The Boy Next Story

by Tiffany Schmidt

  Toby’s brow furrowed. “I have songs about everyone important to me. You have songs, so many.”

  I wanted to squeak. Really? To find the closest church or school or house with a piano and ask him to play them. I wanted to live in the giddy euphoria of that moment. I. Had. Songs.

  Instead I swallowed and bit the inside of my cheek. Reality-check time. “Yeah, but do my songs make you cry?”

  “How do you . . .” He sighed. “Aurora the spy. Never mind.”

  “I don’t want to be anyone’s backup plan. Especially not yours. I’m not a replacement sister. I want you to like me, not my last name.” My mouth was full of sparks, yet I couldn’t stop licking at the dynamite. And what was my alternative? Swallow them down to a stomach full of gasoline? Destroy us or destroy myself.

  I was choosing to save me.

  Toby had one hand fisted in his hair and the other clutching his seat belt like he was physically restraining himself. “Roar—no. I’m . . .” He shook his head. “I’m not sorry. That’s not what I’m feeling—but I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I’m messing this all up. Let me start over.”

  “Don’t.” It was a plea I whispered to my lap as I tightened my hand around the straps of my bag. I didn’t want to hear some speech about You mean so much to me, but I don’t want to risk our friendship, because that was a pretty lie that meant I don’t feel the same way, but I don’t want to be the bad guy and tell you the truth. And pretty lies hurt more, because they were knotted with permission for misplaced hope. “Please, just—don’t.”

  “Roar—” The cracks in his voice could swallow me whole.

  “You know my compass points, Toby? The things you told me would always guide me home?”

  “Yeah,” he said softly, his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

  “You’ve always been one of mine.” I shoved the car door open, holding up a hand when he moved to follow. “Maybe that’s why I’ve felt so lost.”

  49

  I checked the time on my phone—seventy-three more minutes until the train reached New York. Which was about seventy-two more than I could tolerate spending in my head. I’d already gone through half of my tissues and made the inside of my hoodie soggy with tears. I dropped my phone in my bag and fished out Little Women. I wanted to distract myself with Amy’s art adventures as I prepared for my own.

  But what I wasn’t prepared for was seeing my heart shredded on the page.

  I was sickeningly disappointed with Amy. I didn’t want to read pages of her tourist travels. I didn’t want her to write her mother and say she’d decided to settle on a courtship with Laurie’s friend Fred. It sounded like she was talking herself into it for all the wrong reasons: He’s nice, he loves her, his family likes her, she’ll be able to provide for her family.

  But what about the art? I wanted Amy to burn brightly. I wanted her to forge a path across Europe with her paintbrush and charcoals. I wanted her to erupt with talent and success . . . not settle.

  Then Jo went on this epically boring multichapter trip to New York where she makes friends with a forty-year-old guy, starts writing, stops writing, then goes back home.

  And Laurie. He had to go and propose. For once Jo and I were in agreement when she begged him not to spill his feelings. I was mouthing the words along with her, “No, Teddy, please don’t.” He didn’t listen to either of us but proclaimed his love for Merri—I mean Jo. And he was pulverized by her rejection. I felt like I was back in the hallway outside Toby’s bedroom. The white carpet under my knees as he played his broken heart into the melodies he wrote for my sister. Tears were running down my cheeks and I couldn’t stop there. I had to keep turning pages.

  “Miss?” I looked up from my hoodie cave, raining tissues onto the train floor. The conductor was standing at my row and the seats around me were empty. “We’re at Penn Station.”

  I sniffed and wiped my cheeks. “Oh, thanks.”

  “Are you okay?”

  I nodded and sniffed again, no closer to holding in tears than I was chapters earlier. “It’s just—after everything, stupid Beth had to go and say she’s dying. I mean, she’s obnoxiously saintly and boring, but then she’s like, ‘I’m sorry, I’m dying,’ and I’m a mess, you know?”

  He took off his conductor cap and wiped his bald head. “I’m not sure I follow, but sorry for your loss.”

