But oil-based paints were different. They forgave you when you messed up, drying slowly to allow you ample time to fix mistakes, make things right. On many occasions I could leave my painting for days, come back to it, and manipulate the colors as though it were still freshly painted. Oil paints were wiser to the human condition, understanding our imperfections and giving us enough time to rework ourselves until we made things right. I couldn’t make my mother understand the richness of oil-based paints.
“Oh, I know all about the richness of them!” Mom said years ago when I took up my hobby. “All I know is that you better not get bored with this.”
I had never gotten bored with painting. If anything, I worked each year to become better. Learning new techniques, discovering my strengths. Above all, painting allowed me to escape me. I didn’t have to be popular Brooke. Funny Brooke. Sexy Brooke. Witty Brooke. I could be as vulnerable and weird as I wanted, and my friends would forgive me for it because it was art. And they were impressed.
The first contact of brush on canvas is a heady thing. I think it’s the promise of something wonderful, beautiful. You can see the finished product in your mind’s eye, but it never turns out quite as you expect. It’s always better, or at least that’s been my experience. And that’s where the headiness comes in. You think you know what to expect. You think you have it all planned out. But something in you always surprises you, and it’s a buzzing undercurrent that keeps you silently guessing until your picture is complete.
I began, feeling the rush as my brush hit the canvas for its first stroke. I worked all morning creating each leaf, carefully mixing colors I thought would evoke that one last brilliant push for life: jewel tones of rich reds, golden browns, and fiery oranges. But I couldn’t get my colors bright enough. They looked bright on my palette, but once I transferred them to the canvas, they turned a muted, uninteresting shade.
I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I looked down at my arm where the palette was cradled. The colors screamed to me. I looked at my painting. They moaned before going silent. A flat nothing. But not before they laughed at me a little. I heard them laugh. I heard her laugh.
My heartbeat sped up. I felt the rush of rage, an anger far from righteous. It was only anger, and it flowed through me like wicked adrenaline. The kind you shouldn’t act on, but if you don’t, you know you’ll explode. I didn’t want to draw attention from neighbors playing next door, so I seethed silently.
I stared at my lifeless painting and mouthed the words: “Beth. You fucking bitch.”
Eight
Ryan was notably silent after our conversation several weeks ago. He didn’t acknowledge me in class, and I never saw him ride his skateboard down the sidewalk. Sometimes I would sit in the living room with the curtains pulled back and watch for him. It was blatant and desperate, and I didn’t care. I knew he saw me talking to Cal on several occasions at school, and I wondered if that accounted for his lack of interest. Either way, my feelings were hurt, and my pride along with them. Shouldn’t he try to fight for my affections or something? Wasn’t that the manly thing to do?
I decided to pay him a visit instead of waiting for him. It was a chilly October Saturday afternoon, so I grabbed a light jacket and headed down the sidewalk, counting six houses from mine. I walked up the stone path to the front door feeling the rapid tapping of my heart. It was that good nervous feeling, an expectation of something wonderful mixed with the fear that it wouldn’t turn out as I’d hoped. But the hope made me knock on the door anyway.
A young girl answered. “Yes?”
I recognized her from the restaurant as Ryan’s sister. She had the same color hair as Ryan, the same blue eyes, though hers were a little less transparent.
“I’m Brooke. I live right down the street,” I said. “I’m a friend of your brother’s.”
“My brother doesn’t have any friends,” the girl replied. “But I’ll let you in anyway.”
I was startled. What a thing to say, and the way she said it. Matter-of-fact. Not snippy or cruel. Just matter-of-fact.
I blurted what I knew I shouldn’t. “How can he not have any friends? He’s so cute.”
Stupid. Just stupid.
“Gross,” the girl said. She cocked her head and studied me. She was so pretty, and I wondered why I’d never noticed her at school. “Do you like him?”
I didn’t know how to respond. She curled her lips into a grin and moved aside, inviting me in.
“Ryan!” she called up the stairs. “Your girlfriend’s here!”
“Nice,” I replied, and she giggled. “How come I don’t see you at school?”
“I’m not in high school yet,” she replied. “I’m in eighth grade.”
“Gotcha.” I looked up the stairs, heart thumping, when I heard the plodding of heavy feet. Ryan appeared, dressed in plaid pajama bottoms, hair askew, coming down the stairs with his T-shirt halfway on. I got a glimpse of his stomach, rippled with well-defined muscles, before he pulled the shirt down. He was sexier than I’d ever seen him.
“Hey,” he said, addressing me. He was confused.
“Hi,” I replied, just as confused. Why had I come over?
“Ryan, when did you get a girlfriend?” his sister asked.