Devious Minds (22 page)

“It’s beautiful. It looks like a patriotic vinyl record,” I said, and he laughed. “
Beginning
, huh?”

“Yeah, that’s one of the reasons I chose Art History as my major. Well, actually, Grandpa was the main reason. When he retired, he became all artsy fartsy—but he said it was the best time of his life.”

I tried to contain my surprise, but I couldn’t help my wide eyes. “Art History?”

“Yeah,” he said as if I should already know this. And maybe I should have. He’d hinted at it freshman year. “I’d stay summers at Grandpa’s cabin and paint with him. He had that print in his room, and I’d stare at it for hours.” He regarded the picture with watery eyes, and I felt an uncomfortable tightness in my chest.

“Anyway, my usual medium is oil pastels. If you ever saw me on campus, you’d notice the smudges all over my fingers, but I guess we never cross paths.” He blinked a few times, and I pretended not to notice.

“Who knew Gray Peters was closet tortured artist?” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

His grandpa had obviously meant a lot to him, and I knew what it felt like to lose someone you love.

“Yeah, well, I’ll never make much money.” He grabbed a bottle of water off his nightstand and handed it to me. “But it’s what I love. I’m sure you know the feeling,
DJ
,” he joked, and I smiled, taking a sip. “And what’s life if you can’t do the things you love, or be with the ones…?” He stopped himself and cleared his throat, but he didn’t have to finish his sentence. His unspoken sentiment was pounding in my ears.

Run, Sydney
,
he’ll only crush you again.
That was my first thought. But as he squeezed me tightly to his side, my defensive wall began to crumble to pieces, and I was surprised my first reaction wasn’t to grab brick and mortar and frantically rebuild. Instead, I welcomed the wrecking ball with open arms.

P
anic set in when I woke to no Sydney.

I lay in bed for a minute, hands clenched into fists, wondering what happened. Yesterday had been so perfect. Where did it go wrong? Probably because I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut and nearly admitted my undying love. Now she was scared as hell.

When I entered the dining room, Fernando and Chance were sitting at the table, plates set out in front of them, sipping coffee and chatting it up like morning talk show hosts.

Chance gave me a knowing smile and jerked his head toward the swinging kitchen doors. “She didn’t bail,” he said with a smirk. “She’s in the kitchen.”

“I know.” I lied and swung past the table and through the doors.

Sydney was at the stove, humming to a beat playing in her head. Her messy hair was up in a big bun, and she was wearing my T-shirt and a pair of my boxers.

I leaned against the counter and watched her. She hadn’t noticed me yet. Too involved in her own world as she danced around and tossed chopped-up rocket dog in the egg scramble she was cooking. She looked beautiful, and I kept wondering how we went from death threats to wrapped in one another’s arms last night.

But her words haunted me. I’d heard her loud and clear—no more lies. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t dissolve the lump forming in my throat. A groveling-at-her-feet confession was required if we had any hope for a future. And I most definitely wanted a future with Sydney.

When she finally turned, I expected her to be startled and scream. Instead, she kept her beat, hopped over to me, and pulled my hands to her hips.

“Dance with me,” she begged, and I shook my head.

“Too early, baby.”

She gave me a pathetic scowl and rubbed her hips against my leg. “Do you wish I were taller, Gray? I’d feel less like a Chihuahua against a Great Dane that way.” She laughed and pointed to her hips that only reached mid-thigh on me.

Grabbing her waist, I pulled her up onto the counter next to me. “I like that you’re four feet tall and your arms are crazy long. You’re like a little monkey.” I nuzzled into her chest, and she whapped me upside the head.

When I pulled back laughing, she put her hands on her hips. “I’m five feet four. That’s a respectable height, and my arms are proportionate.” She held out her arms, examining their length. “See?”

I nodded and gave her a chaste kiss on the forehead. “I think you’re perfect, Sinister. Being of short stature is a blessing, not a curse. Think of all the cupboards you can hide inside. If this were a horror movie, I’d be the first one dead.”

She stared past me, deep in thought. “No, Fernando would be first. Then you. But Chance and I would hide in a closet while the killer roamed the house looking for us. And being as we’re the last two humans on earth, we’d quickly procreate so the human species could live on through me.”

I let out a disapproving growl.

