by Harmon, Amy
“Brown, white, gold, pink, peach,” he sighed. “I’d have to experiment.”
“Will you paint me?” It was something I desperately wanted.
“No.” He sighed again.
“Why?” I tried not to be hurt.
“It’s easier to paint the things in my head than the things I see with my eyes.”
“So . . . paint me from memory.” I sat up and placed my hands over his eyes. “Here. Close your eyes. Now picture me. There. See me? I’m the Palomino filly up in your grill all the time.”
His lips twisted and I knew he wanted to laugh, but I kept my hands over his eyes. “Now keep them closed. You’re holding a paint brush in your hand already. And here’s the canvas.” I brought the hand holding the brush to my face. “Now paint.”
He dropped his hand back to his lap, holding the brush, debating. I dropped my hand from his eyes, but he kept them closed. Then he lifted his hand once more and slid the dry brush softly against my face.
“What was that?”
“My forehead.”
“What part?”
“The left side.
“And here?”
“My cheek.”
“Here?”
“My chin.” It tickled, but I didn’t let myself move. Moses traced the tip of my chin, followed it down and around, making a straight line to my neck. I swallowed as the brush slid down my throat and whispered down my chest to the opening of my T-shirt. My T-shirt made a neat V above my breasts, and Moses paused, holding the brush pressed against my skin, directly over my heart. But he kept his eyes closed.
“If I were to paint you, I would use every color,” he said suddenly, almost wistfully, as if he was sure he couldn’t paint me . . . but he wanted to. “You would have crimson lips and peach skin and ebony eyes with purple shadows. You would have hair streaked with gold and white and blue and skin tinted with caramel and cream, swirled with pink and shaded with cinnamon.”
As he talked, he moved the brush this way and that, as if he were actually painting with the colors in his head. And then he stopped and opened his eyes. My breath was stuck somewhere between my heart and my head, and I concentrated on letting it out without giving myself away. But he knew. He knew what effect he had on me. He threw the brush and stood up, breaking the spell he’d woven with gentle strokes and soft words. He headed back into the house and I could have sworn I heard him mutter to himself as he left me lying on the grass, “I can’t paint you Georgia . . . you’re alive.”
Moses
GEORGIA WOULDN’T STAY AWAY. I did my best to make her go. I didn’t need her tying me up and tying me down. I was leaving as soon as I could, and she was not part of my plans. I treated her like shit most of the time. And she just shrugged it off and handed it right back. It didn’t faze her and it definitely didn’t make her go away. The problem was, I liked kissing her. I liked the way her hair felt in my hands and the way her body felt when she crowded me and got in my space, demanding attention and getting it, every damn time.
And she made me laugh. I was not the laughing kind. I swore more than I smiled. Life just wasn’t that funny. But Georgia was extremely funny. And laughing and kissing does not make it easy to convince someone you want them to go away. And she just wouldn’t go away.
I thought after that night at the rodeo, tied up and terrorized, Georgia would lose some of her sass. Terrence Anderson, who had nothing but insults for Georgia, had definitely lost his sass when I cornered him a few nights after the stampede and made sure he knew that little boys who liked rope got sliced up by men who liked knives. The truth was, I was good with knives—I could throw them and hit the target dead center at twenty paces—and I made sure Terrence knew that. I showed him a nice big one I’d taken from Gigi’s kitchen drawer, and I gave him a little knick on his cheek, marking him up in the same place where Georgia’s cheek had bled.
He said he hadn’t done it. But his eyes shifted around like maybe he had. Even if he hadn’t done it, he was an asshole, so I didn’t feel bad that I made him bleed. The only thing I felt bad about was that I had been compelled to scare him off at all. Georgia’s problems were not my problems. Georgia was my problem. Like right now, when she was determined to help me repair fence, talking and making me laugh and then making me angry because she was making me laugh.
“I can’t get any work done when you’re around. And it’s gonna rain, and I’m not gonna finish. This section of fence has been a bitch, and you aren’t helping.”
“Whine, whine, whine,” Georgia sighed. “You and I both know I rock at repairing fence.”
