Portrait of Us (2 page)

“Thanks.” With dismay, I realized I'd never introduced myself to him. “I'm Corrine, by the way.”

“Henry.” He stuck out a hand and shook mine. “I go to Berea High School—I'm going to be a senior. You?”

“I'm here in Lakewood,” I said. “I'll be a junior.” Wow, it still felt great to say that.

“Nice to finally ‘meet' you.” He finished rinsing his brushes in his small cup and took his palette to the washing station in the corner, where there were several big sinks.

I used turpentine to clean the oil paint off my brushes, straightened my station, and gingerly stepped around my painting, not wanting to disturb the still-wet paint. I ran smack into a tall, lean chest. “Oh, sorry,” I said, holding up a hand and stepping back.

Matthew peered down at me, one side of his mouth upturned. “No, I'm sorry. I was just barreling right through here.”

I gave a tight smile and moved past him to toss my paper towels. Then I told Teni I'd see her on Wednesday, grabbed my backpack, and headed out the door, stepping into the hot sunshine. June in Cleveland could be surprisingly humid, and we were in a particularly dry spell right now.

I was extra fortunate that the art workshop was only a mile away from my house, so I hoofed it down the sidewalk blocks here in Lakewood, past small consignment shops and mom-and-pop diners. I loved the vibe of this neighborhood—the eclectic mix of people, the art galleries and jewelry stores scattered around. The sun beat down on the back of my neck, and sweat dribbled along my collar, sliding down my spine. Wow, it was a warm one today.

I turned my focus back to the issue at hand. What art project was I going to do? The pressure wrapped itself around my chest,
squeezing my lungs. I was excited—and petrified. Maybe Grandpa could give me some ideas. Yeah, I wasn't going to be helping at the bakery until Saturday, but maybe I could give him a call.

Grandpa was a bit of an artist himself, though his focus was on food. He'd opened the bakery about thirty years ago, and it had grown into a staple in our neighborhood. His cakes were to die for—rich, decadent, with decorations that blew my mind. As much as I loved painting and drawing, somehow I could never get the hang of using those little frosting bags. My work always turned out too lumpy.

He would take the bag from me with a laugh and fix the mistakes, making them look like they were intentional. I was in awe of his skills.

I let my gaze wander around the neighborhood, watched kids playing on the street, drawing with hot-pink chalk and giggling. One little girl had fat braids on both sides of her head. Her skin tone matched mine, a dark brown with golden undertones. Reminded me of when I was a kid, sitting with my younger brother at the park, both of us wearing brightly colored outfits and posing for Mom's camera.

I stopped in place. That would be fun—maybe I could paint a picture from a photograph of when I was younger. It would certainly challenge me. And my mom had hundreds of pictures in her albums. Surely I could find one that would work. I could paint it in acrylics or watercolor so it would dry in time. Not as challenging
as oil painting, but either medium still gave me the ability to make something worthwhile.

My heart fluttered. This was going to happen. A chance for me to do something big. Yes, I'd had a lot of accomplishments in my life, things I was proud of. Academic achievements that I'd worked hard for. But nothing would compare to winning a nationwide art contest.

Being in a gallery. In New York City.

The stakes were high, and from looking at the artwork of several of the fellow artists in my room, the competition was stiff. But I had to make this work. I'd spend all my free time working on this piece.

I wasn't going to fail. I would put my heart and soul into it, and pray, pray, pray that it was good enough for me to qualify.

Chapter
Two

M
om, can you please pass
the green beans?” I reached a hand out for the bowl.

She gave me a good-natured grin and handed them to me. “I swear, you're the only one in this house who always appreciates my cooking.”

I didn't know what she did to the green beans, other than adding in small pieces of fresh bacon, but they were to die for. My friend Ava also loved coming over for family-night dinner as much as possible because Mom would shove enough food at her to feed an army. I scooped another helping onto my plate. “Well, I'm a growing girl. I gotta keep up my energy.”

My twelve-year-old brother, Charlie, rolled his eyes at me. I knew he thought I was kissing up. Mom shot him a warning glance, and he turned his attention back to his half-eaten pork chop.

“So how was your art class today?” Dad asked me. He took the bowl and put it back in the middle of the table, then scooped a forkful of mashed potatoes. His thick black hair was cropped close to his head, and his dark eyes twinkled in the dining room light. “You're still keeping up on your math work, right? I just want to make sure this isn't going to interfere with academics.”

Despite the fact that it was summer, my dad had me working from a twelfth-grade math book to make sure I didn't lose my place as mathlete captain when I started junior year in the fall. Academics came first, everything else second. “Every night, Dad. And art class went well today. I'm almost done with my oil painting of the model.”

“Good girl.” He gave me an approving nod.

I started to tell him about the competition, but I was interrupted when Charlie groaned. “Doesn't anyone care what
I
did today?”

“And what did you do, honey?” my mom asked him. Her cocoa skin glowed especially warm on her cheeks today, and she shoved her three-quarter sleeves up her forearms; she must have eaten her lunch outside, a rare treat for her.

Mom worked as an investment specialist at a local bank, a job that was pretty demanding of her during the weekday. Though she usually got up and left early in the morning, it was her firm rule that everyone would be home in time for dinner at least one night a week. Pretty much the only time we all sat down to talk.

Dad worked at home most days. His job in graphic design
meant he could work flexible hours, in his home office. So we saw him a lot more than we did Mom.

