The Weight of Rain

by Mariah Dietz

  He smiles and takes a step back so I can exit the laundry room.

  “How’s it going? Are things working out with your professor now that you’re attending your Wednesday class?” Kash tilts his head with a slight mock lighting his eyes. I finally had to approach him and discuss coming later on Wednesdays so I could attend my Comparative Art History class after being reminded by a friend that attendance alone is thirty-five percent of my grade.

  “Yeah, thanks.” My professor is still intentionally calling on me more than any of the other students to prove his point, but thankfully, I’m catching up.

  “How have things been going here?”

  “Good. Mercedes is in her room finishing homework, so I thought I would put in a load really quick,” I say as we head back upstairs.

  “Homework? I didn’t hear any complaining.”

  “Yeah, I bribed her with ice cream.”

  Kash laughs, following me into the kitchen where he leans both elbows on the granite counter covering the bar. “So, I saw on your paperwork that you’re from Montana.”

  Appreciative of the change in topic, I nod. He can’t be oblivious to the fact that he’s a slob, and I sort of fear that my efforts are being seen as intrusive, but thus far, he hasn’t spoken to me about it until now. “Yeah. Have you been over there?”

  “I went to Yellowstone once, as a kid.”

  “That’s usually what people go for.”

  Kash returns the smile I’m giving him to show my statement, though true, is intended to be lighthearted. “What do you think of Portland?”

  “I love it. I love the people and the buzz around the city. I love the peaceful tranquility you find outside, and the food and music. I even love the rain.”

  His head shakes as he quietly laughs. “Nobody loves the rain.”

  “There’s something beautiful about it here. It’s intense. Almost cleansing.”

  “Yeah, until you nearly drown in a puddle or get pulled down a river running down Highway 26.”

  My cheeks lift so high my vision is slightly obscured as I nod my head in agreement. “I do sometimes feel like I need a raft. But there’s something special about this place. It just feels different.”

  “Is it all of the weirdos?”

  My cheeks are still stretched as I shake my head. “No. I have learned in my three years of being an unofficial Oregonian to recognize the transplants. There’s authentic weird, and then there’s trying to be weird.”

  There’s a quiet rumble of laughter from Kashton as he leans farther against the counter. “You don’t seem to try to pose as weird. Are you sticking to your clean-air, backwoods Montana image?”

  “Backwoods?” My eyebrows rise and my chin drops, making Kash’s laughter increase. “I am the definition of weird! I go to school for art.”

  “I ride a bike for a living,” he counters.

  “I know, but that’s cool. You do tricks, and jump, and…” my hands lift in the air to reflect movement, “…you do all that crazy stuff.”

  “You have no idea what I do, do you?”

  I shake my head and fight my lips from turning upward. “No, I really don’t.”

  “I’ll show you. Next week I get to be in the editing process of some videos and images that are going with this Swiss campaign. You can come check it out. Give me your expert art advice.”

  “I would love to, but I know nothing about film or photography. That’s a whole other world. Kind of like cooking.”

  He laughs again and then resituates his baseball hat as I see a thought cross his features. “I want to see some of your artwork. Kenzie says you’re pretty good.”

  I try to mask my surprise by shrugging.

  “Oh, so you’re one of those people.”

  “One of what people?”

  Kash shakes his head, curving his lips into a smile. “I’m not sure,” he admits with a chuckle. “Your reaction didn’t give me much. I was hoping you would either admit that you’re really good or play it off and act like you suck.” His eyes narrow slightly and then his index finger taps his temple. “I’ll get you figured out soon enough. First, I need to see some of your work. Show me something.”

  “I don’t have anything with me.” I don’t. My portfolio rarely travels with me.

  “Bullshit. Open your bag and show me something.”

  “You think I’m bluffing?”

  “No. I think you’re ignoring the fact that I know what it’s like to have a hobby that you love. You live it. You breathe it. A piece of it goes everywhere with you.”

  I nod a couple of times in silent understanding and then move to get my bag beside the kitchen table. Kash follows me, keeping a respectable gap between us, allowing me to choose what I want to reveal. I used to have a hard time showing people my work. There’s something very personal about it. I’m not showing you a scene or a person; I’m showing you how I see a scene or a person. In the last two years, that discomfort has ebbed as I’ve been trying to circulate my portfolio in an attempt to get my name out into some different circles. For some reason, showing Kash my work is comfortable, almost easy.

  His lips curl into a knowing smile as I lift a sketchpad from my bag and hold it out to him. Without hesitation, he takes the book, holding it as though he understands and respects the countless hours that have been poured onto the pages.

  “Holy shit.” His voice is barely audible as he stares at a sheet.

  My curiosity is piqued. I move to look over his shoulder and see a drawing of Mercedes. Her hair is down, wrapped around her in curling vines, and her eyes are bright with a happiness that I’ve only recently been subjected to. Her mouth, however, is straight, reflecting little emotion as it does too often.

  “You’re an artist.” His words are filled with admiration and a sincerity that makes me suddenly feel nervous. “This is insane!” He stares at several of the pages without a word, just silently inspecting each of them with a level of respect that makes me feel proud.

