Pure Red

by Danielle Joseph

  “That’s a great painting.” Graham points to the recent portrait of me. “Everything about it is so lifelike.”

  Yes, I’m right here. Any comments about the owner of the body?

  “Yes, ma cherie is a great subject,” Dad says. “Even if she isn’t happy sitting still for so long.”

  “Dad does a portrait of me every year,” I tell Graham.

  “That’s a great tradition.” Graham scrutinizes my face—the one on the canvas, not the living, breathing one. “Even your expression is so realistic, like everyone knows what’s on your mind.”

  I hope not. I glance at the little mirror on Dad’s desk. Can Graham tell I’m totally lusting after him, that pools of drool are forming at my feet?

  Suddenly the room feels very cramped. The three of us in this packed workspace. “Let’s go sit down.” I lead the way from the studio to the living room.

  Dad sits on the love seat and Graham and I plop down on the big couch. Graham immediately focuses on the huge painting of irises on the wall. “That’s one of my favorites. I loved it at the exhibit,” he says. Oh no, here we go again. Hottie or not, I don’t know if I can stand a whole night of this admiration thing.

  I pull my feet up under me on the couch. Graham has his elbows on his knees and is listening to Dad talk about his quest for the perfect flower.

  “I’ve spent more money than I care to remember on flowers,” Dad says, “but the best flowers are the ones you pick yourself. Just look around when you’re taking a walk and you’ll find that beauty surrounds you.”

  That statement is pretty fitting, especially since we live on Miami Beach where tanned bodies and fashion firsts strut by our doorway every day. It’s funny when I see the purple top of my condo building panned over on the E channel or blockbuster movies.

  “Yeah, I’ve been really into landscapes lately. Actually, I’m working on the view of the ocean from my grandparents’ condo. They live in Boca.”

  “Nothing beats an ocean view.” Dad fiddles with a stack of plastic drink coasters. “Cassia draws, too.”

  “Not that much,” I interject, eraser still in my hand. That passion is clearly marked Dad. Besides, my sketchbook is starting to grow cobwebs. I haven’t drawn anything in at least a month. Even then, most stuff never sees the light of day. I mostly draw when I’m bored. I used to draw whole pictures just so I could erase everything on the page. I’d try to get the page as clean as possible without ripping the paper. It was kind of like a game.

  “She’s spending her time on the court this summer,” Dad says, like I’m not even here.

  “Yeah, I’m having a lot of fun, too. We won our first game.” I fashion the eraser into a circle.

  Dad throws an air ball. “Watch out Michael Jordan.”

  “Dad, he doesn’t even play anymore.” I frown.

  “I love watching old footage of him, though,” Graham butts in. “He’s a master on the court.”

  “You play ball?” I ask.

  “Oh, yeah. I like watching more, though. I’ll watch pretty much any sport on TV, except for bowling.” He laughs. “Surfing is my thing. Well, besides art,” he adds.

  “Surfing looks like a lot of fun. Is it hard to get up on the board?” I stretch my legs out. They’re beginning to get numb.

  “It takes a few tries, but once you get the hang of it, it’s pretty easy. I’ll teach you sometime if you like.”

  “Really?” That would involve me gawking at Cute Butt shirtless in a bathing suit. “Okay, cool.”

  You hear that, Ms. Cable? That would be two new activities in less than two weeks!

  Dad leaps up from the couch with a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

  Oh, no! Anything but the Time magazine collection. If he pulls that out, I’m doomed. He inherited it from his Great Aunt Celine. She left his brother and sister cool things like furniture and antiques, but all Dad got was the magazine collection because she said he’d know what to do with it. He stuck it in a crate in the linen closet, that’s what he did with it, and pulls it out whenever someone new comes over. No one ever looks at the collection more than once. By the second visit they focus on Dad’s works or venture out onto the balcony.

  Every few seconds I peek around the corner to make sure he’s not dragging that old musty crate across the tile floor. Graham must think I’m a paranoid freak.

