My Not-So-Still Life

by Liz Gallagher

  “Great.”

  “Stash your stuff here,” he says, walking around the main counter to a plywood shelf under the register, where I put my messenger bag.

  “Why don’t you just look around till Maye shows up? Get used to the inventory?”

  I’ve been here a thousand times, but now he’s my boss. “Sounds good.”

  “I’ll be in the back office, checking in some new stock that we can put out if it’s slow later. I’ll bring out your paperwork in a bit.”

  He clunks off, and I wander down the wide aisles and touch the brushes: horsehair, synthetic. I take a mental inventory of every type of paper: watercolor, drawing, multi-use. And the colors. When I really pay attention to the colors everywhere—the paints, the pencils, the markers—it almost makes me queasy. With possibility. Shades of everything.

  I find the spray paint in the back corner, locked in a case. There are all kinds of nozzles and caps and other accessories to go with the cans. Fat markers too. In lots of different colors. I cannot wait to figure all this out for the new project that’s forming in my brain.

  I wind up at the espresso stand. The top is a metal slab with legs screwed into brackets on the floor, and the front is an old red refrigerator door on its side; it’s covered in superhero magnets and rock-show stickers and bumper stickers. My favorite reads, “What if the hokey-pokey really is what it’s all about?”

  I love this, the way property is kind of disrespected for the sake of decoration. Making a statement where some people might think it doesn’t belong. That’s art.

  I step behind the counter and feel as if I’m doing something naughty. The register on top of the metal slab looks like something from an old-school mom-and-pop drugstore. I have no idea how to work it.

  The shelves under the counter are filled with metal pitchers, recycled paper cups, plastic cups, lids, wooden stirrers, and canisters full of coffee beans, tea bags, and individually wrapped biscotti. Against the wall behind the counter, there’s a sink, a milk-stocked fridge, an ice maker, two high-tech-looking drip coffeemakers, and an array of flavored syrups with pumps atop an old wooden dresser. The beautiful espresso machine is next to two hoppers filled with beans. One’s labeled “Decaf only!” So I’ve learned that much.

  I’m wiping down the counter, armed with a bottle of cleaner I found in the sink, when Oscar walks out of his back room. “Maye’s here.”

  A girl is walking through the front door as she ties on a green Starbucks apron, obviously pilfered. She’s tall with full arms and legs and a bit of a belly pooch, wearing a low-cut, raw-edged black T-shirt and bloodred A-line skirt.

  Her look is so … bright.

  A big turquoise rock dangles from a thick silver chain into her cleavage. Two tattoos—a bright green swallow and a yellow anchor—are visible at the edge of her shirt, where a lacy black bra also shows when she moves a certain way. Both arms are covered in classic tattoos: a bubble-heart, a rose, the word “Love” in a pretty script.

  Maybe the best part is her hair: a heavy-looking mass of pure white dreadlocks. Platinum white. She looks like an angel descended from the planet Awesome.

  This is exactly how I’d like to look. Modern pinup girl. With edge. And ink. Real ink, not just hair dye. Tattoos.

  Maye: my new hero.

  She walks over—it’s almost like swimming, or yoga, the easy way she moves—and kisses Oscar near his ear. They’re the same height, which is so adorable. “I’m Maye,” she says, and stretches out her fingers toward me.

  “Vanessa,” I say. We shake. “At your service.”

  “I love your nails,” she says.

  “Likewise.” Hers are done in a French manicure. Instead of white at the top, there’s purple.

  We kind of bow at each other.

  She’s so cool.

  “Let me show you how this stuff works.”

  Oscar heads to the back room and Maye joins me behind the counter.

  “Quick,” she says, “what’s the difference between a latte and a cappuccino?” I get distracted because that sunny blond guy comes in, his skateboard under his arm.

  My hunch when I first saw him holds up: He seems like the slightly older version of Jewel. But where Jewel can be moody and cloud-hidden, James is the sun. Bright. Summer.

  I can’t resist thinking he might be exactly what I need to get over my mashed heart. I tear my gaze away and turn to Maye. “No idea.”

  “It’s just the milk. Cappuccino is foamy. Half milk; half foam. That’s a lotta foam. Latte is all milk with just a dab of foam.”

