Zero (12 page)

Some smart-ass response comes to mind, but I forget it as soon as I look into his eyes.

“Thank you,” I say, and can feel a damn blush coming on. To chase it away, I say, “Dad’s an accountant, and Mom’s a … mom, I guess. So how the two of them managed to create
moi
, I couldn’t say. Mutation, maybe. What about your parents?”

“My mom’s a psychiatrist. Dad’s in construction now.
Works with his hands.” I notice Mike rubbing his thumbs across his palms, but I don’t think he knows he’s doing it. Still taking in the minutiae of my room, Mike tilts his head back and studies my ceiling faces.

“Those’re cool,” he says. “So where do you hide the other ones?”

Ouch.

I debate brushing him off. Continuing to hide. No one but Jenn has seen my work, other than when Mom wanders in while I’m working, which isn’t often. What if he hates them?

But he already said my ceiling faces were cool, so … what the hell. Let’s do this.

I slide open my closet door and start pulling out one canvas after another and stacking them on their edges on the floor so that they rest upright against the wall. Before I’m even done, Mike hunkers down and starts going through them, one at a time, while anxiety burns a hole in my guts. Once they’re all out, I sit on my bed.

The first several are from what I laughingly call my recent
landscape period
. Lilac saguaro skeletons; Camelback Mountain with an enormous bite taken out of the back; detailed pointillist studies of creosote and Joshua trees. (Think Seurat;
lots o’ dots!
Thanks, Mr. Hilmer!)

“You really like the desert,” Mike says.

“What? No. I hate it here. I can’t wait to leave.”

He pauses and turns to me. “Which
here
, exactly?”

“Well, you know. My—” And I stop short. I was about to say
my house
. Which technically is in the desert, but suddenly, the way Mike phrases it, I don’t automatically equate the two. I
do
love the desert. I’m one of very few native
Phoenicians. A Desert Rat, born and raised. It’s not enough to make me stay, but still: Mike’s right.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess I do.”

Mike nods and returns to my paintings. The next one shows—correction, attempts, poorly, to show—a naked, eyeless baby doll whose mocha-colored fabric skin has been stripped from one arm and reveals not batting but bare bone.

“Ugh!” I say, and try to cover my eyes, except my fingers are all tangled up in my lap. “Now see,
that
sucks.”

“
Does
it?”

“Unless maybe you’re nearsighted.”

Mike raises one hand and lets it hover over the acrylic impasto. “This texture is wicked,” he says. “Can I touch it?”

My heart skips. “No!”

“How come?”

“Because it might get damaged. I mean, sorry, no offense, but no.”

“None taken,” Mike says, and eases the painting away. “But if it sucks, why care if it gets damaged?”

My eyes narrow as I try to shoot fireballs at his head.

Because he has a point. And he
knows
he has one. Mike’s not looking smug or anything, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes that tells me in no uncertain terms that he got me. But he also wants an answer.

“Okay, that was mean and totally uncalled for,” I tell him.

“Just sayin’.”

“Look, you conned me into showing these to you.”

Mike moves on to the next canvas. “No, I didn’t. You wanted me to.”

“What?”
How in the world could he possibly—

“You wanted me to see these.”

“I so did not!” Half-true, anyway.

“Then why be an
artist
?”

Wow, this guy’s good. I am getting pissed here. Except not just pissed.

“Listen,” Mike says, crossing to my bed and sitting beside me. “I don’t want to make you mad or anything. It’s just, these are really, really good. Or hell, maybe they’re
not
, but I wouldn’t know, I’m not an artist. I just know that I like them. And I don’t understand why that’s such a bad thing here.”

I squeeze my teeth together behind a closed mouth for a minute.

“I dunno,” I mutter finally. Then I add, “They’re not
terrible
.” I take a deep breath and manage to pull my hands apart. “Sooo … maybe what I should have said is, thank you, I’m glad you like them.”

“Did you just admit you might actually be good at this? I can’t tell.”

“Well, let’s not go overboard,” I say, but the anxiety in my belly has melted away. “I’m … passable.”

“Compared to what?”

“People who can sell. Or get fancy scholarships to good schools.”

