by Carrie Arcos
“What are you sorry for?”
I shrug. “I don’t usually get to talk about art this much.” Then, to keep her eyes off me and back on my sketches, I show her the first picture I drew of my mom’s hands. “See, the proportions are all off here. I was just getting the outline. If you look, you’ll see the progression.” I flip ahead to the ones I drew most recently. “Do you see the difference?”
“Yeah. Somehow you’ve made them look strong, as if they could hold anything, but also fragile, as if they could break with the slightest pressure.” She looks at me. “You love your mom.”
I smile. Callie’s right, but thinking about my mom makes me sad because of what I know.
I change the subject.
“Van Gogh actually believed that all art is motivated by love,” I say.
“And what do you believe?” Callie asks me.
I’ve never been asked this before. At least, not in an artistic context. I’m not sure what to say.
“Sorry, maybe that was too personal.” She gives me an out and I take it. For now.
Then she asks me another question. “What was the last thing you drew?”
Before I can stop her, she turns to one of the later pages, which has a picture of Luis turning into a zombie and losing his limbs. I particularly enjoyed digging out the craters on his face and peeling off slabs of flesh. I drew this in Mr. Fisher’s class with Greyson’s wholehearted approval. He especially loved the dangling flesh pieces. He actually helped me make them look more authentic.
“Whoa, Neruda.” She makes a face.
I’m not usually this dark with my art, but Luis brings out the worst in me. “It’s bad, I know.”
“No, it’s really good, but kind of gross,” she says. “I like it.” She flips again and finds her eyes, but she doesn’t recognize them. “Who’s this?”
“Oh, I’m just practicing eyes. They’re the hardest to get.”
“I bet. So, any idea what you’re going to draw next?”
“I could draw you, if you like?” I take back my sketchbook and start the outline of her hair on a clean page.
“Here? Now?” She looks around as if someone is watching us.
“Yeah. It’s perfect.”
“How should I pose?” She leans back and tries to look seductive and laughs. “No, seriously, you’re drawing me now?” Her voice catches and I can tell she’s nervous, which makes me smile. Callie is never nervous.
“Just be natural.”
“How’s this?” She sits up straight and stares directly ahead at the fake mastodon coming out of the water over by the tar pits.
“Okay. But maybe try not to be so stiff.” I reach over and put her hair behind her ear so I can get a better view of her profile. “Take a deep breath and let it out.”
She does, and her body relaxes a little.
“One more time.” She rolls her eyes, but she does it.
“I want you to draw me, Jack, like one of your French girls,” she says in a low voice. She turns toward me with a grin, but I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“Seriously? You haven’t seen Titanic?”
I shake my head and continue to add texture to her hair.
“Who are you? Titanic is a classic. Don’t you watch any movies?”
“Sure. Just not the ones you do, I guess.”
“What’s the last movie you watched?”
“The Wizard of Oz. With you.”
“Besides that.”
I’m honestly not a huge movie watcher, so it takes me a few minutes to remember. “I think it was Moonrise Kingdom.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s by Wes Anderson.”
“What’s he done?”
“A bunch of stuff. The Grand Budapest Hotel, Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums.”
“Never seen them.”
“Really? They’re amazing. Very different, though. They’re more stylized.”
“What do you like about them?”
“Each frame is kind of like a small portrait. Like you’re looking through a diorama, or watching a piece of art come to life or something. And they’re funny and quirky, but there’s an underlying sadness to them.”
“You like sad movies?”
I shrug. “Sometimes. Don’t you?”
“I never really thought about it.”
“You’d probably like Moonrise Kingdom the best, then.”
“Why?”
“It’s about these two kids who fall in love and try to run away together.”
“Hmm. Maybe.”
Callie is stiff, sitting too straight. She’s not quite relaxed. I try to lighten the mood. “So, how does Jack draw the French girls?”
“Never mind.” Callie ducks her head away from me, but not before I see the color rise in her cheeks. Something I said made Callie blush.
“I’ve never had anyone draw me before,” she says.
“Pretend I’m not even here. You’re just sitting and thinking about whatever you want to think about.”
“Just don’t pull a Picasso on me. I don’t care what you say, those were some ugly women he painted.”
She takes a sip of her hot chocolate. But the longer we sit there, the less comfortable Callie becomes. She starts fidgeting with her cup, the grass, the edges of her shirt. She begins biting her nails. For someone seemingly so confident, her nervousness feels out of character.
For the first time today, I think of Autumn and how completely different she and Callie are. I try to remember what it was that I saw in Autumn in the first place. A pretty face? I’m honestly not sure. Callie is pretty, but she’s more than that too. She’s talented and competitive and beautiful and she’s here with me. She’s real. Callie is real. This thought both excites and terrifies me.
