Pure Red (8 page)

colorless

Dad wakes me up at nine to go to the gallery. He never gets up that early, but he promised to meet Graham for a couple hours before his lunch date with a potential buyer. I don
’t see what I’m going to do there while they’re talking shop, but it’s not like I have anything to do at home, either. I can’t stare at Graham’s butt the whole time, so I stock my bag with a magazine, pencils, erasers, and a mini-sketchpad.

I’m really not in the mood to think about my outfit. I just throw on a white T-shirt and khaki shorts. It’s one of those days following one of those nights, I can feel it. Liz didn’t even call me back yet.
Wench.

As Dad and I make our way down Collins Avenue to the gallery, we pass a men’s store with a gray suit in the window. I know it’s designed to make a man appear powerful, but standing alone, it looks so drab. I can’t help but wonder what if all the storefronts were gray. If the clothing racks were only filled with white shirts and gray pants. A futuristic science fiction society where everyone wears the same thing. Extracting color is like removing parts of people’s personalities. A world void of color is like a world void of individuality. Okay, I know color does not make you who you are, but it helps express how you feel. And right now I feel blah to the core.

–––––

Surprise, surprise, Graham’s already waiting for us at La Reverie. The place opens at ten, so Dad goes ahead and lets us in. Graham’s carrying an oversized portfolio case with him. What’s next? A moving truck filled with everything he’s drawn since preschool?

Dad grabs us a few waters from the mini-fridge and we trudge up to the studio. There’s a table and chair toward the back of the room, so I set myself up there. Dad pulls out a couple of folding chairs from the closet and sits with Graham in front of the easels.

“Feel free to join us anytime, Cassia. I can set you up with an easel, too.” Dad goes back to the closet to grab more su
pplies.

“Thanks,” I say, flipping open the latest issue of
People
Magazine. Some of these celebs are pretty hot and scandalous. I’m especially digging the shot of the Ed Hardy model on the beach with no shirt on. Yum, yum.

I glance over at Graham. He’s wearing an everyday, navy blue pocket-tee. I can only dream about what he’s got hiding under there. He is a surfer dude after all, so I bet he’s ripped. Now if I had my x-ray glasses with me, I could snag a better look.

Graham has this swirly, abstract, bold-colored painting balanced on the easel. He’s used colors I would’ve never thought to put together, but somehow they work. Bright reds and deep purples, with a thin line of brown. He’s explaining the image to Dad, telling him how it was painted during a really bad tropical storm. I wonder how long I have to stare at Graham in order for him to think I’m a wacko. I make sure to look away every few seconds, but my eyes keep diverting back to him. There’s something so genuine about the way he talks, even his gestures. He’s all smiles for every sample he shows Dad. He doesn’t make excuses for any of his pieces, like “this one is not my best” … no, everything is his best.

I’m totally checking Graham out when he shouts, “Hey, Cassia, what are you working on back there?”

I quickly shut the magazine and pull out my sketch pad. “Nothing much yet. Still getting started.”

“Can I take a look at nothing when you’re done?” He laughs.

“Absolutely,” I say.

I pull out a pencil and flip to a blank page. I don’t know what to draw. In classes I doodle happy things like butterflies or flowers, but I’m not in the mood today.

My sixth grade art teacher, Mrs. Francis, always said if you don’t know what to draw, think of what you really want. At the time I wanted a new bike, so I started with that. It wasn’t the easiest thing to draw with the spokes and all, so I told Mrs. Frances I changed my mind and drew a scooter instead. I know it’s a cop-out because I already had a scooter, but I still got an A.

What do I want? More sleep. Maybe a new haircut. A passion to call my own. Time alone with Graham. Graham. Yeah, I could draw him, but his back is to me. Not that I’m complaining.

My pencil hits the page before I can change my mind. I sketch Graham’s backside from the waist down. I hardly have to look up because I already know his ass by heart. I’m glad he chose a pair of jean shorts today instead of his baggy cargo pants—the pockets on those things really take away from his natural shape. I can’t let my imagination do all the work.

I use the eraser only for shading. Otherwise, I’m pretty happy with the way the drawing is coming out. I should do a whole series on people’s derrières. If I get well-known, maybe celebrities will fly me in to sketch their behinds. Or the whole thing could backfire and I could be known as That Creepy Butt Girl!

