by Mere Joyce
But I’m stuck, unable to play out either fantasy, so I force my gaze away from him. I look over my shoulder, back at my sister and my parents. Autumn’s dance performance is in half an hour, and she just has time to see my reveal before getting herself ready. Wesley’s cello performance will be in the music room at the end of the night, and I’m glad I’ll have no trouble attending both.
I break from Wesley and head across to my table. Shelia eyes me darkly as I pass by her display, but I ignore her glowering expression. I see Rosemarie across the auditorium with the tenth grade pieces, and when she waves, I wave back.
I’m tired. Exhausted. After tonight, I’m fairly sure I’ll sleep for two days straight. But I’ve cleaned and dried my hair, and Autumn helped me with my makeup, shading my eyes charcoal grey and brightening my dull complexion with foundation and the slightest tint of glittering silver high on my cheeks. I never had the chance to shop for a new outfit, but I managed to find a black turtleneck sweater and a black pleated schoolgirl skirt in the depths of my closet. I look confident, and even though I’m actually nervous beyond belief, I work hard to keep any sickly swells of my stomach or bad tingling in my feet dull and distant.
“Maddie, I’m so glad you’re here,” Mrs. Hewitt says when I arrive at the table. She wastes no time in turning to the woman beside her and making introductions. “This is Gloria Gregson. She’s on the admissions team for the Shalewood Art Institute. Gloria, this is Madison Deacon.”
I look at the woman with polite curiosity before realizing who she is. But after I hear what school Gloria works for, I struggle to keep my face passive. I’m in awe as we shake hands. The Shalewood Art Institute is the school of my dreams. At least, it wasbefore, and if I’m honest with myself, I’m pretty sure it still is. The mere fact a member of the Institute’s admissions team is standing before me makes all the effort of the last twenty-four hours worth it. Even if she hates what I paint, knowing I got her attention for a short while says something remarkable.
“S-So nice to m-meet you,” I stammer, my voice far less confident than my appearance. Gloria’s smile is severe yet sweet. It tells me she is a strict woman, but one who is genuinely pleased to be here tonight. I’m not surprised she’s the chosen candidate for scouting potential students. The Shalewood Institute is known for being tough. In my most conceited days, I longed to go there because I dreamed of being their ‘star’ pupil, the one who found the hard classes simple. Now, I like the idea of a challenge. I know I’m flawed. But I want to learn, and I want to turn those flaws into new, and even stronger talents.
“I’m looking forward to seeing your piece,” Gloria says. I wonder if she realizes who I am. If she doesn’t, she will when I remove the bristol board. It’s possible she only wants to see my work because of my story, but surprisingly, this thought doesn’t bother me. My work is related to my story, and without my story, I would not have created this work. If she likes it, even if only for the publicity of my public persona, I’ll have future opportunities to make her understand my art is worth its own appreciation, sensational history or not.
“I-I’m ready to unveil,” I say, giving Mrs. Hewitt a quick look to confirm. She nods once, taking a step back from the table.
I walk around to the back of the table. There’s a small footstool tucked under the tablecloth, and I pull it out so I can reach overtop of my painting and look down its front to make sure nothing is out of place before I remove the bristol. Everything looks grotesquely perfect. Everything is ready.
I look up, and see my family. My parents look wary, but proud. They’re having trouble believing I’m here, with a painting of my own entered into the showcase. I don’t blame them. I can hardly believe it myself. Beside them, Autumn stands next to Wesley. He has his arm around her like a big brother, and they both wait nervously for me to get on with it.
Most of the artists in the showcase don’t have big reveals like this. It puts more expectation on me this way, but it wouldn’t be right to do it in any other fashion. I want everyone to see it at the same time. I want it,him, to hit them unexpectedly, just like he hit me almost exactly three years ago tonight.
I push my short hair behind my ears, and lick the strawberry-flavored gloss on my lips. Steadily, I grab the sides of the bristol board. I breathe in, slow and deep, and lift the cover away.
Everyone stares. Blank faces process the colors before them, the abhorrent lines and putrid shades of the man who kept me prisoner. They’ve all seen his face, his mug shot, and his lowered head during news coverage of police escorts from prison to court and back again. But no one has seen him like this. No one has seen him like I have.
His black hair, greasy and thin, falls scraggly around his face and down past his shoulders where it clumps together in dirty tangles. His sallow skin, yellow and full of old scars, which for years have intrigued and terrified me. His nose, crooked, and his chin, sharp. His lips, thin and cracked, pulled into an uneven, menacing smile. His eyes, sunken and dark, two large beads like the eyes of a giant rat.Exactly like those of a giant rat.
In his hand, a hand bony with long, filthy fingernails, he holds a brush. Red-brown paint drips from its tip like rusty blood, his vile weapon a distorted reflection of my own.
People passing by stop and look. A crowd gathers, everyone hushed, everyone stunned. I don’t know who to look at first. My parents? My sister? Wesley? Mrs. Hewitt?
