"What one does is what counts and not what one had the intention of doing."
- Pablo Picasso
I heard someone once say, "Well, my intentions are good, so that has to account for something, right?"
Sorry, but I disagree. If you could get by on good intentions, well, things would play out pretty differently.
My life has been filled with good intentions—all sorts of them. Yep, that's me.
Mr. Means Well.
Mr. Hang in There
Mr. It'll All Be Okay Soon
Mr. Keep My Nose Clean
So maybe I'll just wait a little longer, because if what Pablo says is true, then this all stuff I'm doing has gotta count. I'm doing what I have to do to get by. I'm doing what I have to do to keep us safe.
Ten...
Nine...
Eight...
Seven...
Six...
Five...
Four...
Three...
Two...
One.
I sure hope it all counts for something.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"What's with you and Picasso, anyway?" Jasmine asks Eddie. It's a rare double block of art, and everyone is in what Mr. Mackie calls, The Zone.
Jasmine leans toward Eddie's easel, scrunching up her face that particular way she has—the way that makes Eddie have to work hard to suppress a smile. She has a bright, pixie-like face, and her hair keeps falling in front of her face...
Jesus. Get a grip, DuMont.
"Picasso is just an influence," Eddie tells her. "That's all. I guess I like cubism."
Jasmine thinks about that for a minute. "Well, it's clever. But then, all your artwork is clever. Still, there's definitely some Picasso going on in most everything you do."
Eddie wants her to stop talking. He wants her to go away. He doesn't like to talk when he's working, especially to pretty girls. Especially pretty girls like Jasmine Hammond.
"Why are you so chuffed with him, anyway?" She takes a handful of her dark brown hair and holds it on top of her head. Little tendrils escape and curl around her cheeks and the nape of her neck. Shit, Eddie thinks, looking away. She needs to stop. Doesn't she have her own stuff to work on?
He keeps his eyes focused on his canvas. "I like his art."
"And you admire him," Jasmine says. It's more a statement than a question.
"If you want to know the truth," Eddie hears himself say, "I've actually read he was kind of an asshole."
"Really?"
"Yeah." Eddie frowns. What's with him and all this talking? He should shut up. For real.
"How so?" Jasmine lets her hair drop down to her shoulders and gets busy mixing a little blue paint to her yellow until a soft teal green shade appears on her tray.
"It sounds like he was a bit of a shit-stirrer," Eddie says.
"So?" Jasmine says, "Why does that automatically make him an asshole?"
"You didn't let me finish."
Jasmine rolls her eyes. "Fine. Continue."
"I hear that once he was at a party, and everyone was fawning all over him. You know, the way people get off on that whole celebrity worship thing. Anyway, he gets tired of the whole charade and just stands up on this fancy chintz couch in the host's house, and like, takes a piss on it."
"What? Charming."
"Right? But, I sort of get it," Eddie says.
"Do you?" Jasmine laughs. "Remind me never to invite you over to my house."
Eddie feels his cheeks grow warm, but he still can't shut up. He's on a roll now. "It's like, everyone wanted to kiss his ass. Just because of his name, just because he was fucking Picasso. They didn't even know him, but they were convinced he was some sort of a Demigod. It was probably kind of a rush for him in the beginning, but come on, you'd start to doubt your own talent after a while, wouldn't you?"
"Perhaps."
"So, he pisses on a couch and, guess what? They still love him. They probably even fought over who got to buy that chintz sofa." Eddie shakes his head.
"So, why do you like his art so much then?" Jasmine asks. "Because now that I now that about him, it puts me off him a little bit."
"I dunno. I think it's more his philosophy. He said some pretty awesome stuff. Plus, there's the whole cubism thing. I like that. I like the way everything is so messed up and fragmented, but you can still see beauty in the cracks and dark spaces and angles."
"You're very deep, Edward DuMont," Jasmine says earnestly. "It's a metaphor for life."
Is she mocking him? Eddie can't tell. But yeah, she's right. That metaphor stuff. This is exactly why Eddie likes Picasso, only he doesn't tell Jasmine this. He loves how even the most fractured image can still be relevant. Can still have its place. It gives him hope. Like The Weeping Woman, he keeps in on the dash in the car. That print is the one constant in his life. As for its relevance, well, Eddie hasn't quite figured that part out yet.