“Lemme take a peek,” I hear Graham say, about a foot away from my little setup.

“What?” I pop up from my butt-induced coma. “At this? No way.” I throw the top half of my body over the sketchbook.

Graham’s standing next to me now. “I know it’s rough.”

How did I get myself into this mess? “Not today.” Not ever.

Graham holds a small square of paper in his hand. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Huh? And risk being labeled the Psycho Butt Girl? I hover over the book and flip the page.

“Come on, I’m sure it’s great.” He leans in closer to me.

My shoulders tense up. “No, it’s not.”

“All I can make out is a heart and … ”

I look down at the paper. Damn, why couldn’t I have flipped to another page? And why did I have to write
I love Juan
? I haven’t loved Juan since he got suspended freshman year for peeing in the cafeteria trash can. However, it can’t be as embarrassing as the butt.

Graham’s still holding up his piece of paper. On the page is a thumbnail sketch of a stool. I’m going to give up the butt for that? He’s got to be crazy.

I’m sweating, and I’m sure my face is bright red.

“It’s not much.” Graham shifts back and forth. “Just a quick drawing to warm up. We’re working on definition today.”

“Oh, no, it’s a very fine stool,” I say, only too thrilled to take the attention off of me.

“You don’t have to say that.”

“No, I’m serious.”

Dad walks back into the studio. “Found the charcoal I was looking for.”

“I’ll get a look at yours later,” Graham says, then joins Dad over at the easels.

Hmmm, we’ll see about that. I clench my butt cheeks. I better start doing some toning exercises if I’m going to expose all.

How about a modeling career? Not. It’s one thing to sit still every year so Dad can paint my portrait, but to hold a pose to sell a handbag or new frosty lipstick sounds painful. To me it seems devoid of passion because other people are controlling what you do, how you look.

For the rest of the session I don’t even dare pull out my sketchbook again. I stick with the known and resume reading my magazine filled with people selling handbags and frosty lipstick. My phone rings as Dad and Graham are talking about their favorite game shows. What that has to do with art, God only knows.

“Hey, Cass. What’s up?”

I whisper into the phone, “Liz, where have you been?”

“Why, is something wrong?”

“I can’t really talk right now.” I crouch down a bit.

“What is it?” I can sense the panic in her voice.

“I’m at the gallery and my dad is with Graham.”

“Great. I’ll be right up.”

“Here? Now?” I come up way too quick out of my crouching position and bump my head on the corner of the desk. “Ouch.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” I rub my head.

“I’m down the street. I had to return a shirt to Old Navy.”

Before she even asks, I’m waiting downstairs for her. I don’t even bother excusing myself because Dad and Graham are back to work, engrossed in a discussion on definition again.

I quickly pull Liz inside. “So where’s Graham?” she asks.

I love Liz to death, but she is loud. “Shhh.” I point to the staircase. “I don’t want him to hear us.”

She looks me up and down, then scrunches her eyebrows together.

“What?” I ask.

“That is no outfit to snag a guy in.”

“Who says I’m trying to
snag
him?”

She puts her hand on her hips. “Who are you trying to fool, girl?” She rummages through her Old Navy bag and pulls out a pink tank top. “Here, put this on.”

“But he’s already seen me in this.” I tug on the bottom of my white tee.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Liz shoves the tank into my hands.

There’s no use arguing with Liz, so I follow her into the bathroom and throw on the shirt.

“What do you think?” I turn sideways in the mirror and suck in my stomach.

“Much better.” She pulls a tube of pink lipstick from her purse and gestures for me to move closer to her. She fills in my lips like she does this every day.

“Isn’t this a bit obvious?” I look at myself in the mirror and purse my lips together.
Not bad.
I don’t look so washed out.

“Do you want him to notice you or mistake you for a piece of furniture?”

“I was going for the ottoman,” I laugh.

“I’m serious.” Liz gestures for me to straighten my back.

“All right, I get the point.”

Liz lathers her hands with mousse. Then runs her fingers through my hair and fluffs it out. “Now you’re ready.”

“For what?”

“Just trust me.” She leads me back into the gallery and immediately heads for the stairs, but Dad and Graham are already coming down.

