by Anne Dayton
I need to get up and do something instead of lying here driving myself crazy.
I walk down the hallway and look around in the kitchen. Too bad I’m not one of those Betty Crocker types. I could go for some cookies right now. I grab a handful of chips and wander into the living room.
The Christmas tree is still up, ornaments dangling from every branch. Cleaning up after a holiday is not nearly as fun as getting ready for one. I briefly contemplate taking the ornaments off, but decide it’s Candace’s mess.
I pop a Dorito into my mouth and walk to the sliding glass door. There’s the couch where Andrew and I had our long talk. I was so happy, so hopeful then. I shake my head and look out the door at the backyard, gray and dripping, wrapped in the fog that blankets Half Moon Bay. It feels appropriate today. I run my eyes over the empty flowerbeds Mom used to plant so carefully each spring and glance at the studio.
Wait. The studio. Candace said I could use it to paint whenever I wanted. I tap my finger on the glass door. Huh. I turn on my heel and dash to my room, grab the bag of my mom’s paints, then slide open the door and walk across the yard. My shoes slip on the wet grass, and I yank open the door and look around.
It smells the same. Despite Candace’s lotions and perfumes lined up across the top of the oak dresser, it still smells like grease and mold and dust. I inhale deeply. Grandma Ba’s couch is now crammed into my dad’s office, and this place is covered with Candace’s stuff. Looking at it no longer makes me want to retch, so that’s progress I guess, but even crowded with her things, this place still reminds me of my mom.
I can set up my easel there by the nightstand. That’s not too far from where Mom used to paint, and if I remember correctly . . . I pull open the door of the closet. Dad shoved Mom’s painting stuff in here when she died, and it didn’t seem worth it to clean it all out since Candace was only going to live in here for a few months. I reach toward the shelves and pull out a stack of small canvases. They’re prestretched, not the kind she preferred but good to have on hand for when inspiration strikes. There’s a box of solvents and cleaners on the bottom shelf. Some half-used watercolors are jumbled in with paintbrushes and boxes of pastels in the cardboard box on the floor. I push aside a wad of rags to see what else is in here. Just touching her things is comforting. Even if Candace lives here now, this is still my mom’s place.
I feel something hard and rectangular at the back of the closet. Pulling it out slowly, I gasp. It’s . . . it’s the painting she was working on. That day. She washed her brush out and left the canvas on the easel to take me shopping, and she never got to come back and finish it.
I run my fingers over the canvas lightly. If you didn’t know better, you’d think the painting was abstract. It’s just a brown square at the moment, but I can tell by the grain of the wood and the perspective that it’s actually our living room window. What was she going to paint inside the window? Was the viewer supposed to be able to see through it?
I trace the glass pane with my finger. She liked light, loved seeing how it played off different objects, and was fascinated by things that reflected it—mirrors, glass, foil. She liked the symbolism of it all, how light is all around us and we just have to return it—
A jar full of thumbtacks crashes to the ground. I guess I must have knocked it over, though as the tacks sprawl across the wooden floor, I don’t really remember touching it. The hair on my arms raises, but I shake it off and collect the tacks back into the jar. I hope Mom doesn’t mind me messing with her stuff.
I peer at the surface of the painting in my hands. It’s a couple feet tall and about the same width. It’s only just begun, really. I wish I knew what this one was going to be about.
I put the painting down on Candace’s daybed, then reach back for the piece of wood on the bottom shelf and pull it out gently. Her easel. Mom had a couple of bigger easels, but this one sets up on a table. I look around the studio. I could take this inside, maybe work on it in my room, but . . . Candace’s dresser might work. I push a row of bottles aside to make room for the easel, then set the painting on it gently. I stand back and scrutinize it. There are all those unused canvases in the closet, but there’s something about this one that grabs my attention. It wouldn’t be blasphemous to finish her painting, would it?
