My Not-So-Still Life

by Liz Gallagher

  Going up the stairs, we stop twice.

  Time stands still, and we’re in his place, and we’re still kissing like crazy, and I take the jacket off. He kicks off his Chucks and pulls off his jeans, so we’re both basically in underwear. His is the sexy kind that’s like tight boxers. The bulge is definitely there.

  Exactly how do we get these last pieces of clothing off? And how do I bring up the condom issue?

  We keep kissing, and he presses me up against the sink, and it’s cold on my skin, and he’s heavy up against me, and I feel him on my leg, right there, and his arms are strong on either side of me, and I don’t want it to, but it feels like he’s trapping me. I’m letting him. I asked him to. I want this.

  Maye’s words, my mom’s, and Nick’s, echo. Don’t grow up too fast, they all said, and maybe this is what they meant, but how can something that felt so amazing one second ago cross this line to feeling locked up?

  No. This is fine. I started this. We’ll stop whenever I say so.

  “I’ll get something,” he says, and moves to walk to the bathroom for what I hope is a condom. When he steps away, it leaves me chilled. Goose bumps.

  I take the chance to get on the mattress, under the covers. As I’m wiggling around trying to find the right way of lying there, my leg swipes something cold. At first, the image of an eel pops to mind.

  Just as he’s coming out of the bathroom with his hand cupped—it must be a condom inside, yes—I reach down and feel a necklace.

  I pull it out from under the covers, and see that it has a dainty jeweled ballet slipper hanging from it.

  Wait.

  He’s walking toward me, but I feel myself pulling the sheet around me, shoving the necklace back down.

  I can’t go through with this knowing there’s another girl’s necklace in the bed—and that it’s probably her deodorant in the bathroom. Not as much of an ex-girlfriend as I thought, maybe.

  “James.” I will my voice not to crack. “I have to go.”

  He sits at the edge of the bed. “Relax. Everything’s okay. We can slow down,” he says. “I thought we’d finish up here and then go use your ID, but if you need more time, we can stay in all night.”

  I just look at him. I want to want that. But I’m not sure anymore.

  I reach down for the necklace, hold it up.

  “She’s not someone I’m serious about,” he says. “Just a girl I know.”

  “Oh.” I nod. So, am I just a girl too? I can’t ask, because I don’t want to know the answer.

  “You’re not cool with this, are you?”

  “Not tonight,” I say. I flash to a scene where I tell Maye about this, and she’s proud that I didn’t ignore the necklace. She thinks I did the right thing. Holly would tell me to get out of here, and quick. Nick? Same thing.

  I pull my clothes back up around me while he drags on his jeans. “Are you sure?” he asks.

  I nod and go to the door. “See ya,” I mumble. I know he’ll go out by himself. Or meet up with the necklace girl. Or someone else.

  I walk home, trying not to think. I don’t know what to think anymore.

  Mom and Grampie are nowhere to be seen when I get home. I go straight to bed, stopping only to change out of my clothes—the bikini underneath—and into my splattered tank dress.

  The last images in my mind before I fall asleep are of myself on that Vespa, barely dressed. Trying to look sexy.

  What was I thinking? Mom and Grampie could come across the calendar. Anyone could. It’s not art. Not at all. It’s a private moment that probably never should’ve happened.

  I have to get out of the calendar.

  Fifteen

  I’m scheduled to work on Saturday, but I’m still asleep when Nick calls. I hadn’t looked at my phone last night, but now I see that he called twice. I click to him. “What’s up?”

  “Um, hello? Badass?” Oh. “You graffitied the school.” At least he’s talking to me. It’s been almost a week since our fight.

  “Just that one wall.”

  “Uh-huh. And the blacktop at the park—I guess you did that, too? This is your big project? This is what you came up with?”

  When he puts it like that, I realize I barely even thought about the show. I wanted to do my best project ever. Then I got distracted. “I don’t care about some dumb school art show,” I say. “It just felt good to do. It felt … real.”