"A metaphor..." he says, like he'd never considered that before. "Maybe."
"Well," Jasmine says, "I meant what I said, Eddie. Your stuff is really good, with more passion than Picasso's works. Your stuff has life. It actually breathes."
Eddie stiffens. He feels suddenly exhausted, and he's not used to compliments from pretty girls. Also, the compliment is way over the top. He isn't an idiot. Still...
"Thanks, Hammond."
"Are you going to apply for an art scholarship?" Jasmine asks this out of the blue. She puts her paintbrush down and comes to stand beside him. He hates it when people come and stand by him when he's working, especially Jasmine Hammond. Suddenly his fingers become thumbs and he's afraid he might drop his brush.
"Me? Yeah, right."
"I heard Mr. Mac talking to you about Coastal Academy. You absolutely should go for it. You'd be a shoe-in."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Eddie tells her. It comes out sounding sarcastic.
Jasmine sighs and goes back to her easel, slamming her paintbrush down on the table beside her.
"What?" Eddie says.
"You're so infuriating," Jasmine says. "You're so bloody talented and you act like it doesn't even matter. You act like it's all just a big joke."
Eddie doesn't say anything. Instead, he adds a wash of black paint across the top of his work.
"It's a gift, you know," Jasmine goes on. "Your talent. And you're not the least bit grateful. You don't even know how lucky you are."
Lucky? Eddie? He laughs.
He thinks that's the funniest thing he's heard in a long time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
JOURNAL ENTRY
(May)
"Are we to paint what's on the face, what's inside the face, or what's behind it?"
- Pablo Picasso
Paint what's on the face. Paint the hair colour, the eye colour, paint the smug expression of entitlement. Paint the look of disgust - the one they wear when they stand next to me at the bus stop. Paint the way their eyes dart back and forth like fish in a tank when they're trying their hardest not to stare at me and my crappy duct-taped shoes.
Paint what's inside the face: Paint the rampant insecurity that they all feel. Paint the fear they try to stifle when they're up against something unfamiliar; something they don't understand. Paint the knife they keep deep in their pockets, their hands on the hilt, ready to pull out and stab people like me in the back the minute I turn away.
Paint what's behind the face: Paint that one-way blacktop road going to anywhere but where I'm standing. That would be the best thing to paint by far. Because that's their way out. Take that road, drive away fast, and they don't have to see.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Maya has never cut class. Not even once. But she does today. She tells Eddie she's going to study at lunch again, and that she'll meet him at 3:30 in their usual place.
"Don't be late," he warns.
"I said I'd be there," Maya tells him.
She gives bogus notes to her teachers, compliments of Nicole, explaining
that she has a dentist appointment, and then she hides out in the girls' washroom until the halls are quiet.
When the time is right, she makes a run for the fire exit and hurries across the playing field and over to St. Clair Avenue. When she reaches the corner, she slows down, stopping twice to adjust her shoes. She's not used to wearing heels, but she's grateful Nicole lent them to her. They're pretty. Sexy, Nicole tells her. And she has the legs for them.
"But, aren't you going out with Georgia Baines?" Maya had asked Mark in the car on the way to the mall the other day. They were in Sean's car, and with six people inside, it had been a tight squeeze. She'd had to sit on Mark's lap in the back seat. Nicole had given her a sly wink from her place in the front seat.
"Georgia?" Mark frowned. Shakes his head. "Man, she's such a bitch."
So. Mark is single now. Maya can't help feeling happy about that. He won't leave her alone lately. Everywhere she turns, there he is.
She tosses her hair back and concentrates on walking without tripping until she sees the black Trans Am parked in front of Luigi's Pizzeria. Her instinct is to stop and wave, but she doesn't. That would appear childish. Instead, she walks slowly toward the car, the way Nicole has taught her to, trying to make it look as though she's not at all excited about this meetup. It's the third one she's had with Mark, but this time, it will be just the two of them.
She doesn't want to appear too eager. She wants to look as though she could take it or leave it. Paige gave her that tip. Don't act desperate. It turns guys off, especially popular guys like Mark Johnson.
The window rolls down when she reaches the car.