I laughed. Again. “You suck at repairing fence! And you didn’t bring gloves, so I had to give you mine, and now my hands look like porcupines from all the damn splinters. You are not helping.”
“That’s it, Moses. Give me five greats.” Georgia said, like she was demanding push-ups, a drill sergeant barking out a command.
“Five greats?”
“Five things that are great about today. About life. Go.”
I just stared at her sullenly.
“Okay. I’ll go first. It’s easy. Right off the top of my head, five things I’m grateful for. Bacon, wet wipes, Tim McGraw, mascara, and rosemary,” she said.
“That’s kind of a strange assortment,” I said.
“What did you tell me about finding beauty in little things? What was that painter’s name? Vermeer?”
“Vermeer was an artist, not a painter,” I objected, scowling.
“An artist who painted nails and stains and cracks in the wall, right?”
I was impressed that she remembered.
“The five greats game is kind of like that. Finding beauty in ordinary things. And the only rule is gratitude. My mom and dad use it all the time. Grumbling isn’t really allowed around my house. Foster kids learn that real quick. Any time you start feeling sorry for yourself or you go into a rant about how bad life sucks, you immediately have to name five greats.”
“I can name five grates. Five things that are grating on my nerves.” I smiled sarcastically, pleased at my play on words. “And the fact that you’re wearing my gloves is at the top. Followed by your annoying lists and the fact that you just called Vermeer a painter.”
“You gave me your gloves! And yeah, it’s annoying, but there’s something to it. It changes your focus, even if it’s just for a minute. And it shuts down the whining. I had one little foster sister who named the same five things every time. Toilet paper, SpaghettiOs, shoelaces, light bulbs, and the sound of her mother snoring. She had a pair of flip flops when she came to us, and nothing more. The first time we bought her shoes, we got her a pair with fluorescent green laces with pink hearts on them. She would walk, staring down at those laces.
“The sound of her mother snoring?”
“It meant she was still alive.”
I felt a little sick. Kids all over the world put up with too much from people who should know better. And then those kids turned into adults that repeated the cycle. I would probably do the same if I ever had kids. All the more reason not to. Georgia continued on while I considered how much people truly sucked.
“My mom lets the kids tell her five things that are bothering them, things they needed to express. They count them off on their fingers.” Georgia grabbed my hand and ticked the items off on my fingers to demonstrate. “Like, I’m tired. I miss my mom. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to go to school. I’m scared. Whatever. Then they make a fist with the fingers they just used to express their problems. And then they throw the things away, they toss them.” Georgia illustrated the motion with my hand, wrapping my fingers around my palm, making a fist so I could throw away the imaginary ball of wadded up complaints. “Then she makes them name five greats. It helps them to refocus and it reminds them that even when life is pretty bad, it isn’t all bad, ever.” She looked at me, still holding my hand, waiting. I stared back.
“So give it to me, Moses. Five greats. Go.”
“I can’t,” I sa
id immediately.
“You sure as hell can. I can name five things for you, but that doesn’t work as well. Gratitude works best when you’re the one feeling it.”
“Fine. You do it then—you name five greats for me,” I fired back and pulled my hand from hers. “You think you know me?” I said it mildly, but there was a prickling under my skin, an irritation that I couldn’t quite tamp down. Georgia thought she had it all figured out, but Georgia Shepherd hadn’t suffered enough to know shit about life.
Georgia grabbed my hand back stubbornly, and lifting it up, she gently placed a kiss on each fingertip for each item on the list. “Georgia’s eyes. Georgia’s hair. Georgia’s smile. Georgia’s personality. Georgia’s kisses.” She batted her eyes. “See? Definitely five greats for Moses.”
I really couldn’t argue with that. All of those things were pretty great.
“Feeling pretty good about yourself, aren’t you?” I said, shaking my head, grinning in spite of myself. My fingers tingled where her lips had been. I wanted her to do it again. And somehow, she knew it. She pulled my hand back to her mouth. “And these are mine.” She kissed my smallest finger. “Moses’s eyes.” She moved to my ring finger. “Moses’s smile.” Another kiss on the tallest tip. “Moses’s laugh.” Her lips were so soft. “Moses’s art.” She rounded to my thumb and placed her mouth gently against the pad. “Moses’s kisses.” Then she moved her lips from my fingertips and pressed her mouth to my palm.