  “It’s really getting you in trouble, that’s for sure.”

  “I mean, it’s just one wall. Is Smith mad?”

  “He seemed okay, actually. But I do know the office called your house and left a message last night.”

  As if on cue, Mom opens my door. She does not look cheery.

  “Gotta go. I’ll call you back.” I click the phone off. “Hi, Mom.”

  “That’s it? ‘Hi, Mom’? Nessie, what were you thinking?”

  “It’s art, Mom. It’s what I was feeling.” Even as I say that, it doesn’t sound quite right.

  “It’s multicolored lightning bolts on the wall of the school.”

  “Right. My art show entry.”

  “And they said that your so-called art matched some graffiti at the park over by the school? Was that yours, too?”

  I can’t defend the park as easily. I don’t know how to explain that it felt like energy bursting out of me. That I didn’t know where else to put that energy.

  So I just look her in the eye and nod, wishing she could read my mind. For the first time, I think maybe I need help figuring out where my energy should go.

  “You’re going over there today to paint over that wall. And the school is punishing you. You’re not allowed to go to Spring Semi.”

  I push out a laugh. “As if I want to go to Spring Semi. That’s fine.”

  “And I’m punishing you too.”

  I wait for it.

  “You’ve had your last shift at Palette. And you’ll spend spring break at home.”

  I start to shake inside. She can’t take that away. Oscar. Maye. James. “But—”

  “Working there was a privilege.”

  “A privilege where I get paid!”

  “Most of your check will be going to the Parks Department, to cover the cost of the new blacktop they need to put down to fix your mess on the basketball court. You know the job was never about getting paid. You just wanted to be around those artist people.”

  “Those artist people are my friends.”

  “Holly’s your friend. Nick. Think about that. Think about us.”

  I can’t even look at her.

  “You’re due at the school in one hour. I’m dropping you off, and then I’m picking you up and you are not leaving this house for the rest of break. We’ll stop at the hardware store on the way for paint.”

  With that, she shuts the door and leaves me feeling once again like I might explode. I can’t handle sitting here quietly.

  This kind of energy is what’s gotten me where I am. Which is … where? Noticed for the wrong things, the ones I’m not proud of. My messy insides.

  What, what’s wrong? I fall back on the bed.

  When I got what I thought I wanted with James, I wasn’t ready. I’m nowhere near ready for my own art show, either. I need to face it—I’m not ready. For a lot of things.

  What a mess I’ve made.

  I call Palette and leave a message for Oscar, telling him I’m sick and won’t be in. When I hang up, I start to cry. I’m glad I don’t have to lie directly to him.

  Then I call Nick back and pace my room while we talk. “I’m not allowed to go to the Spring Semi. I’m sorry. I can’t be your date.”

  He says, “I don’t really want to go.”

  “But, you said …”

  “Okay.” He breathes out. “I do want to go. I want to want to, anyway. It would make me feel … normal.”

  This again? “You’re not normal, Nick.… Maybe no one is. Maybe that’s what’s really beautiful in life.”

  He’s quiet for a few s
econds. I need to practice doing that. Thinking before I say and do things. “You could be right.”

  *

  When I get to the gallery room, I see that Alice and Jewel each got ribbons. Jewel won Best Sophomore Work and Alice won Peers’ Choice.

  My wall, my bright wall, a version of what I did in the garage that day, is the most alive thing in the room. I could have done better. I’m not nearly practiced enough at spraying yet.

  I wasted the chance to show people something good. Something I’d actually put some real thought into, instead of just a burst of energy.

  I’m embarrassed looking at it, but painting chalk white over my bolts still feels like erasing part of myself.

  Mr. Smith shows up when I’m almost done.

  I stop and try to smile. “You’re checking on me?”

  He runs his hand through his thinning hair, that way that he does. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “You and everybody else.”

