Goth Girl

by Melanie Mosher

  I couldn’t believe Zach’s dad had him arrested. I sent Zach a couple of texts but got no reply. I bet his dad had taken away his phone too. My thoughts drifted to my own father and the image of him sick in bed. I toyed with the idea of going back to Elsie’s house. My head was saying no way—he abandoned me and I don’t owe him anything. But then my heart would bleed, thinking Richard’s time might be short and I’d convince myself I would regret it forever if I didn’t go.

  In history class on Tuesday, Mr. Jones talked about Pier 21 and family trees again. I doodled on my notebook. My family tree is a cactus, full of thorns. Again, my thoughts drifted back to my father.

  “That’s my seat.”

  I looked up, startled. Some guy was talking to me. “What?”

  “The bell rang five minutes ago. Don’t tell me you’re so excited about history, you’re gonna sit through another class?”

  Wow. I missed the bell and all the people leaving? I needed to figure out this stuff about Richard before it wrecked my whole academic year.

  “Just keeping the seat warm for you.” I got up and gave the guy a lame smile as I headed for the hallway. I had to jog to get to my next class in time.

  At lunch, Justine seemed quiet. “What’s up?” I asked.

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes. She didn’t take out her ear buds.

  I picked at my fries. The more I looked at her, the more I thought about it. Justine had spent most every lunch hour for the last few weeks listening to me; it was time to return the favour.

  “Did you buy your tickets for that festival yet?” I leaned forward and spoke a bit louder so she’d hear me over the music.

  She nodded.

  “What do you wear to a concert like that?”

  Justine put both arms out and motioned with her hands to say, “This is it.” But she still didn’t speak or take out the earphones.

  “Did you find someone to go with?” I was determined to get her to talk.

  “There’s a girl at work who likes metal too.” She looked down at her food like she wanted to ignore me.

  Hmmm, this is tough. I reached forward and touched her arm so she’d have to look at me. “So, do you stick with fuchsia for the concert? Or go with another colour? Maybe black like me.” I pointed to my own spiked hair.

  Finally, Justine took out one earpiece. “Maybe another colour, but not black. That’s all you.” She cracked a smile. “Thanks for prying. I just finished a math test and I’m not sure if I passed.” She paused, and then said, “I need the credit to graduate. I really don’t want to have to take it again next year.”

  I nodded. “Well, you really seemed to be getting the hang of it when we were going over it last week. Just wait and see, you never know!”

  “Yeah. Miracles can happen, right?” Justine smirked again and we chatted until the bell rang, but I opted to keep my continuing saga to myself this time.

  ____

  When I got home I rechecked my phone for anything from Zach. Nothing. Maybe he didn’t have his phone, but he could have sent me an email. I went to the computer and checked. Nothing.

  “Man, this sucks,” I said to no one. I needed to get out and walk. I couldn’t wait around for someone else to make the next move. It was up to me, and I knew what I needed to do.

  I grabbed my jacket and left the house. I shivered and rubbed my arms; it was damp and cold. Whoever said spring in Halifax is lovely clearly wasn’t from here. I walked quickly down the street, allowing my feet to take me where I needed to go.

  I knocked, but no one answered. I tried the doorknob. It was unlocked, so I took that as an unspoken invitation and entered the little house. This time I looked around, taking in the decor. The contrast between this place and home was pretty stark: here, the couch was big and soft-looking. A homemade afghan lay across the back. Living plants sprouted happily from brightly coloured pots, and the walls were covered with art—real paintings, not just lame reproductions of the royal family. It looked welcoming and comfortable instead of creepy and stiff.

  I studied the artwork. Some were oils, some were acrylics, and there was even a watercolour. They were good. I squinted at the bottom corner of each piece and noticed they were all signed with the same initials—R. M.

