by Maya Hughes
Berk walked up beside me, flicked the latch and pushed it up with one hand.
“Show off.” I grumbled stepping back.
“What were you trying to do exactly? Other than start a kitchen fire?”
I opened the front door to let in even more air. “I was going to make you guys dinner. Jules dropped off some cookies with LJ and—”
“Jules sent cookies.” He was in a scrimmage line stance, head whipping around, dark hair whooshing as he searched for cookies. When he spotted the container on the table, it was like watching a bear go after honey.
“Why’s the door—” LJ and Keyton coughed the second they stepped inside with a plastic liquor store bag.
“Marisa, what happened?” LJ’s head tilted and he looked at me like a disappointed sitcom dad.
“She tried to defrost eight pounds of chicken in the microwave—all at once—still in the wrapper.” Berk spoke around the cookies shoved in his face.
“Way to sell me out, Berk!” I cringed and met LJ’s stare. “Whoops!”
13
LJ
I slid on the oven mitt and took the tray of grilled chicken breasts out, sitting them on the stove. Marisa was banned from the kitchen without supervision. She’d accused me of calling her every hour while I was in Michigan. Maybe every other hour.
With Nix, our cooking extraordinaire, gone, we were left with a rotation of bulk cooking to keep everyone from gnawing on the baseboards and to keep Marisa from trying to help us out by pois—cooking for us.
Keyton wasn’t too bad either. All three of us combined managed to at least keep ourselves full and geared up for practices. There were also the occasional stops at the dining hall to acquire large quantities of lunch meat.
We’d won against the Wildcats and our next two games. The season was halfway over, and I barely had enough tape to make it to a European football league, let alone the pros.
The reminder of why I needed to figure this situation out was blasted in my face while talking to my mom.
“Yes, I have my vitamin C powder.” I switched my phone to the other ear.
“The air on those planes is so rough on you.”
“I’ll be okay, Mom. And I’ll come home next Thursday for your birthday dinner.”
“You don’t have to do that. I know you’re busy with the season and classes. Aren’t you on a plane at dawn the next day?”
“I’m not going to miss your birthday.”
“As long as you know you don’t have to.”
“Is dad making his brisket and lobster mac & cheese?”
“Of course.”
“Then you can’t keep me away.”
“Just you? Is Marisa coming?”
“I’ll ask her. They have a big new exhibition coming to the museum and she’s been spending a lot of time there, and working on her presentation for her fellowship application, which I’m headed to after I get off the call with you.”
“I hope she’s not working too hard. What’s this fellowship she’s applying for?”
“She might be going to Venice for two years after graduation.” My throat clenched. It was still hard to say the words, but I didn’t freeze every time I thought about it now. Slowly, I’d work out how to keep all the pieces together when it felt like they were slipping away.
“Two years…”
“I know! I said the same thing.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I’m happy for her. She loved Venice and it seemed like Venice loved her.” Every time we’d video chatted, she had a new exciting discovery to tell me about. A painting she’d finally seen up close. How the brush strokes weren’t what she expected. The smell of the room sent her into a five-minute TED talk on temperature-controlled preservation.
As hard as it had been to have her gone for the whole summer, seeing the happiness pouring off her in waves had helped. She deserved that and more.
“That’s it?”
“How else is there to feel about it?”
“You two have been nearly joined at the hip since third grade. And she’s going to be moving to another country for two years.”
“She was away all summer and we still talked loads.” Not as much as I’d have liked. I’d hated not being able to experience it all with her. The Henri talk hadn’t made it any easier. Now she might have a whole year with her art appreciation accomplice, dashing from one historical site to another.
“But you’ll be so busy with football.”
“That’s a big if, Mom.” Letting my family down was the last thing I wanted to do, but I’d rather under-promise and over-deliver. With the time I’d been playing this season and my agent squawking in my ear every chance he got, concern of not making the cut mounted every game. The Plan B of getting an office job didn’t provide nearly the security my family needed or anything close to what I’d need for all my big plans for me and Marisa.
“Your father and I wanted to talk to you about it, but weren’t sure how to bring it up. What is going on with your playing time this season? Are you hurt? Did something happen?”
I paced, squeezing the back of my neck. “The coach and I aren’t seeing eye to eye.”
“The coach as in Marisa’s dad?”
Her short hmm came from her end of the line.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Worry edged into her tone.
I’d figure it out. I’d figure something out, although the time was ticking down.
“Your sister has been working on her portfolio painting since September and she can’t wait to show it to you.”
Clinging to the subject change, I jumped to Quinn. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“She’s entering it into a scholarship competition for RISD, but there are only so many spaces.”
The Rhode Island School of Design had been the school Quinn set her sights on when she was eleven and I was fifteen. It was one of the best art schools in the country and had an annual price tag the size of a luxury car. And all bells and whistles of a luxury car.
“Does she have a backup plan?”
“Pratt. Cal Arts.” The chuckle was barely stifled.
