My Not-So-Still Life

by Liz Gallagher

  I finish, shut the door, and get to work on my own entry.

  I brought all my colors, and three different tips, but sharp pink feels the most right. Hot pink, like my hair.

  I didn’t have space to pack a drop cloth, but I kept everyone else’s work away from one wall.

  I go crazy.

  I spray and, just like the other times, it’s like the can is part of my body, an extension of my thoughts. Then my thoughts go blank and I’m feeling, making something.

  Doing this.

  It doesn’t take long.

  I don’t care if I win the art show. This isn’t about some art show. If I want more people to see it, I can make my own show on the street somewhere.

  But this is more important than winning.

  Fourteen

  When I get to the skate park, I’m a little late because I got so wrapped up in painting, but James isn’t there yet. I sit on the same bench I tried to use for drawing last weekend. How far I’ve come since then. How much farther I’m going.

  I can’t even sit still right now, so I walk over to the skate bowl, do laps around it.

  He shows up, in the usual jeans and his Vespa jacket with a patch on the shoulder. It’s olive green, and really sets off his blond surfer hair.

  I almost leap into the air as he walks up to me. For a second, I wonder if I should take him to the art show, go after all. Show off what I did.

  He taps his jeans pocket. “Got somethin’ for ya.” He pulls the ID out. “Here you go, Jennifer.”

  My new name is Jennifer Jones, and I turned twenty-one about three weeks ago. He’s not so imaginative with the names, but I’ll give James this much: it looks authentic.

  “Thanks.” I’m grinning.

  “There’s something I’ve been thinking about asking you, actually.” He’s been thinking about me?

  “Shoot,” I say.

  “Miss August dropped out.”

  It takes only a second for me to realize what he’s talking about. “The calendar?”

  “Yeah, so I need someone last-minute to fill in, and you’re a natural in front of the camera. Want to do it? Pays two hundred bucks. We could call the ID square, and you’d still make some cash.”

  Do I want to pose as a pinup girl in the same calendar that Maye’s in, for James? Yes! Yes! Yes! So much better than showing him my painting.

  “Sure,” I say. “Sounds fun.”

  “Great, ’cause my deadline is looming and I’ve got time to kill right now.”

  Right now? I have nothing to wear. “Wardrobe?”

  “Junk shop in Fremont’s open.”

  It’s perfect. “Let’s go.”

  “All right,” he says. “Ever ridden a Vespa?”

  “First time for everything,” I say. You gotta live.

  “I like your attitude.” He leads me back toward his apartment, holding his skateboard, and I feel a zing: this is our second adventure together.

  We go into the garage, walk over to a scooter that’s part blue, part orange, all used, and a bit rusted, but still decidedly adorable. “It’s my monster scooter. Like Frankenstein,” he says. “Made from a bunch of different parts.”

  James hands me a white helmet, shows me how to strap it under my chin, then fastens his own: a little black shell with a silver star on top that doesn’t look like it would protect anything in a crash, much less a skull. That’s okay, though; nothing will happen to us. Nothing can. I’ve waited too long to feel this free.

  He drops the scooter off its kickstand, straddles it, and says, “Get on.” I situate myself onto the tiny bit of seat left behind him, not sure what to do with my hands. He reaches back and pulls me so that I’m hugging him. “You’ll want to hold on.” I could’ve told him that much. I slide my arms around him.

  When he first turns the throttle, we lurch forward, and I love the way my body presses into his back.

  Then we get out of the garage, out of the alley, onto Market Street, and we really go.

  I keep my arms around him and watch my world go by from this whole new perspective. I know we’re not going crazy fast—it’s only a scooter—but it feels as if we’re zooming. The air whips at my face, waking me up.

  I don’t care if we never get to Fremont, but, finally, we dismount, take off our helmets, and put them on the scooter seat.

  “Like the ride?” James asks.

  “Oh, yeah.” Can he tell how much? Is he picking up this vibe I’m sending? It feels like we are the only two creatures on this weird planet. How can he not be feeling that? And I haven’t even told him about my new spray-paint thing yet. He doesn’t even know who I really am.

