Graham rests his hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Me?” I look up into his eyes. Deep green. If they were a body of water, there would be no depth. What is he thinking? That I’m crazy?
I shake off the image of Mom curled up on the couch in sweats. “Yeah, do you think people have a better chance of living if they really want to?” I ask.
We both stare at the small tree. What makes it stronger than the rest? I rub my fingers over my sprained ankle. “Did you paint it because you lost someone?”
Graham stands awkwardly, one foot in front of the other. His shoulders are hunched. He pulls his hands in and out of his pockets. The scar appearing, then quickly disappearing, pink like a worm. “You mean, like death?”
“Yes.” I feel both nervous and excited that we’re entering uncharted waters, but with Graham everything rolls off my tongue easily.
He looks down at his sneaks. Green and white Adidas. “Well, sort of. My grandfather died when I was ten. He was a real strong guy, but he had cancer. Fought it until the end.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say instinctively, because those are the words I heard over and over again after Mom’s death. The words I blocked out after hearing them for the thousandth time. “What about your parents?” I ask.
He stretches his legs out in front of him. His surfer’s tan glows under the neon studio lights. “What do you want to know?”
“What are they like?”
“Cool for the most part. My dad lives in Fort Lauderdale and I live with my mom and stepdad. I also have a younger brother, Kevin. He’s three. A wild dude, too.”
I picture a mini-Graham running around in Superman PJs screaming cowabunga! “What do they think about your paintings?”
“My dad doesn’t say much. He owns a construction company and wants me to go into business with him after college. Mom and my stepdad, Darren, try to understand my work. I think my biggest fan is Kevin. He calls this one Spiderman’s house.” Graham points to a black-and-white abstract that looks like an intricately woven web.
“Kevin sounds like a smart kid.”
“He’s got a good role model.” Graham laughs.
“Yeah, sometimes I wish I had a brother or sister,” I say.
Graham pulls up a chair and sets it down beside me. “What about you?”
“What about me?” I pull at a button on the pocket of my shorts.
Graham’s face tightens and his voice softens. “I remember reading something about your mom’s death. Are you okay?”
A small lump forms in the back of my throat. I try and gulp it away. I will not cry. Not now. I haven’t cried over Mom in years and I’m not about to do it in front of Graham. Think happy thoughts. The Miami sunset. Chocolate chip ice cream. Graham. I let go of the words before I change my mind. “My mother died when I was five of a heart abnormality.” There, I said it.
“Wow.” He takes my hand in his. “Man, that must’ve been hard.”
“My dad and I. We managed.” Suddenly it dawns on me that I’m inches away from Graham’s face, from holding him tight. I stare up at him. At his full cinnamon lips. I think about how scrumptious they would taste. I imagine his kiss to be sweet and moist.
“Still it must have been hard because you were so young. I mean, I felt like crap when my parents got divorced. I was nine.” He gives my hand a squeeze. A bolt of lightning revs up my heart.
“Yeah, but I have a lot of memories. And lots of questions about her, too. It’s almost her birthday.” I gulp the lump in my throat away again. “I’m always going through the old albums. She was beautiful.”
“I bet.” Graham nods, sincerely, then leans closer to me. My heart beats faster than a steel drum. Is he going to kiss me? Yeah, right. I can keep on dreaming. Instead, he pulls me out of my seat and my heart slows to the beat of a bass drum. “Come here. I want to show you something I found when I was looking for some paintbrushes the other day.”
I lean against him and hobble over to the supply closet. His body is solid, like I imagine a superhero’s to be. It sends warm currents through me. I hope he can’t tell I’m shaking inside.
He digs through a few canvases. Pulls one out and dusts it off with his hand. The bodies of the two people are fully formed, but their faces have no features. I feel like I’m losing my footing. Graham grips me tightly at the waist. A tear trickles down my face and into my open mouth. It tastes salty like the ocean.