“Ohhhh. Okay.” He knocks his knee into mine, and my whole
leg
burns, and proceeds to consume my entire body. Seriously, can’t we just kiss again?

“Gotta say,” Mike goes, “I’m feeling a little torn about this school thing.”

“Hm? How?”

“Well, if it’s what you want, you should do it. Find a way,
you know? But on the other hand, I’d hate for you to leave anytime soon.”

Mike looks at me, and—remind me again, who am I? Where am I? That’s what it feels like to have his eyes locked on mine. I know exactly what he means. I know this is just the beginning for us, and who knows where it’ll all go, but for the first time since May, I’m not 100 percent sad that I’m staying here instead of heading to Chicago. It’s kinda veering into the fifty-fifty range after those kisses.

My gaze catches the last painting. A jagged, smeared, black acrylic. There’s one thing I’ve got to know now, before anything else happens.

Without turning to him, I ask, “Are you fucking with me?”

Mike rears back. “Sorry?”

“My paintings. You honestly like them?”

“I do.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“I really want to sell a painting someday. I mean, I’d do it
anyway
. But I just—I don’t think I’ll believe I’m any good until someone I don’t know hands over a couple bucks for something I did. Is that wrong, do you think?”

He takes my hand. I almost pass out. His hand is warm, rough, soft. Mine fits perfectly into it. “No, I don’t. It’s fair. As long as you’re having fun. And you will sell it, someday.”

“So, when you’re a rich and famous rock-and-roll star, will you buy one from me?”

Mike grins. “That might be a while. I’ll start saving up now.”

He flips his bangs back and leans onto his arms, and I’m
suddenly aware of not only how comfortable he is relaxing like that but how happy I am that he feels that way. Glancing around my room, I feel like I’m seeing it for the first time. It’s … kinda
cool
.

I turn back to Mike.

“So, um. I lack what anyone would refer to as ‘moves,’ so I’m just going to go ahead and ask…. Can I kiss you again?”

“Thought your door was busted.”

“I’ll chance it if you will.”

Mike sits up and leans toward me, eyes closing. Mine close too.

The moment our lips touch, time slows. It’s unlike our kiss in the carport. This is careful, gentle. Our lips barely move. Our breath mingles between us, still dusted lightly with ice cream sugar. My body stills, internally and externally. And when Mike at last pulls away, I can only sit there with my mouth slightly open, my hands still hovering in place where they had been holding his arms.

The world begins to pick up speed again, and I open my eyes. Mike is looking at me, not smiling but—stunned, maybe. He licks his lips.

“Hi,” he says.

“Uh-huh,” I say back.

I swallow and widen my eyes to try to get back to the real world.

Mike gets to his feet. “So, listen, I should probably get going. Make sure Dad got home in one piece.”

Bummer. Then again, leaving on an up note! I stand. “Okay.”

He follows me out of my room and to the kitchen, where my dad is pulling A Cold One from the fridge. He bumps the door with his hip to close it as we walk past.

“Heeeey!” he shouts. “You change your mind about that drink?”

“Uh, no, thanks, I’m good,” Mike says, raising a hand.

“Aw,” Dad says. He pops the cap off into his hand, then raises it up toward his ear. He snaps his finger and the cap goes flying into the sink. “Haha! Still got it! You sure you don’t want—”

“We’re
fine
,” I say, and open the kitchen door. “Be right back.”

“Oooookay!” Dad says, and heads into the living room. There’s muttering, then my mom’s voice snapping, “
Richard!
Would it kill you to once—”

“Ah, Christ, Miry, relax!”

Mike and I go to my car. I open the door and climb in, slamming the door after me.

“Sorry,” I say through my teeth, which have clamped tight.

“No worries,” Mike says.

I’ve gone from totally freaking elated to boiling freaking pissed. I couldn’t paint how embarrassed I am. I’ve gotten used to how Dad acts when he’s had some beers, but with Mike there, it was like suddenly seeing Dad from someone else’s perspective. What a jackass he looks like.

I drive toward Mike’s house and don’t say anything, because I can’t imagine what to say that could salvage the night after Dad’s performance.

Then, a few blocks from his house, Mike puts one hand on my knee, and my rage turns to a simmer.