  “What?” I blinked. “No. Beth . . . It’s in a book. She’s not a person.”

  “Ahh.” He squinted. “You’re one of those brainy types. Maybe join a book club or something.”

  I snorted as I gathered up my stuff, fishing used tissues off the floor and shoving them in my pocket. “No one has ever confused me with ‘brainy’ before. But sorry for being weird and not getting off.”

  He laughed as he stepped back to let me pass. “Young lady, this is New York. You’re not even close to weird. Have a good one.”

  I stepped off onto the platform. I was supposed to meet two other workshoppers beneath a giant clock in five minutes. I could only hope my face would be less guess-who’s-been-crying blotchy by then. And that they were nice, because this was the part I hadn’t let myself think about—strangers. I was going to spend the next week surrounded by strangers. And I hated all things new and scary.

  50

  We came from Iowa and California. Michigan and Maine. One of the Dakotas and both of the Carolinas. Pennsylvania and Oregon. And right in New York. A spectrum of colors, sizes, religions, and genders. If I’d had to describe everyone, I would’ve said talented and focused first—way down the list of adjectives would be kind. Even Merri at her merriest would’ve had a hard time turning the other workshoppers into lifelong friends, because—thankfully—we weren’t there to socialize and do late-night slumber parties. We were there to draw, paint, create. We were there to learn.

  Which isn’t to say we didn’t hang out or talk. I’d gone to MoMA with the workshoppers I’d met at the train station. There’d been time between when we reached the dorm and the welcome dinner, and when Justin suggested, “Let’s go see some art,” Trinity and I had been all about agreeing. But we didn’t stay glued together in the museum. No one hurried me when I wanted to linger in front of The Starry Night, and an hour later I passed Trinity entranced by Lichtenstein’s Drowning Girl.

  When we met out front at five, Justin had already bought a giant street pretzel. He tore it into thirds and we spent the trip back to the dorms in an effortless and overlapping discussion of the exhibits. The conversation at dinner that night was more of the same—us getting loud and louder in a pizza place as we shared favorite artists and techniques. Favorite museums and pieces. We shared the prints we had hung on our bedroom walls, the first time we’d heard of Snipes, and our reactions to being accepted into the workshop.

  Marie from Michigan, whose dorm room was next to mine, paused in her doorway to say good night. Her hair was bundled up in a scarf and she was carrying her face wash and toothbrush. “It’s a bit like finally finding people who speak your language, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, emotionally exhausted from the day but eager for tomorrow when we would enter the studio. “Exactly like that.”

  Call-me-Andrea Snipes had started our workshop by going over her guidelines: We had twenty-four-hour access to the studio—a white-walled space with concrete floors, an army of easels, a storeroom of supplies, long steel sinks, and a wall of windows—but we were not to walk home alone between ten p.m. and five a.m. If we felt inspired to create during those hours, we needed to call the security number and get an escort. She wasn’t going to police us, but she recommended that within every twenty-four-hour period we get at least five hours of sleep, drink four noncaffeinated beverages, take three breaks to step outside, and eat two full meals.

  Overall, it was a frightening amount of freedom. My parents had pictured something like summer camp, with meal hours, group activities, lights out. I didn’t correct them.

  Andrea didn’t have a set syllabus or preplann
ed lessons. Instead, she let us shape our own curriculums. Before we put a single mark on our first blank pages, we each had to tell her our goal for the workshop. She jotted each student’s down on a bright green sticky note and stuck it at the top of their easel.

  “There are no prizes,” she proclaimed. “And no penalties. While you’re here, your only job is to support and learn from each other. Every one of you has something to contribute to the group. Whether you finish one piece or eight or none at all—my only request is that you respect yourself and your peers.”

  There was no easel kicking, no nasty glances. I was practically giddy to be in a space where the mutterings were compliments and I didn’t have to hide my talent or my voice.