“Then the killer would find Chance, and because I’m so little, I would sneak out through the crawlspace hatch in the closet. Unfortunately, Chance couldn’t fit. The last thing I’d see would be Chance’s head rolling across the dirt foundation floor, and the last thing I’d hear would be the killer’s aggravated screams after realizing he was bested by a LITTLE MONKEY,” she yelled into my face, ending with a laugh.

I was about to attack her when she let out a yelp and pushed me aside. “Crap, forgot about the food.” She ran over to the stove and quickly stirred something nearly burnt.

“Rocket dogs and eggs?” She turned, showing me the pan. “Gotta make sure Fernando eats or he can’t protect you on the field Saturday.”

Standing behind her, I hugged her waist. “Always looking out for me.” I kissed the top of her head. “Thank you.” I started to move my hands up her shirt when I heard the guys yell from the dining room.

“Done yet?” they screamed as she turned off the stove.

“Man, they are grummmmpy,” Sydney drawled, handing me the pan.

After she poured a coffee for herself, we headed to the dining room where the boys were salivating over their plates. Sydney sat across from me at the table. We were making eyes at one another, passing flirtatious smiles back and forth. Sliding my leg across, I ran it up hers, but I didn’t remember it being hairy.

“Getting fresh with me, Peters?” Chance shook his head and rubbed my leg back. “Not sure I’m your type.”

Sydney broke out in a boisterous laugh, and soon, I was right there with her.

Picking at her eggs, she glanced up at me. “I have Geology at ten, but I’ll be done at one. Do you have an afternoon class?”

Wait, did just I detect an eager Sinister checking my schedule? Yes, I did.

“Yes,” I said, finally locating her leg under the table. “But you’re coming to class with me.”

I lightly rubbed her calf, and she frowned.

“The last thing I want is to hang out on campus on my afternoon off.”

“You’ll like this class,” I said, giving her a subtle wink. “Unless you have something better to do? Burn down Kappa Delta, maybe? Spray-paint
666
on the side of the Religious Studies building? Typical bad girl stuff.”

She smiled, a rosy blush building on her cheeks, then glanced at Chance and Fernando. “Now that you’ve blown my plans out of the water, I suppose I could endure an hour of remedial English.”

I smiled and tipped my fork at her. “You ain’t learnt nuttin’ yet, Sinister.”

A
t half past one, Sydney burst through her dormitory doors, wearing a bright smile, and bolted toward my car. She was in skinny jeans and a grey hooded sweatshirt. Her long hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and she was wearing that hat with a chopped-up animal on the front. Even when she looked like a teenage boy, she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen (scratch that first part).

When she noticed the crowd of football groupies who’d stopped by my car, she pulled her hood over her hat like she was about to be attacked by paparazzi. While any other girl would have crawled over just to prolong the jealous gaping, Sydney ran like she’d just robbed a bank and I was the getaway driver. She even hit the car panel twice before hopping in the seat.

“Ready?” I asked, and her eyes screamed at me to get moving. “I’m still warming up the car,” I teased, watching the group of loitering girls grow. “Sometimes she needs a few minutes of just idling to get the engine ready. Also, I need some good music, and I’m still working through the stati—”

“Gray,” she snapped, delivering a stern glare, and I chuckled under my breath. “Move it.”

It wasn’t long before we left campus and headed through the city toward MacArthur Middle School. The school was poorly funded, and the arts programs had been recently cut, so when I volunteered to instruct, they practically issued me a parking spot. It also doubled as an externship credit, so for me, it was win-win.

“What class is this?” she asked, finally pulling down her hood. Apparently, we were far enough from school she could be seen with me.

“It’s a surprise, Sinister.”

When I pulled through a low-income neighborhood, she stared out the window at the dilapidated homes and rundown apartment buildings.

“Are you taking me to see your drug dealer?” she joked, peering down at the poorly maintained streets. “I knew you were on steroids.”

When I noticed two kids skateboarding in the vacant lot next to the school, I stopped and rolled down my window. “Get to class!” I yelled, and Sydney’s eyes practically fell out of their sockets.

“What the hell, Grandpa Peters?” She laughed and looked back at the kids through the rearview. “Trying to scare them straight? Won’t work when you’re driving a car worth more than their homes, you rich prick.”

Laughing, I turned into a parking lot across from the school. Sydney threw me a suspicious look but stepped out of the car and waited as I pulled out my canvas portfolio bag and tackle box from the trunk.

“Are we fishing?” she teased, and I grabbed her hand, leading her up the steps.

