The Color Project
Sierra Abrams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Gatekeeper Press
Cover Design by (c) Jennifer Zemanek/Seedlings Design Studio
3971 Hoover Rd. Suite 77
Columbus, OH 43123-2839
www.GatekeeperPress.com
Copyright © 2017 by Sierra Abrams
All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form without permission.
ISBN: 9781619846265
ISBN: 9781619846258
eISBN: 9781619846241
Printed in the United States of America
for my papa
i’m so glad we got to keep you
Author’s Note
Two and a half years ago, in January 2015, I sat down with a lone paragraph I’d written the year before and started the first draft of The Color Project. It was done in a heartbeat, messy and choppy, but oh-so-precious to me.
The thing was: it had turned out quite a bit sadder than I’d expected it to. At first I didn’t know all the reasons why this was a good thing—I just thought I was staying true to the story. I’d set out to tell a story similar to my own, to write a heroine as awkward as me, to write about a good boy with a heart of gold, and to write about community in the way I’d seen it all my life.
But what I got was so much greater.
This book, I discovered in a later draft, was slowly helping me to overcome my fears about…well, several things, but two big things. One was an insecurity I’d struggled with for so long, an insecurity that had been layered with severe depression for five long years. The other is more difficult and complicated to explain, but you’ll know it as soon as you get to it.
Fear is a terrible, tricky thing. Sometimes you don’t even know you’re afraid. And how can you overcome something if you don’t know it exists?
I owe this book everything. For helping me see the fear, and helping me to overcome it afterward. I am not the same person today, because of this book. I am a kinder, braver, happier person. I am a better listener, a better fighter, and a better story-teller. I am unapologetic and critical and melancholy. I am a crier. I am hopelessly romantic.
I am on my way to becoming the last person I ever expected to become. I am on my way to writing stories I never thought I’d write. I am on my way to journeys I never thought I’d have.
All because there was a silly book in my head that taught me how to be brave.
So here’s to books that change us, and here’s to you, for trying this one out. I hope it’s everything you need it to be.
XOXO,
Sierra
- June 15th, 2017
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter 1
Sometimes I like driving east when the sun is setting in the west. That way I can see all the signs as they’re lit up in flames along the road, their words unreadable, all the buildings glowing in the evening sun. The sky is neither blue nor black; rather, it’s a mix of in-between purples and pinks and oranges, and for just a few minutes the world shines like a bright star before it’s plunged into darkness.
This—this moment of suspension—is what I love most about my drive home from work. Today, everything’s like fireworks. A splash of color here, a blinding sunray there, the dark skyline bleeding into the rest. I’m enthralled at the sight of it all, basking in its beauty, with music blasting and the windows rolled down and my (too long) hair whipping against my glasses.
I am the most unsuspecting person, and all because of a golden sunset.
I’m jolted by two separate bumps, one right after the other, followed by the terrible yet inevitable noise: Thump.Thump.Thumpthumpthumpthump—
That’s my only warning before my car jerks to the left, then to the right, then back again. There’s a loud clunking noise that makes me want to shriek to the high heavens, but I can’t, because my jaw has locked my mouth shut in fear.
For three-point-five seconds, I have no idea what’s going on. My hands are shaking (Is this an earthquake?!) and my heart is pounding in my throat. Cars rush past me, way too fast (or am I just slowing down?) and their drivers are angry. Someone swerves around me while I try to get into the next lane to my right. I wait a few seconds, taking a deep breath…..and a scraping sound comes from behind. The reality of what’s happening hits me hard: My tires are indeed flat, my tailgate is dragging on the asphalt, and if I don’t pull over soon I’m going to get hit.
It takes a lot of maneuvering (and telling myself out loud that I will not die like road kill) before I manage to make it to the sidelines without impact. California drivers pass me at speeds well over the 65 MPH limit, honking rudely and flipping the bird, all because they have places to go and people to see and I got in their way.
“I could have died!” I protest aloud. My voice comes out wobbly. I grip the steering wheel and gasp, blinking back tears. It’ll be all right…right? I think. Almost hyperventilating, I turn on my hazards and proceed to stare at the blinking in my dashboard. It’s like someone’s holding a giant sign right in front of my face, with flashing letters that say, “WELCOME TO ADULTHOOD”.
I am thoroughly unamused.
On my list of things I want to do during the summer after graduation, you might see the words Go to the beach and Read ten books and Bake more. Never ever would you see, Run over something inconspicuous on the freeway and get two flat tires.
But who cares about my list, anyway? Two flat tires are what I get.