I dig out the square piece of fiberglass she used as a palette and open her bag of paints, then squirt a tiny little bit of cerulean blue into the palette. No sense pushing out more than I can use. I coat my brush in it and touch it lightly to the canvas. I bite my lip, squint at it, and relax a little. What I did looks good. It didn’t ruin the painting. I smooth the glob out and add another highlight.
Mom had finished a painting of the moon before this one. She loved that it was a giant cosmic mirror, reflecting the light of the sun into the darkness. She always wove references to God into her paintings somehow. Maybe that’s how she really saw life.
I wish I had that kind of faith. I want to love what she loved. But every time I start to think that maybe she was right, that maybe there is something more out there, someone comes along and convinces me we’re all just a bunch of screwed up people trying to make our way down here in the muck, in the darkness.
Even the people who are supposed to be all good and stuff turn out to be jerks in the end.
I try to block Andrew’s face out of my mind. I hate that even in this sacred space I can’t stop thinking of him. I hate that he took my glimmer of hope, made me believe there really might be some bigger plan, someone out there pulling strings we can’t see, and then twisted it into something horrible.
I squeeze out a little yellow and mix it with a tiny bit of the blue. I try to picture her face, but the edges are getting blurrier every day.
The light is disappearing from the windows when the studio door yanks open. Candace looks at me, her eyes wide.
“Oh. Christine.” She straightens up and brushes her hands over her face quickly, sniffling a little. Her eyes are red, and though she’s trying to hide it from me, it’s obvious she’s been crying. “I didn’t know you were in here.”
She steps inside and closes the door softly behind her.
“Yeah.” Well, this is awkward. What am I supposed to do? I’ve never seen Candace cry before, and it’s pretty clear she was hoping to get to her room without anyone seeing. “You said I could paint here, so . . . I thought . . .”
She nods, tears brimming in her eyes. “I’d actually like to be alone right now, if that’s okay.”
I look from her to the painting. It’s coming along nicely. She wants me to leave now?
“Can I have another fifteen minutes?” I dab my brush at the canvas and try to block her out, closing my eyes to try to refocus.
“No.” My eyes fly open at the hard edge in Candace’s voice. She’s staring at me, her legs wide, her hands on her hips. “No, you may not. I’d like you to leave now.”
“What?” I am pretty sure I’m staring at her, but I don’t really know what else to do. Who is this person?
“This is my room now, Christine. You may use it to paint, but when I need it, this is my room.” She takes a step toward me. “And after the stunt you pulled at Bloomingdale’s, I don’t really want you to be here at the moment.”
I set my brush down on the palette.
“I received a notice that someone purchased the fifteen men’s belts we registered for. So I went online to see what other treasures ‘we’ had picked out. I started going through and weeding out the garbage, but it quickly became apparent that it would be easier to scrap the registry and start over.”
She sits down on the edge of the bed. “Which isn’t exactly something I have a lot of time for at the moment, in case you hadn’t noticed. And then there’s the fact that the entire city council now thinks I wear a size 48 DD bra and secretly desire a new engagement ring.” She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at me. “And the worst part is, I thought we were doing so well. I really thought we were making progress, you and
me, but it turns out you’re still the mean-spirited, immature child you always were. Your father and I are getting married, and nothing you do is going to change that.”
She throws her hands up in the air, tears streaming down her face. “So, no, Christine, believe it or not, you may not finish up your painting. I want you out of my room, now.”
Did I hear her right? I glance at her to make sure she’s not about to crack up about the great joke she just pulled on me, but she’s dead serious. I lay the palette down quietly and walk to the door without a word.
As I trudge across the grass back toward the house, I try to figure out what just happened. I can’t believe she called me mean. I’m the good guy here. She’s the one marrying my father when my mother has only been in the grave a year and a half. That’s mean.
On the other hand, who cares if she did call me mean? This is a huge victory. It’s exactly what I’ve been working toward all along. A few more fights like this one, and she’ll never marry into this family. But if it’s such a great feat, why do I feel like crying?
34
Ms. Moore looks up from the papers she’s reading and puts her sandwich down on a paper towel when I push open her office door.
