Looked like a good omen to me.
Bye-bye, Sam Smith, CPA. Hello, Samantha Smith, world-renowned crayon craftswoman.
Nothing was going to stop me from following through to becoming an artist.
Now I just had to figure out how to break the news to my parents.
Chapter 11
SAMANTHA
Christos met me at my apartment that evening for dinner. His ’68 Camaro rumbled downstairs as he pulled into a visitor’s parking space. When I glanced out the curtains, it was already dark due to the winter hours. I think the evening hour made me feel like we were any other married couple, like I should have a drink waiting for him, or dinner cooking, or whatever.
When he rang my doorbell, I had a fantasy of a little boy and a little girl running up behind me, so the whole family could greet Christos together, the kids shouting “Daddy!” in unison. My heart accelerated at the thought. I took a deep breath and reminded myself it was only a fantasy.
I opened the door and was greeted by a face full of flowers. Not the real kind, but a big oil painting of a bouquet of them. It was gorgeous.
I tried to peek around the picture frame. “Christos? You back there somewhere?”
Christos leaned over the top of the giant painting, his even white teeth gleaming back at me as he grinned.
“What’s this?”
His dimples flashed. “Most English speakers refer to this as a painting.”
“Duh, I know what it’s called. But what’s it for?”
“It’s for you, agápi mou,” he smiled. “I painted it.”
I was flabbergasted. “What? When? Today?”
“No,” he chuckled. “Between Thanksgiving and Winter Break, when you were avoiding me. I wanted to do something special for you. Show you how important you were to me. Anyone can buy flowers, but I figured a painting of them would be twice as nice, and it lasts forever.”
“Oh my God, Christos, you shouldn’t have done this,” I was tearing up already.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, shouldn’t you save this for a special occasion? Like an anniversary or whatever?”
“Every day is a special occasion with you, agápi mou. That seems reason enough to me.”
My heart hammered again. It seemed like this evening was going to be rich with fantasy fulfillment.
Christos walked through the doorway, careful not to bump the painting into the doorframe. “Where should I hang it?”
I had a chance to better appreciate the painting as he held it up for me to inspect. It was intricate and breathtakingly beautiful.
“How long did this take you to paint?” I gaped.
“Does it matter?” he smiled.
“Yes, it matters! It looks like it must have taken forever!”
“For you, agápi mou, forever is the right amount of time,” he grinned.
“Oh, Christos,” I smiled. Yes, tears were imminent.
“How about I hang it on this wall?”
“That would be perfect,” I sniffed.
He pulled a hammer out of his back pocket, and some small nails. After eye-balling the wall, he tapped several nails into the plaster, then hung the painting. “How’s that?”
“It’s perfect.”
“Remember, don’t over-water them. That’s a common mistake,” he winked.
“I won’t,” I laughed. “It’s beautiful, Christos.” I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him fiercely. “This is the best bouquet ever.”
“Anything for you, agápi mou.” He kissed the top of my head softly. “You ready for some dinner?”
“I’m getting sort of hungry.”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m getting a bit tired of takeout. We’re going to have to either start spending more time over at my place so I can cook for you myself, or I’m going to have to stock up your fridge so I can cook for you here.”
“Wait, both of those options are you cooking for me. Isn’t that only one option?”
“That I cook for you is a given,” he smiled, “it’s only a question of where.”
I frowned. “Are you saying I can’t cook?”
He grinned. “Samantha, I have no doubt you make a mean ice cream sundae. But a man requires sustenance. So what’ll it be?”
“An ice cream sundae sounds pretty good right about now,” I winked.
“I’ve got a better idea. Grab your purse.”
Five minutes later, Christos parked his Camaro on the Pacific Coast Highway and we walked toward a restaurant with big blue awning. He held the door for me as we entered Pizza Port.
“I’ve never been here before,” I said.
“What? How can you not have discovered Pizza Port? You practically live right on top of it!”
The interior was covered in crisscrossed bare wood, surfboards hanging from the ceiling, and photos of surfers all over the walls. Picnic tables with the attached benches were laid out on the floor. A bunch of kids in soccer uniforms and their parents occupied most of the seats in the room.
“Wow, it’s packed,” I said. “My parents would never go to a rowdy place like this.”
“Do you want to go someplace else?”
“No, I kind of like it,” I smiled. “It’s perfect.”
While we waited in line to order, I noticed they had these huge metal tanks behind the counter. “What are those tanks?”
“They brew their own beer,” Christos said. “It’s good stuff. I can buy some for you, if you want.”
“Oh, I’m good.”
At Christos’ suggestion, we ordered a Pizza Carlsbad, which had pesto, grilled chicken, sun-dried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and feta. Then we found a place on the benches to sit, squeezed between what looked like two opposing soccer teams, green uniforms on one side of the divide, orange on the other.
“You sure you want to sit here?” Christos asked.
“It should be okay, right?” I said cautiously, not sure what he meant.
“These kids seem sort of surly. Like a drunken brawl could erupt any second.”
