Your Destination Is on the Left

by Lauren Spieller

  He looks into my eyes, and my heartbeat picks up speed again. As much as I love working for Fiona, it feels good to be on an adventure with Cy. “Let’s do it.”

  Cyrus leads me around the corner. The brick wall continues all the way around, but halfway down the block we come to a wooden gate.

  Cyrus glances quickly up and down the empty street, then pushes open the gate. “Come on.”

  I follow him across a wide lawn, and soon we’re at the side of the main building. So far it looks like Cy’s right—the place is totally deserted. “Where’s the pool?”

  “This way.”

  We hurry around to the back and the pool comes into view. It’s not as big as I was expecting. I figured a place this fancy would have an Olympic-size pool, but this one looks like the public pool we used to visit back in Chattanooga, all the way down to the cracked tile surrounding the water, and the bent metal ladder at one end. The familiarity makes me feel a little bit better about being here.

  Cyrus pulls open the gate to the pool—also unlocked—and gestures for me to follow him. Once inside, he pulls off his shirt and drops it on a nearby pool chair, then kicks off his sandals and cannonballs into the pool. I laugh and walk over to another chair. My sandals thwap thwap thwap against the concrete, so loud in the silence that I might as well be wearing tap shoes. I take them off and remove my shirt and shorts.

  By now Cy has resurfaced. “The water’s really warm.”

  I sit on the edge of the pool and put my legs in. He’s right—the water is the perfect temperature from sitting in the sun all day. I wiggle my toes. “This is so nice.”

  “It’s even better if you get all the way in,” he says, swimming up to me. He puts his wet hand on my bare knee. Goosebumps race up my leg.

  I push myself off the edge. The water feels so good I let out a sigh. “I needed this. My hands are killing me from all the damn owl sketches I’ve been doing.”

  Cyrus raises an eyebrow. “Sounds exhausting.”

  I splash him, and before long we’re having a water fight. It eventually turns into a race across the pool; we tie twice, and I win once. Neither of us has ever lived anywhere with a pool, but we’ve grown up in lakes and rivers across the country, plus the occasional public pool, so we’re both strong swimmers. When we’re exhausted from racing, our chests heaving from holding our breath, we play Marco Polo. Cy calls out Marco! at full volume, making me cringe. But he’s right; there’s no one here to catch us.

  After an hour of messing around, I float on my back and close my eyes. Someday, when I have a house of my own, I’m going to have a pool that I can swim in every single day. It’ll be twice the size of this one, and filled with salt water like the one Cy and I swam in when we visited his uncle in Toronto. I remember the face Cyrus made when he accidentally swallowed a mouthful, and laugh.

  “Dessa?”

  I open my eyes. Cyrus is standing over me. A droplet of water clings to the end of his nose. I reach to brush it away, but he gently catches my wrist and turns my hand over. He makes a circle with his finger, but instead of putting a dot in the middle like normal, he presses his lips to my palm. I close my eyes as his kisses continue up my wrist. His mouth is soft against my skin.

  “Dessa . . . ,” he says again, and I feel his hand slip around my waist. He helps me to my feet, and I wrap my legs around his hips, the water sloshing around us. The heat from his chest warms my stomach as I stare into his eyes.

  “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he says quietly. “You and me, just like this.”

  My heart pounds in my ears. “Me too.”

  Suddenly I can’t wait a second longer to feel his mouth on mine. I cup my hands around his face, and lean forward. He meets me halfway, his lips pressing against mine, and for a moment, we’re perfectly still, letting the realization that this is actually happening course through us. But then the kiss deepens, and everything—the water, the chill air—disappears until there is nothing but me and Cyrus. Cyrus and me.

  I don’t know how much time passes, but when we finally part, I’m breathing so hard it’s as if I’ve been underwater this whole time.

  He holds me, and I lay my head on his shoulder. I want to stay here forever.

  “I know you were disappointed about college,” he says after a moment, “but it’s better this way.”

