Maya and Eddie walk along the street in relative silence, which suits Maya fine because she's concentrating on her plan. She has to make this work. It's not like she's a born criminal or anything but she doesn't have a choice; she needs to look nice tomorrow. If there's a God up there somewhere, then she's pretty sure he'll understand. After all, she's gone without nice things her whole life.
The library is a big old brick building, and with the exception of St. Peter's church, is probably the most ornate building in Bridgeman Lake. There are even a few gargoyles carved into the stone pillars on either side of the main door.
Maya isn't much of a reader, except for the occasional horse story, but she still likes it there anyway, mostly because of the computers. Eddie, on the other hand, takes out more books than his backpack can hold. Old classics, mostly, even some Shakespeare. The librarians know him so well that they often put books aside they know he will like.
When they push through the double oak doors, the woman at the front desk looks at them from over the top of her glasses. She must be new. Eddie has never seen her before. She has one of those stern faces that might belong to someone who would get bent out of shape if a dog jumped up on their couch.
The woman looks at Eddie and frowns. Clearly, she thinks he is an "unsavory character." Maya read about "unsavory characters" in English yesterday, and as far as appearances go, Eddie definitely leans toward the unsavory. She thinks it's mostly his Jesus hair. Lots of adults see long hair on a young guy and immediately figure the dude has a switchblade and or a crack pipe inside his jacket. Maya smiles. If they only knew the truth about her brother, that he's actually a total book nerd. If they frisked him they'd be more likely to find a book by Charles Dickens and a sketchbook filled with crappy poetry about rain instead of crack cocaine. Some bad ass Eddie DuMont is.
Maya follows her brother through a maze of aisles until the reach the English literature section. There's an exit door to the sidewalk a few aisles over. She can easily slip out unnoticed.
"I'm going to hang out here," she tells her brother, putting her backpack on a chair beside a cubicle with a computer. "Stupid English homework."
"Okay," Eddie says. "I'm going upstairs to art history. Meet you back here at closing."
Maya does her best to look bored. "Okay. Whatever. If I've died between now and then, don't blame me. Blame Shakespeare."
But Eddie is already started walking toward the stairs, eager to get to the books. He's reading Thomas Hardy right now: Jude the Obscure. It's dark, but that's what he likes about it.
When Eddie has gone, Maya quickly logs onto a computer and goes straight to Facebook. Right away she sees she has a friend request...from Mark. Her heart misses a beat and she immediately clicks on "ACCEPT." Mark has posted up a million photographs of himself: surfing, mountain biking, snowboarding, and drinking beer. A lot of them show him without a shirt on. Maya's heart starts to pound, but then she remembers why she's here and logs off.
She pushes her books back into her backpack and slips out the exit door onto Radway Street. While she waits for the light to change, she can see the bright lights of Le Fleur, a trendy upscale women's clothing store on the other side of the road, the neon "OPEN" sign bright and beckoning in the window.
Perfect. She should be able to find something there, no problem. She crosses the street and enters the boutique.
"Hey there!" A perky sales clerk looks up from a stack of yoga pants and flashes Maya a bright smile. "Can I help you find something tonight?"
Maya hesitates by a rack of sweater coats. "Oh...no. I'm good. Just looking around. You know. But thanks," she says.
"No worries. Just give me a shout if you need a hand, okay? We have a bunch of new jeans in over against the far wall. Skinny jeans. Would look amazing on your long legs."
Maya smiles at her, "Thanks. Maybe I'll check those out!"
But she doesn't. Instead, she goes straight for the tops and blouses. She knows exactly what she wants: something pretty, something sexy and feminine. She takes her time, trying to make it look as though browsing; like this is something she does all the time. She feels the fabrics as though she knows what she's after, flips through the racks quickly, and then slows down and studies something for a moment or two. Cool and calm. That's the secret. At least, that's what Nicole says.
After ten minutes she has some items to try on.
"How many?" the perky sales clerk asks when she walks toward the fitting rooms.
