THE PICASSO PROJECT

by Carol Anne Shaw

  They look at each other and shrug, then start up the path.

  "I'll catch you up!" Maya calls after them and then fixes Eddie with an icy stare.

  "What," Eddie says slowly, "are you doing?"

  "What does it look like I'm doing? Going to school."

  "You know what I mean, Maya."

  "Jesus, Eddie! We were just going to walk to class. Gimme a break!"

  They stare at each other, and Eddie just can't think of the right thing to say. Not without starting a war. Anyway, there's no point. The timing isn't right so he ends up saying nothing. He doesn't want to make it worse.

  "I'll see you at lunch," he says finally.

  "Just relax, Eddiot!" It's Maya's nickname for her brother.

  "Later, Mayonnaise." Eddie's for her.

  Maya swings her backpack high over her shoulder and runs up the pathway towards the junior high annex to catch up the girls.

  ***

  One of the highlights of Eddie's math class is Amber Elliot, or more specifically, Amber Elliot's hair. It smells good; part strawberries and part that sweet amazing girl smell you can't really put into words. So, while old man Ramsey stands at the whiteboard talking about polynomials and distributive laws, Eddie sits behind Amber and inhales.

  "Mr. DuMont!" Ramsey's nasal voice hits Eddie like a sledgehammer to the side of his sleep-deprived head. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, annoyed he was so careless; he doesn't like being the centre of attention, not this year anyway. Staying invisible is the way to go. He and Maya have been doing it for almost a year, ever since their mom got hauled away back in the middle of the night.

  But there are only two more months left until Eddie turns nineteen—only two more months until grad. They are almost there. They are so close Eddie can taste it.

  "Sorry," Eddie tells Ramsey, even though he's not.

  "Sorry, Mr. DuMont? Do I need to remind you that year-end exams are just around the corner?" Ramsey folds his arms across his chest. He's wearing the same white shirt and red and blue striped tie he wears every day.

  "Right," Eddie says and wonders if Ramsey wears that same tie when he takes out his the trash at home.

  "Well, if you are aware of this fact, then perhaps more careful attention to the problem-solving up here would be in order? Anything short of a B in this class isn't going to do much for your university applications, Mr. DuMont."

  Muffled laughter from the class.

  Eddie nods like Ramsey has made a valid point but inside he's giving him a classic eye roll. Is the dude serious? Does he really think Eddie gives a fat rat's ass about his GPA? All he needs is his diploma. The Dogwood. After he snags that, he and Maya can come up for air, get out of hell and then right out of Dodge. In that order.

  Amber turns around and gives Eddie a less-than-friendly look over her left shoulder.

  Eddie freezes. Busted. Again!

  She moves farther up on her chair.

  "He's stoked on your hair," a girl at a neighbouring desk whispers to Amber. Leah? Laura? Leanna? Eddie can't remember her name.

  "Why don't you pay some attention to your own hair, instead of mine?" Amber says acidly.

  Eddie is used to comments like this because his hair is long. It reaches halfway down his back. Maya says he looks like a badass Jesus. He's not sure if that's good or bad, but whatever, he'll take it.

  "Maybe try a little shampoo once in a while?" Amber says acidly.

  Eddie bristles, because this is just an asshole thing to say. He never has dirty hair. He always finds a way, because, to be honest, he's a little vain about it. He decides right then and there, that while Amber's hair is awesome; she is not. He slumps back in his chair and stares straight into her round, hazel eyes. Yeah, he's breaking the rules again, but he can't help it. Amber turns away first. Score! Eddie thinks. He's always been able to rock the Mexican standoff.

  "So, ladies and gentlemen," Ramsey drones. "Let's move on and try the question on page 27, shall we? But hop to it, clock's ticking."

  Eddie's fingers are suddenly all thumbs and he drops his pencil. It rolls across the aisle and he sticks his foot out to stop it. His body feels strangely rubbery, but he bends to pick the pencil up and then pretends to be immersed in his textbook.

  The myriad of numbers blur in front of him until they are gone altogether. In their place, Eddie sees his father's face staring back at him on the page: the day-old stubble on his chin, the scar beside his right eyebrow; the way he always looked at Eddie like he was nothing.

