Pure Red

by Danielle Joseph

  “Happy Birthday?” I laugh, nervously.

  Graham grins. “Are those cracker crumbs?”

  “Yup.” I squat down to try and scoop up as much as I can.

  “Working on some kind of multimedia project?” he asks.

  He can’t be serious. But he kneels down to help me save the poor old crumbs. He’s collecting the few that still cling to his shoes. I look at his face. It’s unchanged. He is serious. Oh, now I feel bad.

  “Not exactly.” I bite my lip.

  “Oh, it’s more secretive than that.” He winks.

  “Right. I’m Cassia, by the way.” We both stand up and I hold out my hand. Graham combines his crumbs with mine. I really don’t know what to do with them, so I shove them into my pocket.

  “Cassia. Cool name. So original.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you go to Dolphin High? I think I’ve seen you before,” Graham says.

  He’s seen little old me before? “Yeah. I’m going to be a junior.”

  “Me too.”

  I can’t believe I’ve never noticed a guy this cute at school, one who actually knows a thing or two about art. Sure, my school social events are limited, but I’m still surprised that I haven’t even gawked at him before.

  “Thanks for you help,” I say.

  Graham arches his back. He’s broad and muscular, making my knees quiver. “My pleasure, Lady in Red.”

  Me in my red tank top and now flushed-red face? Or the painting?

  I cannot move. I cannot speak. I reach out my hand to grab a chair, anything for support, but there’s nothing there so I clutch the air that stands between us.

  “Can you introduce me to your dad?” Graham asks.

  Figures. I finally meet a hot guy, and he wants to meet my dad.

  fertile green

  I walk Graham over to Dad. He stands there, mouth hanging open, like Dad’s a superhero. We’re talking about the guy who sticks his finger in the tub of hummus and sings sappy French love songs in the shower. But Graham shakes Dad’s hand, stares at him, and tells him how he’s always admired his work. So while I was watching Scooby Doo and playing with my Polly Pockets, Graham was soaking in Dad’s paintings at various Miami hot spots.

  Dad stops the waiter and grabs a cube of cheddar off the tray. “Is this your first time visiting the gallery?”

  “I’ve been here a couple of times before with my aunt. But I’ve seen your La Fleur collection at the SOBE museum a million times,” Graham says, eyes bugged out like he’s hoping he got the pop-quiz answer right.

  I’m standing next to them, smushing the cracker crumbs inside my pocket into pixie dust. My face is hooked on Graham’s, which is hooked on Dad’s.

  “A museum regular. That’s great.” Dad’s eyes don’t leave Graham’s face. Everyone is a potential subject. He studies each feature carefully, even though he doesn’t paint people he knows—except lucky me!

  A woman bellows over the crowd, “Bye, Jacques.” I turn toward the door.

  It’s her. The blond lady.

  Dad just smiles and gives her a fluttery wave. He is so dating her. Excuse me while I go puke. I squint my eyes and curl my upper lip in her direction, but she’s already flickered away. I’ll catch her next time.

  Graham and Dad launch into a discussion about mixing colors, Dad doing most of the talking and Graham the nodding. I, on the other hand, am trying to get the blond lady out of my head and focus all my brain power on Graham.

  “When I was younger I used to be careless with the tubes of paints.” Dad runs his fingers through his hair and knocks a gelled clump loose from the rest of the bunch.

  “That’s totally me,” Graham says, laughing. “But I’m learning to be more conservative.”

  “I used to be like that with food,” I say, biting the inside of my lip. “Order way too much, eyes bigger than my stomach.”

  Nobody says anything. The celebrity and the fanatic both stare at me with sympathy in their eyes.