It takes a few minutes, but I eventually calm down enough to call a tow. I probably sound pathetic because Jenny, the woman on the other end of the line, tells me to sit tight and not worry. How kind of her.
I make myself as comfortable as possible with a bottle of water and a book (which I always carry in my purse for emergencies just like these) while I wait. I can’t concentrate on the story, but the smooth white pages and contrasting b
lack ink have a way of soothing me. After about thirty minutes—five of those were spent staring blankly—I finally close the book and set it in my lap.
And take a good, long look at the tow truck as it slides into place in front of me.
Here we go.
When the driver steps out, my first thought is, Oh, great. He’s big (about twice my size) and hairy (like a freakin’ Yeti). He almost looks mean. I groan as I slip out of my car, the freeway wind hitting me. Suddenly, as my limbs stretch for the first time in over an hour, a dramatic growl echoes in my stomach. Of course I would get hungry now, of all times. All I want from life is an animal-style cheeseburger from In-N-Out, and, right now, that’s the last thing I’m going to get.
Oh, just get this over with.
Thankfully the tow truck driver, Julian, is quick and efficient and hardly talks at all. I nearly laugh when I see his name tag. I always imagine Julians as lean, young men with good hair. Probably surfers. Definitely playing the guitar. It’s totally inappropriate to laugh, however, so I stifle myself with two pieces of gum while he goes about his business.
Eventually, his business includes the official stuff. I hand Julian my driver’s license and cringe, as I always do when I know someone’s going to see my full name. All my important documents are a constant reminder that the truth is often a lot uglier than life’s many facades.
Thing You Should Know About Me #1: My full name is Bernice Aurora Wescott, and I hate it. Who thinks of these things? Apparently, only my parents. And only my parents, my sisters, my best friend Gretchen, and my employer know my full name.
To everyone else, I am Bee.
I sometimes wonder if my mom went crazy in those very important minutes after my birth when she named me, and I think maybe my dad went with her. They did it again, with both my sisters, Astrid Jean (hers is the most tolerable) and Millicent May. Poor Millicent. Sometimes I think she has it harder than all of us, but at least we can call her Millie. There is only one child in our family who was spared eternal torment—our older brother, Tom.
All things considered, I know I have no right to think Julian’s name is humorous, and watching him look at my driver’s license sobers me greatly. After our brief interaction, when he hands back my documents, he gestures for me to sit in the passenger seat of the truck. I awkwardly climb in (I’m short; I can’t help it) while he gets in on the driver’s side. When he pulls into traffic, I flinch at the truck’s protesting screech, as if my car could fly off at any given moment. But then we’re driving, and the road is smooth beneath us, so I try to relax and trust that Julian-the-non-surfer-who-can’t-play-guitar (okay, maybe he can) knows what he’s doing.
That doesn’t last long. Minutes later, when I can’t bear the awkward silence anymore, I pull out my phone to call my mom. “You’ve reached Chloe Wescott,” her voicemail practically sings to me. “Leave me a message at the beep.”
“Hey, Mama,” I murmur into the receiver. “Just calling to let you know—”
The line beeps. She’s calling me back, so I click over.
“Hey,” I say, falsely chipper.
“Hey,” she replies. She’s not even trying to be chipper. My mother, who speaks fluent Sing-Song and has the laugh of a hummingbird, sounds upset. Sad. Anxious.
I squint. “Sorry to call while you’re driving the girls around—”
Her sniffle interrupts me. “It’s okay, Baby Bee. Your dad took them to dance class today.”
“Papa? But isn’t he working?”
“He got off early.” Her voice tightens, tone restrained. She doesn’t offer an explanation, so I don’t ask. “I’m just eating dinner. Want me to save you some?”
She sounds like she’s trying to smile and is failing miserably. “Sure,” I say. “Not sure when I’m coming home, though. I got two flat tires.”
Beside me, Julian grunts. I start, having forgotten he was there in the first place. But then I just scowl. Is he laughing at me? I squint at him for an indecent amount of time before realizing my mom is asking me questions.
“Sorry, sorry, what?” I ask.
“You’re okay, right? No injuries? Your car’s okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Car’s fine. We’re headed to Mike’s right now.”
She lets out a deep breath. “Okay, okay.”
“Mama?” I ask.
“Yes?”
I hear it again, the tightening of her voice, the sniffle, and I sigh. I want to ask her what’s going on, what happened to make her cry, why Papa’s taking time off to take my sisters to dance. But Julian’s sitting next to me, we’re almost to Mike’s, and I’m feeling funny. So I blurt instead, “Can you pick me up if I need you to?”
She clears her throat. “Sure, that’s fine. Just see if Michael can do it first?”