“Must be rough,” he says quietly. “Living with that. Does it happen a lot?”

I nod.

Mike nods back. “We used to rehearse at Hob’s dad’s house,” he says, “till he got so loud fighting with his various and sundry girlfriends we decided to move. Hard to come up with new stuff when it’s like that.”

I don’t say anything, but I pick up his hand from my knee and squeeze it.

The lights are still out at Mike’s house when I pull up to the sidewalk in front of his yard. I can see the glow of a cigarette flare near the front door, and make out a huddled shape sitting beside it.

“Well, he made it,” Mike says. Without so much as another look at the man on his porch, Mike kisses me on the cheek and climbs out of the car.

“Mike … do you need, like … help with him or anything?”

“Nah. He’s fine. Bad meds, probably. I’ll get him inside, he’ll sleep it off. Thanks, though.”

Meds?
I want to ask but don’t.

Mike hesitates for a second, studying me under the dome light.

“Take care, okay?” he says finally.

“I will. You too.”

“Always. See ya.”

“Yeah. Later, skater.”

Mike shuts the door and goes to the porch. I watch him shake his father’s shoulders. His dad slowly gets to his feet, pitching the cigarette out to the lawn, still smoldering. Mike helps him into the house, stopping briefly to wave at me. By the time I think to wave back, Mike’s already gotten his dad inside and closed the door.

As I drive home, I can’t help but think about being in my room with him. How easy it all felt. How
good
it all felt. Does that make me shallow or something? To only think about
us
instead of everything else that’s going on in the world? His dad, my dad?

Well, then, that’s fine. Can I say it now?

Yes. I give myself permission.

I’ve got a boyfriend
.

This little song repeats in my head the entire way back to my house. When I get home, Mom and Dad are engaged in a cage-fighting match in the living room.

Well, screw that. I’m not going to let their bullshit ruin my—

“… shoulda thoughta that s-seventeen years ago!” my dad shouts.

“Richard, that’s not fair!” my mother shouts back.

Oh. That again. They need new material.

I head straight for my room, shut the door, and turn on my stereo. Jane’s Addiction pops on. (
Here we go now … home
. Thanks, Perry.) I grab a blank canvas, slap it on my easel, and set to work painting tonight’s view from Camelback. My assignment for tomorrow is a landscape. Technically, I’m
supposed to sketch a painting before jumping in, but frankly, since I’m not a pro, to hell with “technically.”

And my walls are made of thinner material than this canvas.

“… think this’s how I wanted things t’turn out?”

“That is not the point. The point is that she deserves …”

My hand begins shaking. Can’t get the background quite right. The acrylic trembles in the bristles, smearing more than shading. No wonder my portfolio sucked; it’s like trying to create in a war zone living here.

Okay, so here’s the short version: Dad got Mom “in trouble,” as they called it back in the day, and both her parents and his decided the best course was for them to get married, whether they fucking had anything in common or not. Mom was seventeen when she got pregnant, eighteen when they got married and Yours Truly arrived. Here endeth the story.

It’s no big. I’m over it.

I
am
.

I mean, the damage is done, right? Dad didn’t get to play Irresponsible Teen when most people do, so he’s doing it now. Fine, whatever. But Jesus,
if you don’t give a shit about each other
, why go through the motions at all? I should perhaps suggest this to them someday. Soon.

Their voices stop, and I hear footsteps in the hall. Mom’s. A second later, their bedroom door slams shut.

Good.

Maybe now I can finish my painting.

Except for some reason, the canvas is blurry and my hand is still shaking.

So much for getting my homework done.

Turned out to
be no big deal that I didn’t finish my landscape, because Doc S didn’t even come on Wednesday. She went on to show up late for four classes and skip a fifth entirely. Last Wednesday, after skipping the Monday before, she whisked in ten minutes late and didn’t so much apologize as excuse herself: “I was spirited away to spend a perfectly extraordinary afternoon of cocktails and goat cheese with Lindi Taylor!” she said. Lindi Taylor is this American Indian artist who works in the Southwest. Not my favorite style, but she’s made a career out of it, which is more than I can say for someone named
Amanda Walsh
.