Painted Blind

by Michelle Hansen

  He drew some branches aside so I didn’t have to duck under them. “The billboard. When I saw you at the school, you weren’t anything like I’d imagined. You intrigued me, so I followed you to the carnival.”

  I stopped in the trail and faced his voice. “The fortune-teller knew you were there. She could see you.”

  “She was one of us but chose to live in your world.”

  I remembered her face, the beautiful eyes and the golden skin tone. “Does that happen often?”

  He nudged me forward on the path. “No, she was probably the first.”

  We reached the bridge, where the paved trail abruptly changed into dirt single-track that split in two directions. One trail went up to the sidewalk and across the bridge. The other went under the bridge among the boulders. I hesitated, then turned back. By now school was out, and I shouldn’t linger here with him as dusk fell. I tried to walk slowly, but too soon I was standing by the gazebo looking at my lone car in the parking lot. Part of me wished he was a normal guy I could invite over to meet my dad. Knowing my dad, though, it was probably better if they didn’t meet. Mostly I wondered why he wouldn’t let me see him. “Where’s your motorcycle?” I asked.

  “In front of your car.”

  “But I don’t…”

  “See it?” he teased.

  Already I’d forgotten the first law of veiling. “Whatever you were touching disappeared with you.”

  The gravel crunched under our feet as we crossed the parking lot. “May I visit you again?” he asked. As soon as I unlocked my car, he brushed my hand out of the way, so he could open the door.

  “I’d like that,” I admitted.

  “Soon, then.” He closed the door.

  I started the engine and watched the bushes. Suddenly he appeared, already wearing the black helmet and straddling the motorcycle. He revved the engine, nodded a good-bye and pulled away.

  It couldn’t be soon enough.

  Chapter 5

  It was fully dark by the time I got home. I grinned stupidly to myself over a date with a guy I couldn’t see and failed to notice the extra cars on the block until I was on the sidewalk. Suddenly people ran at me calling me Venus. Two news cameras closed in. I spun around and was blinded by a flash. The photographer snapped three more pictures as I shielded my eyes.

  From the porch I heard a sharp whistle and, “Get away from my daughter!” I bolted toward the sound. The next thing I knew, Dad’s strong arms pulled me through the doorway and turned the lock behind us. “What was that?” he demanded.

  I shook my head. “What do they want?”

  The doorbell rang wildly. A guy with a microphone stood on the porch with a cameraman behind. He jiggled the button again.

  “I’m calling Marty.” Dad pulled the phone from his pocket and scrolled through the numbers.

  Within ten minutes, a Ford pickup pulled into our driveway with the blue and reds flashing. Police Chief Marty DeWitt was the quarterback of my dad’s high school football team. They still went elk hunting together every fall. Marty was six feet four inches tall and had packed on seventy pounds since his football days. He was out of uniform, but had his badge hanging from his jeans pocket and wore a shoulder holster over a gray T-shirt. Even without the gun, he was a presence no one took lightly.

  He gathered the cameras and crews for a short meeting, which Dad and I watched through a crack in the office curtains. Then Marty came into the house.

  “I can’t make them leave,” he told Dad. “As long as they stay off your property, they can be on the public street, but they can’t camp there. I’ll come back in the morning. If they are still here, I’ll ticket them.”

  “That’s it?”

  Chief DeWitt held up his hands. “They have rights, too.”

  “Oh, come on.” Dad shook his head, disgusted.

  Marty’s face didn’t change. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Take a day off, Ron. Watch some football. They’ll get tired of hanging around, and they’ll leave.” He glanced at me before continuing, “The Women’s Club is petitioning to have the billboard removed,” he said, “on the grounds it’s pornographic.”

  “Amen to that,” Dad muttered.

  I made a quiet exit up the stairs. I didn’t turn on any lights, as I closed the blinds then drew the curtains over them. It didn’t make me feel better. Those reporters were violating our space, snapping photos of our house, telling everyone in the world who I was and where I lived. Now more than ever I envied Erik’s ability to be invisible.