“I like the bling,” I say. Ms. Moore’s style could be described as eccentric on her best days, but the new black horn-rimmed frames, accented with rhinestones at the edges, are a new high—or low, depending on how you look at it. I kind of like that she’s never tried to fit into to the whole J.Crew aesthetic this town seems to love.
“The better to see you with.” Ms. Moore wipes her mouth with paper napkins and runs her fingers together to brush off the crumbs. “Sorry, I was running around at lunch and didn’t get a chance to eat. Do you mind?”
I shake my head.
“So, how was your Christmas?” She takes another bite of her sandwich and rolls back a little on her chair’s metal wheels.
“Oh, you know.” I shrug. “A laugh a minute. You?”
“Lots of snow.” Ms. Moore is from Massachusetts, and she went back to spend a week with her family. The phone on her desk rings, but she ignores it.
“Ugh.” Half Moon Bay may be cold most of the time, but we never have to deal with the dreaded white stuff.
“It’s not so bad. It’s kind of a nice change of pace, really. No one bugging me.” She glares at the phone as it starts ringing again and takes a sip from the water bottle on her desk as the little voice mail light on her phone goes on.
“So.” She leans forward and crosses her arms over her chest. “Did you miss her?”
Nice try, but a sneak attack isn’t going to work today. I decide to change the subject. “What do you know about guys?”
She eyes me skeptically and gestures toward her naked left hand. “Apparently not enough. Why?” Ms. Moore moved to Half Moon Bay to flee a broken engagement. She claims to have thrown a dart at a map, but I don’t buy it. It’s too cinematic, plus I’m sure old Lovchuck threw some money at her and that was that.
“Say a guy takes you out a few times. Say he acts like he likes you. Say he promises to call. Then he doesn’t. He acts like it was nothing and implies that you read too much into things. Are you crazy or is he?” I slouch down in my chair and stretch my legs out in front of me. “Or does it mean he doesn’t like your nose ring?” I lace my fingers together in my lap. “Hypothetically, of course.”
Ms. Moore chuckles. “I’m sure he likes your nose ring just fine.” She takes another bite and chews thoughtfully. “Did you miss her?”
I watch the blinking light on her phone.
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “So is he a jerk or what? I mean, here he was trying to act like the best Christian in the world, and he turns out to be scum just like everyone else.”
“How did your dad deal with it?” She pops a potato chip into her mouth. It’s one of those baked flavorless kinds. What’s the point?
“He took me Christmas tree shopping.” I glance at her, then quickly look away when I see she’s staring at me. She doesn’t know I overheard her in the store, and I’m not sure how she’d react if she did. “So, do you think there’s any chance he’ll call? Or was it all an act?”
Ms. Moore seems to have no trouble following my train of thoughts. “I don’t know.” She sighs. “But I think it’s pretty telling that you keep talking about Andrew when I’m asking you about your family.”
“How did you know who I was—”
“I’m a teacher. I have eyes in the back of my head.” She smiles and nibbles on a chip before continuing. “Why are you so fixated on this guy, Christine?”
“Uhh . . .” Is she serious? I mean, I’m sixteen. It’s not really rocket science. “Because he’s hot? And because he seemed to be interested in me but now he’s not?”
“Granted. Your interest in boys is age appropriate.” She wipes her fingertips on a paper napkin. “But you’re all too ready to talk about him now when I’m asking about your mom, and I’ve never even heard you mention guys before.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to talk about them before.” I shrug.
“Maybe it’s a diversionary tactic.” She clears her throat. “Or maybe it indicates something much more.”
“Is this one of those weird Freud things?”
“Hardly.” She snorts. “But doesn’t it seem possible that you’re fixated on this guy because it keeps you from having to think about other absences in your life?”
I unlace my fingers and shove my hands under my legs. What is she talking about? It sounds like she’s a little too excited about that psychology degree to me. She does this with English too, reading symbolism that simply isn’t there into books. I mean, sometimes a water pump is just a water pump.