  Dad comes back a couple minutes later with two Hoodsie cups and spoons. “Ice cream, anyone?”

  Okay, I guess I can handle the little kids’ birthday party food. Anything is good after the thought of the dreaded magazine collection.

  “I love these things.” Graham reaches for the small cup. Maybe he’s just being polite, but he downs his before I can even get a second bite in. Dad immediately brings him another one, then says, “Will you two excuse me for a while? I’ve got some paperwork to do.” Which translates to, he better send some invoices out or he’ll never get paid, then the bills won’t get paid either. He’s gotten better ever since our electricity was shut off a few summers ago. It was such a pain in the butt. We had no a/c and had to stay at Lucien’s for the night.

  Now I always open the bills and put them in order for him. There are some amenities I can’t live without: a/c, water, and food. At the top of Dad’s list would be canvases, paint, and cigarettes. After college he and a friend once lived in a tent in Key Largo for almost four months. Not my idea of fun.

  I throw away our Hoodsie containers and bring Graham a glass of water. It’s just the two of us sitting on the couch in my condo. It’s nice.

  The only other guy I’ve ever had at my place is Zach, my ninth grade science partner and apparently another fan of my dad’s. Zach overheard Dad singing “Yellow Submarine” one night when we were on the phone. Turns out Zach was a Beatles fanatic and actually thought my dad had a decent signing voice. Lucky me, Zach called the next afternoon when I was out and Dad invited him to dinner. Talk about invasion of privacy. By the time I got home, Zach had already toured my house, including my bedroom, and was eating chips and salsa at the kitchen table with Dad. Graham’s definitely a step up. He doesn’t suck on his retainer or carry a magnifying glass in his back pocket. No offense to Zach, of course.

  “Thanks for having me over.” Graham pulls a fish-shaped coaster from the stack, slaps it down on the coffee table, and settles his glass on top of it.

  “It’s nothing.” I shrug.

  “You’re really laid back, not like most girls,” Graham says. “I like that.”

  If he only knew how I fell asleep dreaming about him, had Liz play sleuth and look him up in the yearbook, and spent thirty minutes rummaging through my closet searching for the perfect outfit.

  “Thanks.” I smile. “I try.” This is the point where Liz would say, Jump his bones, move in for the kiss. The very same point where I’d say, For one thing, my dad is in the next room, and for another thing, Graham never said anything about being even remotely attracted to me. So I do the only passive-aggressive thing I can think of and let down my ravishing light-brown hair (at least the new conditioner I used said it would look ravishing). It’s damp and wavy, so it looks extra thick. For all I know, he’s not a hair man, but I’ll give it a try. I flip it back with my hand and move slightly closer to him. “So what classes are you taking in the fall?”

  “Besides the required stuff? Graphic Design and Intensive Art.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Kind of something I designed myself and had to get approved by the department head, Mr. Rogan. It’s like being an artist’s apprentice. Learn from a master and produce a series of pieces by the end of the semester. I figure it’s best to get started this summer while I have more time.”

  I glance at his legs hoping he’ll move in closer to me, but he doesn’t budge. “Sounds interesting,” I say, a second before I realize what’s coming next.

  “Yeah, I’m really lucky they approved it. I had to write a five-page paper on my goals and what I expect to achieve from doin
g the study. Mr. Rogan is no joke.”

  I would have so failed that assignment. I’m having trouble finding just one personal goal.

  “Wow, I wish I was doing something cool like that.”

  Oops, I shouldn’t have said that aloud. Now I sound more boring than ever. If he ever finds out that my resume is almost blank, he’ll probably stop talking to me.

  “You could. You can.” He sits up straight. “They approve a lot of things as long as you can show it has educational merit.” He makes imaginary quotation marks in the air and laughs. “A friend of mine is really into astronomy and is doing this whole project with some famous astronomer guy. Kale, I think his name is.”

  “So, you want me to ask my dad if he can be your mentor?” I say. I should add some requirements to the mentorship … You have to sleep over every weekend, date the mentor’s daughter, and carry a photo of her around in your wallet. Hee hee.