"Six," Maya tells her, holding up the pile of hangers.
The sales clerk glances at them, but doesn't check, and leads Maya down the hall, opening a door with a number three on it for her.
"Holler if you need a different size, okay?" She hangs the plastic disc with a big "3" on it on the back of Maya's door and then closes it behind her.
"Thanks," Maya says after it's shut.
She hangs up the shirts. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six...and...seven. Thanks to her new friends, she's learned that it's always a good idea to sneak an extra shirt inside a bigger one, just in case, you know...things work out in the dressing room. Maya never would have thought of that.
After a few minutes, Miss Perky calls from outside the door. "How're you doing in there?"
"Fine," Maya answers, a bit too quickly. She wishes the sales clerk would go back to her stack of yoga pants and leave her alone.
The first shirt is too big. It hangs on her like an old tablecloth. The colour is wrong as well; too red. It makes her look washed out. She takes it off and hangs it back on the hanger, catching a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror. It's been a long time since she's really looked at herself like this. There are mirrors at school but not full-length ones, and there's certainly never any privacy. And there aren't any big mirrors at The Arms, either.
She stands still, wearing just her jeans and her bra. How long has she had these curves? She doesn't really feel all that different than she did last year, but she is pleased and surprised to see that she looks like another girl. She glances over her shoulder, half expecting the sales clerk to open the door and say something, but no, she can hear her talking to another customer out in the store now.
Maya unhooks her bra and slips out of it. She stands up straighter and studies her breasts, staring at them as though they are foreign objects that have suddenly found a home on her body.
She leans in closer to the mirror and stares into her eyes. Blue eyes—almost turquoise—with thick, dark lashes.
Maya smiles. She's not a little kid anymore. She's a woman, and she's pretty! She deserves to have something nice to wear. It's not like she's hurting anyone. It's not like it's a real crime to steal a top to wear on a date with a handsome boy.
The fourth blouse she tries on is perfect. It's lavender and filmy and cut low with flowing sleeves and tiny white flowers embroidered along the border. She likes the way it looks, ending just at her waist and showing a sliver of her stomach. The neckline is nice, too—just low enough to peek at the swell of her breasts.
She picks up the price tag. $78. Who has that kind of money to spend on a blouse? It's insane! No one should have to pay that much for a shirt. Not even a blouse like this one.
She takes the tag, with the electronic scanner thing that Nicole said you have to remove, and digging deep into my backpack, finds the utility knife, the one she took from school.
Prying off the scanning tag is hard, but she manages it and hides it behind the full-length mirror. All that's left is getting out of the store. She rolls up the lavender blouse and tucks it inside one of her school P.E. shirts, then hides it at the bottom of her backpack under her English textbook. Mark will think it's so pretty. She can't remember the last time she had anything so pretty. Maybe never.
She hands back the six tops on the six hangers to the perky sales clerk, who says, "Find anything you like?"
"Hmmmmm," Maya murmurs. "Not really. Nothing that really grabs me, you know?"
"Oh, I get it," she says. "It can
be frustrating, right?"
"Right."
Maya is careful not to leave the store too soon. Nicole says that's a big faux pas. That means a mistake. Faux Pas. It's another word she learned in English class. Eddie says their life is one big faux pas.
She makes a point of browsing through the tank tops and then checks out the skinny jeans that Miss Perky was talking about earlier. After three whole minutes, she saunters toward the door and smiles at the clerk.
"Well, thanks," she tells her. "I guess I'll come back another time."
"No problem," the clerk says. "We have new stock coming in next week for summer."
"Oh, great. Okay." And then she's out the door and back in the library, with a perfect, pretty, lavender top nestled inside her backpack—a lavender top that makes her feel like a princess—a lavender top that Mark is going to love.
She never knew stealing could be so easy.
CHAPTER TWENTY
JOURNAL ENTRY
(Still May)
"Every act of creation is first an act of destruction."
