Your Destination Is on the Left

by Lauren Spieller

  The last customer hands over a twenty in exchange for a bag. Fiona waits until they walk away, then slumps back against the wall between her table and the next artist’s. She blows out a puff of air, sending her black bangs flying away from her face.

  I should go up to her, but I feel glued in place. Maybe I’ll take another lap around the stalls—

  “Dessa?”

  Fiona is looking at me, her head tilted to the side, like she’s not sure it’s me. “Yeah?” I say. “I mean, yes! Hi!”

  I hurry over, my hand held out to shake hers. But after a few steps, I realize I must look like a total lunatic with my arm stretched out as I walk, so I drop it down to my side. But then I’m at the table, and I offer it again. Kill me now.

  Fiona takes my hand, but instead of shaking it, she pulls me into a hug across the table. “It’s so wonderful to meet you. I’ve been looking forward to this for days.”

  “Me too,” I say into her hair. She smells like wildflowers caught in a summer shower.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t at the studio,” she says, releasing me. “I do my best to engage with the local art scene, and I completely forgot there was a fair this week. But it seems you found my note.”

  “I did, yeah.”

  My gaze lands on the table between us, which I can now see is covered in perfect little glass flowers, each one a different color. They shine like jewels in the filtered sunlight. “Wow. They’re beautiful.”

  Fiona twists her long hair up into a knot on the back of her head and fans her neck. “You’re welcome to pick one up.”

  I choose a pale yellow flower that looks like an upside-down bell.

  “Much of my work is made of things I find on the street, in dumpsters,” Fiona says. “Some people like to call it mixed media, but I call it—”

  “Found art,” I say, turning the flower over in my hand, the petals catching the light. It looks just like the painting of the yellow flower hanging over YiaYia’s fireplace. A yucca.

  I gently place the delicate flower back on the table, and for the first time in days I remember the box of glass still sitting inside the RV, untouched and untransformed. I can’t imagine ever turning it into something even half as beautiful as Fiona’s flowers. Actually, I can’t imagine anything of mine measuring up to Fiona’s work.

  “I’m not sure if you remember,” I say, “but last year you were at a gallery show in Houston, and you had a wolf sculpture made from pieces of a rubber tire. It was incredible.”

  She signals for me to wait a second while she ducks under the table. When she appears again, she has a thick binder. Inside are hundreds of photographs, each one depicting a different sculpture. She flips through a couple plastic-sheeted pages, then turns the binder to face me. “This one?” she asks, pointing at a photo on the bottom row.

  “Yes!” The wolf howls up at me, almost as fierce in the picture as he was in person. I trace my finger along his arched back, the tiny threads of tire tread just barely visible. “So much movement in those lines,” I whisper. “It’s like he’s alive.”

  “He’s one of my favorites.” She smiles down at the photograph. “He’s on exhibit in Houston until next spring, but once I get him back, I’m going to retire him permanently. I like having him in the studio with me. He reminds me to be ferocious, to be brave. Sometimes I need that reminder.”

  She tucks the binder back under the table. “So, if I remember correctly, you’re applying to art school.” Fiona straightens the glass flowers on the table. “Have you decided where you’re going yet?”

  A million answers fly through my mind. I’m still waiting to hear back. I’m weighing my options. Anything so she keeps looking at me like I’m someone talented and worthy of this internship. Like the kind of person I so badly I want to be.

  “I’m going to UCLA,” I blurt.

  A flood of hot shame crashes through me. I want to take my lie back as soon as the words leave my mouth, to shove it deep into the black hole where I hide the ugliest parts of myself.

  “Wow,” Fiona says. “That’s a great school.”

  An old man wanders up to the table, his hands clasped behind his back. While Fiona shows him her work, I look down at the rows of flowers and swallow hard. The lie is out—now all I can do is prove to Fiona that I’m worthy of this chance. And hope she never figures out the truth.

