My Not-So-Still Life

by Liz Gallagher

  He doesn’t seem to notice how lame I am.

  “So, here we are,” he says as we turn onto a little side street close to the canal.

  “Um, where, exactly?”

  “My place. Vespa shop boss gives me a great rent. Above the garage.” He points, and I see that we are outside a Vespa garage that I’d never even noticed before. Probably because I’m not in the habit of ducking down alleyways.

  “Oh,” I say. We’re hanging out here, at his place? That’s a whole other can of worms, as Grampie would say. I hadn’t really considered where we’d be going to do this ID thing.

  He grins. “Follow me.”

  Anywhere.

  My house is only about ten blocks from here. Yet I feel like I’ve crossed some invisible line. It’s like the comic book of me has a whole new panel, all freshly penciled. Yet to be inked or colored.

  I’m about to be a girl with a fake ID. The whole world is open to me. At last!

  I’m grinning now.

  James notices. “You have a cute smile.”

  “Thanks.” I grin wider.

  “But don’t smile like that in the photo. No one’s excited to be at the DMV, which is where you’re pretending to be.”

  He starts walking up the rickety metal stairs to his apartment.

  As I follow him up, I feel my new life coming over me. I imagine myself walking into a whole new thing, like if I shut my eyes I might open them and see everything through the eyes of a Cubist, or an Impressionist, or Jackson Pollock himself.

  On these slippery steps, in my boots, I realize I’m also a little bit scared of falling.

  He unlocks the door.

  His skateboard leans up against the wall opposite the door, under a poster advertising the original Lollapalooza concert, in 1991. I wasn’t born yet, and he would’ve been a little kid then. The whole apartment is one room, plus a bathroom, where towels and clothes are strewn. His bed is a mattress on the floor with the sheets half ripped off, and his couch is the cheapie one from IKEA that Mom said I could get for my garage studio if I wanted, but I opted for an open wall; more space to paint.

  The kitchen is a tiny area next to the front door, with a mini-fridge and a microwave but no oven or stove. Plastic cups and paper dishes and bowls sit on the little chopping block that serves as a counter, with a rack for kitchen tools underneath that’s filled instead with canned soup.

  The place is kind of … depressing. Then again, he’s only nineteen, technically a high school dropout. He makes half a living at the Vespa shop, probably, and the other half in fake IDs and calendars?

  The walls are all white, except for a sky-blue square about four feet by four feet. James points at its center and says, “Painted to exactly replicate the background at the DMV.”

  “Smart.” Wow. This really is a business for him.

  “Gotta wash up,” he says, wiggling his greasy fingers at me. “I’ll be out in a sec.” He shuts the bathroom door, and I hear the water running.

  I look at his folding card table, where he’s got a laptop, photo printer, scanner, and his digital camera plugged into a charger. It’s an oasis of technology.

  He walks up behind me. “Ready?”

  I’ve never taken a driver’s license picture. I’m sixteen, but I’ll be a bus rider and bike pedaler till I can afford a vehicle.

  “Of course I’m ready.”

  “Your shirt will show up nicely,” he says. “Black’s the best for head shots.”

  Head shot or mug shot? I’ve never done anything illegal before.

  Chill out. This isn’t a big deal.

  He takes me by the hand and leads me into position in front of the blue square. His hand is still clammy from washing, but touching it makes me feel electrical sparks.

  He holds my shoulders to position me. “Don’t smile too big.”

  But if this is a mug shot, then I am the most smiley criminal ever.

  He snaps photos. “Straight ahead. Try to look normal,” he says when I can’t quit grinning.

  Whatever normal is. That only makes me smile more, because my sense of normalcy is changing so quickly, and I love it. So what if his place is dingy? It’s his.

  I need to get this ID photo done, so that we can start hanging out for real. Like how I used to with Jewel, only James is so much more ready for me. We can go anywhere together, and anything can happen.

  I breathe deeply to calm down, and manage a few subdued shots.

