by Shiloh White
I forced a smile, sitting back into my seat and shifting my arm to block the so-called 'painting'. Ever since I'd disappeared from school, Anna found some witty way to tie in my disappearance in November with her headlining skills.
“Hello, Anna,” I said, avoiding eye contact.
“So,” she continued, leaning in closer over my desk, “are you going to fill your best friend in on why you dropped off the face of the planet?”
Wow.
Anna was being unusually direct today. After the headline, she'd get me her plans for the actual title of today's school newspaper and one or two juicy bits first, then start interrogating me. That was the real reason she brought it up every day. Didn't change anything, though. I never gave her the answer.
“I'm, uh...under a lot of stress at home right now, Anna. I really don't want to think about that right now.”
“News flash, Hale,” another voice said. “We're all stressed.”
It was Zeke Declan. Classic high-school sports star, complete with his stupid cocky boy hairdo and smirk. He walked up behind Anna and slid his arms around her waist. She smiled indulgently, tilted her head up and kissed him. Right there in front of my desk. I wanted to vomit.
“Zeke's right,” Anna said. “I mean, if I ran away for three weeks and no one was pissed at me, and my little sister woke up, I'd be a little less stressed. Maybe even cheerful.”
I bit my lip. I wanted to say that wasn't what happened. She only thought Zeke was right because he was her boyfriend. Meanwhile, she knew nothing about what I really did. But if I just went and said, you've got it all wrong, Anna! I was off punching Depression in the smeller, pulling it off my sister so that she could wake up. And there, my paint was awesome.”
Like I tried to tell Chloe this morning—it would just get me a ticket back to crazy town.
“Find your seats, class. We're starting in fifteen seconds.” Our homeroom teacher Ms. Nary finally walked in, setting a stack of papers on her desk. For better or worse, I didn't have to fight Anna's words right now.
Students shuffled around the room into their assigned desks. Anna slowly got off my desk and rose to her feet, the whole time keeping her eyes on mine. “We're gonna talk about this later,” she said. “And I hope you're willing to tell me more than ‘I'm stressed.’” Then she made her way to her desk.
Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one with three weeks’ worth of missed assignments to catch up on, let alone the rest of the mess that was my life. I made the mistake of glancing down at my arm again for the worst reminder: painting wasn't fixing it anymore.
✽✽✽
Mrs. Nary announced a week-long field trip to our nation's capital, in honor of MLK Day. She explained we were going to study the location of his famous speaking grounds, the March on Washington. She said they were going to get down to the “bare bones,” she called them, of the movement and what it meant for the future of the nation. She also said we'd be staying at a hotel near the Lincoln Memorial.
Upon hearing this, some of the students cheered. I felt a little annoyed. On one hand, it would mean a week away from home, Alice, all of it. On the other hand, it was for school, and I had enough on my plate already I spent my entire winter break catching up on my assignments, and there was still more for me to do. I knew this trip couldn't just be for a little interactive learning, so I wasn't as excited as the others.
“Now, I won't make you write a paper on famous Martin, class,” Mrs. Nary said. She always talked about him like that. She got pretty excited about stuff like this. Mrs. Nary wasn't the youngest or most active of teachers, but when she was passionate about something, you could tell. After her latest comment, some of the class started whooping and hollering, riding off of her passion.
“Now hold on. I said I wouldn't make you write a paper on MLK. But I do want something filled out about some famous and influential individual from that time. Details on these,” she said, handing a chunk of the paper stack she brought in to each student at the front of the room.
“Take one and pass it back,” she instructed, “and pay attention 'cause this part's important. Y'all need to be here at the school at six-thirty Monday morning. So no partyin' this weekend.” A student in front of me raised his hand and asked why so early.
“The trip takes twelve hours by bus,” Mrs. Nary answered, “so we ain't got time to turn around. Be there, or miss out on twenty-five percent of your grade, which I know you could use, Tracy.” The class giggled at Tracy, who turned bright red. I didn't laugh. I looked over at Anna, her eyes buried in the synopsis of our assignment.