- Pablo Picasso
And then there was Mom, presumably thinking, when she met my father, that she about to embark on an idyllic journey—one that included a shiny little life behind a white picket fence--a life with a coffee maker and a regular hairdresser and Chinese food takeout dinners every now and then.
But that's not how it worked out for her at all. The minute my father came through the door, my mother just pulled the blinds down and shut out the clouds that hung over every single place we ever lived. She ignored her intuition, so she could believe the lie. That was her ultimate act of destruction.
And then, along came Maya and me. The "creation."
Good job, Mom. You should have just made a cake.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The next couple of days pass without any memorable moments. This is just the way Eddie likes them—easily forgettable. It's safer that way.
Maya did go to study block yesterday at lunch, Eddie thinks, so maybe he's wrong. Because that's pretty memorable. Maybe, just maybe, she's starting to take things more seriously.
The calm continues until the last block of the day.
"Eddie?" Mr. Mackie appears beside Eddie's easel, a look of grave concern on his face.
"Yeah?" Eddie can tell Mr. Mac wants to talk, but he doesn't put down his paintbrush.
"I wonder," he says, "could you spare me a couple of minutes after class? There's something I want to talk with you about."
He's scratching the stubble on his chin, the way he always does when he's chewing on something. This makes Eddie instantly nervous. What can he possibly want to talk to him about? He knows Eddie isn't big on talking. To him, or anyone else for that matter. He back tracks over the last few days. Did he do anything? Did he let anything slip? Is he going to hit him with the, I'm concerned about you, Eddie. You look tired. I tried to call your mother, but your number won't go through. Is he going to jump into the, is everything okay at home, schtick?
Eddie has been so careful these past few months. A bogus phone number and a post office box rental for the remainder of the year that cost him ninety bucks...the most money he's ever spent all at once in a long time. But the school needs an address, and so far, so good. And Eddie likes having an actual key to a mailbox. He never gets mail, only school notices and flyers from Canadian Tire, but he likes the way the key sits next to the Buick key on his ring.
"Eddie?" Mr. Mackie says, waiting for a response.
"Oh, yeah." Eddie puts his brush in the jar of water on the table beside him. "Sure. No problem."
"Good. We'll talk in a bit, then."
And then he's gone, off to talk with Rayna Morris about her Pollack-like-road kill-on-canvas she's struggling with on the other side of the art room.
Eddie looks back at his own piece. It's a piece of shit. The blues are too grey. The figures are too static. The cubist parts look contrived.
He takes a sponge, drowns it in white gesso and smears it across the canvas in wide purposeful swipes. Good riddance, piece of shit. Mr. Mac raises an eyebrow at him but doesn't say anything. He's used to Eddie's impulsive behaviour when he's painting.
Jasmine Hammond peeks around the corner of her own easel and gives Eddie the thumbs up.
"You hated it too, eh?" Eddie says, staring at his now blank canvas.
"No," Jasmine says. "I thought it was brilliant. But obviously, you didn't. So it was probably a good thing you did that." She flashes him a smile and shrugs. Her hair is longer these days, and mahogany-coloured curls fall in front of her dark eyes every which way. Eddie makes a point to look in the other direction.
When the bell goes, he waits for everyone to clean up and leave, but Jasmine keeps painting. She's like that, Eddie thinks; kind of OCD. Sometimes she's there until five o'clock, or that's what Eddie hears, anyway. He has a feeling that today might be one of those days. It isn't really surprising though, Jasmine Hammond is probably the hardest working student in the class. She's certainly the hottest, Eddie thinks. Jasmine Hammond and her damn British accent.
After he's washed his brushes and put them away in my cupboard, he heads to the office at the back of the room where he finds Mr. Mackie talking on his phone. He motions for Eddie to come in and points to the chair beside his filing cabinet.
Eddie waits for him to finish his call—something about framing supplies and back-ordered red paint—and stares at the print on the wall just above his head. It's a Van Gogh: Wheatfield with Crows—one of Eddie's personal favourites—all that movement in the wheat, and the crows, well, what's not to like about the most badass of all birds?