  “Well, ah …” Graham shuffles in his seat. “That would be awesome, but I don’t want to impose.”

  Something about him being all nervous turns me on even more. I wonder if Graham has any clue how cute he really is. He must. I’m sure girls are all over him. He probably travels with a posse that rushes him to and from classes.

  I get up from the couch. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” I walk over to Dad’s studio and open the door. He’s printing out invoices and stuffing them into envelopes.

  “Is your friend still here?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” I lean against his chair. “He wants to know if he could study with you. He’s doing some directed-study thing for school and he’s got to put in a certain number of hours working under a professional. He’s in the art magnet.”

  Dad looks up. His brown eyes are big and round. They look like frying pans. I run my finger over the lids of my own round eyes. Are mine that big?

  “Me, a professional?” he asks.

  We both laugh. “Yeah, you, Dad.”

  “What do you think?” He licks an envelope shut.

  My eye catches the Disney photo of us again. Mom’s smiling at me. I think she’d like Graham. At least for his initiative. I feel like she’d be proud of me for helping him.

  “I think he’s really excited about it and he seems like a nice guy. He’s a lot different than most guys my age. Definitely more mature.” Okay, so I don’t want to overdo it, to tell Dad that if I sit next to Graham any longer, I’m going to need a bib. The drool factor is that bad.

  “Tell him to come by La Reverie on Monday, around three, and to bring his sketchbook. We’ll take it from there.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” I wrap my arms around him.

  Dad picks up an invoice from the printer and frowns. “I can hardly read this.”

  “Change the type size.” I lean over him to grab the mouse, then click on Font in the toolbar and select 14. “Now print again.”

  Dad smiles. “What would I do without ma cherie?”

  “You’d still be using one of those wall telephones and washing your dishes by hand.” I shut the door and walk back to Graham. He’s exactly where I left him, playing with a loose thread on the pocket of his pants.

  I sit on the arm of the couch and tell him to be at my Dad’s studio with samples of his work on Monday at three.

  “Really?” Graham stands up.

  “Yup.” I start to smile but stop abruptly when I realize that my next basketball game is scheduled at the very same time.

  “Something wrong?” Graham’s eyes move back and forth, surveying my face.

  Geez, I’m like an open book. I force my lips to form a smile. “Nothing. I’m sure everything’s going to be great!”

  “Thanks, you’re the best.” Graham hugs me.

  I hug him back and a tingle rushes through my body. My face rests gently on his shoulder. I push a little closer to his neck and am immediately drawn in by his sensual smell. Wow. I breathe in. I’ll call it vanilla rain. One of the purest smells on earth.

  Cassia Hadley. Now that has a good ring to it!

  mud and blood

  “Hi, I’m Cassia Bernard Hadley. Nice to meet you.” On center court we have Number 11, Cassia Bernard Hadley. Cassia Bernard Hadley breaks the world record for balancing a penny on her nose for seven hours and fifteen minutes!

  I have to admit, this Cassia Bernard Hadley gig is working really well for me. It’s perfect. Both Graham and I are tall, sixteen, Floridians, and love my dad. Oh, my dad. I can’t forget that to Graham, there’s no Cassia without Jacques. And there’s going to be no Jacques at my game this afternoon.

  Dad probably wouldn’t be happy watching us play the Brown team anyway, and definitely wouldn’t want to see the Gray team on Wednesday. I’ll invite him to the game on Thursday instead, when we play Purple (spirituality, peace, and imagination). They’re much more his color.

  Mid-morning, Dad appears from his bedroom with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. His first stop is always the balcony to get his morning fix. That was Mom’s first stop, too, but her reason was to smell the fresh ocean air, not pollute it. For months after she died, I was afraid to go out on the balcony. I don’t know if I was more scared of falling over the railing or actually seeing her ghost standing there in her bathrobe. When Dad would go out, I’d hold my breath (or at least try) until he came back inside.