  “Easy enough. Cappuccino is extrafoamy. Got it.”

  “When in doubt, latte. Only the real connoisseurs like cappuccinos, and we don’t get a lot of them in here.” She pointedly shifts her gaze to James, who’s propping his board against the funky couch. She raises her voice. “Right, James?”

  He walks over. “Absolutely,” he says. “And a mocha is just a latte with chocolate syrup. And lots of whipped creamy goodness. Might I get one of those right now?” He waggles his eyebrows at Maye.

  “Indeed,” Maye says. She reaches down for a metal pitcher. “James, this is the latest and greatest, Vanessa.” She nods her white-dreaded head at me. “Vanessa, James. Skater-boy and photographer.”

  “Don’t forget friend and lover,” he says.

  Lover.

  “Maybe when you get the rare opportunity to woo some unsuspecting young rose, I suppose,” Maye says. She pulls out the jug of whole milk.

  “It’s been a while.” James hangs his head, as if he’s ashamed.

  “He’s kind of heartbroken,” Maye says as she pours milk into the pitcher.

  I’m collecting facts like brushstrokes, building the portrait of this guy. Adorable. Youngish. Available. Possibly vulnerable. Definitely adorable.

  “Who isn’t heartbroken?” I say.

  They both look at me as if I said something profound.

  “I’m not, kid,” Maye says. Kid.

  “Oh, you and Oscar. So adorable it’s disgusting. Gag me,” James says. But he’s smiling.

  Oscar comes out of the back room carrying a box. He flashes a grin at us as he walks to a row of shelves and begins stocking watercolor palettes.

  James squats and fiddles with the magnets stuck to the espresso counter, staging a battle between Batman and Superman. It’s something Nick would do.

  “So, even though most of our customers don’t order anything too fancy, I take pride in this sweet puppy.” Maye pats the machine. “I call her Betty.”

  “Then so will I.”

  I’m about at the top of my happiness. Purple string when I get home. I should’ve known. Should’ve brought it with me. This is exactly how I wanted my first day to go.

  “So,” she says. “The art of steaming milk.”

  The daily paper is lying on the counter. She plucks the rubber band from around it and uses that rubber band to gather the top snakes of dreads out of her face. Pebbles Flintstone meets Gwen Stefani.

  “It’s not difficult, but there is a knack to it. Skim foams the quickest, but it’s lame. Airy. So I’ll teach you on whole. You’ll learn how to get the velvety stuff.” She pours milk into the pitcher, takes me through the whole process.

  I lean next to her to watch what’s happening in the pitcher. Hear the hissing of the steam wand. I’m impressed by how much she seems to know, and how much she seems to care about it.

  It feels almost indecent, standing this close to a person I just met. An espresso-machine diva.

  “Keep the wand close to the surface of the milk,” she says. “That’s how you get foam. If you don’t want foam, then just stick it in the middle and watch the temp. You’re shooting for a hundred and forty degrees.

  “You try,” she says, and lightning-fast, I’m holding the pitcher. I pull the milk down too low and the wand sputters. She puts her hands over mine, nudges it back.

  James stands up. “Who would win in a fight? Batman or Superman?”

 
; Maye leans on the counter. “Pretty evenly matched. Superman has actual powers, but Batman has those wonderful toys.”

  The thermometer shows 130 degrees. The milk smells like hot marshmallows. I realize I need to turn the knob to turn off the steam, but I don’t exactly have a free hand. “Um, how …?”

  Maye comes to my rescue, flips the handle on the steaming wand, and the wand quits steaming. “You’ll get the hang of it,” she says. “And you’ll get strong wrist muscles, too.”

  “Thanks for the rescue,” I say to her. Then I look straight at James and say, “Superman. I’ve always thought so. I mean, he wouldn’t even have to fight. He could just fly really, really far away.”

  Maye finishes off James’s drink, hands it to him without charging him. He says, “That’s not winning. That’s avoidance. I’m a Batman guy myself.”

  “But Batman can’t escape to outer space.” I could debate the superhero thing all day, and it seems like he could too. That makes me smile.

