by Inda Herwood
Storming off into the house like only a pissed off woman can, I’m left alone to wallow in my own regret, knowing that I’m going to face even more backlash later when the rest of the family finds out what I did. Not only has Blaire made my brothers and cousin like her, but my parents, too. Especially Dad. He told us about how much she liked his painting the other day, and her apparent love of art. Nothing wins my dad over faster than someone who shares his passion for creating.
Going back into the house, I make my way up the stairs and to the second floor, finding my room without running into anyone. I’m thankful for the small mercy. I doubt Catcher would have any nicer words for me than Leigha had.
Closing the door behind me, I turn on the music app on my phone, letting the random playlist drown my thoughts as I drop into my desk chair. But no matter how high I turn up the volume, it can’t seem to erase the images flashing in my mind, taking me back to the first time I laid eyes on Blaire Cromwell.
I saw the moving truck first. Our neighbors, the Kelly’s, had told us the house next door sold, but they didn’t know anything about the new owners, or when they planned to move in. But at least I was prepared for when the large yellow truck pulled into the driveway, a bunch of moving guys hopping out of it before the thing even came to a complete stop. A silver SUV had pulled in behind it. That’s what had really caught my interest. I wanted to know how many people we would be calling neighbors now.
A man and a woman got out first, followed by a teenage girl and what looked like her grandma. The girl was holding some kind of a bowl in one hand while she helped the older woman out with the other. From my second-floor window, I couldn’t see her face, and for some reason this bothered me. I kept hoping she’d turn around, but she never did.
Fast forward to a few hours later. I had returned to my room after our family had dinner, Leigha getting way too excited when I mentioned a girl around her age had gotten out of the car. Mom insisted she and Leigha make them some banana bread, my mother’s specialty, to welcome them to the neighborhood. I had rolled my eyes at the welcome wagon being rolled out so fast. These people literally just moved in, and my mom wanted to pounce and make friends before they even opened their first box.
As usual, I had my headphones on, distracted with my latest playlist and cleaning up my room. It took me a while to remember the new neighbors, wondering if anyone had claimed the room with the window directly across from mine. I had been staring at that empty room for months. If one of them decided to claim it, it’d be like looking into their lives with a microscope and vice versa.
Grabbing one of my favorite books from the floor, having dropped it there the night before after I fell asleep, I looked up and found my eyes staring into another pair, startling me.
The girl from the driveway was there, sitting in the window seat, watching me with a strange kind of fixated stare, like me picking up the stuff around my room was fascinating to her. I could only assume she had been watching me for a while, and I had been too distracted to notice.
It didn’t take long for me to discover everything about her that I hadn’t been able to before. I could see now that she had light blonde hair, sitting in a messy bun on her head that made her look younger than I assumed she was. Her face was childlike, but even from here I could tell she had high cheekbones and full lips. She wore what looked like a T-shirt with some kind of writing on it, and a few hairbands around her wrists. I couldn’t see her lower half since it was obstructed by the window and the fact that she was sitting down. But I had a feeling, though, that the girl was short. It would make sense since the rest of her looked so fairy-like, especially those big eyes, which I couldn’t see the color of. That little mystery bothered me more than I’d like to admit.
It then occurred to me that the normal thing to feel would be an invasion of privacy. She was looking into my room after all, my personal space. But isn’t that what I had planned to do to her when I looked up? I was curious about her, and apparently, she was curious about me. It’s natural human instinct. But there was something bugging me about her. Something in the way she looked so innocent staring back at me, the way her mouth slightly opened, eyes caught on mine. Her family seemed like that also; her parents being all affectionate in the driveway earlier before the movers left, as if being newlyweds.
I found that I really wanted to know her story, but at the same time I had this instant feeling of distrust towards her. No one is that innocent, or that kind, or that beautiful. And that’s what the girl was, I could tell, even from afar. She had the all-American girl next door look about her, setting my nerves on edge. People may appear good, wholesome, but rarely is it actually true. And as I’ve learned in the past, it’s never a bad thing to keep your guard up and your distance back.