  I stared. My mind raced. Then it hit me like a brick wall: Richard Markham. My father was a painter too. No wonder Mom has such a thing against me painting. She had developed a bad track record with artists. I continued down the hallway angry at the lies, hurt by the omissions, and startled by the realization that I had so much in common with this so-called “father” of mine.

  I walked towards the room I knew was Richard’s, noticing more paintings lining the walls. These ones featured people: a little blonde girl on a swing set at the park, the same little girl running in a meadow with an older lady, maybe her mother, chasing butterflies. I stopped. I gasped as I looked down the length of the hall. There must have been ten paintings, all depicting the same blonde girl. She was shown at different ages and in different scenes, but they were all the same person. I was certain.

  I was certain because they were all me.

  I stormed into Richard’s room. He was in bed, propped up on pillows against the frame. There were more paintings in here, and there was even an easel set up with a new painting in progress. This one didn’t show the little blonde girl, but a half-finished teenage girl, clad in all black, wearing heavy, dark eye makeup.

  I didn’t even say hello. “Who is the little blonde girl in all the pictures?” I demanded, facing him full on. I wanted to see his face when he answered.

  “How should I know?” He snapped back.

  “Your initials are on all the paintings.” I pointed to the pictures in the room. “Who. Is. The. Girl. In. All. Of. The. Paintings?” I knew and he knew, but I wanted to hear him say it.

  “It’s you, okay?” His voice was defiant. Then it softened. “It’s you. Your mother always liked the park. We went when we were together, so I imagined she still took you there when you were a little girl.”

  “Did you stalk us? That is creepy.” My voice was louder than I wanted. I hated admitting that this bothered me. My throat grew tight, cutting off my speech. My stomach knotted. He had all these images of me and my life, but I had none of him.

  “No, I didn’t stalk you,” he said. “Your mother sent photos once or twice in the beginning. I imagined you being happy and carefree, swinging and running all day. I painted pictures to pretend it was true.” He paused. “And to pretend I could be a part of it.”

  I took a deep breath and found my voice. “Wow. You and Mom are a fine pair. You both spend so much time caught up in your imaginations that you miss the reality. She thinks the royals are her family, and you think yours is in a tube of paint.”

  “Maybe. So what is the reality? You seem awfully interested in my artwork. Do you like to paint?”

  I hesitated. I couldn’t trust him, and if I let him know details about me it would only set me up to be hurt even more. All my life I had been wondering what it would be like to have a father. Now here he was, but I wasn’t sure I wanted him in my life. I continued looking at him. His arms were thin and his shirt bagged with extra material. He had moved to sit on the side of the bed, and he had taken the oxygen tubes out of his nostrils.

  “Can you go without that?” I asked, nodding at the tank and tangle of tubes.

  “For a while. I’ve been having a few good days. I’ve even taken up painting again.” He motioned toward the easel.

  I turned toward the picture and studied it, this time, as an artist. He’d done a great job with colour, considering his palate was limited by the subject. He had managed to capture the eyes. They looked real, had a glint of mischief even. He had nailed the spiky hair and the piercings were perfectly placed. And the smile had that crooked tilt. I was impressed he could infer what my grin looked like,
considering I hadn’t been here that long for my first visit. And I sure hadn’t smiled.

  I was flattered. The knot in my stomach loosened a bit. I considered answering his question. I recalled our last conversation. He had admitted he was at fault and this whole thing was not fair. That was more than Mom ever did. Maybe I would just stay for a minute. I could always turn and run away. It’s not like he could chase after me.

  “Yeah, I paint.”

  He smiled and nodded like he already knew.

  “I got picked up by the cops for my work in fact.”

  “Graffiti?”

  “Yeah, under the overpass by the MacKay.”

  “No kidding? That’s ballsy.”

  “Not really.” I began to relax slightly. “I got caught and now I’m in this community art program. A bunch of us are doing a mural around a construction site and we have to spend time removing graffiti.”

  “So, are you any good?”

