I can’t stop crying. “I better go.”
She shakes her head. “Things around here get to all of us. It never gets easier, but eventually…you handle it.”
I walk along the corridor and spot his parents sitting together on a bench, eyes hollowed; mouths pinched as if someone has stolen their insides. Outside the building, out of view, I crouch down, dropping my head to the ground. It feels like I’m going to be sick.
fourteen
I’m glad Aunt Ellie isn’t home. I want to sleep, not talk to anyone. What I feel is too complicated for words. I get into bed, only I dream about bicycles and accidents. I fall and I’m trapped under something, something heavy, and I can’t get away. My body jerks and I wake up.
To get my mind off Cody, I take out my sketchbook and sit on the window seat. I flip open my phone and there he is, straddling the Harley, his face serene and composed, his yellow, sun-streaked hair blown back off his face.
Pilot.
I wouldn’t say his name outside, out loud, but here in my room with no one around…
Pilot. Pilot. Pilot.
I say it again and again to see what it sounds like to my ear, to try it on my tongue. Pilot. Pilot, as if the more I say it, the more he becomes mine. It suits him, but why? I brainstorm with myself. Associations? Guide. Leader. Driver. Explorer. Initiator. Someone independent. It works. It’s perfect for him. The alternatives are laugh-out-loud funny. Boring names. Common ones. George, Jack, Steve, Thomas, Allen, Jed, Fred, Martin, Mark. He wouldn’t have any of those names. He couldn’t.
He isn’t like anyone else.
I work at transferring the face in front of me to paper, never mind that his eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, as if he doesn’t want me to see or know his eyes and his soul. The shape of the head first, then the mouth, which is easier because his lips are full, almost bowed.
How would he kiss?
I put the pen down. How much of himself would he put into it? I dream of making out with him for hours, feeling him next to my skin and burying myself against his warmth, inhaling his sweetness like a drug I can’t take enough of. I think about seeing his green eyes flood with longing and watching his face come alive as we kiss harder and harder. We’d spend the night on the beach inside a tent, zipped into a sleeping bag. My initiation. My innocence offered up to him and no one else.
La petite mort, the little death.
When we read about la petite mort in a book about literature, Marissa and I laughed so hard we were in pain. It’s the euphoria, or altered state, you’re left with after reading something astounding, it said. Then we looked it up. We saw what it really meant: the spiritual release after orgasm.
“Omigod.” Marissa burst out laughing.
Now I sit staring out at the water, hugging my sketchbook to my chest, my eyes burning, my throat dry with longing, thinking of that now. Thoughts of him flood my mind, taking it over. I’m his robotic toy, remote controlled.
A car horn blast brings me back to reality.
Focus, I tell my head. I keep on drawing. The mirrored aviator sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. That impenetrable, unflinching coolness. His body armor.
The harder I try to sketch him, the worse it looks, as if hard work is at odds with inspiration and creativity. Everything is wrong. It looks nothing like him. It’s awful, terrible, stupid, and embarrassing. I’m not an artist, I’m a kindergartner and a fraud. I have no talent, so why am I pretending?
You have to struggle to make art, Sirena.
But Antonio isn’t sixteen, he’s eighty. Will I have to struggle that long? Pinta, an oversized Calico, sidles up and sits next to me. She looks at the picture and yawns.
“You’re being kind.”
Trust your eyes, they tell you, only mine aren’t seeing. It doesn’t help that the picture in the camera is tiny and indistinct, worse than a fleeting image on a surveillance video. For some freaky reason I wonder if the problem isn’t the matchbox-size cell phone picture, it’s that some elusive quality of his can’t be captured, which makes no sense, but maybe it comes with living in a house with ghosts and suspecting that everyone in the whole world may have a supernatural presence.
I rip the papers from my sketchbook and crumple them up. I try over and over. I can’t get his face. I can’t see it, I don’t know it. How can I capture something I’ve never been close to for more than minutes? Even then I felt lost in a fever dream. The picture is useless. Did I really think it would help me to know his face? That’s like trying to come up with the formula for the chemistry between two people attracted to each other.