I choose to fix my gaze on Gloria Gregson instead. She recovers from her shock quickly, and then her eyes begin to scrutinize. She studies the painting not as something to gain her school media coverage, but as something with the possibility of potential. It takes her a long while to examine it, but only a moment for me to understand her response. I can see it in her eyes. They are hungry, and my work is like a four-course meal.
At last she looks at me, and a small, knowing smile dimples her cheeks.
“I expect to receive your application to Shalewood in the fall,” she says simply. She takes another look, and then with the air of someone happily satiated, she walks away.
With one little remark, my dreams have come true. I’m not sure whether to sigh with relief, squeal with excitement, or simply tremor with the knowledge I no longer have any excuses, any reason to hide from painting, or hide myself away from the rest of the world.
My future, so closed off just a few days ago, just yesterday, is now wide-open. I still have a lot of catching up to do this summer to even be able to apply for schools once fall rolls around. And as much as I hate it, I know I still have work to do in therapy, in both of my therapies, before I’ll be ready to tackle painting as a full-time or even part-time student.
But I have the option. Only a day ago, I thought I didn’t have the option, thought I would never have the option again. It won’t be easy, but the possibility of a good future is worth every bit of pain I’ll have to endure along the way.
I raise my head to the crowd. To one side, I see Shelia, standing arms crossed, face sullen. When she catches my gaze, her stare is intense, but not altogether hateful. Her lips pursed in obvious discomfort, she nods at me, giving me her approval. She doesn’t like it, doesn’t like me, but she’s talented enough to recognize talent in others. I nod back, and even offer her a small smile. Me and Shelia will never be friends, but our work is so different we won’t have to be opponents for much longer.
It’s not Shelia I’m interested in, though. I turn my eyes to my family, and I nearly cringe when I see their expressions of disbelief and pain. It’s not an easy thing for them to see my story laid out like this. The painting says more than I ever have, and I think now they might understand why. I step away from the table and join them. Wesley pulls me into a hug first, and then everyone else joins in. It feels a bit ridiculous to have a group hug in the middle of the Art Showcase, but I don’t mind. I close my eyes and let myself sink into the warmth surrounding me.
“You’ve won,” Wesley whispers when we finally break apart. I glance up at him, at his beaut
iful eyes staring into mine with pleasure, with pride.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until he wipes a tear from my cheek. When he does, I turn my face into his palm, and I let out a half-sob, half-laugh.
“Come on, let’s go,” I say, and I grab both his hand and Autumn’s as I lead them out of the auditorium so my sister can prepare for her performance.
As we exit the room, I take one look back at my painting. The Painter stares at me from afar, his snarl still threatening, his brush still poised to lacerate my skin. But under all these lights, with all these people, all these friends around me, he doesn’t look so frightening anymore.
“I’ve won,” I say under my breath, and then I turn my back on him and leave the auditorium.
Chapter Thirty-Five
After the Showcase, after we’ve driven home and celebrated, speculated about the awards and scholarships to be given out at the assembly tomorrow, Wesley and I go for a walk.
“It’s perfect out here,” I say, my hand laced with his. The neighborhood is quiet, and the air is cool. Both are welcome changes after the heated bustle inside the school.
“It was a great night.” Wesley gives me a lopsided grin, and my cheeks flush with a different kind of warmth.
“It was,” I agree, leaning into him as we walk. Autumn’s dance was well rehearsed and flawlessly executed, but when I watched it my eyes stared past the stage and imagined a rainy night in its place, with hot chocolate and laughter and dazzling umbrellas. I didn’t need to imagine the look on my sister’s face, though. She wore the same expression, gleaming teeth and shining eyes and pink skin, all excitement and uninhibited joy.
Wesley’s performance broke my heart in the best kind of way. The music he made vibrated the room, wrapping me in melody and rocking me in time with the pull of his bow. He’s making the right choice, studying music. He belongs in a world of notes and rhythms, and I’m ecstatic to see where his cello takes him.
We move from the sidewalk to the road as a man walking his dog passes us. As we step into the street my body turns, and impulsively I twirl into Wesley and grab his waist so we are swaying close in a silent dance. I beam up at him, and he matches my grin. I’m giddy with the casual pleasure of our being together.
“Nowthis is perfect,” Wesley says, stroking my hair and my neck. He runs his fingers along my jaw and cups my chin. His smile softens, and I tilt up my head so he can kiss me.
But he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he glances away from me, looking around for a couple of seconds before he leads me towards a streetlamp. We run to it, grabbing the pole and falling against one another with breathy laughter. Wesley studies my face, touching my neck again as he reaches into his pocket with his free hand. His fist is closed when he pulls the hand out.
“I, um, I got you something,” he says. His voice is strange, both excited and full of disbelief. Like he’s surprised to find himself speaking the words. Pleasantly surprised. Which makes me nearly bounce with anticipation.