I groaned. Just like that, we were right back at how important this season was. Her dreams and mine were intertwined, and the whole family was looking to me for the way out, even if they said they weren’t.
Quinn deserved to go. So much of her childhood had been being shuttled around to hospitals with dad or stuck at home with me, or even worse, brought to football practice with me. She and Marisa would hang out in the stands and split concessions during games.
Getting in was one part of the equation, but paying for it was the other. Even with financial aid, if I didn’t sign a fat contract she’d never be able to go.
“Sensible, practical options.”
“Honey, I know you’re putting a lot of weight on your shoulders right now. You always did.” Her voice got watery and my throat closed up.
Mom crying was in my top three worst sounds ever. There had been plenty of nights she’d do it behind closed doors when she thought everyone else was asleep when dad was sick. I’d heard and vowed there would only be happy tears from her once I got older. Older like I was right now.
“But I want you to know we’re proud of you no matter what happens. You’ll have graduated and played amazingly well all these years. You’ve been the rock long before your time, so I want you to promise me you’ll have some fun for yourself before you graduate.”
Flashes of fun blazed through my brain. Celebrating after a win. Nerf battles in the house. Marisa in my bed. I shook my head, trying to knock the last vision loose. Seven games left until playoffs. Keep it together.
“Don’t worry, Mom.”
Her lyrical laugh flooded the line. “It’s what moms do. Tell Marisa I said good luck on her presentation and I can’t wait to see her.”
“I will. Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, honey. See you in two week
s, and have a great game on Saturday.”
Our call ended. There wasn’t time to heat my dinner up and get to Marisa’s presentation on time. I scarfed down my now-lukewarm food, grabbed my coat with the surprise tucked inside, and headed for the door.
The Franklin Building was in the older part of campus. It hadn’t yet been replaced by the steel-and-glass sleek renovations popping up from behind the construction barriers.
I followed the signs for the Art History Department and the sign taped on the door for the Guggenheim Fellowship presentations.
The door swung all the way open, banging into the chair of an older man sitting nearby. Inside the conference room, all heads turned in my direction.
“Sorry.” I cringed.
On the other side of the room, Marisa slapped her hand over her forehead before straightening back up and directing her attention back to the front where the first applicant had begun their presentation. Marisa’s gaze darted in my direction with a half-smothered smile twitching her lips.
Chairs were jammed into the conference room meant to hold eight people. The presentation screen up front was lit up with artwork Marisa had probably told me about twenty times, but I couldn’t remember the names.
I climbed over three people in the second row, squeezing myself into the one empty chair.
The guy presenting spoke so excitedly about the sculptures on his slides, all of which seemed to be studies of the female form. I wasn’t 100% sure this guy wouldn’t be hauled away for attempting to bang one.
“As you can see, the lines are magnificent.” There was an uncomfortable silence as he ran his finger along the curves of a sculpture of a headless woman. Not creepy at all.
“Thank you for that.” Marisa’s professor cleared her throat and stepped to the front of the room to slice through awkwardness so thick I was surprised we could still see each other. “Fascinating presentation. It’s always wonderful to see people genuinely excited by the art.”
So excited, he probably had a semi.
“Up next, we have Marisa Saunders. She spent this past summer at the museum and has focused her studies on preservation efforts with a dual degree in chemistry and art history. It’s quite a unique combination, though I know it’s a bit of home team bias on my part. Marisa.” The professor held out her hand to welcome Marisa to the front. She was in her museum gear: a blue button-down shirt I’d ironed for her yesterday and a grey tweed skirt. All she was missing were glasses and a blazer with elbow patches, and she’d match half the people in the room.
I kept my seat. Learned that one the hard way, when I got up and cheered during a gallery presentation her sophomore year. She hadn’t talked to me for a week afterward. The art crowd wasn’t used to rowdy sidelines support. Who didn’t love someone starting a chant spelling out each letter of their name? Apparently, art appreciators.
My fingers gripped the sides of my chair.
She didn’t look half as nervous as I felt. This was worse than standing inside the tunnel waiting to run out onto the field, but there were no walls to bang into or jumping around knocking into other guys’ helmets in this stuffy room.
Standing in front of a room of art buffs, she commanded everyone’s attention and launched into her plans for the summer. She came alive, animated in a way that didn’t signal she might start making out with an Andy Warhol or Kandinsky.
“Another community outreach project would be to get tour groups to work together to create their own Jackson Pollack. We could set the canvases out at the beginning of the tour. Smaller than Pollock’s. I don’t think many visitors would be able to find room for an eight-foot by twenty-foot painting in their luggage. Using quick drying water-based paints would allow the guide to provide them with the finished canvas at the end of their tour. There could be a designated photographer at the end to photograph them and provide them to the visitors to take as a keepsake.” When she’d first told me about this idea, I’d been blown away. Not only would it show everyone how hard the ‘easy’ art truly was, but getting people involved in the art would take it from stuff on a wall to things created by insanely talented people.
