Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  “You are amazing,” Kyle said, moving in closer than he had in a month.

  He held out the pick, but when she took hold of it, he wouldn’t let go. And he wouldn’t take his eyes off hers. He drew the wayward strands from her forehead, and then dropped his hand to her cheek, stroking hair from her face. All the while, their eyes fixed. Still breathing heavily, he moved closer. She thought he might kiss her, but then his eyes narrowed and he withdrew, releasing the stick to her grip.

  “Aw, Leila,” he exhaled, “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Can’t do what?”

  He shook his head. “You’re messing stuff up between me and Maryanne.”

  “Me?”

  “I’m feeling stuff for you I don’t want to feel. I love Maryanne—a lot … but every time I’m around you—like this—you make it really hard.”

  “But I haven’t done anything.”

  “You don’t understand. I can’t be your best friend and keep Maryanne. I’m sorry. This just isn’t working.” He cast his gaze away and rushed past her, walking, then jogging toward the school.

  Leila wandered to the bleachers and dropped to the bench, stunned. She had never even had a boyfriend, how could she have just been dumped?

  ~

  Leila made quick eye contact with Mr. Myles when she entered homeroom. She rubbed her eyes, probably still pink and puffy. Kyle followed her in and they both sat without speaking.

  “Lovers’ spat?” Myles said glancing from Kyle to Leila. Neither responded.

  Another tense homeroom. Another tense math class, but this time it had nothing to do with Mr. Myles. She hadn’t joined Kyle at their locker between homeroom and math, but afterward she walked directly up to him. His downcast eyes made little contact.

  “Are we running tomorrow?” she asked.

  Color drained from his cheeks. “No, it’s too cold.”

  “What about tutoring?”

  “You just got a seventy-eight on your last test, you don’t need tutoring anymore.” He didn’t wait for a response before walking off. One more unreliable guy. She pushed back a wave of disappointment before it turned to anger, and she then set off for art class. At least she had some control there.

  ~

  Leila approached Miss Michaels at her desk, holding out the completed watercolor portrait she had painted. It wasn’t fair to ask her subject, but she wanted a few pointers.

  “Would you mind looking at something?” Leila asked.

  Miss Michaels glanced at the painting. “Oh, my.”

  “Do you have any suggestions on how to lay down darker colors without turning them to mud?”

  “Well, try using the largest brush you can for the area, make sure your surface is good and dry before adding another quick layer of color without disrupting the pigment beneath it. Try using a color from the opposite side of the color wheel for a little more depth.”

  Leila nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Actually, on this one, I wouldn’t touch a thing. It’s a very flattering likeness.”

  “So, you can tell it’s you?”

  “Of course.” She winked. “She’s wearing my skirt.”

  Leila double-checked the likeness against Miss Michaels.

  “Oh, Leila, I’m only kidding … may I have it?”

  “I guess.”

  “Actually, I’d like to display it, if you don’t mind. Principal Boyd has made the exhibit case in the lobby available for our art classes.”

  “Oh.”

  ~

  That afternoon, after eighth period, Leila spotted Micah at his locker. He practically blocked her way to the gymnasium corridor. She almost made a U-turn but opted to face him.

  “Hi, Micah,” she said as she approached.

  His smile did not come as easily as it used to. “Hey.”

  “Listen, Micah, I’ve been wanting to say … well, I’m sorry I was so rude to you a few weeks back. I was just kind of in a mood and took it out on you. Sorry.”

  His expression lightened and his head bobbed. “That’s okay. We’re cool.”

  Leila involuntarily mimicked his bob.

  “So, I heard you did a painting of Miss Michaels, and she’s putting it on display,” he rambled. “She says it’s really good. I can’t wait to see it.”

  “Oh, yeah … I guess.”

  “So, is there anything you don’t do? I mean, like, you’re an amazing runner. You improvise blues on the piano. You do watercolors, which are supposed to be really difficult. You are seriously gifted.”