  He looks straight at me. That’s one of the things I’ve always appreciated about Mr. Smith. “I think you’ve been looking for yourself, Vanessa.”

  “I guess … but not anymore.”

  “I’ve noticed changes in you. But I don’t think anyone ever fully knows themselves. If we did, what would be the point of continuing to make art?”

  He nods to the wall, where only a tiny bit of my work remains. “Your piece was kind of like a Pollock. I know how much you like him. But it was also kind of a mess, Vanessa.”

  “I thought I was breaking out of bounds, just like he did.” Mr. Smith wrinkles his nose. “How was he out of bounds?”

  “He was free. To make a beautiful mess.”

  “But he still had boundaries.”

  I can tell Smith wants me to say something.

  I think about it.

  And I realize. “The canvas.”

  “The canvas. His was big, but it was still there. He still worked in a context.”

  “But I wanted … to be beyond that.”

  “Do you think that’s possible?”

  I’m silent. Trying to think.

  “There are always boundaries,” he says. “This time, yours was this wall.”

  “But I’m … a continuation of the art. It’s a living thing. It’s me.”

  “You’re an artist, yes. But we’re all just people. Did you ever think that maybe we need boundaries, we need the lines?”

  I shake my head, looking him in the eye. “Absolutely not. I think people are free. At least, I know they should be.”

  “But if we don’t have the lines, how does anyone know where to look? If the whole world was a Pollock painting, then would any of it really look beautiful? He needed a canvas. The lines. So do you.”

  I don’t have an answer for that. Maybe he’s right. Maybe art is only beautiful when there’s also not-art.

  He picks up a paintbrush to help me finish just as Mom walks in. “Hello, Ms. Almond.”

  I start packing up the paintbrush and the tray. She shakes his hand. “Thanks for being here.”

  “No problem,” he says. “I hope you’ll let Vanessa consider the summer job with the elementary kids.”

  “Duh,” I say. “I’m obviously not the best role model.”

  Mom doesn’t say anything.

  But Smith goes on, “Oh, I think you can be.” He takes the bag of supplies from me.

  “Thank you, Mr. Smith. We’ll see.” Mom is formal.

  She’s angry. I want to tell her it’s just a wall. It was art. But I also know it’s not true. It was about wanting to be noticed, too—but not like this. I shake my head. I can’t think about this anymore.

  I follow her to her Jeep, and we ride silently home.

  I’m still thinking about it the next day.

  The spray paint can’t be all bad. It felt too good. Maybe I do need a canvas. Like Mr. Smith said. There’s no rule saying I can’t spray a canvas.

  I need to go tell Oscar I’m done. Maye, too. Apologize.

  Mom’s in the garden with Grampie. I walk out there, enjoying the damp grass under my bare feet.

  “I know I’m not supposed to go anywhere, but I need to quit Palette in person.”

  Mom stands up. “I’ll come with you. I need to pick up laundry detergent. We’ll stop at the store.”

  “I really think I need to do this alone.”

  “I’ll wait outside, but, Vanessa, I mean it when I say you are grounded over this break.”

  I have to accept that, I guess. “Let’s go.”

  The drive to Palette feels like an important journey. Today I’m stepping back.

  I stare at the cherry blossoms lining the block and wonder how I missed them yesterday. I’m paying attention now.

  Oscar’s behind the cash register, fiddling with the receipt tape.

  I step up and wait for him to notice me.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he says.

  But I don’t feel like playing around. I hold his gaze, not sure if I should go into details about why I’m quitting. I decide that it doesn’t matter exactly why. He knows enough about me and James. “Thanks for everything, Oscar. I’ve really liked working here, but I just don’t think it’s the thing for me right now.”

  “You’re quitting.”

  “I’m really, really sorry. I hope I’m not letting you and Maye down,” I say. We’re silent for a moment. “Are you surprised?”

  “Not really,” he says. “It’s okay, Vanessa.”

  I don’t want to bring up James. But I need Oscar to help me. “Just one more thing.”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “You know that calendar?”