  “Better?”

  He puts me down, so we’re face-to-face. I immediately miss the feeling of his body against mine. I want to go back to a minute ago, when all that mattered was us, right here, right now.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about how, if we’re going to be together, we’ll have to be really careful. It’s going to be hard enough explaining this to the families, you know? They think of us as family. So once we tell them . . . that’s it.”

  I wrap my arms around myself. “What do you mean, that’s it?”

  “I mean, we’ll be together. No more maybes or what-ifs. No more distractions. It’ll just be you and me, and the families.” He reaches through the water and takes my hand. “Now that you’ve got this internship, you don’t need college, right? Once it’s over, you’ll know everything you need to be an artist, and you can go back to traveling for good.”

  His smile is so huge, so beautiful. I want to agree. I want to squeeze his hand, and say yes, that’s enough for me.

  But it’s not.

  “Cy . . . that’s not what I want.” But he keeps talking, like he hasn’t heard me.

  “Dess, by the time I realized how badly I wanted to be with you, you’d already decided you wanted to go to college. But now the only thing standing in our way . . . it’s gone. We finally have a real chance to be together.”

  Anger flares inside me suddenly, and I yank my hand out of his. “Just because I didn’t get into college doesn’t mean I want to travel forever. I want more out of life than a cramped RV and the same conversations over and over again with the same people.”

  He rubs a wet hand over his head, frustration coming off him in waves. “I know you feel that way now, but you’ll change your mind when you see how happy we can be.” He looks at me with pleading eyes. “Try to see it my way, Dess. Please?”

  The water shimmers between us, cold and blue. It’s only a few inches, but it feels like miles.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “I can’t.”

  “Can’t?” he says quietly, “or won’t?”

  The pain on his face is so clear I can feel it in my bones. They ache, almost as much as I ache to reach out for him again. But I can’t.

  Won’t.

  Cyrus swims to the edge of the pool and pulls himself out of the water. I watch him, my stomach churning. What I’ve done hits me with the force of a hurricane, the winds made of white panic, yet I know I can’t take the words back. Because it’s the truth.

  “We should go,” he says, pulling his shirt on. He doesn’t look at me. “You don’t want to be late for work tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Midmorning sunlight streams through the windows, turning the chaos of the studio a stunning gold. Fiona and I are curled on the sofa, our empty hot chocolate mugs crusting over on the table in front of us.

  “Your technique is already very good,” Fiona says as she swipes through photos of my portfolio on my cell phone. She points at a picture of a painting on the screen. “But there’s no passion here. I don’t see you in this.”

  “Those pictures are small,” I argue. “Maybe if you see the paintings on a bigger screen . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter. Big or small, grainy or clear, these read like careful forgeries, failing to capture the essence of an original. Perfect replications void of soul.”

  I suck in a sharp breath. I thought these paintings were good. How can I call myself an artist if I can’t even tell the difference?

  “All artists go through this phase,” she says, handing the phone back to me. “It’s transitional. You start with raw talent, with color and shapes and speed. The kind of talent that makes your
parents pin your work to the fridge.”

  I think of the countless times Mom’s told me how wonderful I am, how talented, how special. Guess I was right not to believe her.

  “Then your parents send you to art class,” Fiona continues, “and you learn to focus on technique. Most people never move past this stage. Or they give up on technique entirely. Few can marry talent and technique into one.”

  “What if you get stuck? What if all the passion that got you started in the first place is gone, and all you can think about is technique?”

  Fiona considers me for a second, her head tipped to the side. Her long black hair cascades off her shoulder like a waterfall. “Stay right here. I have an idea.”

  She strides over to a towering stereo with wall-mounted speakers, and flips through a stack of tottering CDs, reading the front of the cases before tossing them down again. She finally finds what she’s looking for and slips the CD into her stereo. The machine gobbles it up, and a series of green lights flash.