The figures. They both have long hair, one a shade darker than the other, and they’re both dressed in red. The smaller dress is a replica of the larger. It still hangs in the back of my closet. Mom and I standing faceless on the balcony of my condo.
melted mocha ice cream
I wipe my tears and catch my breath just in time to hear Dad’s footsteps on the stairs. I know it’s him because he makes a clomping sound when he walks. When I was little he said it was because one of his legs was wooden. I believed him until I pinched it so hard that he screamed, “Mercy!”
“Quick, put it away.” I elbow Graham. He shoves the painting back in the closet.
“Hi, ma cherie. Graham.” Dad nods. “Sorry I’m late. Lost track of time.” He smells like smoke. He’s running late, but had time to light up. I look at the clock on my cell—1:21. If Dad had a nine-to-five job, he would’ve been canned a long time ago.
“No problem.” Graham starts putting his canvases back into his portfolio case. Wouldn’t it be nice for once if Dad showed up on time? Why is he so selfish?
Dad runs over to his desk and rummages through the drawers, no doubt looking for a misplaced item. I plunk back down on the folding chair. Suddenly my foot is throbbing from the pressure. Dad’s back is to me. His hair is wild, crying out for a haircut.
“Who bought Lady in Red ?” I blurt out.
Dad doesn’t answer me. He’s still fumbling around at his desk.
“I said, who bought Lady in Red ? Was it that woman?” I picture her warming my dad up with a bottle of wine, then whispering in his ear that she’d like nothing more than to see the painting rest above her four-poster bed.
Dad drops a pile of papers and finally turns around to face me. “What woman?”
“You know who I’m talking about, Dad. Your girlfriend.”
“You mean Helga?” His eyebrows cling together.
“Hell-ga bought my favorite painting?”
“Cassia, what has gotten into you? Helga’s a very nice woman. She’s always asking about you.”
I tap my foot. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, she didn’t buy the painting.”
One of the smaller abstracts slips from Graham’s hand. It lands with a thud on his foot. “Ouch.” He winces. Only then do I remember he’s here. Oh, God, he witnessed my tantrum. I’m so stupid.
“Are you okay?” Dad and I ask at the same time.
Graham’s face is flushed. “Thanks, I’m fine. Maybe I should leave and come back tomorrow.”
“No, I was just leaving. I have plans,” I say, and limp over to my crutches resting near the door.
“We’ll have dinner tonight. Together.” Dad walks over to where Graham is now seated, inspecting the fallen painting but still talking to me. “What do you want to eat?”
“Anything with a face,” I say, and shut the door before he asks what I mean. I hobble down the staircase as fast as a wounded person can. I have to get out of this gallery. I need fresh air, and fast. Dad has time to help Graham, but he doesn’t have time to paint the faces of me and Mom? How long has that painting been stuffed away in the closet? Probably for years.
“Cassia, is something bothering you?” Dad calls after me, but I’ve already made it down the stairs.
I don’t look at the time until I’m outside. There won’t be a bus to the Y for another fifteen minutes. What a pathetic getaway.
–––––
I’m a mute the first half of ceramics class. I need time to unwind. To forget about Dad, to forget about Graha
m. Although I’m not too sure I want to forget about Graham. I just hope he’ll still talk to me after my mini psycho-girl tirade.
Mr. Parker is standing behind me. It always makes me nervous when teachers do that. “Lighten up, Cassia. Let the clay lead you.” The muscles in my shoulders and neck are tense. I let them drop until I feel like a turtle retreating into its shell.
“That’s a little better, but I’m not convinced you’re relaxed.” He laughs. “Why don’t we give the wheel a try? But you can’t tense up or you’ll end up with a square bowl.”
I chuckle and follow him to the back of the room, in front of the big window facing an old coconut tree. It’s a nice shady spot overlooking the side street. My crutches make funny noises as the rubber bottoms hit the linoleum. Nobody seems to take notice but me. All heads are down, focused on their pieces at different stages of completion.
Mr. Parker hands me an apron, then sits down at the wheel farthest from the window. He tells me to sit down next to him. “I’ll give you a mini-tutorial, then let you have a go at it.”