“Those are my five greats for Georgia today. Those were my five greats yesterday and they will be tomorrow and the next day, until your kisses get old. Then I’ll have to think of something else.”
Georgia
WE ALL STARED. Even though it was only the second week of the new school year and he was a new student, everybody knew Moses. Or of him. He wasn’t white, for starters, in a small school of mostly white kids, so that made him stand out. Plus, he was beautiful. But that’s not why we were staring. Moses was in my English Lit classroom, drawing on the board, and he wasn’t even enrolled in the class. We’d come back from lunch to find him there, the two huge boards filled with a drawing that was beyond anything any of the students had ever seen. Except for me. I knew what he was capable of.
Moses had halted abruptly, as if torn between finishing his masterpiece and running from the room. And then Ms. Murray was there, and running was no longer an option. There was a black smudge on his brown cheek and the sides of his hands were stained as well, as if he’d used them as tools to blend and create the erotic image behind him. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and his eyes were restless and wide, their golden color making him look like a cornered animal. And he was definitely cornered. Ms. Murray stood in the doorway, her eyes trained on the chalkboard. When I looked at her to see whether or not Moses was going to get yelled at, or worse, kicked out of school, I noticed that there were tears streaming down her face and her hands were pressed to her lips. It was kind of a weird response.
Ms. Murray wasn’t really a crier. She was usually pretty serious and stiff. She was a good teacher and she didn’t yell or get all emotional when kids messed up or were disrespectful, which I frankly appreciated. High school was crazy enough without teachers adding to the drama. When Ms. Murray wasn’t happy, she usually just stared you down and started heaping on the homework. She didn’t cry.
This wasn’t good. Apparently Moses recognized that fact, because he dropped the marker clutched in his hand and stepped away, looking from side to side like he was planning his escape.
“What is that, anyway?” Charlie Morgan spoke up, never one to hold still or hold his tongue. I usually hated that he could never shut up. But I didn’t hate it now. Now, I was glad. I was glad because I wanted to know too. Charlie pointed at the board. “Is that a waterfall?
When Moses didn’t respond Charlie continued. “Behind the waterfall—those are people, right?” Charlie laughed. “They’re making out! And it doesn’t look like they’re wearing any clothes.”
A few of my classmates laughed, but we all stared, our eyes drawn to the way the water spilled down from the cliffs surrounding the two people who were almost hidden in the silvery fall. If I squinted, blurring the reality of the black lines and the unromantic whiteboard, I could almost imagine the picture was real, that the people behind the water were living and breathing, that they were truly kissing and we were peering through the spray, watching the intimate encounter unfold. And they were definitely naked. I felt my cheeks get hot and I pulled my eyes away. Looking at what Moses had drawn made my skin feel too tight and my body ache with a need that had become an ever-present thing where Moses was concerned. It made me think of the night at the water tower, and the kisses we had shared and the heat that had remained in my belly long after we parted.
“Did you draw that?” Another kid spoke up from behind me. It sounded like Kirsten, but I didn’t turn my head to see for sure. “It’s so good. You’re an amazing artist.”
“Students!” Ms. Murray had found her voice, though it shook and wavered like she was still crying. “I need you to head out to the commons area. Take your things. Use the time to work on the paper due Friday. Moses, please stay.”
Working on my paper didn’t sound half as interesting as seeing Ms. Murray crying over a whiteboard drawing of naked people, drawn by none other than Moses Wright—my Moses—who also happened to be the strangest person I’d ever met. But free-time was way better than instruction, and I didn’t have any choice in the matter, so we all reluctantly rose and filed out the door. I was the last to leave, and I caught Moses’s eye as I let the door shut behind me. He looked as if he wanted to call me back, as if he wanted to explain. But then the door swung closed, and I stood on the other side. Still, I thought I heard Mrs. Murray ask Moses the weirdest question.