  Fiona’s index finger hovers over the play button. “When my brain won’t shut up, sometimes I have to drown it out.”

  She pushes play, and I’m hit with a wall of sound. Beating drums, so loud and insistent I feel them pounding inside my brain, my bones. She turns a dial, and the volume soars. The sound rattles the windows, my teeth. I place my hand over my heart, and I swear I can feel it vibrating inside me.

  Fiona returns, a piece of charcoal in hand. “Draw!”

  “Draw what?” I shout. “I can’t even think.”

  “Exactly!” She rips a piece of drafting paper off a long roll attached to the end of a table, and holds it out to me. “Don’t think. Just create.”

  Fiona tears off another piece for herself, and drops to the floor. She pulls a broken piece of charcoal across the page in long, sure strokes. The drums beat on.

  I stare down at my blank page. Don’t think, just create. I roll my shoulders and take a deep breath, then press the charcoal to the page. But my hand doesn’t move. Don’t think, just create. The charcoal grows slippery with sweat. I close my eyes, and try to let the pulsing of the drums quiet my worries, my fear. For a moment, I think it’s going to work. But then I’m bombarded with images of my soulless portfolio, my half-formed owl sketches. Of my family’s empty bank account. Of my future, as blank as the page in front of me.

  Of Cyrus.

  My breath hitches in my chest, and I drop the charcoal. I open my mouth, trying desperately to inhale, but my lungs stutter in my chest.

  Fiona looks up, confusion written across her face. Black lines crawl across her paper, furling and unfurling. I’m going to be sick.

  “What’s wrong?” she yells over the music.

  A thousand-pound weight bears down on my chest. “I can’t—I can’t breathe.”

  She jumps to her feet, and the whole world tips sideways. I bend over, my hands pressed against my face. A wave of sickness crashes over me, filling my mouth with sour juices. I choke them down. Make it stop. Please please please make it stop.

  The drums halt, and my own ragged breathing fills my ears.

  “I’m here,” Fiona says. “You’re having a panic attack, but it’s okay. Just keep breathing. You can get through this.”

  I take a shuddering breath, and listen as my heart beats a rhythm of shame and failure against my rib cage.

  You can’t. You can’t. You can’t.

  I inhale as deeply as I can, but it’s still not enough. Never enough. “I can’t . . . do this.”

  Fiona lays a steady hand on my back. “You can,” she says, “of course you can. Just take your time.”

  We sit in silence, I don’t know for how long, as I struggle to breathe normally. Fiona watches me carefully, but I can’t read the look on her face. Pity? Confusion? Regret? My breathing starts to speed up again and I feel tears prick at the corner of my eyes.

  “Dessa, everything is okay,” Fiona says. “You are okay.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and continue to breathe, in and out. In and out. Until finally . . . finally . . . I take a full, deep breath.

  I open my eyes.

  “Better?” Fiona asks, picking up the piece of charcoal.

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Sorry—”

  “Don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong. This kind of thing happens when people are under stress.”

  “Has it happened to you?”

  She laughs. “Oh, definitely.”

  Fiona turns the charcoal over in her fingers, leaving black marks against her skin. I remember the way the crisscrossing lines on her page looked like they were moving, like they had a life of their own. I shudder. “I don’t want to feel like that every time I try to draw. How do I make it stop?”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything you can do to make sure it never happens again. But in general . . . well, I guess you have to figure out what’s bothering you, what caused the attack.” She looks up. “But you don’t have to do that right now. Maybe it’s better if you rest a bit.”

  I hug my knees to my chest. Only a few days into this internship, and I’m already in need of a rest? “No. I want to figure this out.”

  “Okay . . . ,” she says hesitantly. “Walk me through what happened.”

  “I picked up the charcoal, and I couldn’t think of a single thing to draw. All I could see were my problems.” I shake my head. “What kind of artist can’t even touch charcoal without panicking?”