“Sure,” I say, even though the wheel looks more intimidating than a blank canvas. Really, I’m trying to figure out how the other students created all the elaborate pieces lined up against the windowsill. A pitcher. Two perfectly crafted oversized mugs. A wide-mouthed vase.
Mr. Parker is hunched on the stool in front of the wheel. His back is broad. So maybe he’s a former college football player after all. He wets his hands, grabs a ball of clay, and slaps it onto the middle of the wheel. “It’s all about centering. If you don’t center your piece, it’ll be off-kilter and you’ll end up fighting the clay the whole time.”
I match Mr. Parker’s turtlelike posture. I already know how the wheel will feel. Lately I’ve been totally off balance and it definitely ruins my whole day.
Mr. Parker picks the clay up and throws it down onto the wheel again. Then he pushes the pedal and the wheel spins. He quickly thrusts the clay into the center. “After you’ve centered the clay, shape it into a mound. You have to use the force of your whole body to make sure it stays in the middle. When that’s done, you’re ready to create the opening.”
He repeats the process one more time with even more force.
I can’t help but giggle. This huge bearded man looks like he’s having a wrestling match with a mound of clay.
“Just wait until you get your turn. Sometimes it can take a whole class period to master centering,” he says playfully.
I blush. “Oh, I wasn’t laughing at you, really. It just seems like the clay is fighting you.”
“A rebellion of sorts. I like that.” He stops the wheel and flattens what was the beginning of a bowl. “But remember, you’re in control. You can’t let the clay mold you.”
I purse my lips and narrow my eyes. “I’m not afraid.”
“Ready to give it a whirl?” He gets up.
I sit in his seat. “Bring it on.” I’ve got nothing to lose.
“Take a deep breath and remember to relax.” Mr. Parker steps to the side. “This isn’t supposed to be painful.”
I stare down at the clay. At the slop of melted mocha ice cream. Dad’s favorite flavor at Gianni’s on Ocean Drive. Wait, why do I have to share this piece of clay with him? There was a reason I didn’t tell him I was coming here. This experience is mine, all mine. That and the fact that he never even asked where I’m going, how I’m spending my basketball-less days. Instead, he’s using his brain cells to wine and dine Helga.
Mr. Parker points to the bowl of water next to me. As he instructs, I wet my hands before starting the wheel. I press down on the pedal with my good foot and immediately the clay starts to fly. “Slow down.” Mr. Parker holds out his hand like a stop sign.
I start up again but this time much slower. An old Grateful Dead song, “Truckin’,” is playing in the background. I guess Mr. Parker and my dad have the same taste in music. I mellow out and start and stop the wheel several times before I’m at a good speed. The song lyrics take me back to when I used to stay up way past my bedtime and watch Dad paint. Whenever I heard the words “doodah man,” I burst out laughing. I totally thought they were calling him the doo-doo man. Only funny to a seven-year-old, of course.
Basically that’s how I feel, like I’m truckin’ along, moving from one project to the next. I don’t think there’s a sequel to the song, but I’d love to know how the doodah man ended up. Did he find the place he was supposed to be?
My piece of clay is starting to look like a soupy mess, so I ask Mr. Parker if I can exchange it for a new piece. He nods.
I’m back at the wheel, ready for a fresh start. I wet my hands again and throw the clay down. My foot hits the pedal and the clay immediately starts to slide off. I stop the wheel and throw it down again. I put a firm hand on the mound and pray it doesn’t start to fly away. Crap, my foot is getting heavy on the pedal and the clay skips a beat. I picture myself sailing across the room to catch it. Luckily, it’s not that bad.
This is no joke. I stop and stare at the clay. I can do this. Deep breath, and I’m back at it. My right hand holds the clay down firmer this time. I am in charge.
After several misfires, I actually get my clay centered and flag Mr. Parker down for step two. I’m ready to make an opening. I remember Nia saying last class that it’s the trickiest part because you have to keep your hands completely still or you could end up with a lopsided piece before you even get started.
