Portrait of Us (11 page)

“I dare you to do your project in all white,” a soft whisper spoke from behind me.

I spun around and gave Matthew a mock glare. “Okay. Then you do yours in all black. Let's see what Teni thinks of our artwork then.”

“She'd probably think we were innovative.”

“Or troublemakers.”

“What color are you going to choose?”

I pursed my lips as I thought. “I dunno. Maybe red. You?”

He grinned. “Green.”

Direct opposites on the color wheel. Of course. I shook my head, though a small wry grin creased my face.

“This is getting to be a dangerous pattern with us,” he continued. “Picking opposites and such.”

I moved an inch or two toward him. “I'm starting to suspect you're doing it on purpose,” I said in a low, almost purring tone. Wow, was I
really
flirting with Matthew?

He leaned a fraction closer, and I stared, transfixed, at his magnetic eyes. They seemed to see everything in me, stripped past my words to see my core. The smile fell from his face and he said, in all seriousness, “Maybe I am, Corinne.” Then he straightened, gave me an almost indiscernible wink, and walked away.

I sighed and watched him move to browse a table on the other side of the room, then shook it off and turned my attention back to class.

The next half hour went fast. I'd decided to use red as my color. What would be a great subject matter? What did red symbolize? I flipped through photo books and magazines, looking for an image that would capture the spirit of red.

I stopped at a page in National Geographic. There was a sunset over a lake in Africa, water rippling with vibrant reds and pinks. Illuminated by the setting sun was a lone giraffe, skin rosy as it stood beside a tall, scraggly tree. The animal's head was thrust proudly into the air, reaching for low-lying leaves, and a small baby giraffe stood right behind it.

Yes. This was it. I ripped the picture out—Teni was fine with us taking our inspiration back to our stations—and practically flew to my table. I was already planning out my piece. First step, draw the image.

I got so caught up in sketching out my initial rough draft that I almost didn't hear Teni dismiss the class. With a sigh, I got myself out of the art zone and put away my pencils and supplies.

Teni waved at me and Matthew. We made our way to the front of the room.

“So.” She clapped her hands and beamed at us. “You have chosen your subject, yes? Tell me about it.”

I explained to her our idea—that we'd choose one mausoleum in Lakeview Cemetery and split it in half on the canvas, each of us doing a different perspective of the same subject. “That way, we can each showcase our unique talents,” I finished, looking to him for confirmation.

Teni remained silent for a moment, stroking her chin. “Hmm. That sounds . . . disjointed.”

My stomach swirled. She didn't look too enthused about our idea. “What's wrong with it?”

“I'm not sure that's very cohesive,” she slowly started. “The judges will be looking to see how well you two work together. Splitting a canvas clean in two may not necessarily show teamwork. But it may come down to execution.”

Matthew remained silent. Was he as frustrated as I was right now? So hard to read.

I cleared my throat. “We'll make sure it's a cohesive piece,” I promised. Somehow, we'd prove Teni wrong. She wasn't sure we could pull it off, but I knew we could.

We had to—there was no other option.

I hated it.

With a heavy sigh, I slammed my pencil down on my bedroom
desk in disgust. Okay, hated was a bit too strong. More like I really didn't like how the competition piece was coming along. Technically it was clean—my lines were strong, and the perspective was accurate.

But the piece seemed flat. Lifeless. Dull.

Matthew and I had decided to each take half of the mausoleum. I had the top left corner, and he had the bottom right corner, with our lines meeting in the middle. We'd printed off two copies of the image to scale so we could ensure our images would be able to be cut and pasted together. All very planned out.

But it felt . . . wrong.

Was Matthew struggling with his part of the piece? Or was it just me? And what was
wrong
with me—why wasn't I able to get into this the way I normally could?

I put away my art supplies and plopped down on my bed, running my fingers along the soft bedspread. The walls seemed to close in on me. The room was too warm, too smothering. I needed fresh air. Air and perspective.

I grabbed my house keys and cell phone and crammed them into my shorts pockets. I closed my bedroom door behind me and hollered toward the kitchen, “Mom, I'm going for a walk.”

“Got your phone?” she yelled back. I could hear her chopping something. “Make sure you're back in an hour. Dinner will be ready then.”

“Yes, I have my phone. I'll see you in a bit!” I ran out the door before she could suggest I take my brother with me.

The late afternoon air was warm, cocooning me as breezes swirled the hem of my T-shirt and caressed my bare legs. My sandals smacked the concrete sidewalk. I had no idea where I was going. Just that I needed to find . . . something. I wasn't sure what that something was yet, but intuition was pulling me in this direction.

I turned right and headed west, toward the sun. It was warm but not unbearable. I adored summer—the freedom to spend my days as I wanted, not just studying, studying, studying. I loved school, of course. But sometimes . . . I wanted something else.

Independence, like this.

I walked a good mile until I hit an area of Lakewood where there was a stretch of tagged walls, boasting graffiti by various artists. I saw dirty, scuffed neon spray paint with peoples' names. Then I stopped.

Along the bottom of the wall, where brick met sidewalk concrete, there was a running motif. Someone had painted small vines and flowers, the partially fading colors stretching on and on. How had I never noticed that before?

