The True Story of Atticus and Hazel

by Fisher Amelie

  “Okay, let’s see, “ he played along. “I’m allergic to peanuts. Does that shatter the illusion?”

  I looked at him again. “No, unfortunately it doesn’t. You’re still as hot as ever. Damn.”

  He laughed at me. “Okay, try this on, I have crippling stage fright.”

  I took him in yet again. “No, it’s not working; you’re still too much to take.”

  He swallowed audibly and studied me for a moment. “So you feel it too?”

  “Without a doubt,” I answered.

  “It’s crazy, right?”

  “I’ve been attracted to boys before but this,” I said, pointing between the two of us, “is on some nuclear level.”

  “It’s definitely teetering on explosive,” he admitted. “It’s not helping that we’re acknowledging it. I thought it would, but it’s not.”

  “For me, it’s your hands, your teeth, your throat.”

  “For me,” he admitted, “it’s your hands as well, but also your eyes, your face, your hair.”

  “Should we just walk away?” I asked.

  “I don’t think I could,” he said, his body stiff beside mine. “I don’t want to. Do you?”

  “No,” I told him.

  He stared at me for a moment. “I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Take me to your painting. Show me all the little things my eyes are probably missing.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I want to trust you, but I don’t know you.”

  “Here,” he said, taking out his wallet and pulling out his ID. He set it on top of the bar. “Take a picture of it and send it to Etta. Tell her we’re going on a walk to your Elm painting and you want someone to know who I am and what we’re doing.”

  “I don’t know.” I hesitated.

  “Send it to her. I’ll take care of you.”

  I slid his driver’s license closer and considered his face. “Oh my God, you even look hot in this picture.” Atticus blushed red, which made me want to roll my eyes or possibly my lips over his skin. The lips one. I’d take the lips option. I huffed. “Fine.”

  I unlocked my phone and took a picture of his license, sending it to Etta.

  I’m taking Atticus to see my painting off Elm, I texted her.

  You hussy, she replied.

  shut it, Etta

  Why send me his license?

  bc I want you to have proof of who he is if I’m found murdered in a ditch

  you’re ridic

  it was his idea!

  that doesn’t make me feel better

  not the murder part, dumb ass, the picture part. He did it to make me feel better

  Good idea. Fine. I have your evidence. Have fun. Love you, booger butt

  Love you, my chocolate covered cherry

  I locked my phone. “You’ve been entered into our database. Proceed.”

  Atticus stood. “Here’s where I would normally offer my hand to help you off your stool—”

  I jumped off. “Duly noted.” One more Hazel point.

  “Sam, I’m out,” he called out to the bartender.

  “Later, dude.”

  “Shall we?” he asked, holding out a hand toward the exit.

  I started walking toward the door, but he edged around me to open it for me. “Thank you,” I told him.

  “My pleasure.”

  The warm night air rushed around us, disturbing leaves that lay on the street, swirling them around and around with a pretty crackle as they slid in unison across the cobblestones they lived upon. Stars shone bright and sweet in the sky, peppered between tall buildings built at a time when it meant something to build and the moon hung soft and magical, throwing her light on us in beautiful greeting, telling us she was vigilant, she was there for us.

  We walked in silence, neither of us feeling uncomfortable, it seemed. Atticus smiled at me and stuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket. I thought he did this to give himself something to do. He seemed to possess a pulsing energy that needed to be addressed constantly. Two blocks away from my painting, he finally spoke.

  “How long did it take you to finish it?” he asked.

  “Took me about two weeks total, five hours a day. Sometimes I’d work late into the night and would set up these large, crazy lights. The neighbors weren’t happy when I did that.”

  He smiled at me once more. “A small price to pay. I’m sure they regret making any kind of fuss now.”

  “I don’t know, Atticus, not everyone appreciates art.”

