I stifle my snort. I’m still figuring out who I am . . . and who I want to be. A fifty-minute art lesson isn’t going to have any light bulb moments for me.
But maybe it doesn’t have to be a light bulb moment. Maybe the point of this is letting go. Just being.
Because drawing is so visual. You draw with your eyes. You see it with your eyes. And by cutting off that one particular sense, it makes the other ones kick in that much more.
I smell the charcoal I’m holding. Someone nearby is painting with oils, the fresh smell of paint permeating the room. Harsh morning sunlight warms my back, but if I pressed my hands against the windowpane, it would be bitingly cold. So at odds this day is—sunny but so cold, with a wind that slaps against you. I rub the charcoal between my fingers, the texture coating my hands and the smooth yet slightly rough texture of the paper before me. I hear chairs shift closer, a person mutter a curse when a utensil (a colored pencil or maybe a paintbrush?) drops to the floor, and steady breathing from us all.
There is noise in the silence.
There is light in the darkness.
There is sight in the visionless.
I take a deep breath and then exhale. Leaning forward, I press my charcoal against the paper. And I slide downward, a heavy stroke that has the charcoal sending flakes onto me. I ignore it and move my charcoal diagonal, up, up, and up the paper.
Snap.
The charcoal breaks, and I rub the remaining piece in my two hands, smearing my palms, my fingertips. The rest of the charcoal falls to the floor, a tiny ding against the concrete surface.
My hands flatten on the paper, and I swipe my fingers along it. Swirling here and there, and then soft spirals along the edge, blurring those with my fingertips. I don’t even think of what I’m doing. I don’t see, and with not seeing, I can’t see if it’s wrong or not, and maybe nothing would be wrong with it anyway. Maybe there’s nothing wrong whatsoever with creating. Sure, people might not always like what I do, and I might not like what someone else does, but . . . I can’t
not
do things because I’m still scared of how others will react, of holding back . . . of really trying to be
me
.
If I’m scared, then maybe I would never really grow and find out who I am. I think of the conversation I had the other day with Daphne, how excited I was about the possibilities. How determined I was to embrace the future, no matter how hard, fearful, or challenging it was.
And maybe to do that I just have to
be
.
I find a nib of charcoal along my easel’s edge and pick it up. I furiously etch, quick, bold strokes that I can finally see in my head. It’s because I’ve temporarily blinded myself that I’m really able to see.
Perhaps this is a light bulb moment after all.
I’m not aware of anything now, so focused and zoned in on this art that it just feels like I’m alone in the room. It’s just me, the drawing, and some charcoal. My heartbeat falls into the rhythm of my slashes against the paper, almost like I’m creating music in an entirely different way. That drawing is like a song . . . full of melody, harmony, and it pulses with vibrancy . . . with life.
My fingers, so used to strumming guitar strings, are strumming a different instrument. A different medium.
Art sings in my every nerve, my blood . . . and what if this is
really
who I am. Who I’m meant to be. But I don’t want to be famous. I don’t. I want to be normal. Have a normal life. Not have to open a paper or turn on a TV show and see my name all over the screen. I want to fall in love, get married one day, have a family in the far future and have a career that I love.
I don’t want to stay in Hollywood. I don’t want to be
the
Hailey Bloom.
I tense, the nib of charcoal flattening on the paper.
Remember what Daphne said. This is a journey. And I don’t have to ever return to Hollywood if I don’t want to.
I have time to figure out who I
do
want to be . . . but being creative isn’t a bad thing.
And it’s way past time I realized that.
“Five minutes left,” Professor Rodrigo announces, and before I know it, the time passes and everyone opens their eyes or takes off their blindfolds. Some laugh at their drawings, others grimace, and others make a “what the eff was I drawing?” expression.
I stare at mine.
Swirls of charcoal—light and dark—sweep the paper. Angry, jagged strokes in various spots. A small figure of a young woman, hastily drawn, her figure leaping into the air, her arms reaching for something only she can see.
It’s not the prettiest thing I’ve ever drawn, and certainly not the cleanest of lines. It’s blurred, it’s smudgy, but it’s mine.
It’s me.
P
ROFESSOR RODRIGO STOPS ME AS
I near the door. “Hailey, can I talk to you?”