Twelve hours stuck on a bus with her. No way out. No excuses.
Great, I thought. Just great.
I spent the rest of class pondering ways to throw Anna off my scent for the bus ride while Mrs. Nary droned on. Maybe I could tell her that I ran because I was scared. It was half-true.
Except Anna was a journalist at heart. She would push me to the right answer one way or another. She already pushed long enough to find out my mom was back, which I wasn't really eager to parade around.
A few minutes later, the bell rang, releasing us to our next class. I moved on autopilot from one classroom to the next, still focused on the long bus ride ahead. I only came up for air in the cafeteria at lunch to look for Chloe. Once I spotted her off having fun with a few of her friends, I went right back to worrying about Anna
I mean, I knew there was no way she'd believe me about the Dust and the Depression Force. When I tried to tell her how it started, back in November with the fog and my paintbrushes, she asked if I was right in the head. That was enough to see where Anna stood, and I still didn't feel confident she'd listen like she said she would. People always say they'll hear you out, but none of them mean it.
Before I knew it, the school day was over and I felt no more educated and no less stressed than the minute I walked on campus.
I shut my locker and left through the big doors down to the sidewalk without Anna, successfully avoiding her claim to we would talk later about where I went. I walked the cement path down to the other side of the school to pick up Chloe. She was leaning against the inside of the front gate, waiting.
“How was school?” I asked, still on autopilot.
“Mostly ehh,” she answered.
“Mostly? So something did happen?”
Chloe ran her hand through the gray streak in her black hair.
“Someone commented on my hair again during lunch,” she explained. “That was cool. Everything else was ehh. I'm kind of tired now, too.”
“Mhm,” I agreed, “Hungry too. You want donuts or ice cream?”
“You think we can trick Dad into both?” she asked, cracking a smile.
“Maybe,” I laughed.
“Where is he, anyway?"
“I don't know,” I told her. I pulled out my phone hoping to see a message from him, but there was nothing.
We proceeded to wait there for another ten minutes with still no Dad. I sent him a text, but he didn't respond. On a normal day, it wouldn't bug me too much. But since Dad promised to take Chloe out, I was a little on the unforgiving side.
It took another ten minutes before a sleek, silver car rolled up in front of us on the street. The driver-side window rolled down, revealing a face that made me grit my teeth.
“Hey, girls!” Alice said. “Dad's swamped with work, so he asked me to pick you up!”
3. My Arm and I Have a Talk
Chloe looked at me with a face saying, “So much for spending the day with Dad.”
I touched her shoulder sympathetically and opened the driver-side back door, ushering Chloe inside. Then, instead of taking the passenger seat, I climbed in next to my sister and shut the door. All without so much as a hello to my mother.
Instead, I went into my art bag and pulled out a couple paintbrushes, trying a couple shapes out on my arm with no success. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Alice shrug as if this were normal kid behavior, then she drove o
ff in the direction of home.
I glanced over at Chloe again. She looked about ready to argue or pass out from tiredness and disappointment. I wanted to offer to paint something for her, but nothing I could come up with was turning out right, so I just kept practicing on my own arm.
“You two look so down,” she said. “Was it school?”
I thought of a witty retort to answer her with. Something like, “No. Just what happened after school.” But Chloe (poor naive Chloe) answered Alice first, giving away the truth behind her glum—or in my case, irritated—expression:
“Dad promised us treats."
“Oh, did he mean the old bakery?” Alice chirped, way too positively. Neither of us answered. “I can take you there if you want.”
Personally, I didn't really care where we went. I just didn't want to be there with this lady. So I ignored her. Luckily, it was easy, since my painting started to get interesting.
“That sounds fun,” Chloe answered somewhere to my right. I'm pretty sure she was looking to me for approval, but I wasn't paying attention. I got this old, nostalgic feeling in my gut—and my hand—all of a sudden, like the paintbrush knew just where to go and I didn't want to lose it. So I let the brush move across my the canvas of my arm, watching as it placed stroke after stroke. I thought of it like it was revealing an image that was always there or something. Maybe that would help this evil case of artist's block.