  The junk shop has a window display up for Easter, a four-foot-tall white bunny in all his fuzzy glory wearing a bow tie, with plastic eggs all around. James gets to work browsing the racks. I follow his lead.

  It’s like he’s the artist and I’m his canvas. Or, even, his muse.

  He seems to forget I’m even there, until he holds up a black-and-white polka-dot bikini, the kind with boy-shorts and a halter top. “Perfecto!”

  “Bikini?”

  “You’re Miss August. It has to be a bikini.” His eyes sparkle.

  “Fine by me.”

  I’m pale, but that’s kind of retro. Pale is kind of pinup girl.

  He holds the top up to me and definitely sizes up my chest, which isn’t nearly as spectacular as Maye’s, but I know I’m perky. He shoves the bikini at me and goes to look for shoes, still on a mission. All lit up.

  I hover around a stack of old magazines, thinking I’ll take a minute to study the poses. I find the one I like, a cover girl posing by a bicycle that looks a lot like mine. She stands with her legs together and bent, with her arms up over her head as if she’s about to dive into a pool that isn’t there.

  I’m smiling at the image when someone taps my shoulder.

  Jewel. “Hey, Vanessa.”

  I’m surprised to see him, though when I think about it, I shouldn’t be. We came here to get my Halloween Bloodbath prom-queen dress.

  “Hey.” Did he see me with James? Does he know I’m not alone? Is he alone? Do I care?

  “Find anything good?”

  I show him the magazine.

  “Cool. Is that for an art project or something?”

  I nod. “Something. Hey, shouldn’t you be at the art show?”

  “I’m on my way. Wanted to pick up this polka-dot tie I saw here last weekend, but it’s gone.” He looks toward the door, then back to me. “Shouldn’t you be there too?”

  My mind flashes to what I left there. I wonder how he’ll react. I wonder how everyone will react. “I’m not …”

  I see James walking toward us before Jewel realizes anyone’s behind him. “I’m not going to the show. I’m busy with …” James reaches us, and I grab his arm. “Him.”

  James is oblivious to the importance of this moment. Something clouds over Jewel for a second. He looks at the bikini in James’s hands, then at me.

  “This is James,” I say. “And this is Jewel.”

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.” James barely even looks at Jewel. “Let’s get a move on.”

  Jewel’s gaze catches my eye. “We’ll miss you at the show.”

  I nod. “Have fun. Good luck.”

  He heads toward the door without looking back.

  After Jewel’s gone, James and I flip through vintage sunglasses. I check out old jewelry. Then I spot a pair of saddle shoes. “I want these.”

  “Cool,” he says. “Just to have, I mean. Not right for the shoot. You’ll have to do barefoot. Can you paint your toes?”

  “No problem.”

  “Great. We can stop by Maye’s, actually. Get the right color and maybe borrow her hair stuff too, and makeup. Accessories.”

  “Sure.” I don’t mention that I have all that stuff at my house. How would I explain him to Grampie? Plus, I want to stop by Maye’s; I want the whole world to know I’m doing this with James.

&
nbsp; We buy the bikini—he pays; I would’ve if he’d asked, ’cause I’m planning on keeping it—then hop back onto the scooter.

  Maye lives right here in Fremont, just on the other side of the bridge, it turns out. She’s got a mother-in-law apartment, I think that’s what they’re called, over someone’s garage. The place looks cozy, with an A-frame roof, white lace curtains, and fairy lights around the front windows.

  James goes up the wooden steps and taps on the door.

  Maye opens it in her bathrobe. I smell tomato sauce cooking. Today’s the day the other Palette staffers work so Maye and Oscar have a day off to spend together.

  She registers surprise at seeing me, but says only, “Hey.” She turns to James. “I guess you did ask her to do it.”

  “Yep, you’re looking at Miss August.”

  I do a little curtsy.

  She doesn’t invite us in. Which seems rude. Not like her. And why did she know about him asking me to be in the calendar before I did?

  “We need to borrow some nail polish,” I say. I wiggle my fingers at her.