  “People who don’t appreciate art aren’t living a full life. Art, whether it’s music, paint, words, whatever the medium, busts veins of color that usually lay dormant beneath our skin. It gives life love. It opens the mind for greater pursuits. I wonder how many mathematical theorems were bolstered or how many scientific breakthroughs were motivated while listening to Radiohead or looking at a Ron Mueck.”

  “It’s beyond measurement,” I agreed, growing more and more attracted to him by the second.

  No, Hazel. Go ahead and stop this right now.

  My painting was on the side of a three-story brick building. It sat on a corner facing a park newly built by the city. It was prime real estate that caught the attention of several people, thus paintings two through fifteen.

  Atticus led me to the bench across the street facing the painting and we sat down.

  “What was the hardest part?” he asked me.

  “That bit there,” I said, pointing to the top right corner of the painting.

  “What made it difficult?”

  “The subject matter.”

  Atticus looked at the girl then back at me. “Ahh,” he realized, “you’re that girl.”

  She was by herself, a 3D effect gave you the impression she was reaching out of the painting, but you didn’t know what she was reaching for unless you looked closer.

  “To see what she sees, you just have to look at the reflection in her eyes,” I told him.

  He leaned closer. “It’s too dark.” He turned to me and smiled. “What’s in there?”

  “You’ll have to see in the light of day. I don’t know if you could handle it here in the dark,” I teased, only half kidding.

  He laughed. “You’re an intriguing girl, Hazel.”

  “So they say,” I hedged.

  “Okay, are there any other hidden gems in this masterpiece?”

  “Masterpiece, shmasterpiece.”

  “It’s an incredible painting, Hazel. You do know that, right?”

  I cleared my throat, uncomfortable with the praise, and ignored his question. “There are twenty-two hidden pieces in there. I painted them for me. Not even Etta knows them.”

  “Is the reflection in the girl’s eyes one of them?”

  I swallowed and nodded, afraid to speak.

  “I’m honored you told me one then.”

  He sat back and studied every inch of the painting. I didn’t bother looking, I knew the thing by heart, by tears, by sweat. I would be able to recall it even on my deathbed. Instead, I watched him.

  “What’s your favorite part?” I asked.

  He smiled at me, but it felt shy. “I’m afraid to tell you.”

  I laughed. “Why?”

  “Because the part I love the most, that I’ve always loved the most, it’s so obviously you now that I look at her.”

  I knew exactly what part he was referring to and looked directly at the girl hanging in the center of the painting.

  “So you know what part I’m talking about,” he stated.

  “What do you like about it?” I asked him.

  “The way she precariously hangs from the floor above her but doesn’t seem to care at all she might fall. I love the way she looks over her shoulder directly at you, the way her eyes haunt you, the shape of her body.” I swallowed. “She looks exposed, laid bare, like she’s begging for you to catch her but she refuses to ask.” Atticus turned to me. “Are you falling, Hazel?”

  “Maybe, I don’t kn
ow.”

  “Would you like to be caught up?”

  I stared at him. “I’m not sure.”

  He nodded. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one. How old are you?” I asked.

  “Twenty-six. Did you grow up here?”

  “No, I moved here for college with Etta and we never left. Her aunt followed us up three years ago. She’s the only family of hers nearby.”

  “Are you finished with school?” he asked.

  “No, but this is my last semester.”

  “And your family?” he asked.

  “I’ve only my grandma, and she’s back home in Austin.”

  “What’s her name?” he asked.

  “Hazel.”

  “Makes sense,” he said with a smile.

  “Are you from here?” I asked him.

  “Yes, born and raised. I’ve done a fair bit of traveling, though, so I don’t feel stuck or anything. I like it here.”

  “What about your family?”

  “I’ve got five siblings.”

  “Six kids then! Wow, that’s cool. Christmases must be fun there.”

  “They’re awesome. Lots of fighting, lots of food, lots of laughs, lots of lots.”

  The thought made me grin. “How many brothers and how many sisters?”

  “All brothers.”

  “Oh my God, your poor mother.”