"Hey, pretty girl." Mark leans across the seat and opens the door for her, and once inside, Maya relaxes. The car smells nice; Roses. There is a new air freshener dangling from the mirror.
"I remembered your favourite flower." He winks at her.
That was so thoughtful of him, Maya thinks. People are wrong about Mark Johnson.
"So," Mark says, touching his hand to her cheek. "You're mine for the day, huh?"
Maya shivers. Mine. She's never felt like she belonged to anybody before. "Well," she says shyly. "Until 3:00, anyway."
"Right, right." Mark slumps back against the seat with a sigh. "Your asshole of a brother."
"He's not so bad," Maya says, feeling awkward. "Not really."
"Yeah. Sure." Mark puts the car into gear. "Come on, gorgeous. Let's make the most of our day."
He peels the car away from the curb, leaving a strip of rubber in its wake. A group of guys on the corner give him the thumbs up as he screeches past. Maya can't help but notice how his bicep flexes when he expertly shifts gears.
"Where are we going?" she asks.
"My friend's place," Mark says. "I have a key to his apartment. He's away for a few days. You'll like it. It's nice there."
"Cool," Maya says, but she's disappointed. She had hoped they'd take a walk near the lake, go out for a coffee, or maybe listen to some music in his car and go for a long drive out past Bennings.
The friend's place is ten minutes away: a second-floor bachelor suite in a seedy-looking grey stucco apartment block called, "Esperanza Court." Maya follows Mark into an elevator with gold peeling wallpaper in it and faded numbers on the buttons.
As if sensing her hesitation, Mark steps closer to her and touches her hair. "I'm really glad you're here, Maya."
She softens and smiles, her blue eyes wider than ever. "Same here." But there's a knot in her stomach that wasn't there before. Probably just nerves, she thinks. She's never been on a real date before. Not like this.
Mark opens the apartment door and motions Maya inside. It's dark and musty and smells of stale cigarettes. She walks through a tiny galley kitchen and into a room that doubles as a living room as well as a bedroom. There is a hide-a-bed couch opened up on one side of the room—a jumble of sheets and blankets in the centre of it. Two ratty green armchairs sit on the other side of the room, and a card table laden with rolling papers and an overflowing ashtray sits between them.
There is a TV in one corner of the room, a thick layer of dust coating its screen, and a garbage bag overflowing with beer bottles on the balcony outside.
"Make yourself at home," Mark says. "Wanna beer?"
"No thanks." Maya wrinkles her nose. She has never tasted beer, but she hates the smell of it.
"I somehow thought you'd say that." Mark laughs. "So, I picked up some girly coolers for you." He lifts a six-pack of fruity vodka coolers out of a brown paper bag. "I figured you'd be the sort of girl who would like peaches."
"Um...isn't it kind of early for drinking?" Maya says. "It's still morning!"
"Well, if some of us didn't have a curfew at 3:00, we wouldn't have to get the day going quite so fast now, would we!"
He's right, Maya thinks. It's her fault they can't spend the whole day together. Mark is just being thoughtful. Again. Trying to make her feel comfortable. And besides, drinking is what you do on dates. Everybody knows that. She takes a deep breath. She needs to stop acting like such a child.
"Okay then, I'll have one," she says. "Thank you."
He hands her the cooler and she takes a sip. She's surprised. It tastes delicious, more like a soft drink than booze. In a few more swallows she has had half of it, and it isn't long before she feels deliciously warm inside. She starts to talk a lot. She tells Mark about her teacher in Math, the one who looks like a hairy tortoise and then relays a funny story from her P.E. class about a girl who got a huge rip in her shorts while doing a long jump.
Mark laughs politely, but he's not really listening. This girl is talking too much, but he can wait a bit. She's really knocking back the coolers. He smiles at her, making it look like he's hanging on to her every word, and then pats the bed beside him where he sits. "You're so far away," he tells her. "I'm lonely. Come keep me company."
Maya springs up from the green armchair and puts her hand down on its arm to steady herself. She feels dizzy after the two coolers, but she feels so good at the same time. In fact, she doesn't think she's ever felt this great. And the way that Mark is looking at her, she's never felt this pretty, either.
"That's better," Mark tells her when she sits down beside him. "Here, take those shoes off. They look uncomfortable!"