  When my cell phone rang, I assumed it was Savannah, so I answered.

  “Psyche, you’ve got to come back,” Blair said. “My phone is ringing off the hook with booking agents who want Venus.”

  “I’m in school,” I said flatly.

  “You don’t understand. I’m getting offers over fifty thousand a session.”

  “Tell them I’m booked until June.” I wasn’t willing to give up my last year at home, and things would be worse for me in a city. Around here a barn fire got more press than fashion. Once the hype from the billboard quieted, people would move on. At least, I hoped they would.

  “Don’t you have a winter break?” Blair asked.

  “Yeah, two weeks in December, but…”

  “Fine, I’ll book you between Christmas and New Year’s. At least give me a week.”

  “I have to ask my dad,” I protested.

  Blair would not be dissuaded. “I’ll book two first-class tickets. Make sure he understands the kind of money you will be making. In the meantime, do not take any jobs behind my back. Are we clear?”

  “Perfectly.” I wandered into Dad’s room, which faced the street.

  “I’ll get you an apartment in Switzerland. You may need it if they find you.”

  “If who finds me?”

  “The paparazzi. Then your days as a normal high school student are over.”

  I peeked between the slats in the blinds. “You make it sound like I’m dodging a killer.”

  “Remember Princess Di, sweetheart. I’m out to protect you at all costs.” She hung up.

  I stabbed the end button, irritated and more scared than I wanted to admit. Much as Blair wanted to protect me, she was also out to make a fortune off me. That fame which promised misery for me was what her business thrived on.

  Dad took Marty’s advice and stayed home from work the next day, though he was probably up early making phone calls. By nine when I wandered downstairs only half awake, he was showered, shaved, sipping coffee and reading the sports page. On this trait we differed greatly. Dad was a morning person. I was not.

  “Hot water on the stove,” he said as I passed.

  After mixing a cup of hot chocolate, I collapsed into a chair at the bar. “Are they gone?”

  “Nope.” He closed the paper and moved into the kitchen, where he began frying bacon and eggs.

  I dropped bread into the toaster. “Did Marty ticket them?”

  “Yep, but they aren’t leaving.”

  “Great.” I wondered why I bothered getting out of bed. I was a prisoner in my own home.

  With the bacon browned and the eggs sunny-side up, Dad set a plate in front of me. “I guess I never gave you a chance to explain the billboard.”

  I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now.”

  “I’d still like to hear it.” The body shop took only a day to repair the headlights and grill of Dad’s truck. With his moving office back in service, he returned to the level-headed, diplomatic father I was used to.

  “I was wearing a bikini under the wig, but where it showed, they Photoshopped it out. That’s not my cleavage.”

  He coughed on a piece of toast. “Too much information.”

  “Did your crew see it?” It made me sad that all the guys who respected him probably thought I was a total sleaze.

  “I’m pretty sure they all drove down Main Street this week, but none of them said a word to me.”

  I laughed, my mouth full. “If they value their lives or th
eir jobs.”

  After breakfast Dad balanced his books and made another hundred phone calls. I went upstairs and soaked in a hot bath. The cameras robbed me of the emotional high I felt after hanging out with Erik. I closed my eyes and tried to hear his voice in my head.

  My fingers turned into white prunes, but the water was still warm, so I stayed there rewalking the trail, repeating my questions until I was nearly dozing with my head against the side of the tub.

  “Psyche.” Dad rapped on the door and startled me from my daydreams. “The phone is for you. It’s a boy.” His voice sounded strained by that last part. “He says his name is Erik.”

  I splashed out of the tub, scrambled to get myself covered in a towel and nearly knocked down the door trying to get the lock to release. Opening the door a mere three inches, I held out my hand palm up.

  “I could have him call you back,” Dad offered.

  “No!” I waved my hand frantically. “Just give me the phone.”