Mr. Mac hangs up the phone and swivels round in his old oak chair to face Eddie. He twirls a Bic pen between his fingers, a sure sign he's about to say something serious. Eddie braces himself.
"Eddie. I need to ask you something."
Shit. Here it comes.
"What are your plans?"
"My plans?" Eddie crosses his feet at the ankles to stop them from jigging around and then uncrosses them so Mr. Mac doesn't notice the fresh duct tape that covers most of his shoe.
"Yeah," Mr. Mac says, noticing anyway. "For next year. You have any thoughts about post-secondary, Eddie?"
Eddie tries not to laugh out loud because that would be rude. Mr. Mac is just being a teacher. Still, that's what this is all about, Mr. Mac wanting to talk about university choices?
"I haven't really thought about it," Eddie says.
"Really?" Mr. Mackie taps the Bic against the frame of his glasses and stares at Eddie hard. "You're leaving it a little late, aren't you?"
"There's still time," Eddie says.
"You ever think about art school?" Mackie asks. "I could see you at the Coastal Academy of Visual Arts in Vancouver. Have you checked out their Foundations year? It's an amazing program."
Have I thought about art school? The Coastal Academy? Only for the past four friggin' years. "Not much," Eddie lies.
"It's expensive, but I think you stand a good chance at nabbing a scholarship on the strength of your portfolio." He puts the pen down on the desk and weaves his fingers together under his chin.
A scholarship? To Coastal Academy? That's the lamest thing Eddie has heard in a while. Mr. Mac has been holed up in the art room too long. He's forgotten how the real world works. He should probably retire.
When Eddie doesn't say anything, Mr. Mackie says, "I'm not kidding, Eddie. Your AP portfolio is strong. All you would need to do is take some high-quality photos of your work. Write an essay. Get a couple letters of recommendation, that sort of thing. I'm happy to help you with it if you're game."
Eddie blinks at him. "Oh. Well, that's pretty decent of you, Mr. Mackie. Thank you."
Eddie's head spins. This is insanity, he thinks. He signed up for Mr. Mac's AP Studio Art class because he likes to paint. End of story. Sure, the course is all about creating a professional portfolio, but it's not like he's ever going to do anything with his. It's
not as though he's going to pack up his duffle bag come August and head off to the big city to find an apartment with a bunch of other art students who sit around listening to indie rock bands on vinyl when they're not riding their fixies all through town. Nice dream, but hello? It ain't ever going to happen, Eddie thinks. And even if it could, there's Maya to consider. What about Maya? Who would watch after her?
"Eddie?"
Eddie blinks again and puts his hands on his knees. "Sorry. I zoned out a little, but I'll think about it."
"You're seriously interested?"
"I guess."
"I guess doesn't sound all that convincing."
"Oh, yeah. It's just that I've got lots on my plate right now. You know. Heavy course load. Exams looming. Grade twelve's a bitch."
Mackie smiles. "Isn't that the truth? Well listen, give it some thought. We'll talk again. In the meantime, take this." He hands Eddie The Coastal Academy of Art and Design brochure—a glossy photo of an art deco-style sculpture with the North Shore mountains in the distance on the cover.
"Give it a look through," Mr. Mackie says. "See what you think."
"Thanks, Mr. Mackie," Eddie says. He stands up and tucks the brochure under his arm.
When he shuts the door of Mr. Mackie's office and walks back through the art room, Jasmine is standing back from her massive canvas with her arms folded. She's wearing black army boots and a black lace skirt. The girl has a unique style, Eddie thinks on his way to the door, and then thinks better of it.
"I positively despise this painting," Jasmine says to no one in particular. "Why can't things just be easy for once!"
"Hah," Eddie says, without turning around, "I'm with you on that, Hammond."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JOURNAL ENTRY
(May)
THE PICASSO PROJECT Page 6