“Okay. See you soon.”
“Love you,” she says, her voice small.
“Love you, too,” I say, equally quiet. I shake this strange feeling from my shoulders, straighten, and hang up.
I glance at Julian, who’s studiously staring ahead at the road, both hands on the wheel. I say a quick thank-you to the heavens that he wasn’t a weirdo or someone who wanted to talk the whole time (not that I gave him a chance) before he pulls into the parking lot at Mike’s.
Chapter 2
Mike’s is a car shop owned by a nice man named—you guessed it—Mike. But his son, Michael, basically runs the place, and he’s the real reason my family comes here regularly. Tom and Michael have been best friends for almost sixteen years, as long as I can remember. I have mostly good memories of growing up with him around, but I tell him that I only remember him teaming up with Tom and not letting me play video games with them.
Michael sees me from across the garage and strides toward me with his arm raised in greeting. I return the wave and gesture with my thumb at my car behind me, rolling my eyes.
He laughs. (And I suspect it’s at me.)
“Bee,” he says teasingly, trying to hug me with his grungy wife beater and greasy hands. I close my eyes and wait for it to end. I love hugs, but not from sweaty Michael. (You’d be surprised how many of them I’ve received in my life.)
Michael pats the hood of my car as two of his coworkers slide it onto solid ground. “Come on in. We’ll take care of you.”
“Thanks, Michael.”
He nudges me into the small office building to the left of the garage, and when everyone inside turns to look at us, he shouts, “Look who broke her car!”
I halt fast, giving him a mean side-scowl. “I didn’t break my car.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Greg, another of Tom’s friends, chuckles from behind the computer. “Bee always says it wasn’t her.”
I harrumph. “Well, it wasn’t.”
“Come on, you guys,” Keagan says, coming up beside me. His green eyes sparkle in that dazzling-Keagan way. He’s not quite a pretty-boy, but he sure is nice to look at, with his thick, wavy brown hair and square jaw and a thin nose. “It was probably Tom’s fault. Slit your tires or something.”
“Finally, someone with sense.” I grin at Keagan. Not for the first time, I wonder why Tom doesn’t work here with all his buddies. He practically lives here when he’s not working the night shift at the warehouse. (Or sleeping. He does a lot of sleeping.)
“Dude, Bee, we haven’t seen you in a while,” Greg says. “How are you?”
“Not so bad. New job and everything.”
Keagan raises an eyebrow. “New job?”
I feel a sheepish grin covering my face. “Yeah, I’m a florist’s assistant now. Today was Day Three on the job.”
“Phew,” Greg says. “What’s that like? Sounds like an allergy attack to me.”
I smack his arm softly. “It’s a little shop called Tracy’s Market Flowers, in Oceanside.”
“That
’s a long drive,” he says quickly. (Greg, ever the optimist.)
“Yeah, but it’s worth it,” I say. “So far.” This job has to be the most interesting thing I’ve ever done for money. (Please don’t take that the wrong way.) Giving flowers to surprised individuals, watching their faces fill with the most adorable confusion and delight, is my new favorite thing. “I keep the shop clean and help out at the front desk, but mostly I help deliver arrangements.”
“I’m glad you like it, Bee,” Keagan says, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. It’s not too grimy yet, but it leaves a trail of dirt on his forehead.
These boys, I think, affectionately. “What about you guys? How’s your summer so far?”
“Nothing awful has happened,” Greg answers. “Yet.”
Keagan smiles. “Pretty good. Not as interesting as yours, though.”
“Busy,” Michael says. He drops some paperwork on Greg’s desk and smiles ruefully. “Organize those.”
With Greg grumbling about the messes everyone leaves for him to clean, Michael touches my arm, suddenly all business. “I have to leave in an hour, so we should get you sorted.” He opens the door that leads from the small office to the garage.
My car has already been moved into the garage alongside three others. I try to keep up as Michael weaves his way through the ports, but I accidentally run into four men and a tire en route.
When I finally catch up to him standing by the hood of my car, Michael looks at me and shrugs. “Aside from the tires, how about I give you a full exam? While it’s here.”
“If you think she needs it,” I say, pushing my hair out of my eyes. It’s down to my waist now, and the constant fluttering and swishing around my face sometimes makes it hard to concentrate. (Thing You Should Know About Me #35: Because being bored with short hair is worse than being annoyed by long hair, I’ll never cut it again.)
Michael nods. “Why not? It’s been a while.” He runs a hand through his ruffled blond hair. Now, Michael can surf and play guitar. He should have been named Julian.
I laugh. Quietly.
The Color Project Page 1