Soon after, I led her down the chipped linoleum-floor school hallway and to the rec room. She froze at the doorway when she saw the art easels set up in a semicircle with a low wooden stage in the middle. “This… looks like a trap.” She turned to flee, but my sixth graders piled through the door, blocking her escape.

W
hat is he trying to do to me?

He teaches an art class? Who is this person?

When a flood of unwashed cherubic faces pushed through the door, my heart stopped. They all looked at Gray with bright smiles and, one by one, held up their large art pads for his approval.

“Hi, Mr. Peters,” squeaked a chubby girl wearing an orange headband and a Justin Beiber shirt.

“Afternoon, Rhia,” he said, putting on a sudden teacherish voice, and I held back from shaking my head in utter astonishment. “That’s Miss Porter’s favorite artist.” He pointed at her T-shirt, and the girl’s eyes crusted over with Beiber Fever.

“What’s your favorite song?” she asked, pulling my arm to the side. I racked my brain as Gray laughed from the doorway.

“Oh, you know, the one about the girl and the heart and the love.” She nodded like I hadn’t just bullshitted my way out of answering. For added effect, I made a heart shape with my hands and pumped it against my chest. Yes, I’d seen the music video. Don’t judge!

“Mine too,” she said on a giggle as she made her way toward an easel. “We’ll talk after class,” she reassured me, and I gave her a slow nod.

Gray remained in the doorway, high-fiving every sweaty, zitty kid that waltzed inside the room. The two skateboarders came rushing in, and Gray whapped them playfully upside the head, and they both chuckled, running over to a set of easels.

Pretty soon, the room was packed, and little gerbil-like squeals from girls and disgusting belches from boys assaulted my ears. Gray took my arm and led me to the stage, motioning for me to sit.

“Afternoon, kids, this is Sydney and—”

“She a new kid?” one of the skater kids asked in a cracked, high-pitched voice. “She must have transferred from Darmer? You a transfer from Darmer?”

Shaking my head, I glanced down at my sweatshirt, jeans, and Converse. I looked like I could’ve fit right in with these unruly punks.

“No, Jude, Sydney will be modeling for you today,” Gray said, holding back a laugh.

Two boys off to the side exchanged a look of excitement, and Gray quickly added, “In her
clothes
, Patrick and Louis.” He held two fingers to his eyes and turned them back on the boys, as if to say,
I’m watching you
, and they chuckled from their seats.

“Today is about Patrick’s favorite subject,” Gray began, sending Patrick a smile. “Feelings.”

The kids laughed, and Patrick went red in the face.

“You’ve all studied the Mona Lisa and you’ve seen that smirk on her face, like she’d just let a fart loose.” The kids broke out in howling laughter, and Gray shot me a smile. “But what was more important than her pale face and teasing eyes, something that has been debated throughout history, was what she was thinking. What was lurking behind that smile? Was she annoyed? Was she thinking,
I can’t wait until class is over so I can snort Pepsi through my nose to impress girls?
”

All the kids laughed and pointed fingers at Patrick and Louis. I couldn’t help but laugh too.

“What was Mona Lisa feeling for hours on end, sitting in that stuffy studio while Leonardo DiCaprio painted her?”

“Leonardo
da Vinci
,” the class groaned in unison, and Gray opened his arms to the ceiling like a proud symphony conductor.

“So you were listening to last week’s lecture,” Gray teased just as a hand shot up from behind an easel. “Yes, Parker?”

A small boy with thick-rimmed glassed craned his neck to look at me. “How are we supposed to know what she’s feeling? I mean, she looks kind of grumpy, like my mom before her coffee in the morning.” He rubbed his forehead with his greasy little hand. “But she looks older than my mom. My mom’s thirty-eight.”

Parker better watch his back when the bell rings
.

“She’s going to tell you,” Gray answered, trying not to laugh. “Sydney’s going to tell you a story, and I want you to fill the page with the feeling it conjures. Use shapes, angles, and any color you want, but this exercise is about capturing emotion on paper.” He turned toward me and nodded. “Go ahead, Sydney.”

I shook my head, but he ignored me and moved to the back of the room, behind his students. I could feel the stares of all the kids on my face, and I was burning up inside.

God, what is he doing?

The thought crossed my mind to grab my phone and call a cab, but when I heard the clearing of small throats and read the excited glances, I broke down.

