“How long have you been doing this?” I ask.
“Since freshman year of high school. Art elective. But I loved it so much, I took it all four years and fit it in through college, too.”
“Did you start the studio after college?”
“Oh no. I majored in business, got a job as an account manager at Proctor and Gamble after graduation, and rented a wheel through a space downtown. But about seven years ago, my dad passed away and left me some money. Finn and his brother had just moved out, and I was feeling out of sorts, so after talking with my husband, I decided to try opening a studio of my own. I quit P and G, got a business loan, covered the rest with all of my savings. It did better than I hoped, and this spring I decided to find a bigger space. And here I am.”
Carla’s fingers are so light against the clay right now, they’re barely touching it.
“I didn’t know Finn lived with you,” I say.
“He didn’t tell you how we met?”
I shake my head.
She straightens, turning the wheel off. It slows to a stop, leaving a large bowl, its graceful walls rising like arms welcoming the sun. Her eyes meet mine. “My husband and I fostered Finn and his brother for two and a half years, while their dad was serving time. Finn was six when he moved in, Johnny was eleven. For two and a half years, those boys were ours.” She smiles wistfully. “Johnny hated every single day, but I still would have adopted him if I could. And Finn? Letting him move back in with his dad was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” She sighs. “So, I put all that love into my own pottery place. Speaking of, you ready to try?”
I want to ask her more, but it doesn’t feel like it’s my place.
“Try what?” I ask.
“Throwing some clay.”
“But don’t you need me to do some work? Like cleaning or . . . ?” My eyes sweep the room.
Carla rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Parker, this is still work, you know. Besides, it’s good for you to know how to do this, in case I need you to watch a studio class for me someday. Come on. Grab an apron, and let me show you how to wedge the clay.”
I follow her to a smooth counter in the back, where we each scoop out handfuls of red clay from a bucket. She shows me how to knead the lump over and over, folding it in on itself. The clay is cool against my hands, leaving a brownish-red tint on my palms.
“You have to work any potential air bubbles out of the clay. They can threaten the stability of what you’re throwing,” she says.
When both piles of clay meet her approval, she digs through a jar of tools, handing me a few, as well as a sponge and a bucket. “You can borrow these, though someday you can get your own set.”
She points me to a wheel, and I sit down as she hands me a removable round plate called a bat to put on top of my wheel. She grabs the stool next to me, takes her huge lump of clay, and throws it down hard right in the center of her own bat, the clay making a thick thwacking sound. She pinches the edges onto the surface.
“Try it,” Carla says.
I move my clay from hand to hand and then let it fall.
“Harder. You’re giving it its foundation. You want it to be a good, stable one.”
I throw it with force this time, pleased with the satisfying smack it makes.
“Good!”
Carla wets her clay with water from the bucket. “You ready?” She starts the wheel spinning slowly and leans over and puts her hands in a V around the clay. “It comes from your shoulders, not your hands.”
She begins walking me through what she calls centering—getting the clay evenly weighted on the wheel through pushing and shaping—and then beginning to turn the lump into a bowl.
I try to follow her directions.
“Slow down your wheel,” she says. “And when you pull up the walls, don’t let your wrists touch. Push hard with the left hand, use the bend of your index finger on the right.”
My hands are covered in muddy wet clay, my arms, too.
I’m pretty sure I’m doing it all wrong.
It’s weird, the feeling of my hands against the clay, how my fingers seep into the messiness. I’ve always hated for my hands to be dirty—I hate syrup on pancakes because it makes my fingers sticky; I hate manicures because it feels like there’s dirt I can’t see underneath the bright colors.
Charlie’s the exact opposite—or at least he used to be. When he was a kid, he loved playing in dirt. He went through an entire stage where he thought if he dug hard enough, long enough, he could reach China. Then he gave up and began digging for buried treasure. Dad wasn’t pleased when he found the holes all over the backyard.
I always watched from the porch, because the few times I did help out, I couldn’t shake the feeling of mess on my clothes and skin, the disorder in the previously smooth green yard.
This is a similar feeling, but surprisingly, I don’t totally hate it.
Sure, my hands are covered in glop, and I’m grateful I can periodically wipe them on the apron. But I’m so focused on the wheel, the constant calming hum of the spin, my arms strong in front of me, that when I finally do pause, I realize I haven’t thought once about the internship or worried about Charlie.
The quiet in my mind feels like a certified miracle.
I look over and admire Carla’s creation. Her bowl is sturdy and graceful at the same time—something of dirt and earth made light and lovely.
But before I can even compliment hers, one of the sides on my bowl completely flops over, the walls collapsing inward on themselves.
“Crud,” I mutter, turning the wheel off, my eyelid giving a warning twitch. I don’t want to seem ungrateful that she taught me in the first place, so I shrug and smile. “Clearly, a career as a potter isn’t in my future.”
“Parker McCullough, are you seriously giving up after the first try? I think it took me about one hundred tries before I ever threw something worth firing. And then I picked an ugly glaze and didn’t apply it well.”
She points to a small crooked bowl sitting in a spot of honor amid other beautifully glazed vases and dishes.
It looks like the sad runt of that litter.
“High school art class, 1992. The first bowl I ever successfully threw. No matter what stuff I throw today, that one will always be my favorite. Go on. Go look at it.”
I walk over and pick it up, careful not to knock into either the green-hued bowl that’s the color of April leaves or the luminous fluted blue vase on either side of it.
Carla’s old bowl is glazed brownish red, and the bottom is super heavy. One side is thicker than the other, and the glaze on the inside isn’t consistent, spots where it didn’t stick showing speckled stoneware underneath. There’s a chunk missing from the corner and several big cracks running around the base, like it was glued back together at some point.
“This is your favorite?” I ask, unable to help myself.
Carla nods. “We all have to start somewhere. That little pot was the beginning of my love affair. Besides, it’s got character, don’t you think? If it came to life in a Disney movie, some cantankerous old-man actor would definitely voice it.”
“But it’d still have a heart of gold?” I ask, smiling.
“Indeed.”
I let my finger run over the rough edges of the bowl, wondering what it’d be like to make a mistake and let myself love it.
Thirty-Two
AS SOON AS THEY open the gates at Kings Island Amusement Park, Ruby breaks into a half walk/half run, dodging around some families with small kids and jogging backward to make sure Charlie and I are following her.
“If we hurry, we might be able to be first in line for the first ride of the day on the Beast!” she says. “Come on, this way. We can totally beat the crowd!”
Right then Ruby reminds me of Em and how sometimes she gets so excited it’s like her body can’t even begin to contain all the possibility in the world around her.
For Ruby, evidently, that possibility is roller coasters.