  • • •

  Fiona and I stay at the fair for a few more hours, then she tells me to take a half-hour lunch break. Dad meets me in a nearby park, two paper bags clutched in his hand. Once we find a good spot beneath a tree, I spread the picnic blanket Fiona insisted I take on the ground, and lie down along one side. Dad takes a seat against the tree trunk.

  “Your mom made sandwiches,” he says, handing me a bag. “I think they’re peanut butter and strawberry jelly.”

  I pull my sandwich out and peel back the thin plastic wrap. “I wish Mom would buy regular peanut butter once in a while,” I say. “This low-fat stuff isn’t as good.”

  Dad unwraps his sandwich and takes a big bite. “You know your mom,” he says through a mouthful. He swallows. “She wants us all to live to be a hundred.”

  I pull out another baggie filled with potato chips. I don’t have to count to know there are exactly ten chips inside. We figured out a long time ago that if we each eat no more than ten chips at a time, we can make a family-size bag last at least two weeks. It’s little tricks like that, ways to save here and there, that make traveling possible on such a tight budget. That, and Dad’s web design business.

  “Dad, I need to ask you something.”

  “What’s up, kid?”

  I look across the park, unable to meet his gaze. “I was wondering if everything is okay. You know . . . with money?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  I can practically hear the frown in his voice. I force myself to make eye contact. I need him to take this seriously. “You seem more stressed than usual about the price of gas, and you got sort of upset at breakfast in Asheville when Jeff suggested—”

  “I just didn’t want you to worry,” Dad says. “And gas is too expensive.”

  “But Rodney said he heard something. When you were on the phone.”

  Dad goes perfectly still. “What did he hear?”

  “Something about Mark being an ass.”

  “Dessa—”

  “He’s your biggest client, so I’ve been worried. Are you still doing work for him?”

  Dad waves this off, but I can tell he’s shaken. This isn’t nothing.

  “Dad,” I say quietly. “Please?”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, watching two kids chasing each other around in circles. I take a bite of my sandwich, but the bread is mush in my mouth.

  “Damn it,” Dad says at last, sagging back against the tree. “We’re hemorrhaging money, and it’s not like we had that much to begin with. That jackass Mark said he wasn’t making enough to pay freelancers anymore, so we’ve been living on savings, and now our account is overdrawn.”

  It’s like I’ve been sucker-punched in the stomach. The last time Mom and Dad’s account was overdrawn was when they took out a bunch of money to buy new tires for the RV. But they’ve been careful with money since then. They even set up a spreadsheet with all their finances so they could keep track of what they were spending and when they needed to pay their credit card bills. “How long ago did Mark stop giving you work?”

  “It’s been two months since my last paycheck.” He takes a deep breath. “You can’t tell your mom.”

  My mouth drops open. “But . . . but she deserves to know.”

  He shakes his head. “Just let me handle it, okay?”

  “Okay . . . ,” I say, but I regret agreeing to this before the word is even out of my mouth. How am I supposed to keep something like this from her? It’s bad enough the families don’t know the truth. It goes against everything we believe to keep something this important a secret, especially since it affects everyone. But to n
ot tell Mom? Just the thought makes my stomach hurt even worse.

  But then I think of how I lied to Fiona this morning about getting into college, and I realize there’s no way I can hold this against him when I’m just as guilty.

  “Everything is going to be okay,” Dad says. “I promise. Things are just hard right now.”

  He pulls a plastic bottle of water—one he’s been reusing for weeks—out of his lunch bag and takes a long drink. His Adam’s apple jumps up and down as he swallows, and it’s like watching him try to wash away what he just told me.

  “So,” he says, putting the bottle down. “How’s your first day going?”

  “It’s great,” I say impatiently. “But Dad, what are you going to do about money? Maybe I can help—”

  He shakes his head. “This is my problem and I’m going to fix it. I’ll find a new client, pick up a few freelance jobs. Now tell me about your internship.”

  I know when a conversation is over, and this one is definitely over. For now.

  “Fiona’s going to keep me pretty busy,” I say, picking up my baggie of chips again. I pull one out, but my appetite is gone.