The kids were all about eight years old. I giggled. “If you need me to protect you, Christos, just say the word.”
He smiled and extended his hand toward the bench. “I’d pull the bench out for you, but it’s bolted down.”
“Always the gentlemen,” I smiled.
He held my hand as I lifted one leg, then the other, over the bench. “Thank you, sir.”
As he was about to slide in next to me, two boys in green soccer jerseys who had just finished playing a video game at the back of the restaurant came barreling toward Christos, shouting, “We need more quarters!”
The second boy wasn’t watching where he was going. He was distracted by Christos’ lifting his leg over the bench.
“Be careful, Jordan!” a woman hollered at the boy.
Jordan pivoted to avoid running into Christos’ knee but stumbled headlong in the direction of a floor-to-ceiling post. I grit my teeth as I imagined the certain concussion the boy was about to suffer.
Christos reacted instantly. His knee still in the air, he spun on his planted foot and swept Jordan up in his arms, pulling him off his trajectory. Christos planted his elevated foot and swung the boy high into the air.
“Airplane ride!” Christos sang as he held Jordan aloft.
The boy was surprised for a second, but all smiles.
Christos continued to hold him up. “Jordan, can you touch the ceiling while you’re up there?”
The boy giggled and slapped the beam overhead.
“Got it!” Christos said before lowering him to the floor.
The woman who had hollered at Jordan was already walking over to claim him. She was smiling nervously. “Thank you so much. I think you saved my son a trip to the Emergency Room.”
“No problem,” Christos smiled.
“Say thank you to the nice man, Jordan,” the woman said.
“Thanks,” the boy said bashfully.
“Any t
ime, little man,” Christos winked. “Let me know if you need another airplane ride.”
“I think he’s had enough action for the evening,” the woman said.
“But, mom!” he begged. “Me and James weren’t done playing Galaga! We need more quarters!”
“You need to finish your pizza, young man. Then we’ll see about more Galaga.”
“Mom!” Jordan pleaded as his mom led him back to their bench.
“Thank you so much,” the woman said to Christos.
“Any time,” he smiled at her before sitting next to me.
I pulled at Christos’ collar and looked down his shirt.
“What are you doing?” he laughed.
“Are you wearing blue pajamas under this shirt? With a big red S?”
Christos chuckled. “Sorry, my tights are at the cleaners with my cape.”
A short time later our pizza arrived. I’d never had a pizza like this, and definitely not one with artichoke hearts. It was amazing. “This is like, the best pizza ever,” I said before taking another bite.
“Wait’ll you try their beers.”
“Really?” I mumbled as a string of cheese stretched from the slice in my hand to my mouth. It kept getting longer and longer and didn’t seem to want to break. “I think I need scissors!” The cheese finally broke and stuck to my chin in a wiggly string.
“That’s a good look for you,” Christos laughed before leaning over to lick it off.
I couldn’t decide if that was gross or hot. Maybe both. I grimaced while he did it. I hoped no one was watching.
“Daddy,” a little girl sitting two seats over said, “that man is eating pizza off that girl’s face!”
Nope, no audience.
“Kids are the best,” Christos said.
After my public humiliation subsided, I said, “Do you ever think about having kids?”
“When I’m older. But you have to find the right person to do it with first.” He gave me a knowing look. “Emphasis on the ‘do it’ part, and the ‘right person’ part,” he winked.
“Stop!” I giggled excitedly, a flash of that earlier family fantasy I’d had warming my heart once again. Could it be true? Me and Christos, and babies? Some day? I pushed the thoughts quickly away, afraid of jinxing myself if I thought about it too hard.
“What,” he looked confused. “You don’t want to do it anymore? Was it that bad?”
I blushed thinking about how unbelievably good “it” had been. “Eat your pizza, Christos!”
“That’s not all I’m going to be eating,” He said suggestively.
Yes, my thighs quivered expectantly beneath the picnic table for the remainder of dinner. In a good way.
SAMANTHA
After dinner we went back to my apartment.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” I said as I raced up the stairs. “You’ve got to see what I drew in my sketchbook today!”
“You mean the little traveling one I gave you for Christmas?”
“Yeah!”
I opened my apartment door and we went inside. I pulled the sketchbook out of my book bag and opened it to the page with the drawing of Madison sawing Tiffany in half.
Christos barked laughter instantly. “That’s awesome! Is that Madison slicing Tiffany to pieces?”
“Yeah!” I was kind of surprised he could tell. “How did you know it was them?”
He studied my drawing thoughtfully. “This is obviously Tiffany. I think it’s the hair. Besides, what other bitch could the caption be referring to?” He winked at me. “With Madison, I don’t know, you just captured that smile of hers.”
“But it’s just cartoon drawings,” I said. “Not like your oil paintings that look like photos of people. Anyone could tell your painting of Tiffany was her.”