I fold a sheet of paper into a plane and shoot it across the room. It crashes against the wall and slips to the floor.
What I need is a close-up, otherwise I’ll have to park myself in front of him, and how likely is that in this lifetime? I throw down my notebook. I want to punch something.
Flashback to months back. Me on the couch of a shrink. I went to her after they told me they were separating. My parents’ brilliant idea, not mine.
She looked at me, a searching half smile on her face. “What are you feeling, Sirena?”
I was sitting on her brown suede couch, at arm’s length from a box of Kleenex. The whipping tick of the gold alarm clock on her desk, the only sound in the room.
I leaned forward, about to explode. Go screw yourself, I wanted to shout, that’s what I’m feeling. I felt like putting my fist through her door as I ran out of it. Why was it her business what I was feeling? And anyway, what possible good could come of me telling her what was inside my head? Could she change my life? Was talking about it going to make everything suddenly better? I met her patient stare.
HATE ME, DON’T PITY ME, I wanted to scream. I showed up for one last futile session.
I get on my bike and ride to town. I haven’t been to Antonio’s gallery yet, and I want to see his work up close and study what he does—even use him as my model. I smile at the thought of him in his red canvas director’s chair surrounded by his quirky props, most of all Edna, benignly watching and waiting, wise to the world around her.
Not hard to find the gallery. Only one store in town sells paintings and crafts. The door is open, but I don’t see anyone.
“Hello? Hello?”
A glass counter in the front holds earrings, pins, woven bags, and wall hangings. I walk past it.
In a large city, someone greets you, even takes you around. But here when shopkeepers leave for lunch or coffee, they don’t bother locking up. You can roam free and if you need help, you just try back later.
I wander around the gallery. Most of the paintings are seascapes that look like they were done by beginners. It wouldn’t surprise me to find numbers beneath the patches of color.
I turn and see a doorway down a small corridor to my left. The office? But it’s not, it’s a separate gallery room. On the opposite wall, there’s a painting that’s different from all the others.
It’s Antonio’s, I can feel it.
It’s dreamlike and romantic, a pastel of hazy clouds in a blush pink and tangerine sky, veined with faint streaks of turquoise. I want to be lying on the beach under that sky, or at least seeing the painting first thing in the morning.
Art changes the way you see the world, my art history teacher said, and Antonio’s magical picture opens my eyes to the sky as a changing canvas and nature as the world’s most brilliant artist.
There’s another picture. Edna. She sits tall at the edge of the ocean, her coat black as brilliant as if she was brushed right before she was painted. She’s supremely content, as if she’s thinking there’s nothing she’d rather do than sit for Antonio, as long as it takes.
I turn and see another of his paintings. It’s haunting and complex. I can’t stop staring. It’s only paint on a canvas, I have to remind myself, because it seems to reflect a living, breathing soul, pulsing with life and energy.
Pilot.
I’m not surprised Antonio would paint him. He has an eye f
or beauty and any artist would be drawn to that face. Antonio had no trouble with the shape of the head or the perfect proportions of his face. I want to reach into the canvas. I lean so close my lips are nearly touching his. I expect to feel the heat of his skin and inhale his sweet, addictive scent. The picture sends bolts of energy inside me.
What in the world is going on with me?
I turn abruptly, my heart pounding, and look behind me, embarrassed. I’m relieved that no one saw.
I turn back to the picture and bathe in its beauty. Most of all, Antonio captured Pilot’s eyes, their hypnotic quality and his disarming, open-eyed stare. Guarded, yet vulnerable, as if he looked up and was caught in a private moment. The magic is that this is a painting, not a photograph, because it offers the split second of truth that comes through the eye blink of the camera.
I can’t afford the painting, but I hate the idea of someone else owning him and taking it away so I’ll never be able to see it again. I don’t want anyone else to have it. I don’t want anyone else to have him. I start to leave and head for the door, turning back for a last look, now from a distance. His ocean-green eyes hold mine, following me wherever I go. His spirit lives in the canvas. I expect it to speak with the soft, seductive sound of his voice.