  Her face heated. “I’m not what you think I am. I run fast only because I’ve been doing it since I was little. And the piano—I can’t do a thing with it outside of blues. And I struggle with my paintings. It’s just some weird compulsion I have.”

  “Oh, well, I’m not very good at art or anything, but I really like art class.”

  “Me too.” She didn’t know what else to say except, “Okay, well … I’ll see ya.”

  As she turned to leave, he spoke up. “Leila, I’m having a party Saturday night—you could come if you were in the mood.”

  Perhaps she could have a social life outside of Kyle. “That sounds like fun.”

  Chapter 18

  On one of the older neighborhoods south of Merrick Road, Leila pulled up to the curb of Micah’s house. A warm glow showed through the large picture windows as Leila followed a few kids down the driveway. Moonlight reflected off the canal behind the house where the basement entrance came into sight. She stepped inside, met by a waft of smoke. Aside from the scent of marijuana, the room had nothing in common with the unfinished basements where her father jammed with his band. Plush sofas and chairs occupied the perimeter of the room. Tall stools sat in front of the wet bar off to the side. An elaborately carved pool table consumed the center of the room, where players and spectators hung around it.

  In the back corner, Micah stood amidst his band equipment, fingering his guitar to the music playing on the stereo. In spite of all the guests, a crowd large enough to fill the entire room, Micah spotted her right off. Leila’s gaze moved from Micah to the pool table. Kyle glanced up at her as he took aim at the cue ball, grazing the top of it, and blowing his shot. Maryanne looked around, as if searching for the object of Kyle’s distraction. Before Maryanne could give her the stare down, Leila returned her sights to Micah’s makeshift stage—he was no longer there.

  In a moment, he appeared at her side. “I’m glad you came. You want a beer?”

  She nodded. If nothing else, it would give her something to do with her hands and help her blend. She followed him to the beer-packed refrigerator.

  Twisting the cap, he handed her the bottle. “Steve brought his Yamaha keyboard. You wanna check it out?”

  “Sure,” she said, as Kyle half-sat on a bar stool, straddling his cue stick. They ignored each other as she passed by.

  Micah introduced her to his pianist friend.

  “We were just getting ready to start up,” Micah said. “You could play if you wanted.”

  “No thanks, I’m happy to just sit and watch tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  Leila sipped her beer and sat in a nearby chair as they began. Several couples danced in front of the large speakers. She scanned the basement, keeping an eye on Kyle’s whereabouts. Several times, she caught him looking at her from across the room, his eyes full of the same regret-filled yearning she had seen on the track. She didn’t look away. She missed him, but she couldn’t allow her eyes to mist. His gaze wavered, but it was Maryanne who cut off their silent interaction with a yank at Kyle’s arm. He turned his back on Leila, wrapping his girlfriend in an embrace.

  The ache that wracked Leila’s core surprised her—how could she feel so hurt when he had never even been her boyfriend? She watched with envy-tinged vexation as he led Maryanne to the other dancers.

  Once they hit the floor, more joined in, crowding Leila. Someone she barely knew grabbed her hand.

  “Come on, Leila!” He pull
ed her to her feet. Before she could protest, she was bumping into everyone around her, clenching her beer and dancing.

  When the song ended, Micah handed his guitar to one of the other guys, and they continued playing something slower. He approached Leila. Setting aside her half-empty beer bottle, he pulled her close. She responded, moving with him, less and less aware of Kyle’s whereabouts.

  After a minute he whispered, “You wanna get high?”

  “I don’t smoke, Micah.”

  “Okay,” he nodded. “You want another beer?”

  She half smiled. “I didn’t finish my first, and I still have to drive home.”

  “Of course.” He was in a full bob now. “Have you ever played on a Steinway Grand?”

  She threw her head back with a laugh. “No.”

  “My parents have one upstairs. You wanna check it out?”

  She smiled. “Is this just some ploy to get me alone?”

  “No, no—” he said with a grin. “Okay, a bit.”

  She smiled at his candor. “I am getting a little claustrophobic, and I would like to see the piano.”