A mumble rippled through the crowd jammed into the room. Whispers of what a great idea it was and how some might want to try it in other museums circulated around the room.
Pride did an end zone dance in my chest.
Marisa wrapped up her presentation and there was polite applause—not the chest-bumping, face-painted screams of a touchdown there should have been.
After a few more remarks from her professor, the group was invited for coffee and snacks in the department hallway.
I let everyone else filter out of the room, including the shady statue guy.
Marisa bounded over to me, grinning like a maniac. “What did you think?” Her eyes glinted with a championship win light.
“You nailed it.” I held up my hand and she did a jumping high five. Leaning in, I pulled her closer than I needed, but I’d take what I could get. “Was the first guy as creepy as the statue sicko?”
She wide-eyed whispered back. “That was seriously weird, right? I was wondering if it was just me.”
“I hope no one breaks out a black light on any of the artwork he’s been near.”
Her face contorted with dread and disgust. “Gross, L.”
I laughed, not even trying to hide it.
“No, the first guy was so dull, I had to jam my pencil into my hand to keep myself awake.” She held up her hand.
Taking it, I traced my thumb over the barely-there indents between her thumb and pointer finger. Her skin was smooth and soft and it had been too long since I’d had an excuse to touch her like this.
“You really did kill that presentation.” I offered up a watered-down lemonade of a smile. As proud as I was, a part of me didn’t want her to be so passionate and excited about this trip. On the fifty yard line wearing the number one jersey, we have me, the total asshole. That I wanted them to—even in a small part of my mind—choose boring guy or way-too-into-art guy showed me how much of an ass I was.
Marisa had worked hard for this, and I’d support her in this like I did all things.
“Come on, let’s raid the food set up and drink some terrible coffee and stuff ourselves on crumbly cookies.”
“Sounds like a great plan.”
Two years.
14
Marisa
Every time I was a block away from Ron’s house, my stomach knotted, twisting like a wrung-out cloth filled with dirty mop water. The need to graduate was the only thing that kept me coming. If I was lucky, he’d cancel more of these. Something always came up.
The nip in the air was more pronounced, and before long I’d be able to see my breath hanging in the air. In a couple weeks, those poor trick-or-treaters wouldn’t be able to show off their costumes under all the layers.
I tugged my sleeves down from under my coat. Maybe we’d get some early excuse to bail on a dinner with Ron.
Not that I cared. I loved the days he cancelled. It shone the light on exactly where his priorities were. There were 28 Mondays between me and graduation. He’d cancel at least half, and I’d be scot-free. Hell, once he’d signed my tuition waiver for the spring in December, maybe I’d end up just as busy as he was and skip them entirely. Gratitude to a man I should hate, who’d caused me so much pain was a glass covered pill to swallow. The guilt came next at not being appreciative that I’d graduate college with almost no debt, which triggered all kinds of anger that he didn’t deserve any of my gratefulness or appreciation after walking out on me.
When I’d contacted him about transferring to Fulton U after realizing where he’d ended up and where LJ went were one in the same, part of me thought he’d never even respond and I’d have to figure something else out, but he’d said yes. The deal came with a catch. The not-so-weekly dinners. And he still held onto those puppet strings for a few more months. Then I was done. None of these dinners had shown me he’d made more than the most basic
effort. Always on his terms and at his convenience.
I stopped on the corner two blocks away from the house, waiting for LJ. Doing these dinners without him had sucked. But after the first few he’d insisted on coming with me. When the choice presented itself to do something with or without LJ, there was a hands down, no contest, clear winner.
He was my rock, and the one person I could count on to have my back—even if he apparently had a hard time listening. But he had a lot on his mind too.
I hated how much I needed him. I hated feeling needy. I hated feeling vulnerable.
He could slice me in two with a word without even realizing it. Our senior trip kiss and the day at the door with my dad. Completely oblivious, he’d reached into my chest, grabbed my heart, and dumped it straight into my hands.
This was the best time to think about my future. The one without him. I couldn’t be the needy, annoying one in this relationship forever. I just needed a few more months.
I checked my phone.
No messages from LJ.
There were still fifteen minutes until dinner officially started, but I wasn’t showing up early. I tapped my phone against my palm and paced the sidewalk.
An email notification popped up from my advisor with the subject line. “Congratulations! - You’ve been selected.”
Had one of the art history professors opened another phishing email that threatened to take down the whole email server again? Last month, we’d been hit with a lottery winning notification.
Against all of IT’s advice, I opened it.
And yelped, nearly dropping my phone to the sidewalk.
I snatched my phone off the ground and read through the email with my hand over my mouth.
“Marisa! You okay?” LJ called out his passenger side window.
“Great. Totally great.” I kept my happy dance in check and hopped into his car, wanting to hang out the window and scream into the autumn air.
He rolled toward the house. “You looked like a clickbait YouTube thumbnail back there. What’s going on?”