  “What’s she having you do?” Dad asks. I notice he hasn’t picked up his sandwich again either.

  “A lot of stuff, but right now she wants me to come up with a schedule for the next two weeks leading up to the show. We’re going to talk more about it tomorrow, at her studio. She also wants me to come with her to see the gallery space on Sunday. That way I can envision where we’re displaying her art as we figure out which ones to hang.”

  “Sunday?” Dad asks. “We were talking about going to Albuquerque that morning. It’s the only day Jeff can spare from his auto shop gig. Can you go another day?”

  “I just started, so I probably shouldn’t be asking to take time off.”

  “But this is a weekend we’re talking about. She can’t expect you to work seven days a week, can she?”

  “I get Saturdays off—”

  Dad picks up his sandwich and tears off a piece of crust. “One day off a week is nuts. She’s not even paying you.”

  “I know, but this is what I signed up for. I can’t let her down.”

  Dad pops the crust in his mouth and chews. “Okay, I hear you. I still think she should be paying you, though.”

  I roll my eyes, but don’t argue.

  “Oh, before I forget,” Dad says, “your mom and I came up with the perfect punishment for your disappearing act the other night.”

  “Seriously? You know how sorry I am about sneaking out—”

  “Nice try, but we’ve already decided: You’re going to clean out YiaYia’s garage.”

  “By myself ? That’ll take forever!”

  “Life’s tough and then you die,” he says with a shrug.

  I shove a handful of chips into my mouth, chew them a little, then open my mouth so he’s forced to see the soggy, broken mess.

  “Very nice,” he says, laughing.

  We finish lunch, and Dad walks me back to the plaza. I give him a hug, but as I turn to walk away, he says, “Dessa, wait a second.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your mother and I are proud of you for getting this internship. I know you’re disappointed about college but you’re still going after your dreams. No matter what happens, you’re doing your best, and that’s what counts.”

  I nod, even though I can’t help thinking that he’s wrong. Doing your best isn’t what counts. It’s just a consolation prize.

  • • •

  By the time we pack up Fiona’s booth, she’s sold almost five hundred dollars’ worth of art, and ten people have asked for her card, promising to check out more of her work online. As we go our separate ways—Fiona back to her office, me toward the bus stop—a thought stops me dead in my tracks.

  Mom was right when she said it was hard to get a job when we’re always on the road, but I don’t need a job to make money. I just need to sell something. And where better to do that than at an art fair? I run back down the block, texting Cy with one hand.

  The plaza is still packed when I arrive. Perfect. Lots of people means lots of buyers. I wind my way through the throng, ignoring the bodies pushing against me, their skin warm against mine as they jostle for space.

  Fifteen minutes later, Cy arrives with a canvas bag over his shoulder, his hand clutching it to his side so the contents don’t bump into anyone. Under his other arm is my easel.

  “You’re the best!” I call, hurrying forward to help him.

  “You sure about this?” he asks, looking over my shoulder at the sea of people roaming the stalls.

  “Totally. Let’s find a place to set up.”

  We need somewhere that gets lots of foot traffic, but isn’t anywhere near the outside ring of stalls, just in case someone is keeping track of vendors. I’m not sure it’s okay for me to sell my work since I’m not technically signed up to be part of the fair, but I’m hoping whoever organized this shindig will be too busy to notice. Unfortunately, my options are somewhat limited by how many vendors are still here. Some have booths, like Fiona, while others use tables or easels to display their work. A few rely on nothing more than a picnic blanket stretched across the ground. Since Fiona’s booth has already been claimed by someone, we wander through the aisles, our eyes peeled for an empty space. We’re on our third loop when Cy touches my arm and says, “That guy’s leaving.”

  He points at a man with a green card table, packing up his work. It’s not a big space, but I don’t have much to sell anyway. I hang back, not wanting to hurry the guy, but Cy strides over to him.

  “You leaving?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” the guy says, resigned. “I’ve been here since seven. Haven’t sold a damn thing.” He sweeps an arm at the space. “It’s all yours.”