Which is what I had planned to do with her. Honestly I had. But then the next morning I saw her up in the turret, flitting around doing who knows what. I was curious what someone would use that room for. It couldn’t be a bedroom because of all the windows, and if it was an office, wouldn’t her mom or dad be using it? Instead there she was, seemingly unloading boxes and putting things away. It was yet another mystery she possessed that I annoyingly wanted to figure out.
And then Mom and the others went over and introduced themselves, and of course Leigha had to go and invite her to the party. When she came to my room to tell me all about the new girl, and how she thought it’d be good for her to meet some of the people she’d be going to school with this year, I had the worst urge to ask her the only question that really mattered to me: what color were her eyes? I didn’t care about the stupid party, or if Catcher was inviting this new girl he had met in town, or anything else that seemed to matter to my cousin.
“What was her name again?” I had asked her, knowing she hadn’t mentioned it at all up to that point, but posing the question like she already had so she wouldn’t see how curious I was.
“Blaire. Blaire Cromwell. She had the most beautiful blonde hair, and it was natural, I could tell. I would kill for that kind of hair,” she said all dream-like while sitting on my floor, rifling through my scattered book collection I hadn’t gotten around to organizing yet. “I think you’d like her,” she said eventually, reading the back cover of one.
I stilled at my desk, wondering, “Why do you say that?”
She shrugged, still invested in the details of the book. “I don’t know. I could tell she was a sweet girl, maybe a little shy, and it made me think it was about time you tried that breed of girl instead of your usual type.”
“I don’t have a type,” I told her. In fact, I hadn’t dated in a year. Not since before the accident and all the fallout that happened afterward.
She looked up, smiling. “Exactly. You need to get back into the dating world, my friend.”
A few hours later, it was just me in my room again, a place I seem to be gravitating towards more and more lately. Part of it is feeling safer there, where my music and books distract me from the outside world, and the other part is slowly becoming the chance of spotting Blaire in her room, shuffling around without really doing much.
But tonight, the only thing she seemed to be doing was sitting in her window seat, eating from a bag of chips and watching the sunset. And after she was done with that, she grabbed what looked like a notebook and a pen and started moving her hand around the paper, her expression lost in what she was doing. She kept looking from the notebook to the water and back again, her strokes more reminiscent of drawing than taking notes. She must be some sort of artist then.
I watched her work for a ridiculous amount of time, wishing I could pull up a chair and continue the stare-a-thon until she inevitably noticed me and called the cops on stalking charges. There was just something so soothing about seeing her hand sweep from side to side, eyes focused, lips half parted in concentration. It was…endearing. Cute. Reminding me that there’s no way this girl can be like she appears, which is reminiscent of a Care Bear.
And then she caught me, and you know how
that went. After that came the disastrous decision to go down to the beach and interrogate her at the party. I figured I’d discover something about her by meeting her in person, find a crack in that cute little shield of hers. But in the end, that backfired on me. Royally.
I had a whole list of questions I had planned to ask her, but then they all disappeared when she turned to look at me with that innocent smile, and those adorable hazel eyes that looked more blue than brown or green. Finally I had uncovered the mystery. But then I saw what she was wearing, and my thoughts went out the door yet again, like a deck of cards scattering after being shuffled incorrectly. She was wearing a dark yellow bikini that made her look a combination of sweet but sexy, confusing the hell out of me. How can you be both things simultaneously? It didn’t make any sense, but then neither did this girl that was slowly winning over my family.
As I do with most things I don’t understand, I lash out at it. But I didn’t just lash out this time, I stomped it down as well. And yet she came back, there to return a dish, but staying to take swimming lessons from my family instead. I couldn’t believe that nothing was working to get rid of her, to keep her on her side of the yard so that the only time I’d see her was when she was puttering around in her room, pretending not to look over every few minutes to see if I was looking back. But today it all came tumbling down, and this time, I really hit a sore spot. Not just with Blaire, but apparently my entire family as well.