  With every rotation around the studio Andrea asked about our progress. “How are you challenging yourself right now?” These conversations led to personalized mini lessons. Tutorials on technique or demonstrations or critiques. It was hard to wait my turn. Hard not to eavesdrop when she was working with the artists on either side of me. And sometimes hard to stop drawing when she reached my easel. We each had a yellow sticky note labeled Do not disturb for this purpose. All we had to do was hang it up and she’d skip us on that rotation, but I couldn’t convince myself to give up even a second of her instruction.

  Those around me set goals like edges, capturing white on white, scumbling.

  I chose emotion. A goal that made Andrea smile and ask, “To evoke or to capture your own?”

  I scraped at a spot of dried paint on my easel. “Capture my own, but in a way that translates to the viewer. They don’t have to experience the same feeling I’m drawing, but I want them to be able to recognize it.”

  “That’s a lofty goal.” She considered my paper, where I’d just begun to block out the barest lines of a portrait. “Do you have an emotion in mind?”

  “Love,” I answered immediately.

  She smiled. “Let’s see what you do with it.”

  Andrea arrived each morning by seven thirty. She left by four. I worked so intensely during those hours that when she left, I usually did too. I’d take the stairs down from the studio and try to relax the muscles in my back and wrist, wake up the muscles in my legs by wandering until my head had cleared and my eyes no longer strained for an easel that wasn’t in front of me.

  The first night, I’d walked to a nearby art supply store and bought two small sketch pads—one a dignified dove gray, the other covered in pink hearts. I stuck them in the tote bag I brought everywhere, pulling them out every so often to complete a quick drawing when something caught my eye. I’d also found some takeout, then headed back to my dorm, where I ate dinner on my bed while calling home. Then I met up with Trinity to practice Andrea’s mini lessons so I wouldn’t forget a thing.

  The second night Justin organized a group dinner. We’d crammed into two tables and it had lasted two hours. The conversation had been witty and arty, but by day three I needed air and space and privacy.

  I didn’t want to go back to my dorm and stare at those walls. Or my noisy phone with its stacks of unanswered texts. I didn’t want to sit around a plate of fries and make small talk. And I definitely needed time away from my easel. I’d spent the day staring at the face I was drawing, and while everyone had complimented the way I’d captured it, it no longer looked familiar—in the way that repeating a word over and over turns the sounds and syllables to gibberish.

  I definitely, definitely didn’t want to read any more Little Women—because what did I do with the fact that Laurie had met up with Amy in Europe? That he found her beautiful and grown-up and yet still the girl he’d known for so long—someone he enjoyed spending time with. And what did any of these facts matter when Amy was still trying to talk herself into marrying his friend Fred and Laurie was still going sad-eyed over even a sketch of Jo?

  I’d read that chapter so quickly the night before, I’d had to go back and read it again this morning. I’d skipped the next chapter. It was all old-married-boring-baby stuff with Meg and her husband. Sorry, Lilly—I mentally promised to be more interested when that sort of thing took place in my real sister’s life—but anything keeping me from more pages of Laurie and Amy deserved to be ripped out of the book. And yet, I could’ve turned into any of the coffee shops or restaurants along the street. I could’ve found a seat, ordered, and pulled the book out of my bag to find out what happened in the chapter titled “Lazy Laurence.”

  Instead I kept walking and made a phone call.

  “Meet me at the Met?” I asked when he answered.

  “Affirmative. I’ll be there ASAP.” He pronounced it a-sap, something I would’ve given him grief about, but he’d already said, “Huck over and out” and hung up.

  51

  “You too good for me yet?” Huck asked as I strolled around the corner of the museum and into his hug. “I mean, on a scale from stick figures to Singer Sargent, how talented are you now?”

  I laughed as we walked up the steps. “You should start trying to steal my homework now, because my signature’s going to be worth something someday.”

  “Is that the new ‘My dog ate it’? Sorry, Mrs. Roberts, I don’t have my homework because it was stolen by art fans. I’d pay money to see you try that.” We stopped at the kiosk to buy our tickets and I followed Huck around the crowds and past the gift shops. “Hey, I got something for you,” he said as we approached the Medieval Arts exhibits. “Hold out your wrist.”