“Sure.” I walk to where he’s standing in the center of the room. He had all of the students drop their papers in this area on our way out. All of us were careful when we laid down our artwork, not stepping on anyone, not wrinkling the paper, not messing with what we created when blinded.
But I near him with a heavy heart. I’m doing better in all my classes, and Art is one of my favorite subjects, but it’s always nerve-wracking to be pulled aside. I never know if I’m going to get a lecture or be called out on something; it’s still hard to escape my image, but eventually it’ll just be a footnote in my life.
“I’d like to talk to you about your art.”
“Okay.”
He reaches down, picking up my piece, which is lying sideways across the pile. “Have you thought about what I said to you? After the midterm?”
“About showing my piece with the other students’?”
“Yes. That.”
I shift from one foot to another. “Well, I thought you were just being nice.”
“Nice?” he asks quizzically.
“That you were just trying to make me feel better or because . . .” I trail off.
“You thought I asked you because you were famous?” Professor Rodrigo scoffs. “Please. Even I’m not
that
nice. If you were horrible, I wouldn’t ask. If you were mediocre, I wouldn’t ask. I asked because you’re talented. Very talented.”
“Oh.”
“And you should embrace that,” he says, dark eyes narrowed. “You should do the showcase. It’s the week of finals.”
I hesitate. “I’ll think about it.”
“Do.” Professor Rodrigo glances down at my drawing. “What you have should not be wasted.”
“When would you have to know?”
“The latest would be the second week in December.” He checks his calendar on the desk. “The twelfth.”
“And it would be something new?”
Professor Rodrigo nods. “Something new, and two pieces from class.”
I head toward the door. “I’m not saying yes . . .”
“But you’re not saying no.”
“It’s a maybe,” I tentatively say. “I’ll let you know when I decide. But thank you for even asking.”
And I leave art class with a lot to consider.
“I
T’S JUST A LOT TO
think about,” I say to Caleb later that night over dinner at my place. We ordered in Chinese, and I devoured the sesame chicken.
“Because?”
“Because I didn’t think I was really that good. It’s just something I like. And I don’t want to not enjoy it anymore.”
“Is that why you don’t act anymore?” Caleb cleans up the mess and tosses it into the trash. “Or play?”
“Yes for the acting. I haven’t played the guitar in almost a year.”
He sits back down. “Why not?”
“Because I also stopped enjoying it. Because it wasn’t fun anymore. Because . . . it just became something I associated with fame and all that other stuff.” I rub my forehead. “It’s like, when you stop doing something, it’s just meant to be stopped.”
“Or you stop because it became bad for you, and you don’t do it again because you don’t want to feel those bad memories.”
“Yeah, that, too.”
“Would you—” Caleb pauses. “Would you play for me? Not right now. But some time. When you’re ready.”
“What if I’m never ready?”
“Then you’re never ready.” Caleb kisses me on the lips. “But I’ll be here, if you are.”
Chapter 23
T
HE GUYS DECIDED UPON MIDNIGHT
bowling for tonight. Griff is turning twenty-one on November 11, and since he’s not really the party type of guy, they decided to celebrate his birthday at a bowling alley.
“Don’t worry,” Jamie says, as we enter the alley. “I’m sure they have bumpers for you.”
We all ignore him, although Nick elbows Jamie on his way in. “Oops. Sorry.”
Jamie laughs good-naturedly. “I’m so going to win. All the strikes for me.”
“Yeah. You’re familiar with striking out,” Nick says.
Jamie just smiles, holding the door open for Daphne, as she carries a sheet cake in. “The girls love me, don’t they, Daph?”
“You’re adorable, and you know it.” Daphne rolls her eyes. “But you’re still single.”
“And proud of it.”
Caleb, who is paying at the counter, glances at Griff. “Don’t even bother. We’re paying for this and for early breakfast after. This is the one day you actually let yourself eat junk food. Enjoy it.”
Griff scowls but puts his wallet away, and we head to the other counter to get bowling shoes.
“Lovely,” I say, tapping my mismatched pair together. “Daph, let’s find some balls.”
I burn bright red, and the guys laugh at me as I turn around.
“Shut up,” Caleb says to them. “Let’s grab two lanes. And then you all need to find
your
balls.”