  I take a step toward the sink, and my boot sticks. I bend down. Yep. Gum. “Eww,” I say. I get a napkin to shield my fingers while I attempt to pull off the chewed Bazooka.

  Maye’s wearing saddle shoes. Perfect for the Palette espresso stand. I’ve gotta get a pair. Unofficial uniform.

  In the immortal words of Annie, which Grampie still likes to watch with me around Christmastime even though it has nothing to do with Christmas, I think I’m gonna like it here.

  Oscar shows me little details. The extra register tape is on the shelf by my bag. The key for the spray-paint case is in the main register’s drawer. Business picks up and he teaches me how to work the register. I get the hang of it, but I’m slow because I can’t stop checking out everything that customers buy and imagining what they’ll do with it.

  Most people are eager to talk about their projects. A woman tells me that she’s doing a paint treatment on a crib that her husband built for their daughter’s first baby, who will be born any day; an older man buys clay and tells me that he molds it to help with his arthritis; a girl about my age buys a sketchbook to bring to the museum.

  During my lunch break, I buy a hot dog from the cart outside on the corner and eat it on a bench at the skate park, watching people almost fly around the giant concrete bowl, enjoying the no-drizzle, warming-up weather, and just liking the way it feels to be on a break from my job. Having a lunch break makes it feel official: I have a break from something. Something pretty great.

  When I get back to Palette, there are a few customers but no one ready to be rung up, so I head to Maye, who’s wiping down Betty. “I clean her constantly,” she says. “Gotta keep her happy and shiny.”

  “That’s a good way to be,” I say. Happy and shiny. Yeah.

  Oscar comes over. “Maye, you leave at three, right?”

  “By then, yeah.” She looks at me. “I’ve got a show going up at Ballard Art Collective. We’re having a little opening party. I need to get over there early to set up.”

  Oscar turns to me. “We’ll close the espresso machine early today. Use the out-of-order sign. Keep the drip coffee going, though.” He walks off.

  “So, are you psyched for your show?” I ask Maye.

  “Oh, yeah,” she says. “These dolls have been cluttering up my apartment for way too long. I need people to fall in love with them and buy them.”

  Wow. She’s so blasé. I’d be freaking out with excitement, and probably nerves, too.

  “Dolls?” I picture Victorian statuettes, with real-looking hair in curls and dresses like doilies.

  “Yep. Rag dolls. Some fairies. Just creatures from my brain. I pretty much worship at the altar of Tim Burton, so some of my stuff looks like it’d fit right into The Nightmare Before Christmas.”

  “Cool.” Might text Nick to go to Rain City and pick up that movie with me tonight, and hunker down.

  She grins. “Want to see them?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She goes around to the main register and comes back with her purse, red leather with oversized silver buckles, and pulls out a digital camera. We huddle together and she clicks through the images: dolls, but all so her. My favorite is dressed all in black and white stripes, like that cap Jewel had on for the kindergarten puddle-jumping that runs through my memory. The doll has metallic hair and her dress is poufy at the bottom, with a top like a corset. Her nose has a crystal on it, like it’s pierced.

  Honestly, though, I wonder if these dolls are such a big deal. They’re mini-versions of Maye herself, and that’s cool, but I do wonder if they’re … art? I tell myself to quit judging. This girl is awesome.

  “Your own show, that’s so amazing.” Now I sound like a total fangirl. “All I’ve ever done is the school art show, whoop-de-do.”

  “Hey, you gotta start somewhere,” Maye says. She’s almost as optimistic and cheery as Holly. “The Collective is no big deal, actually. It’s a small gallery. But definitely a step up from selling at the Sunday market, like I used to do. I’d sell two dolls, and then go blow the money on crepes. I couldn’t sit at the market all day smelling those things and then not get one.”

  She pulls off the Starbucks apron, hangs it on the corner of Betty, and goes to the back room, reemerging moments later with Oscar.

  “See you at nine,” he says, pecking her cheek.

  I stand behind the main register. “Later, Vanessa,” she says, and does a little twirl on her way out the door.

  I work at the register while Oscar stocks shelves and helps customers.

  I could stay here all night, but too soon, it’s time to close. Oscar’s due at Maye’s opening.

  When they told me about it, was that an invitation to go along?