  It wasn’t until that next summer that Lucien got me to go out there. He bought me a small pink plastic chair with a butterfly painted on it. He placed it next to one of the big white patio chairs. Then he gently took my hand and led me outside. Even though it was the middle of summer, I got goose bumps and asked him to grab me a sweater. He brought me my fuzzy pink sweater, to match the chair, he said, and kneeled down next to me, wrapping his arm around me. He pointed to the ocean and said, “If you speak to her here, she can hear you.” Through the warmth of my sweater, Lucien’s arm around me and the beating sun, I told Mom that I loved her with all my heart.

  –––––

  I’m lying on the couch, still in my PJs, watching the Cartoon Network. The perfect channel to space out to. I have the little eraser ball in my hand from the other night.

  Half a smoke later, Dad comes in from the balcony and plants a kiss on my forehead. “Good morning, ma cherie.”

  “Morning,” I say back.

  Dad heads to the kitchen. I hear drawers and doors opening, then slamming shut. “Looking through these cupboards, you’d think nobody lives here.” He laughs.

  Yeah, real funny. I had maraschino cherries for breakfast; some trip he must have made to the market yesterday. Our house is all condiments, no sustenance.

  “If you leave me some money, I can pick up a few things this morning,” I offer.

  Dad strolls back into the living room eating peaches straight out of the can. No utensils. I wince as a trickle of juice dribbles down his chin. “That would be great. I’ve got a busy day today.”

  I guess part of that’s my fault. I’m the one who set up the date between Graham and Dad. I could’ve said no.

  “Dad, I think Graham’s really excited.”

  “Good. What time is he coming by?”

  “You said three.” I throw the eraser up into the air and catch it with one hand. Coach Parker did tell us to practice, and she didn’t stipulate the size of the ball. To make my efforts more authentic, I use my cup from breakfast as the basket.

  “Right, I did. Okay, I have a lunch at one at Café Monsoon. Plenty of time.”

  I flatten the eraser with my palm. “A date? While I’m left home foodless.”

  “It’s with a couple of guys from the bank. Their treat. I suppose you could come.”

  As long as the blond lady’s not eating a jumbo steak while I’m lugging home groceries from the market. “Nah, I’m fine.” Besides, if I’m even going to consider basketball as my passion, I need to spend more time practicing. I fashion the eraser back into a ball and continue shooting.

  Dad pulls so
me bills from his wallet and sets them on the coffee table. “That should cover the basics, and there’s an extra twenty in case you want to go to the movies with your friends.”

  I’m five for five with the baskets. I move the paper cup a little farther away so I can work on my three-pointers. “Thanks, Dad. But I’ve got a game today.”

  “Well, maybe afterwards, then.” Dad goes to shower and I blast the volume on the TV. I pretend it’s the crowd going wild during my exhilarating paper-cup basketball game. The stands are full. Dads are yelling Go for it! and moms are clapping so hard, their hearts are popping out of their chests.

  Everything hinges on this last shot. Ten seconds left on the clock and the two teams are tied. Cassia Bernard Hadley has control of the ball. She runs down the court, eyes the basket, and … shoots! Ladies and gentlemen, she knocks the basket over by the sheer force of her shot. The refs call it a freak act of nature and demand a replay. This time the basket is reinforced by an empty glass of lemonade that can withstand winds upward of 130 mph. Cassia focuses her eyes on the basket and releases the ball. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a superstar in the making!

  I finally get up from the couch around lunchtime and head for the grocery store. It’s always limiting when I shop by myself because I can’t carry much home. I pick up some bread, milk, cereal, spaghetti, and marshmallows and call it a day.

  My basketball garb is on way before three, so I laze around on the couch until it’s time to leave. I hope I don’t run into Kate and Zoey again; I’m not in the mood for their crap. I walk fast, past the shops and restaurants, past the beachgoers and bike messengers. No time to even look at wacky tourists as they whiz by. I just want to get out on the court and hustle. I’ve got to really focus on the ball today so I don’t lose control. Coach told us during the first practice that nothing beats determination. Where does she gets this stuff? Did she read it in a self-help book? Or is it from years of coaching?