Daphne and I head to one rack and find eight-pound bowling balls. We slide our fingers in and test out the weight until we find the perfect one for each of us. Daphne selects a bright magenta one, and I end up with a muted red. We’re the first to get back to the two lanes, and Nick soon joins us and then gets to work, entering the names into the fields.
He’s chosen nicknames for each of us and separated us into two teams, as more people will be coming in a few minutes. We got here early to nab the lanes and make sure we got in, and in the ten minutes we’ve been here, a line has formed.
“I never knew midnight bowling was so popular,” I say, retying my laces to my bowling shoes. “But then again, I’ve never done this.”
“You’ll have a lot of fun,” Daphne promises. “So, who’s on whose team, Nick?”
“We have the Ballers versus T&A.”
Daphne puts her bowling ball down with mine on the bowling rack. “Is this really going to be a battle of the sexes?”
“Isn’t it always?”
Daphne looks up at the list of names. “Real cute with that nickname for me. Real cute, Nick.”
“President Ballbuster is harmless,” he argues. “And Hailey here is Blue Baller. And Jamie has it worse.”
“Needle dick.” Daphne laughs. “You better change those names. We don’t want to get kicked out.”
“Please.” Nick scoffs. “I know people. We’re good.”
Daphne doesn’t say anything to this but gives him an annoyed look. Soon, Caleb returns with Jamie and Griff, and they all laugh over the names. We’re not waiting that much longer until Dylan and Kai show up. Kai brings Steph, and there are a few more girls to even out the teams.
The bowling alley goes dark. Music starts to play and neon lights flash along the lanes.
I smile over at Caleb as we line up on our respective lanes. We’re both up first.
He nods at me. “Ladies first.”
I hold the ball up, getting a good feel for it, and take a deep breath. I walk up the lane, swing my arm back, and then let the ball go. It flies down the lane, straight and narrow to the center, and crashes into the pins. All fall down.
Strike.
I turn and smile at Caleb. His jaw is dropped in shock. So are the other guys’. So are some of the girls’, but Daphne’s smile is huge.
I wait for my ball to return and lean over to Caleb, blowing a kiss at him. “Just so you know, we’re going to kick your ass.”
“Bring it,” he says.
We bring it.
And kick their asses.
T
HE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS DINER IS
not too crowded, and we manage to snag the back area for our party. The cake was consumed in the bowling alley, and Jamie is trying to convince Griff to live big and order the waffle breakfast. Even Dylan has joined in, and decided to order a huge meal, saying that he’ll work it off tomorrow in training.
“Fine,” Griff says, “I’ll get the waffles. Just to shut you up.”
“Good. Now I can steal some.”
“If you want waffles, then order your own.”
Jamie closes his menu. “Why would I do that? You’re ordering them. I’m going to get something else.”
“What are you getting?” Caleb asks, nudging my arm.
“French toast sounds good. You?”
“The same.” He drinks some coffee. “I didn’t know you were that awesome at bowling.”
“I have many hidden talents.”
Caleb smiles. “Obviously.”
“You must have some, too.” I toy with the straw in my water glass. “You should name one.”
“Wait, wait a minute,” Nick says from the other end of the table. “You mean Caleb hasn’t yet shown you the magic trick?”
Caleb’s ears turn bright red. “Shut up, man.”
“The magic trick!” Jamie laughs. “Dude, you’ve been holding out on her! Trust me, Hailey, you need to see this.”
“What’s the magic trick?” I ask.
“It’s nothing,” Caleb says quickly.
Daphne pffts. “Nothing? Are you kidding me? You went to magic camp—”
Jamie howls with laughter. “Holy shit! I didn’t know that. How did I not know that?”
“Nick knows,” Daphne says.
“I know everything.”
“Ha! Keep telling yourself that.”
“It was when I was eight. I was
young
,” Caleb says. “And it was a summer day camp thing. We had to wear these little capes and the hats.”
“That’s adorable,” I say.
“Awww, you two lovebirds are so cute.” Jamie leans forward. “So, show her the magic trick.”
“I’m trying, but you still haven’t disappeared yet.”
“Aw, man, you know you love me.”
“You’re like the kid brother I never wanted,” Caleb says with a grin. “It’s not a great trick.”