  The room has grown silent, but Eddie can hear those two words loud and clear:

  Clock's ticking...

  Clock's ticking...

  Clock's ticking...

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE WEEPING WOMAN

  (Flashback)

  Gotta run, guys," his father says. "Clock's ticking."

  He's standing in the kitchen next to the yellow Formica table. His duffle bag is packed solid and sits heavily at his feet. The Picasso print—The Weeping Woman—hangs on the wall over his head. Eddie glances at it and thinks the woman in the painting looks sadder than ever; it's as though the fractured cubes that make up her face are going to splinter apart for good.

  His mom has had the print ever since he can remember. Eddie used to like it. He used to think the woman looked broken, but beautiful. But today he thinks she looks too broken to fix.

  Eddie's mother's hands grip the side of the door as though she's trying to keep herself from falling over. "When will you call?" she asks her husband nervously.

  "When I get settled, Sooze," Eddie's father walks to the front door, but he doesn't look at his wife. He looks out the door and up the road.

  "Daddy?" Maya takes a step toward him. "Are we going to live in California?" Maya thinks if you move to California, you automatically get to live in a house with a kidney bean-shaped swimming pool and a butler, but you can't blame her. She's not even twelve.

  "Lotta sun in Cali, Princess," her father tells her, and she beams up at him because she still thinks her father is some kind of wizard.

  "I'll send money next week, Sooze, but I gotta go. Check it out; my ride's here." The man kisses the air beside his wife's cheek. She turns her head to him, hoping for a real connection, but he's already gone.

  Eddie watches his father get into a green El Camino driven by a man in a white Stetson, and then stands with his mother and his sister, the three of them rooted to the spot, waving like morons. But Eddie's father doesn't even look out the window. Instead, he lights a cigarette. A moment later they hear the car stereo: Johnny Cash—Folsom Prison Blues.

  As the car disappears around the corner, Eddie realizes his father never said a single word to him; didn't even wave goodbye to his only son.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  (April)

  "Art washes the soul from the dust of everyday life."

  - Pablo Picasso

  Is there anyone around here with more dust in his or her soul than me? If there is, I'd sure like to meet them; we could do that whole, "misery loves company thing."

  And if what Pablo says is true, then I'm going to have to make a whole lot of art to wash away the friggin' dust bowl I was born into out of my soul.

  But sarcasm aside, I get what Pablo meant, because I can wake up cold and hungry, put on wet shoes, and have no gas in the car, but when I get to the art room and pull out the paints—WHAM! I'm hanging out on another plane of consciousness. I lose track of time. The art room is a temporary fix for the injustices of life.

  Hah, listen to me, Eddie DuMont, loser extraordinaire, sounding like some kind of flaky Zen master. But even so, sometimes when I'm lying wide awake in the Buick, trying to make sense out the card Maya and I were dealt, I allow myself to dream a little. I don't do it a lot because that kind of thinking is dangerous, let alone pointless. Still, sometimes I imagine what I could do if my feet were dry and I had a belly full of fried chicken.

  Hah...dream on sucker!
>
  CHAPTER FIVE

  Eddie slams his dog-eared sketchbook shut and shoves it down in his backpack. He doesn't know why he keeps writing this crap in it, but he's kept it up for almost a year. He read something somewhere about the health benefits of keeping a journal. He thinks it was in one of those fancy women's magazines his mother used to steal from the Laundromat--some kind of art therapy article or something. Maybe it's true; maybe it isn't.

  He can't remember why he started quoting Picasso, either. Maybe it's simply because he likes words, and for some reason, he knows almost every single one that dude ever spoke.

  ***

  The Open Arms Youth Shelter, or "The Arms," as Eddie and Maya call it, is a half-hour drive up the highway to Bennings, a nearby small town.

  They hardly ever drive the car; it's too risky. The Buick isn't insured, so it would be stupid to drive it around a lot. Still, Eddie's skill with a Sharpie marker on the plate's long-expired insurance sticker is pretty good, and while they usually go to The Arms on the bus, tonight they don't have the fare. They could use a lift, Eddie thinks and decides that tonight it's worth the risk.