Maya laughs and allows Mark to pull her legs onto his lap and slip off her heels, one at a time. "Better?" He rubs both her feet with his big warm hands. Maya feels a shiver run through her.
"Much," she tells him.
Mark takes the cooler out of her hand and places it on the floor. He turns and places a strong arm on either side of her. Kiss her. "You," he says when it's over, "taste like peaches."
"You," Maya giggles nervously, "taste like beer!" And then she starts to laugh uncontrollably. She can't stop! And the only way Mark can shut her up is to kiss her again. But this time, he puts his tongue into her mouth and presses himself against her. When she lets out a sigh he pushes her back onto the bed and straddles her.
Maya grunts. Mark is heavy, and she shifts awkwardly underneath him.
"I've got you now," he teases. He unbuttons her blouse—the pretty lavender one—and winks at her. "So," he growls. "Who is this Goddess I see before me?"
Maya laughs nervously. She suddenly feels very exposed and her head is beginning to ache a little. She is dizzy and excited at the same time, her heart pounding like a jackhammer. She hopes Mark can't see it beating through her skin.
"Are you cold?" Mark asks, tracing a finger across her stomach.
"No. I'm good," Maya says in a small voice, and then feels stupid for saying anything at all. He's going to think she's too young, a stupid virgin. So, she closes her eyes and lets him do what he wants. And he wants to do a lot. She feels things that she isn't sure she should be feeling. Nice things, but scary things, too. That being said, she doesn't want to stop him, because, she is with Mark Johnson: a popular, handsome boy who wants her. A popular, handsome boy who thinks she is a goddess!
&nb
sp; A moment later, Mark jumps off her, pulls his own shirt up over his head, and steps out of his jeans. He slides off his boxers and kicks the small pile of clothing across the floor. Maya, embarrassed by his erection, turns her head abruptly.
"Hey! I'm not that scary, am I?" He laughs; kneels on the bed; fumbles with the fly on her jeans.
"Mark?" Maya says. "Maybe we should—"
"Oh, no you don't!" he teases. "If I get naked, you get naked. Fair is fair, after all." He pulls down her jeans with a flourish and her panties come with them. Maya attempts to cover herself, her head spinning faster and faster.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! You are so totally hot," Mark tells her, smoothing her hair. "Don't hide from me, Maya DuMont."
"It's not that," Maya says. "It's just. I mean—"
"Listen," Mark says. "You don't need to be scared of me, sweetie."
Sweetie.
Maya likes the way he says this, the gentleness she hears in his voice. "No. I want to. I really do. It's just that—"
Mark covers her mouth with his. Then he climbs on top of her and pushes her legs apart with his knees.
"It's just that—" Maya says again, bile rising in her throat.
"Shhhhhh." Mark kisses her neck. "Shhhhhhh. It's okay. You're with me, Maya. Just relax. Don't worry. I'll take care of you."
But she does worry. She worries that maybe she shouldn't be here after all, in this dark apartment that smells like stale tobacco and flat beer. She worries that maybe she should stop this thing that has started so suddenly.
"Hey," Mark says when she hesitates. "Hey now, pretty girl. It's all good."
But Mark's kisses no longer feel warm and soft. Now they feel rough and impatient. She was not expecting this; she was not expecting any of this.
"Mark—"
A moment later, Maya feels his erection hard against her hip, then a stabbing pain as his fingers push roughly into her most private of places.
"There," he says breathlessly into her hair. "That's better; you're all ready for me now."
Is she? She fights back the threat of tears. No. She isn't ready at all. This isn't how she imagined it would be. Is it supposed to hurt like this, she wonders? And Mark; why is he in such a hurry? She wishes he would slow down a little. But he doesn't slow down. He speeds up. He moves faster and faster until she is afraid she will start to cry in earnest. But no, she will not cry. She is not a child. She bites her lips and squeezes her eyes shut. Get a grip, she tells herself. Doesn't she know how lucky she is to be with Mark? Any girl would kill to be in his arms right now. So, she grits her teeth and remembers what Nicole said; that guys hate it if you just lie there; that you're supposed to "get into it", too. But before she has even finished the thought, Mark groans, shudders, rolls off her and onto his back. He breathes hard while he stares at a spot on the ceiling.
THE PICASSO PROJECT Page 7