  “What do you think?” It’s too hard for an artist to answer that question, especially when another artist is asking.

  “I think you’re probably a great artist. And it surprises the hell out of you.” He paused and took a sip of water from a plastic cup on the bedside table. “You wonder how something so beautiful came from you.”

  “You seem to be pretty sure of that.” I took a seat in the chair next to the bed. My shoulders released the tension they had been holding. For a man who just met me, he sure seemed to know me.

  “Because it’s exactly how I feel: these pictures are beautiful because they are of you and I created them. And I helped create you. I sure made my share of mistakes, but you are not one of them.”

  I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how to reply to that.

  “I wish things could have been different,” he said, pleading. “But I can’t change the past. And now, my future is short. But you have a lifetime. If you love to paint, then paint. But make the painting count.” He leaned forward a bit. “And most of all, stop hiding, Vic. Don’t be afraid to let people know who you really are.”

  “Is that why you had Elsie contact me? Because you wanted to stop hiding?”

  “Yes. I know it’s too late, but I wanted you to know who I was.”

  I swallowed hard and blinked back tears. I did want to know him. More than anything. But now he might die. I wasn’t sure if I could handle that on top of everything else.

  “Well, now I know. So, I guess that’s all.” I got up and turned to leave. “I gotta go.”

  I walked slowly, hoping he’d stop me and beg me to stay. He did not. I walked down the hallway toward the front door.

  As soon as the door closed behind me, I began to run. I ran and ran, trying to get ahead of the ache in my heart. But no matter how fast I went, I seemed a step behind.

  By the time I reached my house my lungs were burning but I was certain of two things: I would go back to see my father again, and it would hurt like hell when he died. All I could do was focus on the space between.

  The rest of the week passed in a blur. I thought of Dad and all the things I wanted to know about him. I thought of Zach and wondered what had happened since he’d gotten picked up by the police.

  I couldn’t wait to see Zach. Even though his dad was crazy enough to have his own son arrested, I still hoped he’d let Zach come to the art project. It was one thing to ground him or take away his phone, but surely he’d want Zach to finish his community service hours. Zach had actually started taking part in the painting, even though he told us all he didn’t really care. And his painting was good. He worked well with Rachael’s realistic style and the cartoons I’d created. He was great at standing back and showing the rest of us where to fill in empty spots or lighten up dark areas.

  I arrived at the mural a little early, and Zach was already there. I rushed over and threw my arms around his neck, breathing a sigh of relief that I had been holding for days.

  “Sorry about the other night.” Zach gave me a quick peck on the cheek, but he didn’t put his arms around me. He seemed distracted. “Dad and I had just had one of our usual fights that night and he took my car keys. So I grabbed his keys and took the SUV.” He looked at me and gave me a small smile. “I really wanted to see you and I’m tired of my father thinking he’s the boss.”

  “What’s gonna happen?”

  “I’m grounded with no keys or phone. Dad says he’s going to stick with the theft charges, but I think he’s bluffing. He’ll let me stew for a while, and then he’ll call his lawyer and have the whole thing looked after.” Zach tried to sound convincing, but the cocky edge was missing.

  “And what if he doesn’t call if off? Do you know what’ll happen?”

  “At worst, I’ll go to juvie.”

  I repressed a shudder and squeezed him a little tighter. I didn’t bother to ask why he hadn’t tried to contact me.

  “It’s nothing. I hear it’s a great place.” He put one arm around me. “The food’s good and they have a gym. I can use the time to work out. It seems I have been thinking of other things lately and my muscles are getting soft.” He looked at me and winked. “Don’t worry about a thing.” Zach shifted from one foot to the other as he looked off in the distance.

  “What about your sister, if you go away?” I squeezed his hand. There seemed to be more that Zach wasn’t saying, but I had no idea what it might be.

  “I’ll think of something.” Zach smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  He seemed deflated. I decided to change the subject. “I went to see my father again.”