I glance around quickly. There’s no one else in the gallery. Is there a security camera somewhere? Are people watching? If they are, the camera’s well hidden. This doesn’t look like a high-tech gallery, though—not at all the kind of place that would spend money to hide a camera. Am I just trying to reassure myself? Once the thought of what I want to do enters my head, it doesn’t let go of me. I’m a little kid again ready to have a tantrum.
I want it.
Sirena, you can’t, my head insists. Don’t do it, don’t do it. Don’t be stupid. “Get over it,” as Marissa would say. “Don’t be dumb and throw your life away.” Miss Goody Two-Shoes, my friend Aaron used to call Marissa. He loved to bait her, but she didn’t care.
“You have to live with yourself,” she always said, following her head, not her heart. Maybe that’s why we got along so well, we balanced each other out.
Only now I ignore the clashing voices and reach out, carefully lifting the painting off the wall. I slide it inside my canvas shoulder bag. It fits perfectly, as though it belongs there inside with me. That gives me justification and comfort. I glance at the empty nail on the wall, the white space.
Sorry, I feel like scrawling. Instead, I slip out of the gallery as quickly as I came in, sneaking glances behind me and walking down the street slowly and casually. Everything is the way it should be.
“Sirena,” someone calls out. I stop short and turn, my heart thumping erratically. Who is that girl? I don’t recognize her. She’s waving, but then I realize it’s to someone farther down the street, not me. She calls out again, only this time I realize that the name she’s calling is “Rita.”
I head to the spot where I left my bike and put on the helmet. I take deep breaths and look around casually. Is anyone giving me strange looks?
Calm down, Sirena, You’re fine.
But my heart doesn’t buy it. It’s still slamming. I hop on my bike and head to Aunt Ellie’s. As I’m pedaling home, I slow down momentarily as a loud siren closes in on me. Someone saw you, someone saw you, a voice in my head shrieks, keeping pace with my staccato heartbeat. I start pedaling faster and harder, refusing to turn around. The siren gets louder and louder. In my side view mirror, I see a row of flashing red lights on top of the police car behind me and I hold my breath.
fifteen
How could you do that, Sirena? Are you crazy?
Whatever you do, don’t tell your aunt, don’t tell anyone, or you’ll get in huge trouble. Anyway though, I love the drawing you did of the painting. Do you know how much talent you have? I am so envious. I can barely write my name, I swear. I don’t know how you do it. Pilot is sooo hot. I showed everybody in the bunk. They think he looks like a movie star or a Calvin Klein model. Those sleepy, sexy eyes! Does he know you drew his picture? Does he have any idea?
Listen, just a thought. Sneak back into the gallery again at lunchtime and return the picture. Take a picture of it first and then just give it back. Seriously, think about it. I don’t want my BFF to go to jail!! Do you know how totally horrible those prisons are for kids? There’s one in Louisiana that makes kids eat rancid food and doesn’t have air-conditioning and it’s over a hundred twenty degrees in summer! Kids have died there! Anyway, if you get busted, that will totally kill college, you know—you have to put that on the application!
Nothing riveting on this end. Great bunk, except for one total geek who I’m sure will go to Harvard because she’s got a 2,000 IQ. And get this, she reads Silas Marner for fun and brought a set of the classics with her. I swear! We had our second co-ed baseball game and I got two runs, which I think impressed the hell out of a kind of snooty Brit named Geoff (Jeff in plain English) Whelan who’s kind of cute except for bad teeth. I will keep you posted. Report to me immediately on any more sightings or run-ins with BG (blond god).
(P.S. I swear I’ve gained fifteen pounds. I look like a total blimp. I hate the carbs here!)
Love you and miss you more than you can imagine!
Marissa
I was proud of the picture and I hesitated before I sent it. But I needed to show it to Marissa, if only to confirm that it wasn’t only me who saw something so ethereally beautiful and rarified in his face.
Then there was the painting.