Callie is still fidgeting.
I decide to try something. Give her something that might help her feel more comfortable, less aware that she’s being studied, drawn. It didn’t work on Autumn, but Callie is different.
I reach into my bag and pull out Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. I hand it to Callie.
“What’s this?” she asks. “He has your name.”
“Yeah, remember that poet I’m named after?”
“You carry this around with you?” she says like it’s a strange thing.
“Yeah.”
“You’ve read this a lot,” she says of the paper so soft, the cover is almost coming off, and the pages dog-eared so frequently, they practically fold themselves. “I’m not really into poetry.”
“Have you ever read Neruda?”
“Nope.”
“Just give it a try. How about you read and I’ll draw.”
Callie eyes me skeptically, then crosses her legs and opens to the middle of the book. I hear her voice in my mind, speaking The Poet’s words, because I’ve memorized most of them. The lines thread through the noise of the city like they’re weaving a tapestry: the cars passing, people walking by, my pencil drawing the contour of Callie’s jaw.
After about twenty minutes, Callie puts down the book and wants to see what I’ve drawn. I don’t want to show her yet because it’s not finished, but I relent.
“Wow.”
She touches the page with her finger, tracing the outline of her face.
“It’ll get better,” I say as if to explain away the raw imperfections. “I didn’t get to spend as long as I’d like, but it was enough to get a base going.”
“No, it’s good,” she says. “What did you write in the corner?”
“Callie, Study Number One.”
“I like that, being studied. You know, you’re very intense when you draw. Very focused.”
I nod.
“Can I have this?”
“No, I still need to finish
it.” It’s a decent first attempt, but her eyes still evade me. It’ll take me forever to understand and draw those eyes. But because she looks disappointed, I say, “I’ll give it to you when I’m done, though.”
“Deal,” she says with a slight smile. She hands me back Twenty Love Poems.
“No, you keep it.”
She puts it in her bag. “You know, you’re full of surprises, Neruda.”
“Nah.” I return her smile. “I’m an open book.”
WE TOGETHER
Callie and I leave the museum and I take her to Milk, a great ice cream place close by. The line behind us is out the door.
“Is the line always this long?” Callie asks.
“Yes. Well, every time I’ve been. I’ve been here a bunch with my dad . . .” My voice trails off. I don’t want to think about my dad because that’ll make me think about how I feel like punching him in the gut. I wonder if he ever took Leslie here. Or were they more discreet? Meeting only in seedy hotels like some cheap cliché. I get a sick feeling. What if they met at my house? I think about how many days I came home after school last year to find Dad already there. Had Leslie been there too? Did she just sneak out a window? Or did she wait until I wasn’t looking to sneak out the front door?
“Hey,” Callie says, waving her hand in front of my face. “Earth to Neruda. You okay?”
I look at her. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“You do that a lot. Go somewhere else.”
“I’m just thinking.”
She eyes me like she’s concerned. “About what?”
“Just . . . there’s just some stuff going on with my family.” I don’t really feel like talking about it with her. Everything’s going so well. I don’t want to ruin it.
“Got it. Well, if you need to talk about it . . .”
She offers but she doesn’t push, which I appreciate. I’ll add that to the growing list of things I’m learning about Callie Leibowitz.
“So, what should I get?” she asks.
“I really like the salted caramel macaroon sandwich.”
“Ooh, anything with salted caramel is heaven.” Callie’s eyes scan the large chalkboard menu at the front of the store. The 1950s red, black, and white decor makes it seem as if you’re back in time.
“They have everything!” Callie says.
When we finally get to the front, I decide to try something new and order the Thai tea macaroon ice cream sandwich. She goes for red velvet. As if we’ve timed it perfectly, a family of three gets up from one of the few tables outside just as we exit, and we dart for the available seats.
“Awesome. Now we can people watch,” Callie says. “People are so interesting. You’ve got your dudes”—she nods to three skinny guys, two Latino and one white, across the street—“couples, families. Did you see that cute old couple holding hands in line? I love how no one in LA looks the same. Can you imagine living in a small town where everyone was just like you? No, thanks.”
“Sometimes when I’m out with my sketchbook, I purposely pick people who are totally different from me. I try to draw their story.”
“I know what you mean. When I create my faces, I like to think about what story I’m trying to tell through the image. I didn’t know people did that with paintings. Hey, the Grove’s not far from here, right?” she asks.
“Not too far down the road.” I point in the direction.
“We go there on the weekends sometimes. Mom likes the Farmers Market.”
She pauses for a minute. I never knew how chatty Callie is.