I’m opening my mouth to tell her where to put her Freud when the phone bleats out again. She glances down at the number flashing across the screen and sighs.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got to get this.” She shakes her head and holds up a finger to me. “Yes?” She doesn’t try to disguise the disgust in her voice. “I understand.” She makes a note on the paper in front of her, then writes down a phone number. “Got it.” She waits while the person on the other end says something more. “Fine. I have to go.” She hangs up the phone quickly. “Sorry.” She turns back to me and rolls her eyes. “My lawyer. So. Back to you avoiding my questions.”
35
“Christine? How do you want your burger cooked?”
“Bloody.” I give Dad a sarcastic grin.
He flares his nostrils for a moment but recovers quickly. “Great! Medium rare it is. Emma?”
Emma’s tongue is pressed to her top lip in concentration as little beads of sweat populate her brow. “Huh?”
Candace walks over to the kitchen table. “Do you like your burger pink in the middle? A little underdone?”
Emma puts down the expensive fountain pen and scratches her nose. “Gross. No!” She peers into the kitchen. “I like my burgers really, really flat. And totally done.”
Dad bites his lip and turns around. “Okay, I think I can figure that out.”
Candace walks over to my side of the table. “How’s it going?”
As she looks at the envelope I’m working on—Assemblyman H. J. Goldberg and Mrs. Goldberg—I can tell she’s about to swoon, but I’m being punished, so she refrains from complimenting me. Ever since I did calligraphy on Emma’s campaign posters, leading her to victory as vice president of the seventh grade class, Candace has been obsessed with my work. “I’ve done a hundred and four.”
She sighs in delight. “Oh my.” She goes back into the kitchen to help Father of the Year with his first ever attempt at cooking dinner. I personally don’t think grilling burgers exactly counts as cooking, but whatever.
I can’t believe she’s rubbing it in like this. They’re sending save the date cards to 578 people, and Dad thought addressing all 578 would be a suitable punishment for Emma and me for ruining Candace’s wedding registry.
“How many do y
ou have done, Em?” I whisper.
She counts her envelopes, moving her mouth silently. Finally she sets them down and rolls her eyes. “Fifty-two.”
I put my head on the table and bang it quietly. Emma doesn’t know how to do calligraphy, and her cursive is not the best, so Candace insisted she print very carefully, but printing takes her forever. Emma’s eyes are red and there’s a blister forming on her middle finger from gripping the pen so hard. “It’s okay. I’m moving along pretty quickly. It won’t take that much longer.” She tries to smile but doesn’t seem to be able muster the strength.
I pick up my list. We decided Emma should take the first 100 and I’d start at guest number 101. Let’s see who’s left. Malcolm Slocum IV. Miller Franklin Haun and Mrs. Haun-Young. Mallory Louise Bard and Guest. If these people are anything like their names, this should be one snore of a wedding. My eyes scan for “Dominguez”—that should be easy to pick out—but I don’t see it. I look on the third page . . . nothing.
“Hey, Em.” I put my list down. “Let me see your list for a second.” She hands it to me and slumps down in her chair. Laughter comes from the kitchen, and I roll my eyes.
I carefully check each name. There’s no “Ana Dominguez,” and I don’t see Riley or Zoe either. Okay, that’s it. There’s only so much a person can take. I walk into the kitchen, clutching Emma’s list.
The smell of raw red meat hangs in the air as Dad puts burgers onto the George Foreman grill. He doesn’t even know you’re supposed to close the top of the stupid thing. Candace has her arms around my dad’s waist, and they’re giggling and murmuring to each other.
“Ahem,” I say, not even pretending to cough.
Candace turns around and beams an evil stepmom grin at me. “Need a glass of water?”
I ignore her and tap my dad on the shoulder. He turns around with ground hamburger bits on his hands. “Where are my friends?”
Dad walks over to the sink to wash up, then shuts off the faucet and dries his hands on his apron. “You can bring a friend.” He glances her way, and Candace nods. He raises his voice so that Emma can hear in the next room. “We talked about it and decided you can both bring one friend.”