“I see what you’re saying, but cartoons have their own weird kind of magic. I can’t articulate why, probably one of those mysteries of how the mind works. But have you ever noticed how with political cartoons you can always tell it’s a drawing of the president?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s what you did with Tiffany and Madison. You captured the essence of them in your drawing. That’s pretty amazing, Samantha. I’ve been telling you that you have talent from the beginning. This is further proof. Who knows, maybe you’ll be a famous cartoonist someday.”
I was bashful again. Would I ever be able to accept all the compliments that Christos showered on me?
“Speaking of which,” Christos said, “did you change your major?”
“I did,” I smiled, proud of myself.
“That’s awesome, agápi mou. You totally did the right thing.”
My stomach somersaulted. “But I haven’t told my parents yet,” I winced.
“Ah. I imagine that’ll be tough.”
“Do you want anything to drink?” I asked, needing to change the subject.
“Sure. Water’s good.”
I walked into the kitchen and pulled a pitcher out of the fridge and poured a glass. When I put it back, I couldn’t help staring at the freezer. “Want some ice cream?” I hollered.
“I could go either way,” he said, now standing in the kitchen. “You’re freaking about telling your parents, aren’t you?”
“Stop reading my mind!” I whined. I couldn’t help my sudden poutiness. The idea of finally telling my parents about changing my major made me want to eat too much ice cream, vomit it up, get drunk, vomit that up, then go for a jog so I could eat more ice cream.
“You want to talk about it?” he asked softly. He walked toward me and clasped my arms in his warm hands. He leveled his super-powered blue eyes at me.
Why did I feel so at ease every time I gazed into those eyes of his? Was it their color? Because they were impossibly beautiful? Or was it the man behind them, and his love for me? I’m sure it was both. But it was also the fact that I’d never felt this kind of love in my entire life. Unconditional, supportive, understanding, compassionate love. I was tearing up again. It was starting to become a bad habit.
Is that what love did to you? Made you cry all the time?
Christos pulled me into his arms. “You don’t need ice cream, agápi mou. You need to talk, I can tell.” He grabbed his water and led us to my couch. “What’s eating you?”
I sniffled and giggled. “My need for ice cream.”
He chuckled. “We can have some later. But right now, I want to know what’s bothering you so much about telling your parents, if you want to talk about it. If you want to wait, that’s fine too. But it needs to come out, or it’s going to keep eating away at you.”
I wasn’t sure where to begin. I held my hands up plaintively, then dropped them in my lap. But I knew Christos was right. This was just like the Taylor Lamberth situation. I knew I needed to get it out. I took a deep breath, and began.
“I never told you this before,” I started.
“Sounds like a familiar opening,” he smiled.
I shook my head and leaned into him. We were thigh to thigh on the couch. He put his arm around my shoulder and I rested my head on his chest. It was so firm and supportive, just like he was.
“When I was applying for colleges in high school, I got the idea into my head that maybe I could go to an art college. But I never told my parents. I went online and found a bunch of different schools, all of them in California.”
“Which ones?”
“Mainly CalArts and Art Center College of Design.”
“Those are the big gun schools in Southern Cal.”
“I know. Anyway, I read about portfolio submissions, and realized I needed to do some drawings of my own. Some serious drawings. So every day after school, I would draw all kinds of different things at home. Since I’d lost all my friends after the Damian thing, I had plenty of spare time. But every day, I’d make sure to put away my drawings before my parents got home. Somehow, I intuitively sensed they would say something to knock me down if they ever found out.”
“Serious?” Christos
frowned.
“I guess it wasn’t like that in your house growing up.”
“Heck no. My dad and my grandad were always wanting to see what I was working on, always trying to help me make my work better.”
“You have no idea how lucky you are,” I said, my voice quavering. “Because, one time, I was so wrapped up in one of my drawings, I never heard the garage door when my mom came home from work. I was trying to copy a photograph of a horse, and I remember how amazed I was that my drawing looked good. I was drawing the entire horse, legs and all, and for once, it didn’t look like a kid’s drawing. To me, anyway.
“The next thing I knew, my mom was over my shoulder saying, ‘What are you doing?’ I covered my drawing instinctively, fear instantly knotting my guts.”
I looked up at Christos. “How lame is that? I was afraid of my mom looking at my drawing.”
Christos cupped my cheek with his palm and stroked my face with his thumb, wiping away my tears.
I continued. “I told my mom it was nothing. I remember her eyes narrowing as she searched my face, almost like she knew I was up to something…I don’t know, like I was up to something dangerous…”
SAMANTHA
PAST…
“What is this?” my mom asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“It’s not nothing. It’s a drawing.” She reached over my shoulder and pulled it off my desk to examine it.
I watched her face, trying to figure out where this was going to go. She knew I didn’t socialize much anymore. I’d thought maybe she would’ve said something about how it was nice I had a hobby or whatever.
“Why were you hiding this, young lady?” she demanded, like it was a crack pipe or a handgun.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Then she rifled through the other drawings I had laying out on my desk. I’m sure a normal girl would pin her best work to her bedroom wall. I kept mine in a stack under my books when I wasn’t working on them so my parents wouldn’t notice them.
“What have you been up to, Sam?” my mom asked, eyes narrow.
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