  Friday's at The Arms are best. It's free pizza night, and Jim and Lesley who run the centre, are both great. There's always plenty of food, and they never ask too many questions.

  They stash their stuff under the tarp Eddie has strung between two sturdy alders, the "roof" over their heads, so to speak, then roll the Buick through the bush to the old access road that runs out to the highway. Eddie chose the spot because the road isn't used anymore. Its entrance is completely covered with overgrown cedar boughs. Maya holds two of the biggest ones aside so he can roll the car through, then she hops in the car beside her brother.

  "God, I'm starving!" she says.

  "Me, too," Eddie agrees. He thinks about pizza, the kind with a thick, doughy crust and a million toppings. He can taste it already.

  "Shoddy the Hawaiian," Maya announces, buckling her seat belt.

  "Deal," Eddie says. Fine by him; he's more of an Italian sausage fan, anyway.

  "Hey, Eddie?"

  "Yeah?"

  "School's okay now." Maya says this out of the blue, out of nowhere, and it catches Eddie a little off guard.

  "Okay," he says.

  "No. Really. It's going to be okay. It won't be like that time a few months ago."

  "We're almost through this, Maya. So, don't screw it up again, okay?" Eddie regrets the words as soon as they come out of his mouth. None of it was really her fault; she just wanted a goddamn friend. Good thing the friend moved away before their cover was blown.

  He changes the subject. "Hey. Do we have shampoo?"

  Maya nods and fishes around in her backpack. She pulls out a big bottle with a fancy label.

  "Where'd you get that?" Eddie asks.

  "Never mind," she says, smiling.

  They drive in silence until they get a red light at the intersection by the Farmer's Market.

  "They look so peaceful," Maya says with a sigh.

  "Who does?"

  "Those cows," She points to some grazing cattle in the field by the road, their velvet-brown coats lit up by the late afternoon sun. "Don't you think so?"

  "Sure," Eddie says. "Until it's time to turn them into hamburger, I guess."

  "God, you're such a buzzkill, Eddiot."

  Eddie smiles. A drive, some cows, a pizza, and some over-priced shampoo.

  As days go, it's not a bad one.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When they reach The Arms, Lesley is standing just inside the door, a dishtowel in her hands. Eddie thinks she looks tired, but that isn't surprising; she and Jim pretty much live there 24/7.

  "Hey Maya, hey Eddie," she says, pushing her hair behind her ears. "Good to see you guys."

  Maya walks on in like she owns the place, and flops down on the old green couch near the fireplace. Lesley sits down beside her with a big sigh.

  "How's it going?" Maya asks her, looking a little concerned.

  "Oh, kind of a rough day." Lesley allows her head fall back and gestures over to the common room; a big space filled with overstuffed furniture, a couple of futons, some sagging bookshelves, and a pool table. Leaning on a pool cue, is Scott, a.k.a. Scooter and he looks bad. He looks like he looked three months ago, Eddie thinks.

  "Uh-oh," Eddie says. "Scooter is using again?"

  "'Fraid so."

  "Shit."

  Eddie met Scooter the first time they ever went to The Arms. He was in rough shape back then, and he looks to be in even rougher shape now. The worst of it is, the kid is barely even sixteen.

  Eddie thinks about going over to talk to him but Scooter looks really out of it, so he doesn't. He's seen relapses like this before, and not just with Scooter.

  "He'll sleep here tonight," Lesley says. "Maybe tomorrow he'll be more up to talking."

  "Maybe," Eddie says, but he doubts it. Scooter talks even less than Eddie does unless he's ranting about something. But that's the thing about The Arms. You don't have to talk if you don't feel like it, and no one makes you feel like there's something wrong with you if you have nothing to say. Jim and Lesley understand if sometimes all you want is a warm meal and a place to hang for a few hours. Eddie likes that. A lot.

  "Where's Jim?" he asks.

  "Getting the pizza," Lesley says. "Should be back any minute." She closes her eyes and takes a couple of deep breaths before opening them again. "So...what's new with you two?"

