by Sheri Duff
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Sandalwood, jasmine, and vanilla linger in my house, the house I grew up in, the house where I belong. I don’t think my mother has ever changed her perfume; her scent still lingers. The house is quiet with my mom and the dog gone. I loiter, walking from room to room. The memories of my family as a whole haunt me. Nothing will ever be the same. Even the family photographs that once hung in the hallway are only a distant memory. There are still pictures, but the male figure that once embraced us no longer exists in the shared space in the house. Only my room has my dad’s presence, in the photographs there.
Collapsing on my mom’s bed and clutching her pillow, the tears flow and I allow the little girl inside me to wail.
I wake. I look at the clock. I’ve only slept for thirty minutes. I roll off the bed and step into my mom’s bathroom to spritz some of her cologne on my bedding before I head to Pollywog’s. I should take my butt to the library and study my Government notes but I don’t. I need to draw.
Before I leave the house I pull the following off my bed: the oversized pink comforter, my favorite pillow, and Grey Kitty. Grey Kitty should not have to suffer being in the house alone.
I head to Pollywog’s. The sun has set but I can still see the outline of the mountains. The streetlights on Main are lit. I love the four distinctive bulbs that sit on top of the metal posts in Pine Gulch. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Some say it’s still a small town, but it’s growing. We have two high schools now.
I slide into my favorite chair with my pad and pencils. Josh brings me a latte, I slip him a Lincoln. Then I complete my sketch of the bride and groom. I’ve been working on this piece since the wedding. The bride in her cream dress, her auburn hair done up with perfect tresses falling around her face. Her smile warm and thoughtful, she radiates love toward her husband. Her deep brown eyes look up at him, huge and adoring. The flowers are all roses with a single gardenia hiding in a perfectly cut bouquet with bright green stems. One would have to look really close to see the flower.
The pollywog groom looks happy and content, loved and in love. He stands tall, holding his arm out for the new love of his life, his eyes only looking into hers. The world around him doesn’t exist. The sadness that surrounded him for months vanished. The guilt and pain erased. A new chance, a new beginning, if he allows himself the second chance.
After weeks of starting and stopping I’ve finally finished it. I tear it out of the book and walk to the counter slap it face down. “My gift to Pollywog’s.”
“But you have never left them before…” Josh says. He tried to look at a print once. I told him the deal. My dad had to see them first. Now that deal is off.
“Things change, Josh,” I say. I walk back to my seat and grab the rest of my belongings.
“Hey, Massie,” Josh calls out. “This lady wants one of your sketches.”
I stop. My body slouches. I should be excited but I’m not. I want to go home, wherever that is. I turn. Josh stands next to a woman holding the drawing of Pollywog Linebacker.
I finished it the night of the game after we went to the Burrito Bar, I couldn’t sleep. Vianna passed out when we arrived home. The alcohol had worn off, and she collapsed. Natalie spent the remainder of the night texting Tyler. I sketched. It took forever to complete. I couldn’t get his eyes right. And they had to be perfect. I was going to keep it but I didn’t want everyone to see it. I don’t know why, but I didn’t. Now I regret leaving it here. I want it back.
“You did this?” the woman asks, deep black hair full of curls pinned up, showing her perfect cheekbones. Her voice is calm but unsure. I can’t tell if she likes it or if she doesn’t believe that I actually drew it.
“Yep. I did.” My shoulders are still drooping. My mother would’ve poked the middle of my back, causing my spine to straighten—if she were here.
“That’s my baby brother.” Her smile fills the room. Then I realize who she is.
My spine straightens. The coffee in my gut churns. It’s like the milk from my latte turned sour and it wants to find a way to come up. Alicia’s friend stands in front of me, the same woman from the game. Jack’s sister?
“Wait, you’re Joel’s daughter,” she says, still holding on to the sketch.
So much for staying incognito. My disguise is uncovered. I don’t like to tell people that I draw the pollywogs. But I don’t confirm or deny my identity.
“I’d like to buy the print,” she says. Smile still there.
Crap. I don’t want her to take that home. Jack will see it. That’s all I need, him to see what I’ve sketched. I like him and all, but this is kind of stalker-like, and I don’t want him to think—
Too late. Jack walks up behind his sister and looks down at the print.
“Nice.” He looks up at me and grins. “So you like my pecs?”
“You’re conceited.” I’m really thinking conceited prick but, considering the company, I better think before I speak.
“He’s full of himself and a shitass.” His sister pops the back of his head. “By the way, I’m Lily.” She holds out her hand. I slowly take it. She shakes with a firm but soft grip. “You’re Massie, right?”
“Yep.” I slide my hands into my pockets and rock back and forth on my heels.
“Alicia talks about you all the time. She thinks you’re an angel.”
I cough on my spit, actually choke on my spit. Is Lily the sidekick in the team of destruction? Or is she really, genuinely nice? Did Alicia really say that? I don’t ask.
“You and Jack don’t look anything alike,” I say.
Their hair color doesn’t count. Besides, his is lighter with gold flecks at the ends. Lily’s thin wrists and soft features contradict her brother’s wide shoulders and gruffness. It’s not that she’s a girl. Jack and Lily are different. Her eyes are big, dark, and exotic. His eyes are green, emerald, sharp, and currently locked onto me.
“Technically I’m his stepsister. My mom married his dad. But as far as I’m concerned, he’s my baby brother and always will be.” She ruffles Jack’s hair. “Even if he’s a shitass.”
I’m not sure what to say about this so I don’t go there. “You can keep the print. It’s on me. Since you’re Alicia’s friend. Besides, it didn’t take me long to draw.” I need brownie points since I’m stuck in that house for three weeks. Too much can happen in three weeks. And Jack will never know how long it really took me to sketch that thing.
The prints usually sell anywhere from twenty to sixty dollars, depending on the time I spend and the color added. Josh decides the retail value. I can’t. They would go out the door free if I had my choice. The owner of Pollywog’s makes ten percent of the sale. It all started when the he spotted one. He loved them and thought I should try to sell them. So, after showing them to my dad, I would put them on cardboard, wrap them in plastic, and leave them to be sold. I haven’t earned a ton of money, but I like the extra cash now and then.
Lily folds a wad of money into my hand. “I’m paying the asking price. Although I think you should’ve asked for more.”
“Do I get a model’s fee?” Jack asks.
Lily pops Jack on the head again. “Get your ass in the car.”
Once they leave, I unfold the two twenties. “Really, Josh? It’s not worth that much.”
“She was right. It’s worth more. I’ve never seen that much detail…I take that back. The one you drew of Gaby, that one was amazing. I could've sold it a dozen times over.”
Pollywog Gaby is still my favorite. It took me months to complete her, but when I finished it I caught her essence. Her lashes long and perfect, her eyes wide and bright, showing what she loved most. If you looked close enough you could see her mother in her eyes—her mother as a pollywog, that is.
Pollywog Gaby now hangs behind the counter at Julian’s Second Time Around wearing a ball gown with her hair up. She looks like Grace Kelly—Pollywog Grace Kelly—all royal and beautiful, with cowgirl boots. Yes, with cowgirl boots. And
a chunky wooden saint bracelet. Across her chest in script lettering a tattoo reads, Don’t Say Die, Say Damn. I gave the sketch to Gaby after she gave me my new look. She was my favorite until I drew Jack. Crap, I sold my favorite sketch. Crap.