  If Oscar just says good night, I’m not invited. If he lingers, I am.

  “All-righty,” he says, putting on his black denim jacket. “Schedule looks okay? Same time next Saturday?”

  “Yep.” I pick up my messenger bag.

  “It’s been great having you here. Have a good Saturday night!”

  Not invited.

  “You too,” I say. Going to Maye’s show would definitely be more fun than going home. But I can work on something of my own, or redo my nails, or color my hair. Call Nick about watching that Tim Burton movie. See how his Superhero Origins fest was last night.

  Maybe I could call Holly. I still feel tied up inside over her being upset. If it weren’t for that, I’d be at double-purple status.

  I probably shouldn’t call yet. She never texted me back.

  I don’t feel like going home. Standing outside Palette, I shut my eyes, smell the salt water, listen to a motorcycle go by.

  I’ll pedal to Golden Gardens, to the beach. There’s time before dark.

  The bike ride is like some other life; I’m drifting between eras. I’ve traveled this same path so many times, out of the shopping part of Ballard, past the rock-climbing gym, closer to the water. Up ahead, there’s the marina, where boats live, majestic. The fish-and-chips shop with the huge soft-serve ice cream cones.

  But now I ride this route as someone with a job. I picture a film in my head, showing me as a little girl, brown-haired, wearing a sweet dress that my mom found at Kidz Consign. Then the film switches to me during my Ocean Tides days, with my first bleached streaks and a string around my wrist, wearing jeans and a black tee. Then the film focuses in on me now, in brighter contrast, with my pink hair and my white boots.

  I add on to the film: me, looking like Maye. Turned up a notch or ten, like a living doll.

  I ride past the parking lot for the Ballard Locks, where fresh water from the ship canal mingles with salt water from Puget Sound. The canal and the sound are kept apart by huge gates on either side that reach all the way to the bottom. Boats traveling the canal have to stop between the two gates before being let out the other side. Inside the gates is the only place where the salt water and the fresh water mix.

  Salmon run at the locks. The enormous schools of sockeyes come in July, scales
shimmering, returning to the place where they were born, now to spawn.

  But what I love most at the locks isn’t the boats or the salmon. Those are what Mom loves, for sure. For me, it’s all about the flower garden on the grounds.

  I remember being a kid on a summer day, wearing a white dress. We passed through the garden on one of the walks Mom and I used to take. The roses were the prettiest things I’d ever seen. Looking back, I feel almost as if, in that moment, the roses could have become to me what water is to my mom. The thing that beats inside my chest. The thing that fills me up.

  I plucked the top off one, right at the blossom, where there were no thorns.

  Mom said, “Not for you!” It sounded harsh. She softened and said, “The flowers are here to feed the bees. We don’t pick them.”

  It’s one of my earliest memories: feeling guilty for killing a flower that belonged to the bees, and not to me.

  I tried to reattach the flower to its bush. I petted the petals, stroked them, willed them to reattach.

  My mom got teary. She bent down, arm on my back.

  “The bees, Mommy,” I said.

  “They’ll be all right,” she said. “Look. More roses.”

  I looked. The garden was glorious. “More flowers,” I said.

  The air smelled of perfume not unlike Grampie’s pipe smoke, but cleaner.

  The Golden Gardens parking lot is scattered with cars. It’s not what people in most cities would consider beach weather, but it’s not raining and there’s an edge of warmth in the air. In Seattle, that’s enough to bring people out of their houses. Groups are having little fires as the sun sets, barbecuing, taking walks in bare feet.

  I lock my bike to a bench and start toward the water.

  In my boots, walking on the rocky beach is a challenge. I only get to the volleyball nets before I decide to sit on a huge piece of driftwood and stare at boats and people.

  Being near the water seems like a good way to end my first day at Palette.

  I wish Nick and Holly were here too.

  Nine

  I text Holly three times on Sunday and call once. No response.

  I think about taking the bus over to her house, but it’s pretty obvious she doesn’t want to see me. I don’t know if she’s still going to go out with Wilson. I don’t know if I should find him at school and apologize. I don’t even know if he knows I’m the one who wrote the note. All this not knowing makes me feel restless.