  I set my bag behind his table, where no one will step on it. “What are you selling?”

  “Organic soap.”

  He tosses me a small package wrapped in brown paper, then starts folding his card table. I hold the soap to my nose. Lilac and vanilla. “How much?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “For soap?” Cy says.

  The guy laughs and takes back the soap, dropping it into his bag. “I’d say it’s worth the money, but since no one has bought even a single bar, I might need to rethink my price point.” He shrugs and slings his bag over his shoulder, then picks up the folded card table. “Good luck.”

  I set up my easel, then pull out the three paintings I asked Cy to bring, placing them carefully on the ground.

  “Which one are you going to put on the easel?” Cy asks, examining my pieces. He worked in a pawnshop the summer before we started our freshman-year curriculum, so he’s an expert at selling stuff, especially stuff that’s not worth much in the first place.

  I bend over next to him and study each painting carefully. But the smell of his skin, his shampoo, his leather jacket . . . it’s too much. I can’t focus. The last time we were together, we almost kissed. Does he still want to?

  I feel his fingers curl around mine. I let out a shaky breath. “Hi,” I whisper, not trusting myself to look at him.

  “Hi,” he says back.

  I swallow hard, forcing myself to remember what I’m here for. I’m going to sell a painting. I’m going to make money. And then I’m going to give that money to my family.

  I focus on the paintings in front of me. I try to recall how each one made me feel as I created it. I start with Blue. I came down with a terrible flu the day I started it, but I refused to let go of the paintbrush even as my fever spiked over a hundred. The spirals of paint, rich indigo and brilliant turquoise coiling around one another against a backdrop of black—I was mesmerized. Mom had finally been forced to pull the brush out of my shaking fingers.

  Next, I turn to the watercolor portrait of Rodney I made when he was seven. I painted it quickly, my brush flying over the canvas in an effort to capture him before he woke up from his nap. I only got about halfway thro
ugh before he opened his eyes and ran off. I’d been pissed at the time, but something about the half-finished work was even better than my original plan. Like I’d captured him half-formed, half-grown, stuck before there and not there. It’s one of my mom’s favorites.

  “The Rodney painting is probably the best piece here, but the Burgess Falls is probably the most commercial.” I point at the third painting, which is a realistic depiction of a waterfall, done in acrylics. The blue and white paints battle for space, creating a sense of movement. It took days to get it just right, and every time I look at it, I remember the cold spray of the water hitting my face as Cyrus and I floated in the swimming hole at the base of the falls.

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” Cy agrees.

  I set the Burgess on the easel. I feel a pang of loss at the possibility that it might sell. That any of them might. But it doesn’t matter how I feel. We need money more than I need these paintings.

  Cy takes a piece of paper out of the canvas bag I thought was empty, and hands it to me. “What’s that for?” I ask.

  In answer, he folds it lengthwise, then pulls a pen out of his back pocket and writes ART BY DESSA.

  I smile down at the little sign as he sets it on top of the easel. “Thanks for being here.”

  “Of course,” he says, and gives my hand a quick squeeze that both calms my nerves and makes my heart race at the same time.

  We set the other two paintings up at the bottom of the easel, then step out of the way so people can see. “Think anyone will buy one?” I ask as people stroll past us, their eyes flitting from piece to piece.

  “Definitely, just gotta be patient.”

  We stand beside the easel, watching for signs of interest. I do my best to look unconcerned, but inside I’m panicking. If no one buys anything, not only will I have to carry all my unsold work home, but I’ll have to do it in front of Cy.

  An hour and a half later, Cyrus is asleep against the back of the booth, and I’ve had tons of visitors but no takers. One girl seemed interested in Blue, but then her boyfriend came over and pulled her away. No one has shown any interest whatsoever in the portrait of Rodney, which I try to convince myself is disappointing, but I can’t help feeling relieved. I’m about ready to pack up my stuff and check out the other vendors, when a middle-aged woman wearing a Burberry scarf comes up to my table. “Are those the Burgess Falls?”