“What is it?” I ask, because I think it’s pointless to say things like ‘you didn’t have to get me anything’, and Wesley’s heard my rant about how much I hate unnecessary dialogue enough times not to expect it from me.
He holds out his fist, and I raise a palm to catch whatever he’s about to drop. His fingers begin to uncurl, but then he hesitates, lowering his other hand from my neck.
“I hope it’s okay,” he says, and then he releases his grip. Quizzically, I watch as a silver bracelet falls into my palm, and I bring it to my face for a closer look. It’s a simple bracelet, nice but unembellished, except for something dangling in the middle of it. A charm. It’s a charm bracelet, and it only takes enough time for my brain to catch up with my eyes for me to understand what the charm is. A small, silver artist’s palette and paintbrush glint under the streetlamp.
“It’s wonderful,” I say, my voice awed by the gesture. Awed, and confused. “How did you know? Before tonight . . .” Before tonight, I would’ve tensed receiving this gift.
Wesley ducks his head, his cheeks brightening with a hint of blush. “I bought it a while ago, actually. A couple of years ago.”
“Y-You what?” I furrow my brows and smile all at once.
“It was the first Christmas after you disappeared,” Wesley shrugs. “I was shopping, and I saw it at a jewelry store. I thought of you immediately, and then I couldn’t stop thinking about you. So, I went to the store and bought the charm, and a bracelet to match.” He lets out a breath, half-amused and half-upset. “Dumb, isn’t it? I figured I couldn’t buy the charm without buying a bracelet. Because you didn’t have a charm bracelet, and who gives someone a charm without a bracelet to put it on? I didn’t think twice about getting the charm, though. Even if I knew I probably wouldn’t ever get to give it to you.”
“But you did,” I say quietly. I hold the bracelet up to my wrist, and Wesley helps me clasp it on. I like the silver against my skin, the way the bracelet slides about as I move my arm.
“I still wasn’t sure, even after,” Wesley confesses, fingering the charm and then stroking my wrist, my hand. “But when you came over asking me to drive your painting to the Showcase, well, I thought maybe. Maybe. And then, what you entered, how you looked at it––how alive you’ve seemed tonight––I thought it might make a good reminder of your accomplishment.”
“It will,” I nod, and the words are a promise I know will be kept true. “Wes, thank you. I love it. I absolutely love it.”
He moves his hands to my waist, drawing me in against him.
“Wes?” I say quietly.
“Hmm?” he mumbles close to my lips.
“I have to see him soon. In court.” I breathe slowly, keeping my voice steady. Wesley’s brow furrows, and his grip, warm on my waist, tightens.
“When?” he asks. I shrug my shoulders, my fingers playing with the silkiness of his tie.
“Not sure,” I admit, looking at the bracelet shining prettily on my wrist. “S-Sometime in the next month, I think. I overheard Mom on the phone, talking to the lawyer, maybe a week and a half ago? Last Monday, the day you t-told me you were entering the Art Showcase. She doesn’t know I heard, I-I haven’t mentioned it. I’ve been trying to pretend I was wrong, to convince myself I misheard a totally different conversation. I just couldn’t b-bear to even think of s-seeing him. I s-still can’t, or, I guess, I still don’t want to. B-But I’ll be okay. I w-want to testify. I-I want to be there, see him convicted. I want him to see I’ve survived.”
My shoulders slump with relief as I finish my rambling speech.
“Maddie,” Wesley breathes my name, and I give him a playful smirk as I wait for him to finish his sentence.
“Yes?” I ask, answering his questions before he asks them. I don’t want to go into the details of it. I don’t want to ruin the beauty of this night. I just had to tell him, to tell someone. I just had to say it out loud so I could hear myself make the declaration, prove to myself I’m capable of declaring it. I’ll talk to Mom soon. She’s the one I need to have a proper discussion with. Together, we’ll pour over the ‘ifs’ and ‘whats’ of the weeks to come. It will be a long talk, accompanied by many cups of tea and an embarrassing amount of tissues and tears, but it will happen later, after this night has run its blissful course.
“I love you,” Wesley says, lowering his head and whispering close to my lips. I had no idea, not until the moment he said it, how much I’ve longed to hear Wesley utter those words. I forgot how wonderful shallow breath and a pattering heart could be, and I revel in the dizzying sensations as I loop my arms around his neck.
“I love you, too,” I reply, wishing we could be closer, pressing into him to try.
“I missed you so much,” he breathes, the words a sigh of relief.
“I missed you, too,” I say, my sigh an echo of his.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” he says, and I know he doesn’t mean back from physically away, but back from being someone else, back from being
a stranger.
“I am, too,” I laugh, pulling him closer still.
And then, finally, we are kissing again. The action is nothing short of amazing, and nothing more than ordinary, just a boy and a girl kissing in the spring.
This is what I’ve been desperate for all along.
Without shadow, without nagging fear or tingling feet, I am, right now, happy.
The End
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