  Dad snatches a glass of red wine off another tray and Graham shifts his weight back and forth. Then they smile at each other in some sort of secret artist code. I take a deep breath to calm my inner stupidity. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  “Thirsty.” I point to myself and swiftly move toward the mini-fridge in the back. Anything to get away from all that starry-eyed, oh, how I’ve always worshiped you stuff. So here I am, standing in the corner after I’ve chugged almost the whole bottle of Aquafina, wondering why the hell I’m pissed off. I should be happy that this really hot guy is gaga over my dad. That makes my dad young, hip, and cool. Except what about me? Did they even notice that I walked away? Okay, so you don’t have to get an A in psychology (I did get an A, though) to realize that I’m more pissed about the lady pawing Dad than I am about Graham. But why does my dad need a girlfriend now? We were managing fine without her. When he said he was going to try dating again, I thought it meant catching an occasional movie or grabbing a bite to eat now and then. More like finding hang-out buddies, not one specific, potentially desperate woman.

  I try to calm down, like I didn’t just have a major internal hissy fit, and shake loose all my negative energy. Then I screw the cap back on the water bottle, walk over to the recycle bin, and shoot. Score! A three-pointer.

  Dad and Graham are now in front of Moonlight Bisque, talking about technique. Dad spent forever trying to get the moon right in that picture. While he was mixing the creamy-colored paint, my stomach had growled, and I told him it looked like the soup Lucien serves every Christmas. Not even ten minutes later, while I was watching Gilmore Girls reruns, he yelled out, “You’re right! That’s it! Moon Bisque”—which later became Moonlight Bisque.

  “Hey, Cassie.” I feel a jab in my side.

  “Hi, Thomas,” I say, even before confirming it’s him. No matter how many times I correct this kid, he still calls me Cassie.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  “Not much. Just taking in the beauty.” I point to the abstract with no name in front of me, but my eyes quickly flit over to Graham to make sure he’s still talking to Dad and hasn’t left yet.

  “Nice.” Thomas runs his hand over his shaved head. “Well, I’ve looked around. Wanna grab something to eat?”

  As nice as Monica’s nephew is, he’s pretty clueless. I’m not sure why he comes to the gallery shows in the first place.

  “Sorry, I promised my Dad I would stay and I haven’t even made it around the room yet.”

  “It’s good stuff, but how long can you stare at a painting?” Thomas swipes a clump of cheese squares off a tray as the waiter goes by. “I’m starving.” He confirms my suspicions—he comes here for the food.

  “Well, I have to get back to Dad.” And Graham. Geez, I wonder if they know each other. Doubt it, though. Thomas is a year ahead of us in school and plays baseball. He’s one of the star players, too. I went with Lucien and Monica to a game last year, and ever since then he’s been really friendly to me.

  “Okay, I’ll probably head out. Some guys are hanging at the Bristol.” He downs the rest of the cheese.

  “Cool. Catch you later.” I start to walk away.

  Thomas is in mid-chew and thankfully does not open his mouth to answer. He nods and throws me a wave. He’s not a bad-looking guy or anything, but we have nothing to talk about. I think Monica knows this, so thankfully she doesn’t push him on me.

  I walk back over to Dad. He reaches for me and gives my arm a squeeze. “Here you are, my love.”

  “Had to get some water.” I move closer to him.

  Dad puts his arm around my shoulder. “Graham was telling me he goes to school with you.”

  “Yeah, we just figured that out.”

  “But I only transferred to Dolphin last fall. Went to Palm Pointe before that,” Graham says.

  That makes a little more sense, Your Cuteness, because it means I’ve had one less year to run into you.

  Monica taps Dad on the shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt, b
ut the man in the straw hat has a question about your flower exhibit.”

  Dad holds out his hand. “Good to meet you, Graham. You’ll have to excuse me for a moment.”

  Ah, alone again. Well, not really alone, but as alone as you can be in a room of more than thirty people chattering about the beauty of art.

  I look at Graham. At his yummy, full lips and gorgeous green eyes. And I’m not talking green like Thunder’s envy; I’m talking green like life, nature, and fertility. Fertility, oh yeah, now we’re talking, baby!

  I think he senses me staring at him and smiles. My insides get all fuzzy. I hope that smile is for me, Cassia, not Cassia, daughter of Jacques the Great.

  “Thanks for introducing me to your pops.” Graham slides his hands into his pockets. “I’ve been following his work since I did a book report on local artists in the fourth grade. He’s a big inspiration to me.”