  “Come on.” He grabbed her hand. “We’ll go around front so we don’t have to disrupt my parents in the kitchen.”

  “They don’t mind that you party down here?”

  “Nah—I party down here, they party upstairs.”

  “Pretty liberal.”

  “You have no idea,” he chuckled.

  Micah led her out the back door, up the well-lit driveway and past the window where she spied the piano. When they entered the living room, the hugeness of it—the piano and the room—enveloped her. Carpet muffled their footsteps as she walked the length of the instrument. She dared not run her hand along the black-lacquered finish for fear of leaving a smudge.

  Micah pulled out the bench and sat to her right, at the treble end.

  “Will your parents mind if I try it?” she asked.

  “No, go ahead.”

  She hit several keys in a chord progression, starting in the bass register and ending in the treble. Perfect resonance. Perfect pitch.

  “Wow, your parents keep it tuned.”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “Pretty nice, isn’t it?”

  He crossed his wrist over her hand, playing a chord in the tenor range. As she caressed the ivory beneath her fingertips, Micah’s gaze coaxed her to face him. When their eyes met, he leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth. She didn’t respond. He withdrew and then came back, but this time she stiffened and pulled away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have kissed you … you must think I’m a total jerk.”

  “No, Micah. You’re not a jerk. I’m just … I’m not ….” She shook her head. Even if she had wanted him to kiss her, that was not the way she wanted to be kissed. “You’re a nice guy and an amazing musician, and I really like you … I’m just … this just isn’t a good time for me … I’m sorry.”

  “Okay,” he nodded.

  They rose from the piano together, and he led her outside. Leila didn’t want to stick around to invite further awkwardness, even though Micah’s good mood hadn’t diminished in spite of her rebuff. Typical pothead. As he walked Leila to her car, Kyle and Maryanne leaned against his parents’ car, making out as usual. Maryanne spotted Leila first and took Kyle by the hand, leading him back to the basement. As both couples passed each other under the yard light, Kyle glanced behind at Leila, the same apology in his eyes but said nothing as he slung his arm over Maryanne’s shoulder and pulled her close.

  Micah said, “Lovebirds—they’re like the perfect couple.”

  Leila grabbed her car door latch. “Yeah, just perfect.”

  “Catch ya later,” he said as she climbed inside and shut the car door.

  Disappointed and wrestling with angst, her heart withered as she pulled away from the curb.

  The dashboard clock read ten-thirty. She didn’t want to go home, but she didn’t want to drive aimlessly through the streets of Millville. She turned around and headed toward the beach. At least she could park or walk along the jetty or whatever. As she headed south, the streets took on a familiar feel. When she came upon Canal Lane, such a sense of longing came over her that she slowed, almost stopping. Might Ian still be up, perhaps in his studio? As if in autopilot, she turned with no real intention of seeing him; she simply felt drawn to a memory of comfort.

  ~

  Ian sat at his worktable in the silence of his studio, organizing his space after a day in the darkroom. Tonight he didn’t listen to the blues, not because they were depressing, but because they reminded him of Leila. It had been ten days since he drove her home—not long enough to absolve himself of giving in to his weakness. Worse than that, his guilt made it too easy to yield to weakness again when he accepted a party invitation from Karen one week ago. At least he hadn’t stayed the night. Perhaps Karen had moved on and they could go back to being just friends. Only time would tell how things would level out with Karen, but time had not quelled his feelings for Leila.

  Ian had been too lenient with her and his imagination. For God’s sake, she was only seventeen! A minor. He could no longer justify his interest in her simply because they had connected on some level. So what if they both had a creative streak, enjoyed running, liked the same music, loved New Hampshire and shared thoughts and feelings more freely than he had experienced with any woman, younger or older than him. He, of all of people, knew the fallout when boundaries were violated. Grown men—or women—had no business messing with a minor.

  Ian placed several proof sheets in a stack and closed his file cabinet as headlights reflected from his front windowpane. The flash paused and then quit. Now the streetlight shone on a Volkswagen Bug opposite his house. Leila. His stomach churned. It was time to take a stand.