“Hi, Jacques.” Liz waves to Dad.

“Hello, my dear.” Dad smiles.

Graham emerges from behind Dad, but his portfolio case covers half of his body. “Hi,” he says.

Liz bops up closer to him. “I’m Liz, Cass’s friend. Came to pick her up. We’re going to the beach. Want to come? You won’t be the only guy. We’re meeting my man Harry there.” Sh
e says this all in one breath, and it actually comes out sounding natural. I think she was one of those door-to-door salespeople in her past life.

“Well, I got this thing.” Graham holds up the portfolio case.

Liz looks at my Dad. “So leave it here.”

“It’ll be safe upstairs,” Dad says.

Oh my God, I can’t believe he’s really coming with us. I hope I don’t do anything else stupid.

“Perfect.” Graham swings the handle on his case. “I’ll be right back.”

This makes me nervous. I eyeball Liz.

“Trust me. It’ll be fun.” She winks at me.

After the whole sketchbook incident I’m really not sure what he thinks of me. He hasn’t looked at me. I mean, really looked a
t me the way I look at him.

I kiss Dad goodbye and the three of us are on our way. We’re meeting Harry at the entrance to the beach by the playground.

“I’m so glad we got some color into you.” Liz slides her shades on. “Don’t you agree, Graham?”

Oh, how embarrassing. I duck my head.

“Yes, that’s a very nice color.” He blushes.

It takes us about ten minutes to get to the beach and another ten to wait for Harry. We sit on a bench near the entrance and sweat it out. Harry runs up to Liz, throws his arms around her, and gives her a big kiss on the lips.

Their PDA makes me a little uncomfortable, but it doesn’t seem to faze Graham. He stands up and introduces himself to Harry. The two high-five like they’re old pals. Of course, maybe Graham’s an expert in PDA. I’d love to see his relationship resume, but there’s no way I’d share mine. It’s only two lines long.
Third Grade: Kissed Kevin Smith on a dare. Reward: A box of animal crackers. Eighth Grade: Sloppy kissed Franklin Morris at the Valentine’s Day Dance. Had to use a napkin to wipe his drool from my face.

We walk down the pathway toward the beach front, weave through a few families and a bunch of girls slathering on suntan lotion before choosing a spot near the water where the sand is damp. This time of year the beach is overrun by tourists, so a place near the water is prime real estate. None of us are dressed for the beach, but we all kick off our shoes and try to squeeze on the one orange towel that Harry brought. Liz and I end up occupying most of it, with the guys on either side of us.

There’s a nice breeze over the ocean. I inhale the fresh salt air. Nobody talks. There’s a lot to take in. The magnificent view. The cruise ship out at sea, the group of guys playing water volleyball and the mass of sunbathers soaking up the rays at every angle.

A really tan blonde in a black micro bikini sashays by, flanked by an older guy with a hairy chest. Harry does a double take. “Damn, she’s fine.”

Graham sits up straight to get a better view. “Looks like a super model.”

I stretch my legs out in front of me and dig my toes into the cool sand.

“Hey, keep your eyes over here.” Liz grabs Harry’s chin and brings his face closer to hers.

“Don’t worry, babe. Did you see who she was with?” Harry plays with the few wisps of hair that have fallen out of her ponytail.

I scoop up a handful of sand and pack it on top of my feet. “Yeah, he was old.”

“Probably her Dad,” Liz says.

“Great, then she’s a free agent.” Harry’s eyes light up.

Graham picks up a shell and throws it up in the air. He catches it. “Hey man, you don’t want to get between a girl and her father.”

He didn’t just say that, did he? I look over at Liz. The sand is up to my knees so I can’t move, but I plead with my eyes for her to say something to save me. To tell Graham how he is so very wrong. But she doesn’t even look my way.

“Yeah, I’ll sic my dad on you if you’re not careful.” Liz pulls away from Harry.

Harry makes a pouty face. “I’m with Graham on this one. Glad I met you first and not your dad.”

“That’s so sweet,” Liz says and pulls the human yo-yo back toward her. “But if you did work at one of my dad’s restaurants, I’d make sure he fired your ass, so I could have you all to myself.”

So now I have to get Graham fired? The same Graham my dad adores? There is no hope. My legs are completely buried now.