“What do you think, Lucy?” Alice asked. I winced, trying harder to ignore her. I figured if I didn't answer, they'd just give up and go home or leave me in the car. But I had a suspicion that if I said something now, the feeling in my hand would leave me. This painting felt natural. I needed to let it flow. One stroke followed the next, and I could tell I was almost done. Don't ask me how, but I did. But what was it? I squinted and tilted my head, trying to figure it out while I finished the last few touches of the brush to my arm.
“Lucy?” Chloe asked, her voice fading away. I was dead set on this painting now. My brush curved across the top of the creation, making a bit of a rounded dome over it and—I knew what it was.
I was looking down at a miniature version of Mr. Reggie, the skull I met in De Mentoria, drawn in green paint and no bigger than a water tattoo. But...why? I'd been trying all the dawn hours of the morning to paint my friends with no success. So why Mr. Reggie of all things? And most of all, why did it look and feel...right? I leaned in closer to my arm as if staring at the details would give me the answer.
And it did. Sort of.
“Lucy?! Lucy, is that you?!” a familiar voice shouted, dawning a thick Italian mobster's accent. “I can't tell, because there's a giant face right above me and it's dark and I can't see! But listen—I need your help!”
My heart skipped a beat when I realized what was happening. The Mr. Reggie painting was talking! To me! But it sounded just like the real deal. And what did he mean my help? How was he even talking in the—
“What did you say, Lucy?” Alice asked, leaning her neck back from the driver's seat. “Did you want to go after all?"
Mr.-Reggie-Painting started up again, just as loud the first time: “That wasn't Luc—”
I quickly slammed my hand down over the painting, shutting him up.
“Uhh,” I stammered, “I think we ought to just go home. I mean, Dad promised us, after all.” I glanced at Chloe, who instantly found her shoes quite interesting.
“Oh,” Alice said, her chipper mood quickly dropping. Then, just as quickly, she picked it back up. “Well, I figured maybe the three of us could go,” she continued, “a girls' day."
“We could, but” I said, searching for an excuse. Then one came to me. “I have a field trip on Monday that I need to start prepping for, as soon as possible.”
“What? That's awesome!” Alice exclaimed. “Where to?” I bit my tongue so I didn't yell. Did she have to make everything this irritating?
“It's in D.C., all next week,” I said, gritting my teeth. “So I really should get home and start packing.” Just then, I heard the Mr.-Reggie-Painting start mumbling under my hand. I glanced at Chloe, whose face told me she knew something was going on, but didn't really have a clue what it was.
“Wow. That's quite the trip.” Alice said. Then she looked back at us and smiled, giving an extra big grin to Chloe. “I suppose we'll just have to do something another day. Maybe Chloe and I will do something fun over this weekend. What do you think, Chloe?"
Chloe nodded, but she wasn't really listening. She kept her eyes on me, and I didn’t dare lift the hand from over the painting on my arm the whole way home.
4. Mom Offers Some Delusional Advice
I didn't even wait for Alice to turn the car off. The minute we pulled into the driveway, I grabbed my things and shot out of the car. I rushed up the stairs and into my room, locking the door behind me. I walked over to my bed and sat down at the end of it, my hand still clamped over the painting. Only then did I breathe; a deep breath in followed by a shaky exhale. I was excited—well, excited and scared—about what just happened.
And most of all, I wanted to know why he needed my help. I let my hand off the painting, pulling my arm in close to hear what Mr.-Reggie-Painting had to say. But he was quiet. I pulled my arm back down and took a look at it. Mr.-Reggie-Painting had become a little smeared.
Are you kidding, Lucy? He wasn't even dry yet!
I fell back onto the bed in defeat. I'd screwed it up. I could still remember the words of Scott and all them that they would keep me posted and let me know if anything happened with Disorder or Damian.