  “And one of your scarves for her hair,” James adds, and pushes his way in. Maye lets him, and I follow.

  Her place is sort of like James’s. It’s decorated much better, but it’s one room with a kitchen. There are fabric scraps and yarn in plastic containers in one corner, and stuffing. Bowls full of buttons, beads, sequins. The makings for her dolls take up most of the space.

  The supplies are the first thing I notice. Then I see Oscar on her bed, wrapped in a white sheet.

  He’s sitting up, and his smile is kind of like the fake one the Dazzle lady put on. “Not the best timing.”

  James is at the sink pulling strings of spaghetti out of Maye’s strainer.

  Maye roots around in her top drawer—the dresser looks kind of old Hollywood; I love it—and hands me a bottle of pale pink nail polish and a red and white polka-dot scarf, the perfect match to the bikini.

  “That’s our dinner,” she says to James.

  “You mind?” he asks, chewing.

  Clearly, she does. She shoots a look to Oscar, who’s sitting up on the bed forming a toga. “Guess not,” she says.

  “Great.” James grabs a bowl from the counter, and fills it.

  She’s got only one chair and it’s covered with clothes, so James goes to sit on the corner of the bed, where Oscar is still naked under that sheet.

  “Vanessa,” Maye says, and moves forward so that I’m forced to step backward onto her little porch.

  She shuts the door behind us, and there we are.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not scarred by seeing Oscar in your bed.”

  “That’s not it,” she says, “though, yeah, it’s not cool that you guys just showed up. The timing could’ve been worse.”

  I can imagine.

  “Sorry.” It’s strange to think about. Very new, for me. None of my other friends even have sex, let alone in their own little apartment. While it’s still semi-light outside.

  “Look, Vanessa,” she says. “Do you know what you’re doing with James?”

  “I’m doing the calendar, same as you.” It comes out sounding venomous. Why do I feel the need to defend this? “But it sounds like you already knew that.”

  “I told him not to ask you,” she says. “I think it’ll look silly, a sixteen-year-old girl … it’s not right for you. James should know. He’s too old for you, Vanessa, and you’re not old enough for this calendar.” I feel ten times the annoyance I felt toward the Dazzle lady.

  “I can handle it.” I can, and I will.

  “What’s your deal with wanting to be older?” she asks. Just like Nick did. And Mom. What is with everyone not believing in me? Who says I can’t hang out with James, or date him? “You’re adorable, and you have so much in front of you. So much time for guys like James. Don’t do anything with him. I’m telling you, it’s not right.”

  “You have no idea what I’m capable of.” I’m ready for anything. I’m lightning, shining out.

  “That’s what worries me. Bad things can happen, Vanessa. A guy like James. He’s fun. He’s good at heart, but he has no business with you.”

  “Actually,” I say, “I think it’s pretty clear that he does.”

  He opens the door then and pushes past Maye, which forces her back into her place, the porch being so small. He holds up a plastic grocery bag loaded with her accessories. “Ready to do this?”

  “Totally,” I say.

  I turn my back on Maye, and lead James down the steps.

  Helmets on, we zoom back over the Fremont Bridge, through the arty strip, past the restaurants and coffee shops into Ballard, where the air is salty, and down the alley to the Vespa shop and James’s place. I keep my arms tightly around his waist the whole ride, and even rest my cheek on his back. I’m going to keep taking steps toward him until we mesh completely. I will not leave quietly tonight.

  When we get there, he drives into the garage and parks the monster scooter next to one that’s completely taken apart. It looks like a surgery patient on the operating table. He helps me off with my helmet, and I feel like he’s revealing the real me.

  I’m still wearing my bag, which holds the bikini and Maye’s supplies.

  “I’m gonna set up the camera and everything,” he says. “Why don’t you go up and change, paint your nails, do your makeup, whatever, and meet me back down here?”

  “We’re shooting in the garage?”

  “Sure, Vespas are the perfect accessory.”

  I love this idea. “Awesome,” I say.