  Then, I stick my tongue out at him. I know we already got the shot, so I want to have fun. Pucker my lips. Do a Betty Boop face, like Maye.

  He plays along, snapping photos of all my different poses, laughing.

  I really get into it. I even do the classic hunched-shoulders couture pose.

  Eventually, he goes over to his table and plugs the camera into his computer. “I think we got something there in the middle.”

  I sit on the couch, which puts the whole apartment between us. I can’t help but glance at his unmade bed, imagine us lying there, all entwined.

  He works silently, clicking away.

  I wish he would put on some music or something. I’m staring at the wall, and I don’t want to interrupt him. Maybe I should just pull off my clothes and get on the bed. Ha!

  Can I do something? Should I do something? Does he want me to do something? My face is hot.

  Am I crazy? I’ve been waiting for this moment all week. And I’m frozen.

  After a few minutes, he’s done. The printer whirs, and there it is, my very own false identity.

  “Just have to take it into the copy shop to get laminated by my buddy there,” he says.

  This seems way too easy. What about the holograms the DMV uses? Still, he definitely gets into bars with his ID. “Thanks,” I say.

  What do I owe you? Is that what I should say? Or something sassy? Let me repay you with a kiss?

  “Mission accomplished,” he says. Something I would say too.

  I nod. I don’t want to leave, but there was something final in his tone. “Job well done.” I stand.

  Maybe he’ll offer to walk me home, or give me a ride on his Vespa.

  I follow him to the door, willing him to make a move.

  It gets awkward on top of those fire-escape steps.

  “See ya,” I say, and open the door, thinking, Stop me. Grab me.

  When he doesn’t, I feel like crumbling.

  As I go down the steps, I have one thing to hold on to.

  He’ll have to give me the ID and I still have to pay him. I’ll be seeing him soon. And I will not freeze again.

  My phone buzzes as I’m cruising home, Nick calling to make a plan for shopping tomorrow. Back in my room, I take out my phone.

  It was Holly.

  My insides seize up. Relief? Shock?

  That’s dumb. Stupid. Of course we’ll get past this. I knew we would.

  I don’t even sit down. I just call.

  “Hey.”

  “You called.”

  “I know. I have news. Something sort of happened, and it feels too weird to not tell you. I’m still not happy about the whole note thing, but … it does feel weird to not call you when I had the best date ever.”

  I gasp. I actually gasp. “Wilson? Holly! That’s great!”

  “I know!” All the tension is gone from her voice. “It was so wonderful! Nessie, I like him so much, and he says he likes me, too.”

  “So you guys went out.”

  “Mmm-hmmm. Tonight. He came by and met my parents and everything. They remembered him from the concert, from his solo. He knows they’re kind of protective, so he picked me up at six and we just went to dinner.”

  “I’m dying here! This is awesome!” Oh my Goddess. It feels so good to talk to Holly. I feel off the hook. Life can get back to normal, only better.

  “I know. I’m so, so happy about this. We just have so much in common!”

  “So …”

  “He kissed me in his car, when he dropped me off. It wa
s the sweetest thing.”

  “I’m so happy for you!”

  Then, silence. It’s as if we’ve said all the happy stuff there is to say. I’m not off the hook.

  “So, did you tell him about …”

  “He doesn’t know anything. He still thinks I wrote that note and had you drop it off for me.”

  “What does he think about it?”

  “I guess he thinks it was brave. He said that. But it’s the only part of this that makes me feel weird. It’s not something I would do. You know that. I’m not actually brave with telling people how I feel.”

  “So you think he thinks you’re someone you’re not?”

  “Kind of.”

  “But that’s just a detail. He just spent a whole night with you, and he kissed you and he obviously thinks you’re awesome. He knows who you really are.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so.”

  We’re out of words again.

  “Holly?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you want to come shopping with me and Nick tomorrow? Westlake?”

  She’s quiet. I can practically hear her thinking. “Okay.”

  “Great. I’ll text you details in the morning.”

  We hang up.