  When he set the receiver in my hand, I pulled it into the bathroom and slammed the door. I sounded out of breath as I said, “Hello?”

  The reply was that chesty chuckle that drove me wild. “What exactly were you doing?”

  There’s no way I would admit I was naked in the bathroom dripping wet. It wasn’t a mental picture I wanted to encourage. “How did you get my phone number?”

  “It’s in the phonebook. Right next to your street address.”

  “You have a phone.” I didn’t mean to say it aloud. I was trying to figure out how normal he was while also trying to dress. Multitasking generally wasn’t difficult, but my mind went a little haywire at the sound of his voice.

  “I’m not a complete moron. I can function in your world as well as you can.”

  I apologized, thoroughly embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “It takes more than that to insult me,” he replied. “I’d like to see you today.”

  I peeked out the window at the unwanted vans on the north end of the street. “I’m kind of trapped at home.” I began toweling off my hair, keeping the phone balanced on my shoulder.

  “Tonight,” he replied unmoved.

  “I don’t think I can sneak out.”

  “Why would you need to?” He hung up before I could answer.

  I dressed in a rush and dried my hair. Then I paused in front of the mirror wearing a pair of cargos I bought last year for school. At the sight of them Savannah had rolled her eyes. “Could you find anything less flattering?” she’d said.

  I dug through the dresser, but it was all pretty much the same. Jeans, cargos and more jeans. The second drawer held T-shirts and hooded sweatshirts. All of them were baggy, and most looked worn. At the bottom was a shirt with a wrap bodice and three-quarter sleeves that Grandma Dee had sent me. I pulled it on over a tank. That was as good as it would get.

  Hours passed. Dad didn’t want to leave me home alone, so he had his crew foreman bring a stack of DVDs to our house. Dad stretched out on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and started the first movie. I slumped on the loveseat growing depressed. How was I supposed to see Erik tonight? He couldn’t ring the doorbell and come inside. He couldn’t drive up on the motorcycle then turn invisible as soon as he stepped in the doorway.

  It was silly to be miserable over an invisible guy from an unknown world. I needed to get a grip—possibly some antipsychotic meds.

  No sooner had I decided he wasn’t coming, than I felt a hand rest on my shoulder. I jumped and let out a squeal.

  Dad furrowed his brow at me. The movie had barely started. No one had died yet.

  “I’m not in the mood for movies.”

  “Plenty of left-overs in the fridge if you’re hungry,” Dad said.

  Erik squeezed my arm.

  “Starving.” In the kitchen I dished a double helping of enchiladas and set them in the microwave. Returning the pan to the fridge, I asked, “Anything else look good?” An apple climbed off the shelf and into my hands. I poured a large glass of milk and grabbed a bag of pretzels from the cupboard. Then I stood at the bar with all that food and wondered aloud, “How am I supposed to carry all this to my room?”

  Inexplicably the apple and the bag of pretzels disappeared. I offered forks to the air and they disappeared, too.

  Upstairs with the door closed I could still hear the soundtrack of the movie playing. We could talk without being heard. The apples, pretzels and forks reappeared in mid-air and settled onto the dresser.

  “Explain the disappearing fruit,” I said.

  “I put it in my shirt.”

  “Your shirt is invisible. It shouldn’t hide a perfectly visible apple.”

  “No, that is the second rule of veiling. Items covered in a veiled substance become veiled.” He opened the bag of pretzels and drew one out. It seemed to float in the air. “Now I’ll close it in my hand.” The pretzel vanished and reappeared a moment later.

  “Does the same rule apply to food you put in your mouth? Because I don’t want to see stuff getting chewed up and swallowed.”

  “Same rule applies.” The pretzel disappeared with a crunch. “Those enchiladas smell really good.”