That was two months ago. Maybe not for them, but still, it was the first news I’d gotten, from Mr. Reggie of all people, and I went and smeared it all over my hand.
“Too...small...” a voice whispered.
“Wait, what?” I answered it. I pulled my arm close, looking up at a smushed and smeared Mr.-Reggie-Painting.
“Too small...” he repeated. Then he stopped talking, and the painting began to fade, right off my arm!
“Mr. Reggie? What does that mean?!” I asked, totally not about to freak out. He'd talked again, but now he was disappearing? And what the heck did too small mean? What did that have to do with helping him? At the very least, I knew I couldn't let him disappear. I might never hear from him or anyone else from the Dust again. This was the only chance I had.
I dove off my bed and grabbed my art bag. I dug into it and pulled out the green paintbrush again, then went to work re-painting Mr. Reggie. I traced stroke for stroke, since the fading painting lasted long enough for me to make it new. But the moment I finished, the whole thing started fading all over again!
“No, no, no...” I muttered, quickly growing upset. You don't contact someone, asking for help, and then bail out like this. I wished Mr. Reggie was still here so I could yell it at him. “This can't be happening!” I shouted, throwing my paintbrush across the room in frustration. It hit one of my blank canvases, splattering green paint all over it before landing in a pile of them. I bet I could fit about twenty Mr.-Reggie-Paintings on any one of those canvases and none of them would say anything.
Too small.
I tore across the room, grabbing my paintbrush and a fresh canvas. Then I grabbed an easel and stood it up facing my bed, and set the canvas on top. I dipped the green paintbrush in its canister and went to work. Maybe Mr. Reggie-Painting meant he was too small. Or maybe I was just losing it. But either way, this was my only shot.
Now that I had a whole canvas to re-paint on, I pulled out a few other colors to add to the creation, decorating the skull with little red and blue beads and a yellow background. If someone were to look at it without context, they might think of it as a piece of Day of the Dead artwork. I chuckled to myself at that.
If someone were to look at this painting, they would see that, too: artwork. It was the same sensation I had when I was drawing it on my arm in the car; this loose and comfortable feeling, as if I was just peeling away a cover to show that the painti
ng was always there, just hidden underneath. Still, I found myself looking at the almost-completely faded version on my arm to make sure I was getting the painting exactly right.
The second I painted the last stroke, to separate his teeth, I set the paintbrush down and threw my hands up in the air. “Done!” I shouted. Then I stared at the painting, waiting for it to move or speak or something. I didn't dare move, because I didn't want to mess him up or scare him away or something. But then a minute passed, and another, with no answer.
The drawing was a two-dimensional recreation of Mr. Reggie himself; if he were here, the painting would be actual size with him. I hoped this is what he meant would be enough—that just the little version on my arm was too small. I didn't have much else to go off of.
“Mr. Reggie,” I said, breaking the silence in my bedroom, “are you there?” No answer. That little voice in the back of my head was eager to speak, though:
Lucy, you're talking to a painting. It's not talking back. It's not alive.
I knew it wasn't alive. But he had talked before. And he could talk again. He had to.
“Say something, you empty old head! Please!” I shouted, before shoving my face to my hands. Was I actually going crazy? Did Mr.-Reggie-Painting actually talk, or was I just losing it? If I was really losing it, then it meant I cost my sister a cool scoop of ice cream or a fresh donut. A chance to relax, even if it was with Alice. She didn't deserve to have that taken from her. Instead, I'd just vamped up the tension between all three of us. And all for—
“Empty old head? You're lucky I am a skull with patience, kid."
✽✽✽
“Mr. Reggie!” I exclaimed. “Is this really happening, or am I going crazy?”
“We're all going crazy, kid,” Mr. Reggie quipped, “but I can assure you that it is me, in the living flesh. Well, in the living painting.” He paused for a moment, then made a face I thought was a grimace. It was hard to tell with a skull. Even harder a painting of one.