  Okay, so the smile wasn’t for me, but it still gives me a warm feeling for Dad. To think that some guy my age is sitting home drooling over my dad’s art work. I know it’s kind of quirky, but I’m proud of him.

  “What kind of stuff do you paint?” I ask Graham.

  “I started out doing goofy kid stuff like dragons and dinosaurs, but now I’m more into people and places. And abstracts, too.”

  “Cool. Are you in the art magnet at school?” I notice he has a two-inch scar on his left arm. It’s not a clean scar, because part of it is bubbly. I wonder how he got it. Dragon slaying? Scaling Mt. Everest? Bear wrestling?

  “Yeah. Just finished advanced painting with Mrs. Sweeney. She’s a really cool teacher. What about you?”

  “I draw mostly, but I’m not in the magnet. I didn’t take any art classes this year. I’m thinking about changing my fall schedule, though; maybe I’ll add ceramics or photo. I’ll see.”

  “If you take photo, stay away from Mr. Kim. I think he downs too many chemicals.”

  I’m not sure about photo anyway. I don’t love the idea of going around town snapping people’s pics. Pottery might be more my thing. There’s something intriguing about molding the clay into a product that you can actually use. “Maybe ceramics then.”

  Graham pulls his hands out of his pocket and grazes the scar on his arm. Does he know I was staring at it? Am still staring at it?

  “Well, you have a built-in art teacher. Actually better than a teacher.” He smiles big. Not a tooth out of line.

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  “Sorry, I’m probably boring you. You must hear this stuff all the time.”

  “No, it’s fine.” I couldn’t ask for better boy candy. Cute butt. Chiseled features. Those fertile eyes again. Who’s to complain? “You can come over my place sometime. To see my dad’s home studio if you want.”

  Wait, what am I thinking? If I’m serious about finding my passion, Graham is a total distraction. I need to keep my focus.

  He stretches his arms wide. “Really? Your dad wouldn’t mind?”

  “No, not at all.” If it were up to me, the first stop on the tour would be my bedroom. Got a double bed, you know. Grin. Okay, so who am I kidding? But I can’t say no to the owner of such a cute butt.

  “That’s awesome. You’re so sweet.” Graham gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. This is so wrong. A hot tamale is giving me a kiss because he gets to see my dad’s digs. I don’t care; I’m living this up anyway.

  “It’s totally fine.” I walk over to the desk and scribble my phone number on a piece of paper. “Call me.”

  “Cool,” Graham says, nice and slow, like he’s trying not to freak out but his insides are shouting for joy. I guess I’d feel the same way if I was invited into the humble abode of, say, an underwear model or blockbuster movie star. But my dad, puhleese!

  As we make our way to the door, Graham stops in front of Uncharted Waters, a tiny fishing boat navigating the ocean. “What a view!” He breathes in. “I feel like I can smell the fresh salt air.”

  Our condo balcony boasts this same amazing view of the ocean. It’s by far the best thing about our place. Dad’s painted our view many times, and every time it looks different. Blue-black skies and water when a hurricane is threatening or pale blues and greens when it’s bright and sunny outside.

  Being out there on the balcony is one of my clearest memories of Mom. It was just a few months before my sixth birthday. I was so excited about having a Little Mermaid cake, and Mom was outside on the balcony in her apricot Chinese bathrobe. Some days it seemed like she spent all day staring at the ocean, breathing in the salty sea air. She’d be out there when I left for kindergarten, and when I got back she was still leaning on the railing, her black, black hair blowing loose in the wind. She’d call for me to come join her after she heard the front door shut. One day I asked her why she always stood in the same spot. “The sound of the ocean soothes me,” she said. I didn’t know exactly what she meant by that, nor did I know she was dying. That she had a tiny hole in her heart. That even with all the medical tests she went through, it went undetected. It was a stroke that finally killed her. She was only twenty-nine.

  It was an unusually cold day for Miami, so she drew me close and said, “The ocean allows you to see whatever you want to see.” I looked up at the swollen black clouds and said, “I see a storm coming.” That was the last time we stood there together.

  –––––

  As soon as I get home, I dial Liz’s cell. Please, pick up, please, pick up. She answers on the third ring. “Hey, Cass, what’s up?”