  I put a fork on the plate and offered it in his general direction. “Help yourself. They’re hot.” I watched as the fork took off a chunk of cheesy tortilla and chicken, lifted into midair and the food disappeared. He ate three more bites before he gasped. The fork clanked onto the plate. The glass of milk rose into the air and was completely drained in a matter of seconds. “I warned you,” I said.

  He whistled quietly. “I thought you meant temperature. Are you hungry? Do you mind if I finish these?”

  There was a whirlpool in my belly, but it had nothing to do with food. “You’ll need more milk,” I answered.

  In the kitchen I filled the glass to the top and had to walk carefully not to spill. My thoughts were already upstairs, where the plate of enchiladas was empty when I returned. “I suppose you need this?” I held the glass of milk in front of me and watched as it was lifted from my hand.

  “Thank you.”

  “My dad is an amazing cook.”

  “Your dad?” he asked when the milk was gone.

  “I suppose I should have been paying attention all these years, but mostly I’ve been enjoying it.” After he set the glass down, I lost track of him until he spoke again.

  “You don’t have a mom.” He was somewhere near the dresser, probably looking at the photographs stuck with poster gum on the outer edges of the mirror.

  “She left when I was four.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said with surprising sincerity.

  “I see her two weeks a year. That’s enough.”

  “My mother didn’t raise me either, but she meddles in my life plenty.” There was a hard edge in his voice, but he quickly recovered. “So, I’m curious. You modeled all summer, and you kept nothing?” He was closer now, but I couldn’t tell where.

  I wondered if he knew that models kept a copy of their portfolios in case a client wanted to see it. There was another, larger portfolio in Blair’s office, but since I worked overseas, I needed my own. “They’re in a box at the top of my closet.”

  “May I?”

  I hesitated. Granted, a portfolio was made to be seen, but outside the industry, no one had ever looked at my tear sheets—not even my dad. There was something deeply vain about photos that showcased your looks without your memories.

  The closet doors opened and clothes shifted to the side. Two boxes came down from the shelf. The first held childhood mementos, and after lifting the lid, Erik set it back in its place. The box of photos and postcards hovered in front of the closet as he let out a quiet exclamation. “What is this?” One of the dresses I brought home from Europe appeared from behind my other clothes.

  “An irrational purchase.”

  “It’s a Valentino.”

  “I wore it on the runway.” That didn’t explain why it was hanging in my closet, but I didn’t f
eel like laying down my pathetic Homecoming history.

  He set it back in its place and moved my other clothes to cover it again. “I’ll bet it got rave reviews.” His weight jostled the bed as he sat next to me, and the box holding my secret life emptied onto the comforter. He opened the manila envelope and slid out the most recent photos. Four were fashion ads for various labels. One was a close-up advertising the sunglasses that were pushed back in my hair, and one was a black and white of Holden and I. “Who’s the guy?”

  I couldn’t decipher the tone. Was it merely curious or was there something more? “His name is Holden Valentine. He used to be my Apollo.”

  “Your what?” There was inexplicable contempt in his voice.

  “You know, like my standard of beauty. Apollo was supposed to be the most beautiful of the Greek gods.”

  “Supposedly.”

  “You couldn’t be jealous?”

  “I’m not jealous of Apollo.” His voice was still tight.

  “I meant Holden. How could you be jealous of Apollo? He’s a myth.”

  “Right.” The photo of Holden and I rose in the air, like he held it at arms length. “The two of you look very comfortable together.”

  I snorted. “Fiction is always convincing.”

  “You hated it.”

  I shrugged.

  “You cringe every time a guy touches you.”

  There was no sense denying it; Erik had already seen proof. I’d cringed under his hand half a dozen times, mostly out of surprise. It was a reflex, an unconscious defense I developed over the years. The only exception was my dad, and he rarely touched me anymore.

  He slid the photos back into the envelope and tucked them in the box. “It’s the eyes that frighten you.”

  I shot a surprised glance in the direction of his voice. I never told him that.

  “How do you do that? You looked right at me.”

  “I can see you,” I lied.

  “What?”