  This made him laugh, really laugh. “Please, she can throw down with the best of us.”

  “What does she think of your tattoos?”

  “She calls them my ‘devil marks.’”

  I couldn’t help the laugh that came bursting out of me. “That’s frank.”

  He smiled. “To say the least.”

  “Are you the only one with them?”

  “No, all of us boys are covered in them, much to her dismay.”

  “That is hilarious. So what are their ages?”

  He looked up into the sky as if the numbers were written there. “Let’s see, the oldest is thirty-one and it trickles down every year to me.”

  “You’re the youngest then.”

  “They never let me forget it,” he stated, but there was nothing playful in the admission. It felt bitter.

  I decided I wouldn’t ask.

  “Your dad’s a pretty fertile guy,” I teased.

  He laughed. ”We all are, apparently.” He stretched out his lean, muscled legs and bounced the heel of one boot off the sidewalk. “This city is crawling with Kellys.”

  “Atticus Kelly,” I repeated.

  “That’s me,” he teased with a smile.

  “So, Atticus Kelly, do you have any of these supposed little Kellys running around?”

  He snorted. “You know the benefit of having five older idiot brothers all tied down to early families because they couldn’t keep their shit in their pants?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “You have the advantage of learning from their mistakes.”

  I sighed in relief. “Ah, that’s good.”

  “Very good.”

  Atticus plucked the sheet of paper with the list of my paintings on it and read the next address on Commerce out loud. “Should we?”

  “I don’t know,” I told him.

  “Text Etta.”

  I slid my phone from my bag and unlocked it. My thumb hesitated over Etta’s and my last text conversation. Atticus gently removed my phone from my hand and wrote something to her, hitting send before I could approve. He handed it back to me.

  Etta, this is Atticus. Is it okay if I take Hazel to her painting off Commerce?

  Have fun, was all she replied.

  “Etta thinks it’s okay.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Fine, let’s go.”

  We both stood and began walking the two blocks to my next painting.

  “You live close?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a little studio about seven blocks that way,” I said, pointing down Malcolm X. “You?”

  “I share an apartment with my brother Aidan uptown.”

  “Fancy, dude.”

  He laughed. “Not really. It’s his apartment. I just rent. I also help him out from time to time when he has his daughter.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “My parents live in OC, though.”

  “Also cool.”

  “Not really.” He laughed. “It’s not in one of the new hipster neighborhoods or anything. It’s in one of the patchy, watch-your-back, everybody’s-packing-a-piece neighborhoods.

  “Is it the house you grew up in?”

  “Yeah, it was a little rough sometimes. I learned how to fight pretty early on.”

  “Have you been in a lot of fights?”

  He cleared his throat. “A few, yeah.”

  “Atticus Kelly, are you a little bit dangerous?” I teased.

  He smiled and it reached his eyes. “I don’t think so. I will admit that trouble likes to find me a little bit, though. Does that count?”

  “Oh, it counts.”

  “What’s your last name?” he asked.

  “Stone.”

  “Hazel Stone.” He studied me. “It fits you.”

  I felt my cheeks heat up. “Thank you.”

  “Am I changing your mind at all about musicians?” he asked.

  I almost choked on the laugh that bubbled from my throat. “Uh, no, Atticus, you’re only confirming everything I already thought.”

  “Just need more time then,” he promised.

  “More time my ass.”

  He smiled wide at me then bit at his bottom lip to control its eagerness, I thought. I became fascinated with the ring near his teeth. “When did you get that?” I asked him, pointing at his incredible mouth.

  His fingers went to the piercing before falling back down. “I forget it’s even there. I think it was about three years ago.”

  “I like it,” I told him.

  “Do you?” he asked, coming to a stop. I stopped as well and he leaned in close.

  The proximity made my stomach flip over and over. “It’s sexy, Atticus, as you are well aware.”

  The crinkle of his smile met his eyes. “I didn’t think so at the time, though, Hazel. I only thought it was cool.”