  I’m sitting on my bedroom floor, against the wall between my bed and my desk. I’m propped up against two huge cushions that used to belong to our old burnt-orange couch.

  It’s a strong contrast to the rest of the décor. My room is decorated in pink coral and littered with floral designs—white curtains with lilies, four silver frames of Dad’s daisy series above my desk, and even a sunflower-shaped wastebasket. You could say I was definitely going through a phase, but Dad was the one who actually surprised me with a total room makeover for my tenth birthday. Instead of updating it, I’ve just added more things to the room. Most recently, I salvaged the couch pillows on their way to the dumpster. And now that I’ve met a hot guy wearing an orange shirt, I’m never going to throw them out.

  “You bought the yearbook, right?” I ask Liz.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Look up Graham Hadley. He’s in our class.”

  I hear her walking, then opening doors, shifting boxes. She had her bedroom painted last week, so she still has a lot of stuff to put away. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Liz asks.

  I pull my knees close to my chest. “I met him at the gallery tonight. He’s really yummy.” I hear a shuffle, shuffle, bam, bam on the other line. “Liz, you okay?”

  “Yeah. I knocked down a couple of boxes. Yay, found it,” she says.

  “See him?”

  “Still checking.” I hear her flipping through the pages. Then she cracks up.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “He has really thick glasses and greasy hair that goes past his shoulders. With some kind of wart thing growing on his nose.”

  I meet the guy of my dreams and he’s really a frog in disguise?

  “No way! You must be looking at the wrong guy.”

  “No, it’s him.”

  What am I getting myself into? He probably went on one of those makeover shows. No wonder I’ve never noticed him before. “Maybe I need glasses.”

  “Or maybe you should look up gullible in the dictionary!” Liz laughs, or more like snorts.

  “Bitch.” I stand up. “That joke is so second grade.”

  “Yeah, and who fell for it?” She laugh/snorts even more.

  “Fine, I surrender. What does he really look like in his pic?”

  “Nothing. He’s in the back with all the other not-

  pictured names.”

  “Only makes him more mysterious.” I kick off my sandals and send them flying across the room. �
��I gave him my number.”

  “Way to go, girl! You’ve advanced to the next level of my crash course on how to get a guy.” Liz is always telling me to be more assertive. That it’s okay for girls to make the first move.

  “This could be a real hazard. I’m trying to stay focused on my summer goal.”

  “The passion thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re playing ball, remember?”

  “Yeah, but I should do more. You weren’t there in Ms. Cable’s moldy office with stacks of student folders that were better than yours stacked up high on her desk. She basically set her hand on top of the pile and told me I was on the road to nowhere.” I pick up a pencil from under my desk and draw lightly on the wood.

  “Aw, she’s a nut,” Liz chuckles. “Why should you listen to her?”

  “Because she’s my guidance counselor. And because I don’t want to be stuck at home for the rest of my life. I’m supposed to explore my options.” I can’t get Graham’s green eyes out of my head.

  “Suit yourself.”

  I sigh. “Fine. Do I want to know what the next step of your crash course is?”

  “Ask him out.”

  I left out the part about Graham being the president of my dad’s fan club. I can always tell her later, but for now I’ll pretend he’s mine.

  purple power

  All day I’m excited about going to practice. We played an impressive game yesterday, so I’m sure everyone will be in a good mood. I didn’t get out of bed until eleven this morning because we got home at midnight from the gallery and I had trouble sleeping on account of my slam dunk day—first, scoring a basket in our victory over the Blue team, and then meeting Graham and slipping him my phone number. Double points for that!

  I know we only just met, but I have a feeling about these things. For instance, when I met Liz the first day of sixth grade, I instantly knew she was cool. We were seated next to each other in Mrs. Patterson’s geography class and Mrs. Patterson wanted to show us the map of the United States but couldn’t get the screen to pull down for the overhead. Liz leaned over and whispered to me, “She should show it on her booty, it’s big enough!” I almost turned blue holding in my laughter. I know it’s really mean, but it was so funny and one hundred percent true. Anyway, we’ve been best friends ever since.