“How did you know?” she asked. “How did you know about Ray?”
Georgia
MOSES WAS SUSPENDED. Apparently, Ms. Murray didn’t like him drawing naked people kissing under a waterfall on her whiteboards. I was actually a little surprised. It hadn’t seemed malicious. But I guess it was a little erotic for the classroom. I felt hot all over again and wondered what Moses had been thinking. What had compelled him to do something so stupid? Was it the attention? It was only the beginning of the school year, May was a long way off, and from what I’d been able to coax out of a reluctant Moses, he couldn’t afford to miss anything. He was a senior but didn’t have enough credits to graduate unless he worked his butt off. And getting suspended was pretty counter-productive.
I thought for sure his grandma would be able to twist some arms and smooth things over to get him right back, but over the next two months it was one thing after another, and Moses couldn’t stay out of trouble. He painted another barn in town with blacks and silvers and streaks of gold so vivid it looked as if the entire north side had been swallowed by a black hole that left a violent storm in its wake. I didn’t find out until later that that barn had been struck by lightning thirty years before and burned to the ground, killing a man in the process. The man had been trying to get his horses out and was engulfed in flames. The painting wasn’t quite as beautiful when I knew the story behind it.
The barn had eventually been rebuilt and his wife had remarried, but Charlotte Butters, his widow, wasn’t especially impressed by Moses’s artistic ability and made sure everyone in town knew what a cruel joke she thought it was, though I doubted it was anything but a coincidence. It would be a shame to paint over something so awe-inspiring, but Charlotte Butters was fuming, and Moses’s grandma had smoothed her feathers by promising that Moses would fix it, plus paint the rest of the barn to make amends. No swirls of color or Sistine chapel this time. Just plain barn red and long hours on a ladder. I was, of course, keeping him company even though he was trying to convince me to leave. As usual.
It was October, but although there was a nip in the air and the light warmed the earth at a different angle, we were having a string of unseaso
nably warm days, warm enough to make painting a barn after school not completely unappealing, especially if it meant I could see Moses…whether or not he wanted to see me. He and I had the strangest relationship. One minute he was telling me to scram and the next he was kissing me like he would never let me go.
To say I was rattled and confused would be putting it mildly. When I showed up in a pair of worn Wranglers and a tank top that had withstood a thousand washes and offered to help him, he took one look at me and started down a list of do’s and don’ts that were a little extreme, considering we were only painting a barn. After the exhaustive list of instructions and parameters, I sighed loudly and picked up my brush, only to have him watch me critically for a few minutes then take the brush from my hand and go back over what I’d just done.
When I protested, he interrupted.
“My job site, my rules.”
“So those are your rules. Your laws?”
“Yeah. The Law of Moses.” He smirked.
“I thought the Law of Moses was the Ten Commandments.”
“I don’t know if I have that many.”
“Well, this is the state of Georgia, and in Georgia we have a different set of laws. So when you’re in the state of Georgia—”
“When I’m in the state of Georgia?” he asked, so softly I almost missed it.
I blushed, realizing that there were sexual connotations to what I’d said. But never one to back down, I blustered on. “Ha. You wish.” I tried to resume painting, but he pushed me away from the paint can.
“You’re just hanging around me because you love breaking the rules—and don’t think I don’t know your parents have some rules when it comes to us. You being with me makes them crazy. Especially your mom. She’s afraid of me.”
Well, that was true. And he wasn’t stupid. It was definitely part of the attraction. But when he lost himself, painting like a demon, painting incredible things that came from somewhere behind those amber-green eyes, I couldn’t get close enough. And I wanted him to paint me. I wanted to stand in front of him and let him cover me in color, let me be one of his creations. I wanted to be part of his world. I wanted to fit in. It was ironic, for the first time in my life, if blending in meant being absorbed into his thoughts, sucked into his head, then I wanted to blend in. Maybe it was being seventeen, maybe it was first love, or first lust. Maybe it was just hot. But I wanted him with a desperation that consumed me. I had never wanted anything so much in my life. And I couldn’t imagine wanting something so much ever again.