  Heading toward his front door, he grabbed his jacket on the way out. He drew a deep breath, exhaling a mist as his words slipped out in an undertone—Just do it.

  Forcing his arms into sleeves, he approached her car. Leila’s head leaned back and her eyes were closed. Perhaps she had not intended to come to his door, but parking in front of his house was unacceptable. All of this needed to stop.

  He neared the driver’s door. She startled as her eyes shot open. Her window slowly rolled down. Even under mere streetlights, her eyes appeared red and puffy. He swallowed back indecision and leaned against her car, his gaze level with hers.

  “Leila, you reek. Where have you been?” His words came out harsher than he intended.

  She rubbed her eyes. “At Micah’s—but I wasn’t smoking.”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “Just half a beer.”

  He stepped back, folding his arms. He needed to get to the point before he backed out. “Leila, what are you doing here?”

  She wavered. “I’m not really sure … I just ….”

  He sighed, rubbing his forehead. Get a grip. “Leila, I owe you an apology. I’m afraid I’ve given you the wrong impression. You’re a nice girl, and I care about you—I do—but I don’t feel for you the way you think I do.” The lie seared.

  “What do you mean?”

  Follow through. “I mean that you need to accept the fact that you and I are not going to happen.” His words tumbled in his head, making no sense.

  She said nothing, but her wide eyes bespoke confusion.

  He straightened his back and tightened his crossed arms. Tell her. “You need to get a boyfriend your own age.”

  “Really, just like you have a girlfriend your own age?”

  He hesitated, and nearly gasped as he said, “Actually, I do.”

  “Who? Karen Weiss?”

  He spoke fast, trying to get it over with. “I am not going to discuss my love life with you, Leila.”

  “Ian—”

  “Don’t call me Ian. You have to stop that.” He closed his eyes and choked on the words, “You need to go home and stop wishing for something that is not going take place.”

 
“Maybe not now—”

  “No—” he tensed, “—not ever.”

  “You don’t mean it.” She wiped tears.

  “I have never been more serious.” He could no longer meet her eyes. “I have a history ….” He shook his head. “You’re only seventeen … so why don’t you do us both a favor. Just leave, and get on with your life.”

  She recoiled. “Fine. That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

  With a jerk, she yanked the stick shift, grinding gears, and peeled away from the curb.

  Ian’s stomach cramped as he watched her drive away. It was the right thing to do—wasn’t it?

  ~

  On his way from the staff lounge, Ian paused at the display case in the front lobby. He hadn’t seen any of Leila’s artwork, but it didn’t take long to pick it out. The product of her hand and mind ignited all his regrets afresh and challenged the stance he needed to maintain.

  Miss Michaels came up behind him. “It’s quite good, isn’t it?”

  He forced a smile and teased, “The one of you?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Why thank you,” she said, taking the bait.

  In fact, he found Miss Michaels very attractive. Why hadn’t he tried to get together with her, over Karen Weiss?

  “Seriously, though,” he said, turning to her. “It’s a very good likeness. Even if it weren’t, she has a way with perspective and paint.”

  Andrea Michaels had a pretty spark to her eyes. “She does. Though I’d like to see her loosen up her style a little bit—free up some of those creative energies.”

  “I like her attention to detail.”

  She glanced back at the painting and then at him.

  It might be futile, but he would give her a try. “So, Andrea—do you still have that boyfriend?”

  She chuckled. “In fact, I do, Ian. Why do you ask?”

  “Just checking,” he said and walked away.

  It wasn’t as if he were actively seeking a girlfriend since he told Leila he had one, but Karen Weiss didn’t exactly fit the description. As much as he had needed to take a stand with Leila, it hadn’t gone the way he would have planned. Perhaps she had seen through his half-hearted lecture. He hated that he had lied to her, had crushed someone he deeply cared for, but he had only himself to blame. He didn’t deserve a girlfriend.