In short, it means I have to fix this, whether I like it or not.
CHAPTER 6
Blaire
Nothing turns my bad attitude around like art does. It’s like a balm to my stung nerves, soothing them with a loving touch. I turn to it when my emotions can’t seem to calm down, all vying for my attention at once. And right now, they’re churning like a tornado.
Even though the event took place four days ago, I’m still feeling that keen burn of anger and resentment towards Beckham as I gather a bunch of art supplies in a basket, my intention to spend the day consumed by drawing and watercolors. I’m hoping it does something to quell my need to hit him with something hard and sharp.
At first, I planned to spend the day in the art room, but it turned out to be such a nice morning that I couldn’t resist my original fantasy of going down to the beach and working. I’m bringing a towel, a waterproof radio, and as much paint, brushes, and pencils as I can fit into this old picnic basket of Nana’s.
Believe it or not, I even decided to wear the yellow bikini again, figuring a tan wouldn’t kill me.
See? Growth.
With all my stuff ready, I head for the beach, offering one last goodbye to Sir Leopold before I shut the door.
Walking through the yard, I eventually find the sandy path leading to the beach, and then the wide, empty beach itself. Maybe we should get some chairs for out here like the Lyons’ do, I think to myself, looking down at the beach towel stuffed under my arm. I know Nana would love to sit down here with her feet in the water while she sips her nightly glass of wine. Though on the other hand, it’d just encourage her to watch my near daily drama with Beckham. I’d only be making the experience more enjoyable for her by giving her a comfy chair to watch from.
Finding a nice flat spot in the sand, and ignoring the urge to look in the direction of his window, I spread out my towel and various art supplies, giving me an open work space. Next I turn on the radio, tuning it to a familiar channel that plays all kinds of music; everything from the eighties to modern pop, offering a nice variety. I open my sketchbook and get to work, feeling the sun beat down on my neck and back while the waves lap at the shore in soothing succession. Perhaps I should have brought an umbrella as well.
Before long, I can feel myself slipping into the familiar trance as my hands create shapes and angles, morphing into a familiar face that I hadn’t even intended on drawing. Usually when I start to sketch, I let my hand decide what I draw, adding details once a more solid version of what I chose presents itself. This time I’m adding small, jagged lines above a male cheek and a strong chin, the eyes not seeming right to me, though. No matter how many times I redraw them, they just look…off.
Putting down the pencil, I blow a piece of hair that escaped my bun out of my eye, absently noticing a couple of familiar figures making their way down the path to the beach.
Theo and Hawn move at the same pace, perfectly in sync; both with smiles on their faces, which puts one on my own. “Hello there, gentlemen,” I greet them when they reach me, motioning for Theo to sit down on one of the few open spaces not cluttered by paper and brushes. He crosses his legs in front of him, Hawn laying down between us.
Theo and his blue eyes look over my mess, and I can tell he’s curious about what I’m doing. I would admit that I feel the same level of confusion about his sudden appearance. I had guessed his eldest brother would have told him he didn’t want him to see me anymore, and that would be it. His being here is surprising, but welcomed all the same. It gets lonely sometimes, just drawing by yourself.
Deciding to end his quizzical look, I grab one of my old sketchbooks and hand it to him. He slowly cracks it open, looking inside. “I like to draw and paint. Do you like either of those things?” Since his dad is an artist, I figured he probably tried to get at least one of his sons into his hobby.
In answer, Theo shrugs, continuing to flip through my sketchbook, slowly but methodically, really looking over each piece before he moves on. Eventually he holds the small book up for me to see, pointing to one picture in particular. It’s one I drew of Nana when she was laughing. The image of her unhindered joy was stuck in my head, and so I decided to draw it so that I’d have it forever.