“This is probably the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” She takes another bite, which draws my attention to her mouth. Her lips are now covered in red velvet.
“The best,” I say, but I drop my eyes when she looks at me.
“I’d gain like twenty pounds if I lived near here. How’s yours?”
“Want a bite?” I offer.
“Sure.”
She leans in and takes a small bite of the macaroon. Suddenly it feels so much like we’re on a date that I start to think we’re on a date and get nervous. Does she think we’re on a date? Are we? How can I tell? Should I have paid for her ice cream? I didn’t; does that mean she’s upset? She doesn’t seem upset. Would I want to date Callie?
“Mmm, yours is good too,” she says. “How long do you think it would take us to come and sample every dessert they have? A month?”
“Depends. Are we talking about just one a day? Or more? You’d probably get sick of them pretty quickly.”
“Impossible, this is amazing. Seriously, heaven just exploded in my mouth right now.”
“You’re very expressive.”
Callie laughs. “My parents say I have a flair for the dramatic.”
“I can see that.”
“Oh, really.”
“Yeah, the way you stomp into class.”
“I don’t stomp.”
“Are you kidding? You definitely stomp.”
She gives me a look that I can’t quite read. “Maybe I stomp a little.”
I laugh. If this is a first date, I’d say it’s going very well.
“I have a question for you,” she says. “Remember when you said that your best friend is an ex-con? What’s that about?”
Callie listens intently, but after I finish telling her about the history of Ezra and me, she looks confused.
“So he’s, like, normal?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never known anyone in prison.” She takes another bite and quickly wipes the ice cream from the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “I only know it from TV shows and movies. And most convicts seem kind of messed up.”
“He looks like a normal guy, if that’s what you mean. He’s just trying to figure everything out now, like where he fits and what he should be doing,” I say.
“After being locked up for ten years like that, how do you even begin to try to reenter society? Finding a job would be so hard. And can you imagine dating after all that? Unless he had a girlfriend while he was in there. Do you know there are women who actually seek out and date inmates? It’s a thing. There are even dating sites devoted to it. You can click on a guy’s picture and go to his profile. They even get married to prisoners. It’s crazy.”
“And you know this how . . . ?”
“My mom. She worked with inmates a few years ago.”
“Weird. I’m pretty sure Ezra didn’t date anyone in prison. The last person was this girl named Daisy from high school. He thought they would be together forever, like they were soul mates or something, but he went to prison and she went to college in Santa Barbara.”
“That’s sad. But it’s not like they would have stayed together, especially being that young. And anyway, soul mates aren’t real.”
It feels as though Callie has just punched me in the gut. She chomps on a piece of cookie, but she might as well be tearing into my soul.
“What do you mean, they’re not real?”
“Think about it. That would imply that out of the billions of people on the planet, you’re destined to be with just one person. That’s insane.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on, Neruda. You’re telling me you believe that there is one perfect person out there for you and only you?”
“Well . . . kind of . . . yeah.”
“No way. It’s more like you have people in your life for a certain time and then you move on. I mean, people fall in and out of love all the time, they marry, they divorce, they marry someone else. Does that mean they made a mistake with the first and the second is their soul mate? Or what about those people who get divorced a second time or a third and remain single? Does that mean their soul mate is still out there and they’ll know as soon as they meet each other? Highly doubtful.”
I’m completely floored by t
his. “So . . . you don’t believe in love?”
“Of course I do. I just don’t know about the whole you’re-destined-for-only-one-person kind of love. If that were true . . .” She hesitates and stares off.
If that were true . . . I think of Mom and Dad. They were supposed to be soul mates. Now I’m not so sure.
“It has more to do with choice, I think,” she says. “Who you choose to love. You make a choice. When people break up, that’s a choice too.”
Right now, I choose not to have a breakdown.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to lay all my baggage on you. You obviously believe in all this stuff.” She removes The Poet’s book from her bag and pushes it across the table to me. “Are you seeing someone? Or interested in anyone?”
I choke down my ice cream. “No.”
“You’re not into Autumn Cho?”
“What? No, why would you think that?” I rack my brain trying to remember if I mentioned Autumn to Callie at some point.
“Your sketchbook had some pictures of her.”
Crap. “Oh, well, I draw all kinds of things. Meaningless things. A tree. A plastic bag. Autumn’s got good bone structure.”
She nods, but I’m not sure if she buys it.
“What about you?” I ask. “Are you interested in anyone?”
“No. Not really.”
Our pronouncements of nos mark the end of our conversation. But I want to take mine back, because all of a sudden I feel like we’ve decided something I didn’t know we were deciding. My book looks small and damaged on the table between us.