Charlie launched into a five-minute, rapid-fire description of how he and his best friend, thirteen-year-old Maxine, had worked on a solar-powered car this morning and then discussed their class schedule for the fall. Both were entering eighth grade and talked about it nonstop. To be honest, I was kinda getting tired of hearing about it over and over again. “So Maxine and I aren't in any classes together for eighth grade, but we should still be able to see each other for lunch. Anyway, this week we're going to see if we can make our car go faster. I think the wood we used isn't quite right. Maybe some balsa might be lighter and more flexible. Can you take us to the store tomorrow, Dad?”

Mom and Dad exchanged a small, knowing look. Over the last couple of weeks it seemed everyone but Charlie had noticed that Maxine had a small crush on him. It was painfully awkward yet so cute, like she'd suddenly realized my brother was a boy. And she liked boys. Specifically him.

Poor Charlie was still clueless though. No doubt it would be highly entertaining when he started to notice how pretty Maxine was. Even more entertaining when he realized
other
guys found Maxine attractive. Then he'd be forced to actually do something about it.

“Sure, we'll make something work,” Dad said.

I cleared my throat, wanting to get their attention before my brother went on another rambling spiel. “Teni, the artist in
residence, told our class something interesting today.” I briefly explained the contest and the prizes.

“That sounds challenging and fun. But are you sure you have time for this?” Mom asked, a deep line in her brow. “It sounds like it'll be intensive. Plus, with you working at Grandpa's bakery . . . You're already so busy.”

A small swell of frustration pinched my stomach. I was juggling everything I needed to just fine. Why were they continually thinking I couldn't accomplish it all? I tried to keep my irritation out of my voice, not wanting to tick them off and risk them saying I couldn't enter. “I've got it all handled,” I promised. “Our entry project is not due until Friday, so I have time. I'll be starting it tonight. After my math problems,” I added, looking at my dad.

He nodded. “Okay. Just . . . don't overload yourself. There's not a lot of time left until school starts. I don't want you getting behind.”

The hard part was, I knew they meant well. They wanted me to succeed at school, at life. Time and time again they had told me that if I was going to do something, I needed to give it 100 percent. Otherwise, why waste my time?

But my gut told me this wasn't a waste. It would be a coup of an accomplishment. Something I could be genuinely proud of. Yes, I was strong in academics, but how was I advancing myself in the arts? What better opportunity could I get to make myself more well-rounded?

“If I think I'll get overwhelmed, I'll back out,” I told them,
knowing it wasn't going to happen but wanting to give them a little peace of mind.

They both nodded, and we all finished dinner in relative silence. Charlie devoured his food first and jumped right out of his seat when Mom gave him the nod to excuse him from the table. He grabbed his plate, silverware, and cup and practically ran into the kitchen to rinse them. I followed closely behind, then escaped to the sanctuary of my bedroom.

When I closed the door behind me, I gave a relieved sigh and dropped back against the door. My room truly was the one place I could most relax. The walls were painted green, with a purple accent wall. I had artistic posters up that I'd hung to inspire my creativity, images by all the classic painters. A massive print of
Girl with a Pearl Earring
by Vermeer was right above my bed, a recent favorite I'd acquired.

Simply beautiful. I breathed in, shook out the slight tension in my shoulders that had lingered from the dinner conversation, and headed to my bed. Earlier today I'd found the perfect picture, one my mom had taken of me and Charlie when I was around seven and he was just four. We were at the beach, and the sunlight made our skin luminous, our eyes bright and wide. Somehow she'd captured a childlike innocence on our faces. A moment of sheer happiness.

I remembered that day, how fun it had been. A rare occasion when my mom called off work, gathered me, Charlie, and my dad in the car, and drove us to the lake for an impromptu day of
fun. Charlie and I had been sitting at home bored, since it was a teacher in-service day.

We'd stayed at the lake for hours, laughing and splashing, eating ice cream and running through the sand.

I smiled, stroking a finger over my dad's smiling face in the background. Wow, it had been so long since then. I couldn't remember the last family vacation we'd gone on. I exhaled heavily and pushed that out of my head. Life was like that. My mom was important at the bank, my dad climbing the ladder of success with his company. Charlie and I were striving to do the same at school.

I grabbed my easel and set up my station, then remembered I'd promised I would work on math first. But my head was already in the art zone; I was staring at the blank canvas and envisioning what I would sketch to rough out my picture.

Maybe I could do math later. And he'd never know.

A guilty thrill swept through me. I grabbed my pencils and started sketching, blocking in where my brother and I were, the direction of our bodies and faces. Pausing and erasing with the kneaded eraser, fixing, tweaking the perspectives. This was one of the most important parts. If the outline wasn't right, the rest wouldn't be right either.

Now was the time to make it perfect.

It took me a good hour, but I finally got the dimensions and rough outline of my image. I swallowed, excited as I stared at it. In my mind I could see the picture coming together perfectly.

I hoped against hope it would be good enough.

There was a small knock on my door. I jerked in surprise and laughed at myself, opening the door. My best friend, Ava, stood on the other side, smiling up at me. She was a tiny person, several inches shorter than my five foot four and probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet. Her blond hair was trimmed in a sassy chin-length bob, and she had on a cute light-blue summer dress with a pair of tan sandals.

“Hey!” she said, reaching out to hug me. Ava was a hugger, always had been. Took me a bit to get used to it when we were kids, but now I couldn't imagine our relationship being anything else. “Am I interrupting? Your mom said I could come up. She figured you'd be done with math by now.” Ava made a face. Unlike most of my friends at school, she was a full-fledged artistic person and made no bones about hating math.

“Oh, uh, I haven't started it yet,” I stammered.

“What?” She pressed a slender hand to my brow. “Are you sick?”