  It’s the best I’ve slept in days.

  Twelve

  On Sunday morning, Grampie and Mom are in the yard pulling weeds, and I know they’ll be busy for a while. So I get out my spray paint.

  I take the bagful of supplies into the garage and lay out newspaper from the recycling bin.

  I choose the purple can first, with the super-fat nozzle.

  I spray right onto the paper. It’s like the can is part of my body. I love the feel of this brilliant color materializing as I squeeze. It’s as simple, and as natural, as blinking. Breathing.

  I’m not getting a lot of mist, just a wide line that I find I can control easily. I even love the hiss. The purple is deep and glossy, wet-looking.

  I just make squiggles. But there’s so much movement in them, like electricity. I have to add orange right away.

  This color has no bounds. There was no need to pencil first, or ink. Or even think. Just press and—kabam!—art.

  Nick calls while I’m crumpling the paper. It kind of breaks my heart to get rid of it, but I’m not ready for anyone to see my new thing yet. This was a practice session to get the feel. I toss the paper into the garbage can as I click the phone to answer.

  “We’re going to Westlake, right? Please say you can still go, because my skin has totally freaked out. What do I do?”

  “You wait for it to go away,” I say. “To shrink, then be gone.”

  “That’s poetically beautiful and all, but I need concealer.”

  “You know this pale girl has nothing for your olive tone.”

  “Duh,” he says. “Your Barely There would look barely human on me. We’ll pick something out at Westlake.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Bus stop in fifteen. Hey. Holly’s coming!”

  “Yay! You two made up?”

  “I think so. We’ll see.”

  “That’s great.”

  We hang up and I text Holly to say I’ll tell her when we’re on the 28 so that she can grab the same one when it rides through Fremont. She answers right away: “See you soon.” I love that Holly doesn’t use text-speak.

  I get ready fast. Minimalist look today—my one and only pair of jeans and a plain black tee. Blue string.

  If not for the pink hair, I’d look like every other girl downtown. The color is starting to fade a bit, though.

  I rush into my boots and go out to the living room, where Grampie and Mom are watching an old movie.

  “Heading to Westlake,” I say.

  Mom looks up. “Your homework done?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then have fun.”

  I don’t tell Mom that Holly’s going shopping. I might jinx it.

  At the bus stop, Nick is standing there in his casual way. “I’m so jealous of your perfect skin.”

  I have to look for his pimple; it’s near his ear. “Nick, that zit is camouflaged by your hair.”

  “It so isn’t. This zit has taken over.” He covers his face with his hands.

  No use arguing. “Yeah, you’re hideous.”

  The bus shows up, and we climb on. I text Holly.

  Nick asks about Palette, but I’m not sure how to explain it to him, the way I feel more alive there, and the way I’ve realized, once and for all, that I am so over high school, and quite possibly even over Jewel.

  “It’s fun. Once I get paid, you have to help me pick out summer clothes.”

  Then we’re in Fremont, Holly’s climbing onto the bus, and she’s as full of light as ever. I’m so relieved to see her, I stand up, decide to make a moment of her. I skip down the aisle and give her the biggest hug.

  She returns it.

  We go back to Nick, and he hugs her too.

  She tells him about Wilson.

  “I think I just had a brilliant idea,” Nick says. “Spring Semi! Wilson will ask you! We can all go!”

  She grins. “A dance?”

  “Nick, tell her. It’s a big dance. Not my scene, really, but …”

  “Yeah, Vanessa was Halloween Queen because that dance is all about the costumes and hers ruled. Spring Semi is more classic. It’s your chance to be a princess, Holly. You’ll go with your Prince Charming!”

  Holly looks so happy. “If he asks me.” She gives me a look. So does Nick.

  “Dudes. Don’t worry. I am not going to interfere. Have you heard from him?”

  She blushes. “Text this morning.”

  We smile at each other.

  “Hey, Vanessa.”

  “Yes, Nicolai, dear?”

  “Will you be my date to the dance?”