I rest my elbows on my thighs and push the tip of my thumb into the middle of the clay. My hand slips and I have to start over; all part of the learning process, Mr. Parker assures me. I gently push my foot down on the pedal and watch the clay turn circles. I imagine this is what it feels like to drive a car, to brake at a yellow light. I’m signed up for Driver’s Ed in the fall—I can’t wait to get my license. Not that Dad would even know if I left the city limits. Still, I feel bad that I blew up at him, and even worse that I did it in front of Graham.
But if Dad had just told me where Lady in Red was, probably none of this would’ve happened. I really don’t see what the big deal is about who bought it. Maybe the new owner will grant me painting visitation rights.
Scott walks by me to rinse out a mason jar. “Not bad for a first timer. Let me know if you need any help.”
“Thanks. I will.” I smile. That’s so much better than the threats I got from Thunder when I joined the basketball team. There’s definitely something up her butt, and I can’t figure it out. As mean as she is, her boyfriend looks even meaner. Scary.
Class is over before I even have time to look up at the clock. I thank Mr. Parker on the way out. I had a good day. Being at the wheel was very soothing, and no one cared that I ended up with a bowl that couldn’t hold more than a couple spoonfuls of soup.
I check my cell while I wait for the bus. Two new messages. I kind of hope one is from Dad, but both are from Liz. She wants me to meet her after practice, then go out to dinner. I’m not too happy about showing my face at the court again, but I’m excited about the idea of chowing at China Moon.
Practice is still going on as I crutch half a block to the court. I consider waiting across the street for Liz, but I could really use a place to sit, and some water. It’s hard to get a good grip on the crutches when your hands are all slimy and it’s ninety degrees outside.
I try to slide onto the bench unnoticed; pretty impossible when you’re sporting an aluminum pole under each arm. Maria’s catching her breath on the side of the court. “Did you hear about Kate?” she says to me.
“No, what?” She came here looking for me with a shotgun and her bully of a boyfriend?
“She got sent home.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. I knew she’d snap sometime.”
Maria laughs. “It wasn’t her mind that snapped, it was her shoulder. The minute she got on the court, she was practically crying. Coach sent her home and told her to ice it. Can’t come back without a doctor’s note.”
I wipe the swe
at from my forehead. “How did she do it?” What I really want to ask is, was she hit by lightning? Is there a charred mark on her forehead? I’m feeling really guilty over this. Did I will death upon her? No, if I had special powers I would’ve offed her after our first encounter.
“She said she slipped on her brother’s skateboard, but I have my doubts.”
“You think she did it in on purpose?”
Coach blows her whistle and everyone scurries to pick up the balls.
“No, I think Bulldog roughed her up a bit,” Maria says. “But you didn’t hear it from me.” She clams up.
“Wow, are you sure?”
“I’m no detective, but the evidence points that way.” She quickly goes to help the rest of the team.
“Serves Thunder right,” I mumble, but immediately take it back. She may be a total bitch, but her bulldog has the eyes of a serial killer.
purple forever
Liz doesn’t look too good, and I’m not talking about the sweat dripping from her forehead or her frizzed-out hair. “Let’s get out of here.” She grabs my arm. I lose my footing and step down on my sore foot.
“Ouch, you’re dealing with a cripple here!” I stop her with a crutch.
“Man, sorry, I forgot.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She keeps on walking. “We’ll talk at dinner.”
“What’s the buzz on Thunder, then? Do you really think her boyfriend did it?” I trail behind her.
“As far as I’m concerned, she deserves it.” When Liz’s mad, she’ll snarl at an old lady crossing the street too slow.
“Yeah, but that guy gives me the creeps.” I know we shouldn’t judge people on how they look, but he would totally get the part of the asshole boyfriend in any made-for-TV movie.
“So, she gives me the creeps.” Liz holds the door to China Moon open.
The restaurant is always busy; it doesn’t matter that it’s not even five yet. We get the last table in the back. The lights are dim and the azure walls are soothing.
Pure Red Page 12