  He nods again. “Maye will get you out of it. She’ll threaten to pull out herself if James doesn’t get another model to fill in for you.”

  Just then, a girl comes through the door in jeans and a black hoodie. She walks up next to me. Oscar continues, “Right? You’ll get Vanessa out of the calendar?”

  Maye? I turn to look. It is her. “Where’s your hair?” Her magnificent platinum dreads are completely gone.

  “Took ’em out. Time for a change. They’re just synthetic extensions.”

  “Oh.”

  I look at her. None of her tats are visible, and her real hair is kind of a mousy blond. But she’s still her. Maybe a little more vulnerable.

  I think maybe it is time to shave my head.

  Then I think, no. I’d just be doing that for the attention. But it’s time to go more natural with it.

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’ll personally erase your shoot from his camera, from his computer. Everywhere. It’ll be like it never happened.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I owe you. Big-time.” What I don’t say, but I know she understands, is that she was right.

  I know that now. I’m too young to be in that calendar. Just thinking about people ogling the moments before James and I almost … It’s too much. Too real.

  Maye gives me a hug. I walk out of there, a different girl from the one who walked in a few weeks ago hoping to change her life.

  I got a change. Just not the one I was expecting.

  When Mom and I get back from Palette, and then the drugstore, I carry my bag straight to my bathroom.

  I cut the string off my wrist. That’s the last time.

  My art can be the statement.

  I get out my supplies.

  As I work on my hair, saturating every strand, I feel as if there’s an imaginary breeze blowing.

  Once I’m done, I find Mom sitting on the couch reading. She looks up. Cracks a smile. “Hey. You kind of look like me with your hair brown.”

  “I think so too. I like it.” I settle in, our feet touching on the couch again. “I always thought …” I’m not sure how to put this. Mom waits. “I guess I always thought that if I looked like this, no one would notice me.”

  She laughs. “You are so much more than a hair color, Vanessa.”

  When I was looking in the mirror, what I saw
was me. A girl figuring things out. A girl with a good family. Great friends. Lots to look forward to. “Do you think things will be different now?”

  “Now? As opposed to when?”

  “When I was trying to … break everything.”

  “You weren’t trying to break anything. Everyone knows that. You just …”

  “I got ahead of myself.”

  She nods. “What were those lightning bolts about, anyway?”

  “I think I just felt like something … I needed to zap it out.”

  “You know, Nessie, real growth doesn’t happen in a zap.”

  I nod. “It can be kind of sad, actually.”

  “Sad?” She puts her book on the coffee table.

  “Have you noticed that Grampie’s looking older?” My voice is cracking. “I sketch him. I want to remember him.”

  She nods. “Of course you’ll remember him. Yes, Grampie’s getting older. We all are. But he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.”

  “But don’t you think it’s sad? Watching someone get old? Like he’s running out of time.” It’s how I’ve felt about her, too, now that I think about it.

  She’s quiet for a few seconds. “Actually, I think it’s kind of beautiful. I had to deal with death young, Nessie. When my mom died, I was so angry.”

  I feel my throat tighten.

  Mom continues. “But then I realized my life was still going. We all have a life span. Everything does. Maybe that’s what I love so much about the salmon.”

  “I’m not following,” I say. I’m still stuck wondering how you ever get over the death of your mother.

  “Salmon travel incredible distances. They spawn in high altitudes, in fresh water. Only a few even grow out of the first stage of being an egg. The ones that do spend a few years out in the open ocean. Then they make amazing journeys—hundreds of miles—back to where they were spawned themselves. Pacific salmon, the ones we have here … they all die within a few days or weeks of spawning.”

  “But they’ve created the next generation.”

  “Exactly. I find comfort in that.”

  For a second, I think she means that part of her died when she had me. But it hits me that she’s saying there’s something good in knowing that the cycle continues. That the things that happen out in the wide ocean are as varied as anyone can imagine.