I tugged my phone out of my pocket and snapped a shot. Then another. I played with lighting, zooming away, cropping. Then I pulled back and looked at the whole wall—really looked at it. Not just as destruction of property, the way I usually saw graffiti. But as someone expressing art. What did the piece say to me?

I studied the flowing lines, the cursive of the bright graphics. These weren't just slapped on in haste. The words were carefully rendered, no sloppy marks marring the image. The colors were red and black and green. I took more pictures—portrait, landscape. I angled myself so the sun washed the image in a rich haze and the letters were barely discernible.

When I flipped back through my pictures, I blinked. Some of them were actually quite good. I couldn't believe I'd taken them.

And suddenly, I wanted to find more. Things I would have dismissed as junk that could be re-envisioned as art. Walking another block, I saw an old glass bottle with a wilted daisy in it, resting on its side in the grass border on the curb. I took some shots of it.

An old scruffy dog with matted hair, lying on its side, who eyed me suspiciously as I neared.

A row of ants dragging pieces of cracker.

An abandoned apartment building with gaping teeth for windows and a boarded-up front door.

There was a strange bubble of excitement in my chest. Like I was seeing the world in a different way than I ever had before. I'd always found beauty in what was considered typically beautiful—attractive people, attractive buildings, attractive locales. Safe, steady.

Boring.

There was an artistry in the lines when I zoomed close and focused more on texture and shape instead of on capturing a lovely image.

Before I knew it, it was time for me to head back home. I peeked through my photo roll to my favorite shot, a pair of navy blue flip-flops that had been carefully placed on the edge of the sidewalk. Something about the image looked like the shoes' owner would walk by any second and slip her feet into them. Where were those shoes supposed to go? Why had someone left them here?

On impulse, I composed a text message to Matthew:
Are these yours? ;-)
Then I attached the picture and sent it before I could talk myself out of it. The instant it went, I wanted to take it back.

Maybe that was dumb. He might think it wasn't that interesting, might not see that moment of artistry I'd seen in the shot.

I tucked my phone into my pocket and, with the sun warming my back, headed back home.

When I turned onto my street, my phone buzzed, and I jumped a little in nervousness. My fingers shook as I tugged it out of my pocket.

Will check in when I get to Scotland! WHOO!

A text from Ava. I swallowed down the disappointment and felt a surge of shame. This was my best friend here. And I was getting hung up on some guy. I couldn't believe myself.

Can't wait!
I texted her back. When I put my phone back in my pocket, I resolved to stop thinking about Matthew. It was a dumb, impulsive idea to send him the picture.

The cold air-conditioning smacked me in the face, and I sighed in bliss as I headed right to the fridge for a water bottle. As I helped Mom set the table, my thoughts were torn between wanting to look at my pictures again and wondering if Matthew was going to respond.

Chapter
Eleven

T
his book is soooo boring,”
Charlie whined, rolling his eyes. He flopped the paperback in his lap and arched back against the arm of the couch. “All these dwarves and little people stomping around, always singing, too.”

I picked it up.
The Hobbit.
One of Charlie's summer reading books. “Oh, this one's great,” I said. “Give it time. It will pick up. You'll want to read the rest of the books, I promise.” I flopped on the opposite end of the couch from him, still full from dinner. Mom had made fried chicken, Brussels sprouts—which Charlie had adamantly refused to eat—and mac and cheese. I, on the other hand, had eaten everything, plus seconds.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Ava must be bored. I tugged it out. Two texts, but not from her.

My missing shoes! LOL

U busy? Sorry I didn't reply earlier. Phone died.

I was pretty sure my heart literally stopped in my chest. He'd replied back—and had a legit reason for not writing me earlier. I managed to type out a casual,
Just chillin. U?

“Who are you talking to?” Charlie leaned up against me, peering over my shoulder at my phone.

I jerked it out of view and scowled. “No one. Go back to reading your book.”

He sulked and tossed the book on the coffee table.

“You'd better finish your reading for the day, bud,” Mom hollered as she was coming down the stairs. “Or else you're gonna be grounded from video games tomorrow.”

Charlie mumbled under his breath, then grabbed the book and tucked back into the corner. My brother was definitely not a reader. He liked action, not just sitting around.

My phone vibrated again. I looked down and it was Matthew, calling me this time. Oh God! Mom was coming into the living room any second now. I jumped off the couch and ran for the backyard, closing the door behind me. “Um, hello?”

“I really liked that picture,” he said. His voice was warm and low, and it rolled over me.

I forced myself to play it cool, looking off into the setting sun past the houses behind ours. “Thanks. I was working on our project but it . . . just wasn't flowing for me.” I was surprised I'd even admitted that to him.

He sighed. “Me neither. I keep trying to figure out what I'm doing wrong, but it isn't feeling right. Have any ideas?”

I sat down on a still-warm patio chair and kicked my feet up on the ottoman. “No clue. Maybe Teni can help.” Though I was hesitant to admit to her that maybe she was right—whatever we were doing, it wasn't working.

“Maybe we need to regroup and try again. There's still time.” He cleared his throat. “Um, so, maybe you could hang out with me for a while? You know, to discuss the project, of course.”