  He pushed up my sleeve and knotted on a lumpy string bracelet. “What is that?” I asked, rotating my arm to examine the gaudily bright colors and lopsided braiding.

  “It’s your friendship bracelet obviously. I promised it to you back in September. I gave you a few months to change your mind, but now you’re stuck with me.” He grinned and began to wander among the displays. “You’re welcome. So, what’s the famous Snipes like?”

  “She’s . . . great.” I struggled to figure out how to capture her while standing in a museum that displayed some of her art. “She’d be a horrible substitute teacher. She’s too easy to distract and get off topic. All you have to do is ask her a question, and she’ll drop everything to answer it. She tells these amazing stories from her gallery shows and museum openings. One time every guest got food poisoning and the writer who was supposed to cover the event was too busy vomiting to meet his deadline. She’s got so many stories about patrons of the arts and narrow-minded critics. One guy offered her a million dollars if she’d repaint Girl, Rising but make the subject nude—obviously he missed the point. She’s told us about pieces she’d loved and then burned because they were too private to exist in this world. And pieces she hates that are hanging in major museums. And she still gets intimidated by every blank canvas. I find that so comforting.”

  “So I take it you still want to do this?” Huck gestured around us at art that had lasted centuries, telling stories of creators long gone. “Even though you’re risking food poisoning and creepy guys and, like, jet lag from all the world traveling you’ll be doing for your openings and exhibits?” He dimpled down at me. “And paper cuts. Don’t forget the paper cuts.”

  I inhaled my shoulders up to my ears and exhaled into a smile. “More than ever.”

  “Then I’ll start stealing your homework. Feel free to doodle in the margins.”

  His belief in me was complete and uncomplicated. It made me want to dance in the aisles or spin through a doorway. I mean, I would never—I’d leave all that to Merri and people who didn’t mind being kicked out of museums—but for a second I wanted to. “Argh, it’s too bad I don’t like-like you.”

  Huck laughed and bumped his shoulder against mine. “One of the world’s greatest tragedies. Why can’t we like-like each other?”

  “I’m serious. We get along. I’m not nervous around you. We both like art and have the same classes. I could learn to tolerate lacrosse. Maybe you’d try yoga?” I stepped between him and the entrance to the American Art exhibit. “We spend enough time together that we migh
t as well be dating.”

  Huck’s dimples were MIA and his forehead was wrinkled. I’d never seen him serious before and the expression looked odd on him. “Except, I don’t like you like that. And you don’t . . . Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Good heavens, woman, don’t scare me like that.” He pulled a hand to his chest and stepped around me, into a small hall of paintings.

  “I don’t . . . But maybe we could?” This was probably the world’s worst idea, stranger than the painting of a boy and his squirrel in front of us, but was it any worse than what Amy March was doing with Fred Vaughn? It would be easier for everyone if I excused myself from the secret love triangle that caused so much Campbell sister tension. If Ms. Gregoire had had a purpose for assigning me Little Women, maybe this was it. “I mean, would it be awful?”

  “Just to be clear, you want to try dating?” He waved a finger back and forth between us and swallowed. “Each other? And for real, not fake?”

  “Maybe we’d fall in love later. It happens in, like, fifty percent of Merri’s romance novels.” When Huck continued to stare at me with his mouth open, I mumbled, “It’s stupid, forget it.”

  “Not that you’ve read them, because you hate books,” he reminded me as he pinched his arm and mine too. When I smacked his hand, he said, “Hey there, I guess we’re not dreaming, but I’m breaking up with you if you get abusive.”

  I gave a thin laugh. “Shut up.”

  “If you really want, I guess we can . . .” He gave me a grave nod. “We should at least try, right?” He pointed to the golden eagle clutching a ball that hung above our heads. “Pretend that’s mistletoe.” He took a step closer to me, and I copied the movement. When he reached for my cheek, I reached for his. It was like a mirrored game of Twister. Left hand shoulder, right hand cheek.