  Before Eddie can answer, Maya cuts in. "Oh, we're good. Eddie's paranoid about me having a life and stuff, but other than that, it's all peachy."

  Lesley raises an eyebrow at Eddie like he's supposed to explain, but there's no way he's playing that game.

  "Okay if I get a shower?" Eddie asks.

  "Of course," Lesley says. "Fresh towels in the closet, same as always."

  "Thanks, Les." As he walks down the hallway that leads to the main washrooms, he looks back over his shoulder and sees Maya deep in discussion with Lesley, who is nodding her head like she totally gets her. They're probably talking about what a downer he is. How he keeps Maya on too short a leash. Jesus, it isn't like he wants to, but in their situation, you have to do what you have to do. Sure, it sucks that his kid sister can't do normal stuff like sleepovers and movie watching marathons or whatever the hell it is that girls do, but that's just the way it is.

  ***

  The showers at The Arms aren't the best. The water pressure is all over the place, and sometimes the best you can hope for is lukewarm. Today, however, the gods are smiling on Eddie. He gets a hot one, and the pressure holds steady at mediocre. He breathes in the steam and closes his eyes, relishing in the warmth.

  Whatever shampoo Maya got hold of, it's good. It smells like strawberries, which makes Eddie wonder if maybe she stole it from Amber in the gym or something. Hah, he thinks. That makes it even better.

  He lathers his hair twice then stands under the stream of water for another five minutes, long after the soap has disappeared down the drain. Hot showers like this one are one of the things he misses the most. He used to take them for granted, but then again, he used to take a lot of things for granted; things like flush toilets and grilled cheese sandwiches and dry socks—stuff most people don't think twice about. He doesn't feel too bad about hogging the shower. He knows it will be at least a week, maybe two, before he can do it again. The showers at school are quick and not very private so it's not the same.

  When the pizza comes, Eddie helps himself to four pieces right away and then comes back for two more. Sausage, green pepper, and onion, he eats more than he should but that's always the way it is with pizza; you've already eaten way too much by the time you realize you're full. And Jim and Lesley don't mind.

  A couple of kids show up that Eddie has never seen before, a girl and a guy about his age, both of them with a shit load of tats. They have a pretty cute baby named Sawyer: a chubby little guy with no teeth who gurgles happily in a baby seat while his parents scarf
down pizza and go through the help-wanted ads on the computer in the common room.

  "How's school?" Jim asks after Eddie takes his plate to the sink.

  "Okay."

  "Your last year, huh? Almost done."

  "Yep."

  "Plans for next year?"

  Eddie just looks at him. It's a dumb question; he barely knows his plans for tomorrow, let alone next year.

  Jim doesn't push it. Instead, he gestures toward the fridge and says, "Hey, there's lots of pop and stuff in there. Help yourself."

  Eddie opens the fridge and grabs himself a root beer. "Thanks, J." He pops the top on the can.

  Man, he thinks, this feels good: being full and warm with nothing to think about for at least a whole hour or two. He feels his shoulders begin to relax and lets himself sink down a little deeper into the chair. He could easily fall asleep like this. Maybe he will. Forty winks, as the saying goes.

  But when Maya appears in the hallway, Eddie is suddenly wide-awake. She has wet hair from her shower and someone else's clothes on: low-slung tight jeans and some kind of shirt that shows a lot of cleavage and half her belly. When she gets closer, Eddie can see she has makeup on, too: lipstick and some eye crap, mascara or something. It makes her already huge blue eyes look twice their normal size.

  "Maya. What the hell are you doing?" Eddie sits up and stares at his kid sister. Out of her usual sweatshirt, he barely recognizes her.

  "What do you mean? Jess gave me some of her old clothes. Aren't these killer jeans? They're like, two hundred bucks brand new. I can't believe she just gave them to me!"

  Eddie glares at Jess, the girl who helps out at The Arms a few nights a week.

  "What?" she says, looking confused.

  Eddie works hard to keep the edge out of his voice. "Well," he tells Maya, "you can just give them right back to Jess."

  "What? No!"

  "Give them back, Maya. You look like a little slut."