  I stick my tongue out at him, then grin. An hour ago, I wouldn’t have thought the idea of a sophomore semiformal would excite me. But now it does. Holly’s beaming. Nick’s excited. “Abso-snootly!”

  The bus stops and we hop off.

  Inside the department store, air is recycled. They’re pumping faux-classical versions of hard rock songs. Guns N’ Roses by synthesizer. I feel something shift in me as soon as we walk in.

  Holly’s distracted by the dress section.

  Nick’s lagging. “Let’s help Holly find a dress.”

  “He hasn’t even asked me yet!” She’s touching a sequined halter dress. “I’m not trying on dresses until he asks me! Unless he asks me.”

  “Then let’s go pick out Vanessa’s paycheck clothes.”

  “Nick and I have a mission.” I want to get the makeup so that he can stop angsting over his zit and we can get out of here.

  “I’m actually not so sure about the whole Dazzle thing. It might be weird.” Nick can be like this.

  “It’s not weird. If you want concealer, you have every right to buy it. Right, Holly?”

  She nods. “Sure.”

  “You wear guyliner, Nick. How is this any different?” I take his hand.

  He walks with me. “I guess it’s not.”

  I can see how it feels like a big deal, though. No other guy I know—not even James, who is more of a man than just a guy—would buy concealer at a makeup counter. Or anywhere. But maybe this is just part of Nick accepting himself. He wants the stuff.

  The lady is ringing up a woman who looks about Grampie’s age. The thought crosses my mind that Grampie wouldn’t look so gray if he’d use some blush or bronzer, but that’s silly. He wouldn’t be himself if he did that.

  Holly goes off to smell the perfumes while Nick kneels down to look at the display.

  The lady ignores us, messing around with the credit card tape.

  I pick up a sample tube of Pomegranate Juice Sleek Shine gloss. Squeeze it, dab a bit on my finger, and coat my lips.

  Nick stands up. “That’s hot.”

  I look in the mirror and have to agree. I pucker up. “Yeah. Like I’d pay
fourteen dollars for this tiny tube.”

  The lady comes over, finally. “Can I ring that up for you?” she asks me, a smile revealing too-white teeth.

  I shake my head and put the sample tube back. “Not today.” I elbow Nick.

  He says nothing.

  I’m going to have to take the lead. “My friend here needs some concealer.”

  The woman looks at Holly.

  “Not that friend. This friend.”

  The woman looks at Nick. She’s still smiling, but her teeth aren’t showing. Something’s going on beneath her surface.

  “What shade do you recommend?” I ask her.

  “For him?”

  Nick’s pretending to study the lip glosses.

  “She needs to see your face,” I say to him.

  She hesitates a beat too long before saying, “Let me grab my sample bottles.”

  She’s not even talking directly to him! I need to fix the tension between Nick and me, and get him to see that he can be whoever he is and that no one will judge, but now this lady is being difficult. “He’s just one of the girls,” I say.

  I feel Nick stiffen.

  I crossed a line. A major line.

  She moves her gaze over to me. “One moment.”

  She bends down to reach for a cover-up bottle.

  And it’s undeniable.

  This lady rolls her eyes.

  While she’s searching for a color, Nick grabs my hand and leads me away. Holly follows.

  “Grecian Beauty?” the woman asks as we walk off.

  We walk past hosiery, past sunglasses, past handbags, and we’re on the street.

  People rush by.

  Nick looks at me, wide-eyed, and I can tell he’s expecting me to say something. I know. I know. I know. I’ve so let him down.

  “Maybe you should just get something at the drugstore,” I say. Lame.

  He walks off toward the bus stop, Holly and I follow, and we ride home silently, him looking out the window, me biting my pinkie nail. Holly gets another text from Wilson, so she’s distracted. “He wants to meet up.” She’s still beaming, but it’s not quite the moment it was before.

  When the bus stops in Fremont and Holly stands up to go, Nick says, “We’re really going shopping once the dance is official.”

  “Definitely,” she says.