sweats with a drawstring that’s barely hanging on anymore. Paint is spattered everywhere—some days in her curly red hair too. I think she gave up on keeping the paint off her long ago.
I drop my eyes to my lap, my paint apron covering my clothes from head to toe. I wear black, form-fitting yoga pants and a capped sleeve tee. It’s a combination I don’t mind getting paint on, yet I haven’t had to worry about that for years. I’ve perfected the art of… well, perfectly clean art time. My multi-colored, paint-free apron is proof of that.
“So you’re aware,” Miss Barley continues, “he’ll be dressed a little differently today.”
Oh poo… no shirtless Zach? I don’t exactly hide my frown very well, and whispered chatter fills the room, especially from my neighbors.
I sit next to a girl named Raina and the guy next to her is Tristan. From what I’ve gathered from eavesdropping, Tristan is super curious to find out if Ben, another classmate, would be interested in him. Raina constantly encourages him to go for it.
And I get a little too jealous over their friendship and wish I had the guts to join in their conversations. I wonder if they think I’m too naïve and innocent to go for Zach.
But I did curse that one time I stubbed my toe. I dropped a hard s-word. So, not totally innocent.
Tristan leans over to Raina and whispers something I can’t hear, and I don’t want to look like I’m trying to listen in, so I set my brush on the easel and wait for Zach, bouncing not-so-patiently on my stool.