  He tosses me his keys so that I can go upstairs. I have to go back outside first, to his fire-escape stairs. In the garage, there’s a scent of metal and oil, and outside, there’s the sea-water smell.

  I go up the stairs and use James’s key. It’s easy to imagine this being my life: my own key to this apartment, which I would spruce up—so many white walls just begging for me! James would work downstairs while I did my thing upstairs, and then we’d meet at night.

  He definitely hasn’t cleaned since I was last here. I pull out the nail polish, lipstick, head scarf, and bikini. I put on the bikini first, feeling so charged and zingy because, for a moment, I am naked in James’s apartment, the same way Oscar is naked in Maye’s.

  The suit bottom fits fine, but I don’t quite fill out the top. I bend over to readjust the girls, and manage to make it less obvious. If I keep my back arched so that my chest stays up, I should be fine.

  Next, I go into the bathroom to tie the scarf. The sink is full of tiny hairs, which must be from shaving. A cardboard box next to the sink serves as a trash can, and a CD rack on the floor is the medicine cabinet. I notice all the boy things, which, actually, aren’t many—shaving cream and razors, deodorant, an extra bar of grocery-store-brand soap—and among them, one tube of pink deodorant. An old girlfriend’s.

  I want that to be mine. I want to be the one keeping my getting-ready-for-the-day supplies in his bathroom.

  I tie the scarf on like a headband, which looks so adorable that I might start wearing it regularly. Then I grab toilet paper to put under my toes and go back to the main room. I feel like someone should make a portrait of me at this moment, sitting on James’s floor in the teeny-weeny polka-dot bikini, my hair all retro, painting my nails. Thank the Goddess I shaved my legs this morning.

  While I wait for my toes to dry, I consider everything that’s going on. I’m breaking free. I’m following what I want to do, and it means I get a guy like James to notice me, which is so much better than a guy like Mike Corrigan. Than any high school boy. Than even Jewel.

  I knew that working at Palette would change things. It’s happening.

  Once my nails are dry, I gather up my clothes and stuff them into my messenger bag, sling the bag on, zip up my boots, and go back downstairs. I’m cold in the bikini, but not shivering.

  *

  James chuckles as I pull a face. I’m sitting atop someone’s green
Vespa in front of his tool wall.

  We’ve been shooting for about twenty minutes, and I’m having the time of my life. It’s like the ID session, but this time I really get to ham it up, channeling Maye and the photo of my grandmother sitting on Grampie’s Chevy, and every other strong woman I can think of.

  I can’t help but think James is having a blast too. He laughs as he clicks away.

  “I’m so glad you agreed to do this, Vanessa,” he says, holding the camera at his side for a minute.

  When he says my name, I understand what people mean about melting around someone they love. “Me too.”

  He picks up the camera again and gets what must be the most natural shots of the session, me relishing the moment. I’m sure the look on my face is totally serene.

  I’ve been mostly sitting up straight on the Vespa’s seat, so I decide to lean over and grab the handlebars, to make it look like I’m driving. I try to remember how the pinup girls shaped their bodies.

  As I bend, the bikini top gapes a little. I look up at James, and in a split second before he looks away, I know that he’s looking at my body, and I know that he likes what he sees.

  So I don’t fix the top.

  James takes a few more photos, then holds the camera in front of himself, fiddling with the settings.

  I seize this moment. I reach around to the bikini top’s closure, and undo it.

  James looks up. He watches. He’s absolutely still, and I know this is going to happen.

  He puts the camera down on the workbench, next to the helmets and his jacket, my boots on the floor.

  He’s so close to me now. And walking closer.

  I pull the top completely off, let it fall to the greasy floor. I stand up, take a step toward James, and we’re together. We’re kissing.

  It was that easy.

  Nothing has ever felt this good—not even kissing Jewel.

  His hands are on my bare back, and I feel myself pressed into his chest. He takes off his top.

  Skin against skin. Softer than I’d ever imagined.

  We are finally melting together.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” I mumble into his hair.

  He takes my hand, grabs his jacket from the bench, and hands it to me.

  I put it on.

  We kiss again. We can walk only three steps before we need to keep kissing.