  “How’d it go?” Zach searched my eyes for the answer before I could speak, and it made me relax. This was the Zach I knew from the night under the stars. The gentle, concerned guy I fell for.

  “He’s a painter!”

  Zach stepped back. “What! Really?”

  I nodded. “And a good one, too. He has all of these painting of me that he’s done over the years. Apparently, he painted them from pictures Mom sent him.”

  “Smart man, using a great subject.” Zach stood taller and puffed out his chest. “We artistes know a good subject when we see one.” He smiled and I noticed it reached his eyes this time.

  “He’s working on one now of me in goth.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to get busy and do one too.” The return of Zach’s cocky grin made me melt. I hoped that whatever was bothering him a few minutes ago was forgotten.

  As we laughed the others arrived and we got to work on the mural. It got quiet as our attention was absorbed by the art in front of us. My only thoughts were of colour choice, shading, and contrast. But my concentration was broken when Russell spoke.

  “What do you think of this?” Russell asked Zach, pointing to the spot on the fence he was painting. Russell was trying some cartooning which wasn’t his usual style, and we’d all gotten used to bouncing ideas off of Zach.

  “I think this is all a waste of time,” Zach replied bitterly. “And you should stop asking me dumb questions.” I guess he hadn’t forgotten what was bugging him.

  “Hey, take it easy, man.” Peter walked over toward Zach and Russell. “No need to get your pricey knickers in a knot.”

  “Shut up, punk.” Zach stormed toward Peter with his fists clenched.

  Peter stood his ground. “Go ahead, hit me. See if it makes you feel better.” Peter taunted Zach by moving his chin forward. I held my breath, afraid of what might happen next.

  “Knock it off, guys.” Russell moved between the two of them. “Forget it. Just paint.” He placed his hands on Zach’s chest, trying to move him back a bit.

  “I’m just tired of this whole thing,” Zach said as he stepped back.

  “Well, we’re almost done. Don’t quit on us now, man,” urged Russell.

  “Fine.” Zach’s shoulders relaxed slightly. He picked up a brush, but instead of th
e fence he pretended to paint Peter. Russell hooted when Peter ducked and all three bumped fists and went back to work.

  I released the breath I had been holding and stepped back to take in the whole mural. Our individual talents were good, but the combined effect was awesome. This was more than just a painting—it was part of us for others to see. I liked that. My chest swelled with pride. I might even miss these guys when it was all over.

  I worked along the mural and moved closer to Rachael. I admired the Navy ship and dock she was working on. “Nice job,” I said sincerely, nodding toward the picture.

  Rachael gave me her sweet smile and tossed her hair back. “Thanks,” she cooed.

  “Ugh, stop,” I said to her. “Just be yourself. There’s no one to impress.” I didn’t want to say that I had seen her with her mom the other day, but I wanted to somehow let her know I knew it was all an act and that it wasn’t necessary. At least, it wasn’t necessary with me. “We’re just two girls painting a fence. That’s enough.”

  “Whatever.” She returned to the work.

  I watched as she seemed to focus on the art. She added a Canadian flag that looked like it was blowing in the wind to the vessel. “I hear Zach’s in a heap of trouble with his dad.” She looked over at the three boys.

  “How’d you hear that?” Man, news sure travels fast.

  “Oh, I talked to Zach on Monday. He had to spend the night at the police station because his dad wouldn’t even go get him.” She glanced at me from under her eyelashes. “He was pretty upset.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I had tried and tried to reach Zach with no luck. How’d she manage to talk to him? I put my hand on her brush and she turned to look at me. “How’d you get to talk to Zach? His dad took away his phone and he was grounded.”

  Rachael laughed her tinkling princess laugh. The show was back on. “I’m Zach’s neighbour. I’ve lived beside his family for years. I’m only here because of him—he talked me into helping him when he was tagging the school and I went along because I kind of liked him. He’s hot, but he’s a bad boy.”