  I nodded. “It is, Atticus.” The wind picked up around us and blew his scent my way. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. It was something natural, something woody and aquatic, a hint of patchouli and warm fruits. “Oh my God,” I whispered, my eyes popping open. “If I could, I would lick your skin. What is that?” I asked him.

  “Some cologne I smelled at a store once and bought on a whim.”

  Not bothering with how embarrassed I might find it later, I leaned forward and took a deeper breath.

  He bent his neck back but kept his soulful eyes on me. “Go on then,” he taunted. I looked at him and he straightened his head. “Chicken?”

  I gulped. That’s exactly what I am. A big fat, yellow chicken with a side of fraidy cat. “No,” I bit back, lying through my teeth. “No touching, remember?”

  “Ah, yes,” he breathed, “that’s why.” My heart hammered in my chest. “Hazel?”

  “Yes?” I whispered.

  “We’re here.”

  I turned toward my second painting, surprised we’d already arrived. We stood side by side; the adrenaline from the rush he’d given me still pumped through my veins.

  “Um,” my voice broke. I cleared my throat. “This is Evensong.”

  We stared at it under the low glow of the streetlamp. I looked on him then at the painting, trying to experience what he was seeing for the first time. It was an androgynous child, allowing them to be whomever you wanted them to be, a metallic crown set on their head, their face an explosive set of colors dripping down their gorgeous face, down their chin, their throat, down their shoulders, over their clothing and pooling onto the concrete parking lot below. I kept the child’s eyes closed. It was a metaphor for life, really. All of us, well, most of us, are living with our eyes closed,
sightless to the ironically blinding bright colors of the world around us. Our noses to the grindstone, to our feet, to our hands, to our tasks.

  “So busy building a life, we forget to live one,” Atticus spoke.

  “What?” I asked him, my chest panting from the statement.

  “She’s blind, isn’t she?” he asked.

  She. To him the child was a she. “Yes.

  “She doesn’t live the colors you’ve painted on her. She merely wears them.”

  All the breath rushed from my lungs. “Yes, Atticus.”

  “What’s her name?” he asked me.

  I looked at him. “Her name’s whatever you want it to be.”

  “What would you name her if you wanted to name her?” he asked me.

  “It doesn’t matter. That’s the point of any painting, though. It belongs to the admirer and only the admirer in the moment they’re absorbing it.”

  He nodded. “Her name is Juniper. I’ll call her Juniper then.”

  “Juniper is a beautiful name for her, Atticus.”

  He smiled at me. “She’s a beautiful child. She deserves a beautiful name.”

  Atticus looked across the street at a popular pizza place in Deep Ellum. It was packed. It was always packed, though.

  “Want to grab a slice?” He glanced at his phone. “It’s only midnight.”

  I didn’t know how to answer. I wanted to grab a simple slice of pizza with him more than I had ever wanted to do anything in my entire life but I also knew if I did that, I’d fall fully under his spell. I was already beginning to fall, plummet, more like.

  “I don’t know, Atticus.”

  “It’s just a slice, Hazel,” he said, raising a shoulder.

  My heart beat in my throat. “Just a slice, just a look, just a smell, just a mouth, just a throat, just a pair of incredible hands.”

  Atticus’s teasing face dropped. “Just hair begging to be touched, just a pair of haunting eyes, just provocative lips, just a beautiful face, just two talented hands.”

  “Just.” I swallowed.

  “Just,” he repeated.

  “Just a slice,” I whispered.

  “Just.”

  We walked quietly, afraid to kick up the explosive chemistry that lay at our feet, bubbling up, ready to boil over. When we reached the door, he opened it for me and we walked beneath the shop’s revealing lights. Those fluorescents confessed something terrible to me about him. It betrayed every doubt I’d saved up from the moment I’d met Atticus until then. He was, unfortunately, beyond anything I could imagine. His skin more tempting, his mouth, his throat, his hands looked made for me. They weren’t a figment of my imagination. He was real.