  “These are really cool. Whose hands are these? Your boyfriends’?”

  That damn flush returns to my cheeks and I shake my head. He can tell they’re intimate even though there is nothing sexual on the page. “No. Nothing like that.” I know what page he’s looking at by catching sight of a heavily shaded corner. I had drawn a series of pictures with hands from all different angles. Every perspective I can still picture them being from that night: balancing a bottle, resting on his thigh, holding my hand, running along my sides. I have worked to block the memory of him but still find myself mindlessly sketching parts of him.

  “These are amazing, Lauren. Truly amazing.”

  “Lo.”

  Kash and I both turn toward the hallway where Mercedes is standing.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Her name’s Lo, Dad.”

  He smiles and nods. “Did you know Lo is a flipping artist?”

  “They look like pictures taken from a camera, don’t they?”

  “Yes! It’s crazy!”

  Kash’s form of artistry is a different realm altogether from my own, but his compliment feels nearly equal to hearing an accolade from Douglas McDougall or Anselm Kiefer.

  “HEY, LO. Are you ready?”

  I turn my head to look over my right shoulder and widen my eyes in question. “Ready for what?”

  “The shop is finally ready!” There’s a giddiness in her eyes and voice that I haven’t heard before, and it makes my heart swell, but it’s the smile on her face that makes it feel like it may burst.

  “Show me!” I don’t even consider what we’re going to do. I mindlessly follow her out into a light and steady late October drizzle. We pass the yard and continue on a well-worn dirt path to the large shop that can be seen from the house.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Want a drum roll?” Mercedes rolls her eyes with my dry tone, making me break into a smile. “Show me this world you love.”

  A smile creeps back across her lips as she turns and pul
ls the door open. My nose wrinkles with the assault of fumes as we step inside, but I don’t focus on it. I can’t. My eyes are trying to ingest all of the gray tones of cement and the wide path running around the parameter. There are long rails along a set of stairs, a large pit of foam, and two wide ramps that curve up in giant cement C’s, all surrounded by bright white walls.

  “This place is huge.” My voice is an echo, getting lost in the vastness.

  “Isn’t it awesome?”

  “Hey!” Mercedes and I turn and find Kash and Summer in the doorway. Kash is looking to Mercedes, obviously seeking approval. “What do you think? Pretty legit, right?”

  “It’s blowing my mind.” Kash’s smile grows with Mercedes’ approval.

  “Are you ready to break this baby in?” he asks, clasping his hands together.

  “What about King?”

  “He sent me a picture of the Alps yesterday. I think it’s a pretty even trade. Parker will be here in five.”

  “Come on, Lo, let’s pick a bike for you.” Mercedes takes my hand, and I truly consider following her before I stop.

  “Yeah, I think I’ll break in the bleacher seat,” I say, nodding to a long bench against the wall.

  “What? No! You have to come ride with us,” she objects.

  “I haven’t been on a bike in like ten years. I don’t think my outer layer of skin is going to look very pretty on these new floors.”

  “Everyone can ride a bike.” Her head falls to the side, daring me to disagree.

  “Not well,” I assure her.

  “Come on, Mercedes. She doesn’t want to, she doesn’t have to,” Summer objects. The fact that her eyes won’t settle on me makes me realize her sentiment is lacking something basic. Her outfit is simple and easy: a pair of skinny jeans and a graphic T-shirt. Somehow, the way she manages to wear them makes me feel uncomfortable and underdressed in comparison, though my mint green pants and floral blouse were even marveled by Allie yesterday when I set them out. I could likely wear one of the beautiful dresses that Allie and Charleigh create and still feel inadequate. Summer has a presence I can’t begin to compete with, let alone relate to.

  “Yeah, remember? You never push someone’s comfort zone on a bike. It makes Uncle King pissy as all hell to do all the paperwork that goes with broken bones.” Kash looks from Mercedes to me and winks, leaving me to wonder if he’s serious. “We can help get her comfortable with riding again by showing her how fun it is.” His eyes are bright, and his smile has become wide and inviting. “I bet she’ll want to join us soon!” He grabs a bike leaning against the wall and swings his leg over the seat. It looks too small under him, like it’s made for a child. He grips the handlebars and pulls up, making the bike bounce on the back tire as he twists his body to turn it. The movement is clearly practiced. It’s smooth and looks so simple, my brain tricks myself into thinking I’ve done the same maneuver myself in the past. Like I can feel the jars from the pavement as the front tire hits the cement again. Then he twists the bike below him, and suddenly, my eyes can’t move fast enough.

  Kash moves with a grace and elegance that doesn’t seem possible. It leaves me mesmerized, watching as he glides through the air, turning and twisting, leaving me with an envy and appreciation I didn’t know I would possess for the sport.

  Parker walks in shortly after, joining Summer and Kash in perfecting moves that seem impossible. Mercedes rides for a while and then returns her bike and sits beside me, naming moves and spins, and telling stories about the group and her own experiences. This isn’t the first time I get lost in her words and completely forget that she’s only ten. The fact that she hasn’t been treated like a child—given the ability to pretend that the world holds only hope and potential—saddens me and broadens that maternal instinct I feel toward her.