  “Just because our souls crave the creative process, doesn’t mean it’s possible to create. Sometimes the muse flies the coop, and we have to spend some time looking for him. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t artists. It just means we’re going through some kind of change, and our creative minds are working through it.”

  “But it’s not just my art. I’m failing at everything in my life. My family—even my best friend.” I wrap my arms around myself, a sob lodged in my throat. “I feel like I’m drowning.”

  She hands me the charcoal. “Give yourself a chance to be weak, Dessa. Sometimes it’s the only way to find out how strong you really are.”

  I swallow hard and turn the charcoal around in my hand. “Could we try again?”

  “Absolutely. But let’s skip the drums this time.”

  • • •

  I drop my bag next to the front door on Friday afternoon. The house is silent and still. “Hello?”

  No one answers.

  “Mom? YiaYia? I’m home early.”

  The kitchen is empty, and so is the living room. I walk through the rest of the shadowy house, not bothering to turn any lights on. It feels like I haven’t seen my family in forever. I thought we’d hang out on the couch, watch a movie. Maybe go swimming. But they’re gone. All of them.

  I make my way back to the kitchen. Did Mom say anything this morning about where they were going? All I can remember is grabbing a bagel before racing out the front door. I push away my disappointment and pull a carton of orange juice from the fridge. Half full. I look over my shoulder, just in case, then lift the carton to my lips. There’s one good thing about being in an empty house—no one can tell you what to do.

  I’m about to take another swig when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I’m expecting it to be my mom, but Cyrus’ name lights up the screen instead. My finger hovers over the green button. Is he still mad? Should I apologize?

  Should he?

  The phone rings again. This is stupid. We’ve been friends for years. It’s going to be okay. We’ll work this out.

  I clear my throat and answer the call. “Hey . . . how’s it going?”

  “I just saw you get off the bus. I thought you had work today?”

  His voice is cool, but he doesn’t sound mad. I breathe a sigh of relief. “I did, but Fiona had a doctor’s appointment and then dinner with her girlfriend.”

  “Nice. Want to go for a walk?”

  “Give me a few minutes and I’ll come over.”

  “I’m actually already outside.”

  I lo
ok out the window by the front door. Cyrus is standing at the end of the driveway, cell phone pressed against one ear. He holds up his free hand in greeting. My heart does a little dance at the sight of him standing there, even though he’s wearing an old sweatshirt and a pair of basketball shorts.

  “Isn’t it a little hot for that sweatshirt?” I joke.

  “Couldn’t find a clean shirt.” He shrugs. “So, you coming out or . . . ?”

  “Oh, um . . . yeah. Give me a minute.” We hang up, and I hesitate. He doesn’t sound angry, but a peace offering after the other night can’t hurt. I head back to my parents’ bedroom and grab one of my dad’s old T-shirts out of a drawer, then head outside.

  Cyrus is leaning against the door to our RV. I toss him my dad’s shirt. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” He pulls off his sweatshirt. His chest glistens with a thin sheen of sweat, then disappears under the shirt. It’s baggy and faded, and I silently curse all of Cy’s form-fitting T-shirts for being unavailable.

  We start walking, the sun beating down on us like it’s high noon instead of almost five thirty. I walk close to the curb so I can stay in the shade from the trees, but Cy ambles down the middle of the road.

  “So . . . how are you?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  Cy shrugs and keeps walking. I’m about to try again when he glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “How’s the internship going?”

  I join him in the middle of the street. “Busy. I spent most of the morning cleaning the studio.”

  “What are you, her maid?” Cy asks, elbowing me gently.

  I elbow him back, relieved that he’s finally acting normal. “I want to show her how seriously I’m taking this, and I figure improving her workspace will only make us more productive. Besides . . . I kind of like washing paintbrushes.”

  Cy grins. “Nerd.”

  “What about you? Have you and your dad found a new bike to work on yet?”

  “Still looking. We’ll probably pick one by next week though.”