“That’s my Nana. Do you like it?”
He nods with a smile before moving on to the next page and then the next, taking a good fifteen minutes to go through the whole thing. When he’s finished, he hands it back to me, readjusting his glasses. When he does this, he must notice for the first time the sketch I had been working on before he came by and surprised me. He points to it in my lap, asking for me to hand it to him. I do so with reluctance, feeling the pulse jump in my neck, wondering what he must think of me drawing his evil older brother.
He looks it over for a good while, running his small hand around the edges without smearing the graphite, much to my relief. When he finally looks up, he points to the eyes I drew.
I huff a disappointed breath. Even Little Lyons could see it. “I know,” I say, taking the drawing back from him. “I can’t seem to get the eyes right. What do you think I should do? Make them more squinty, like this?” I model my face into a horrible grimace, trying to imitate Beckham’s famous frown.
Theo laughs silently, rocking back on his hips while his eyes crease from laughter. I laugh too, picturing Beckham actually making that face.
Eventually I decide to ask, “So, does any of your family know you’re down here?”
He nods once, pointing to my drawing of Beckham.
Now that’s surprising. Of all people, he’s the last I would have thought of to give his little brother permission to see me. “Okay, well at least someone knows. I wouldn’t want them to be scared when they noticed you weren’t there anymore.” Picking my pencil back up, I go to resume my project when I suddenly think of how boring this will be for Little Lyons. Watching someone draw isn’t exactly interesting. And if he plans to stay here for a while, I at least want him to have some fun.
Looking at him, I ask, “Would you like to draw with me?”
He shakes his head, pointing to my watercolor palette instead.
“You want to paint? Alright then. Let’s get you set up here.” I go about ripping some paper out of my current sketchbook and placing it in front of him, deciding to put the paints between us since I had planned to move on to that soon, anyway. I then open the water-filled mason jar and set it next to us to use for our brushes. “Which one would you like to use?” I ask him, motioning to all of the brushes I have laid out, varying in size and s
hape. Some are animal hair and some are synthetic. I point to the latter. “These work better in watercolor, but the choice is yours.”
He mulls it over for a second, opting for one of the larger synthetic brushes. I open the plastic cover to the palette, telling him, “Have fun and go crazy. There are no rules when it comes to art.”
He smiles at me like I just gave him the world, and a piece of my bitterness, caused by his brother, evaporates into nothing.
We enjoy a comfortable silence for the next hour, minus the low hum of the radio and Hawn occasionally snoring next to us. We watch as various boats, kayaks, and other watercraft pass in front of us, giving us some good inspiration to take from. Once in a while Theo holds up his artwork, silently asking for my opinion. Other times I show him how to properly hold the brush, and how the more water you use, the less vibrant the color will be. He nods his head along to the instruction, taking it all in like a sponge.
We finish at nearly the same time, deciding to hold our masterpieces to our chests before we reveal them to each other. His excited smile is the purest thing I’ve seen in a long time. It’s fun to see someone else’s enthusiasm about art, especially a child’s. “You ready, my little Van Gogh?”
When he tilts his head to the side, obviously having no idea who that is, I explain in simple terms, “He was a famous painter from a really long time ago. But I bet you can give him a run for his money.”
He nods, looking confident.
“On the count of three,” I tell him, half hiding behind my painting. “One. Two. Two and a quarter. Two and a half, two and –”
He rolls his eyes with an exasperated smile, making me grin. I figured that’d annoy him.
“Three!” I say finally, both of us turning our pictures around in unison.
When I see he painted a picture of one of the birds that had been sitting on the water earlier, I’m impressed. With most children’s art, it’s hard to tell what the subject even is, but you can clearly see a water bird in Theo’s painting, doing a nice job of making the ocean a bunch of different blues and greens to give it a dimensional effect, and adding a pretty line of yellow to represent the beach.