  “Dude, you aren’t watching! You’re going to miss it!” Mercedes cries, plunging a hand forward to redirect my attention to the ramps. I oblige and within seconds feel her head resting against my shoulder.

  It feels like the biggest accomplishment I’ve yet achieved.

  “WHAT ARE you doing?” I ask.

  “Freaking out!”

  I watch Allie pace her and Charleigh’s loft. Her neck is stretched forward and her shoulders are hunched as her eyes intently move around the crowded tables and fabric-covered floors. “What are you looking for?”

  “The fabric I picked up last weekend!” Her eyes swing toward me with a look of anguish that makes my eyebrows rise. “Sorry.” Her apology is clipped, removing any trace of sincerity, but I accept it and move to the kitchen where I take a seat on a stool so as to be out of the way. It’s moments like these that I really resent Kenzie and her male visitors.

  “Remember telling me I have a long torso, so empire waists look…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what you said, but you said to wear an empire waist dress.”

  I track her as she rifles through her shared closet. Her hands are quick and aggressive but gentle as they shove the materials around.

  “Yeah…”

  “You know that silk we picked up last weekend when we were in Seattle that matched the cotton voile so well? It had the really big print with coral and black and gray? The cotton had the coral and gray with darker undertones.”

  I saw so many fabrics at the store last weekend, I feel as though I can picture nearly any possible pattern. I have always loved clothes, and while some of the patterns were both thrilling and inspiring, others were completely overwhelming. The passion for design that Charleigh and Allie share makes my love for the arts expand into new regions. Since meeting them, my closet has grown and small accessories have been added. They both enjoy talking to me about sizes, patterns, colors, and shapes—things all artists like to brainstorm about. Allie feels that my knowledge and experience with drawing so many people and figures helps me see patterns better. I’m still not sure she’s right, but I’ve enjoyed working through some designs and the creation of some of her work. I nod absently and her eyes harden, recognizing it as a lie.

  “How could you forget that fabric? It was gorgeous!”

  “Do you know where Charleigh is? I tried calling and she didn’t answer,” I ask, deflecting her question.

  “She was staying late to cut out some patterns.”

  I nod a couple of times and slide from my stool. “Alright, well I’ll see you later.”

  “Sorry, sorry!” Allie turns toward me, her hands on her head. “I’m just so stressed out about the show now that themes have been announced, and I really want to make a dress to wear to the show that doesn’t cover any of them to hopefully showcase another design.” Her hands drop, followed by a loud sigh. “I think I need Drew Barrymore. Let’s order Chinese and watch Ever After.”

  “You and Charleigh and food. It’s like your comfort.”

  “Food is comforting to most people. It provides memories and a good reason to sit down and talk, or not talk and just fill yourself with yummy goodness. It’s like whenever I’m feeling homesick, I always make English muffin pizzas. It’s not because they’re my favorite food or the best thing my mom made, but whenever my dad worked late, she and I would make them together.” Allie shrugs and takes a seat on the couch. “Didn’t you guys have food traditions?”

  This time it’s my turn to shrug as I think back. “Not really.”

  “Sunday dinners? Weekend breakfasts? After school snacks?”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  “Alright, well, new tradition: Chinese food is now the comfort food to cure long days and stress.”

  “Deal,” I say, sitting beside her as she scrolls through the menu on her phone before calling in our order.

  “How are things going with the new job? You seem happier lately.”

  “I am. Things are improving. And that house was such a mess, and it’s finally starting to come together.”

  “I can’t believe you’re still cleaning! It’s been a month!”

  “I know, but when yo
u discover the sink isn’t really taupe—it’s white—it takes a while.”

  Allie’s nose wrinkles. “That’s disgusting.”

  I nod. “And slow moving.”

  “What’s slow moving?” Charleigh’s voice rings out.

  “We’re just discussing how Lo became a maid.”

  “I’m not a maid.”

  “It sounds like they’re allowing you to be,” Allie says, flipping on the TV.

  “It’s kind of weird, Lauren. It’s not like your room is super tidy.” Charleigh steps over my feet and sits beside Allie. The two of them have a special rhythm, a bond. Though they’ve become my best friends, I know they are best friends with each other, and I am their close friend. I try to not resent this because I don’t want them to be upset, or worse, feel guilty for being so close. The two share a love for fashion, reality TV, expensive fabrics, and similar childhoods. I’m an artist, so I can join in many of their conversations, enjoying most of them, but our focuses are often as different as night and day.

  “We ordered Chinese,” Allie explains.

  “Did you get it from Panda Box?”

  “Yes,” Allie answers, flipping off the movie and pulling up their DVR. “And I got you the beef and broccoli and sugar snap pea chicken, the two dishes that are as close to a hamburger as possible.”

  “Thanks, love. Lauren, how are you? You look happier today.”

  “That’s what I said,” Allie cries enthusiastically, sensing their shared bond.

  “I am. I’m really starting to enjoy working with Mercedes, and school is falling into a comfortable rhythm, finally. Things are going in a good direction.”