I had never done anything like that before. If my parents found out they’d blame themselves, the divorce, the stress on me of being sent away from home. But it was none of that. It was simply a case of want, need, and no choice. I had to have it. It was as close as I’d ever get to him.
Would I eventually be found out? Would the cops come knocking on my door and cart me off in handcuffs? So far, I’d been lucky. None of the police cars were chasing me. Every time I hear a siren, though, my heart jumps. I wait at the window until it passes before leaving the house, even though that’s totally stupid. I mean, if they knew it was me, wouldn’t they just come and get me? Why would they wait, to see if I took more stuff?
What’s strange is that there’s been nothing in the local paper. There isn’t much crime here, but when there is, the paper writes about it—drunk driving, speeding, or the theft of a lawn mower or bike. Since it was a painting in a gallery, maybe it wasn’t considered a huge deal. Either that, or the gallery owner didn’t realize it was gone, or didn’t care. It wasn’t a Picasso, but still…I was a thief.
I swim for part of the afternoon and it’s a welcome distraction. I can go farther now without getting winded. After I get back to the blanket, I dry off, then bike home along the beach. I slow down suddenly, confused. Antonio. Guilt washes over me. Why is he not in his regular spot?
Then I see.
“Sirena,” he calls. “Come work with me. We have a model.”
My stomach tightens.
Pilot. It couldn’t be more embarrassing if he were nude. I hesitate.
“Sirena,” he waves me over, impatiently. Sweat eats into my suntanned skin. I work at acting relaxed. “I don’t have my sketchbook, Antonio.”
Pilot turns to me, taking me in.
“I have another,” Antonio says. “Come, he’s such a good model.”
I take the pad and pencil from Antonio. “You know each other, yes?” he says to both of us.
A hum of acknowledgement escapes my lips.
“How are you?” Pilot says, softly, his voice as calm and lyrical as music. I swear, his eyes are laughing.
I work at taking a breath and slide into the sand close to Antonio. “Good,” I murmur.
The space cadet begins to sketch.
He’s a kick-ass model. Perfect repose. There’s not a nervous bone in his body, he holds that still. I get down as much as I can, reasonably happy with the outline of his head, the angle of his jaw, the strong curve of his shoulders and t
he banded muscles of his arms. It must be the nearness of Antonio that helps, if that’s possible. He looks down at my picture after a few minutes, studying it.
“Maybe the face now?” Antonio says. We both start a new page.
Pilot shifts from leaning back on his elbows to sitting up, legs stretched out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. He tilts his head back, his eyes focused on me, without blinking.
Whose character study is this?
My eyes meet his, then flit back to the paper, my safety zone, a respite from the tension between what’s real and physical, which for me seems to smoke like a live current.
“Ten minutes,” Pilot says, suddenly dousing the flame. He has to go back to work, this is his lunch hour, I realize. My heart sinks. No, I want to insist. How can I stop? My hand works faster, racing the clock.
He glances down to check his watch, and finally stands to go, squeezing his eyes, shaking his head as if he’s waking from a trance. He reaches overhead to stretch and I look away.
Antonio puts his hands together as if in prayer. “My dear Pilot, thank you.” I murmur in agreement. As he walks away, his eyes glance down at my sketch. What does he think?
He saunters off without giving me as much as a hint.
Antonio puts his pencil down and turns to look at me. Involuntarily, I yawn.
“Sleepy, Sirena?”
I nod.
“All the concentration, it can be tiring, no?” He smiles as if he understands more than he says.
sixteen
I bike to the hospital to see how Cody is doing, even though I’m off for the weekend. I stop at the library to pick out books for him and then make my way along the corridor to his room.
The walls of the children’s wing are decorated with crayon drawings done by the kids. I love the spontaneous way they express themselves and the exuberance in their work. The pictures of happy kids are oversized, filling the paper with images of themselves and their families with zany ear-to-ear smiles. In one, the sun is the size of a basketball with straight lines like spokes of a wheel jutting out in all directions. The colors are bright and bold, the strokes free and open.
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