Tell them a story? Like a bedtime story? A scary sitting in front of the campfire story?
Looking across their small feet, a pair of trashed tennis shoes caught my eye. The heels were worn out from overuse, the rubber cracking at the sides. Instantly, summer popped into my mind. I’d never said the events out loud, but if they wanted emotion, I was going to give it to them in spades.

“Do you guys like summer?”

A line of bobble-heads whipped up and down as one.
Duh, who doesn’t like summer?

“Well, summer was always my favorite time of the year. School was boring, and if I had to hear another lecture on conjugating verbs, I was going to ride my bike off the nearest cliff.”

A couple students laughed, and I stole a quick glance at Gray to make sure I could say things like that. He gave me a thumbs-up and started to pace back and forth as the kids grabbed oil pastels and set to work.

“I would ride my bike every day and do wheelies off the park benches. I’d go through at least two pairs of Converse a summer because I used them as makeshift breaks until the heels were rubbed raw.” I pulled my leg out to show them my shoes.

“But my favorite part of summer was visiting my dad. My parents split up when I was seven, and I’d spend summers at my dad’s. He lived in a small logging town on the coast, and he drove a logging truck to make ends meet.”

I took off my dad’s burgundy trucker hat so they could see it, and a few kids snatched a burgundy pastel from their boxes.

“But Dad’s true passion was music. Mom always thought music was a waste of time, so when Dad gave me a used Casio CT-101 piano keyboard, I thought the heavens had opened up around me.” Peeling off my sweatshirt, I held my piano tattoo out for them to see. “I was eleven years old at the time, and we’d spend hours on that thing, making up songs while my little brother Jack would breakdance behind us.”

Gray laughed and leaned his head toward one of the kids, pointing to something on her paper.

“Jack wasn’t very good,” I added. “He was always better at ballet.”

The kids giggled, and I laughed with them.

“Anyway, Dad would come home from work, sweaty and stinky from long hours in the truck, and he’d sit next to me at the table and we’d create.”

I tapped my fingers over the piano keys.

“He’d make up the verses, and I’d plunk on the keys until they matched. Then Dad would grab his guitar. And Jack would grab pots from the kitchen and bang them together.”

I felt the sting of tears line my eyes, so I looked up at the ceiling, blinking them back. “That’s when I realized you didn’t have to have a lot of money to make something magical.”

These kids knew better than me what life was without money. Mom always had a decent job, but she’d never spend a dime on instruments when designer handbags could be purchased. In fact, she’d never even spend an hour with Jack and me unless it benefitted her in some way.

“Everything is an instrument.” I paused for dramatic effect, honing the skills I learned in my high school theater class. Best French villager #18 in my school’s rendition of
Beauty and the Beast
.

“I’d flip the pages of paperback books just to listen to the fluttering sound. I’d fill glasses at varying levels and hit the sides with spoons. I’d force Jack to jump on different floorboards in my dad’s ancient apartment just to hear the sounds while I strummed utensils along the metal spines of notebooks. Well, one day while Dad was at work, Jack and I came up with a whole routine.”

I smiled down at my hat, thinking about our ridiculous song.

“I’d recorded a song on the Casio so it was ready for playback. As soon as I hit the button, Jack lightly clapped his hands.” I clapped my hands lightly. “Then as he’d build to a louder clap, I’d blow air over a half-filled beer bottle. I didn’t drink it,” I added, and the kids chuckled. “Then I would tap a spoon against Dad’s pizza pan.

“After exactly two minutes of clapping, Jack would start jumping on the one floorboard we discovered had a sharp-pitched creak.” I tried to copy the sound out loud, but it came across as a mating dolphin, and the kids winced.

“And then we’d do it louder and faster, until my cheeks hurt, and I knew Jack’s thigh was aching. Then, at just the right moment, we’d stop and let the piano music take over. It was beautiful and complicated, you know?”

A few of the kids shook their heads, not following my train of thought.

“It was
complicated
because it was hard. The process of arranging the sounds perfectly after trial and error. But it was
beautiful
because when it all fell together, it was unique. Jack and I made music from an old piano, a pizza pan, a beer bottle, Jack’s hands, and a creaky old floorboard. Something you’d never hear on the radio. Two little kids running around an old one-bedroom apartment, repurposing objects until they sang.”

I stopped, feeling a painful lump in my throat, and Gray moved to the front of the class. “Maybe we should take a break,” he said, his eyes never flickering from my face. “Let’s thank Sydney for such a colorful personal story, and when we get back, we’ll critique.”

A few thanks were muttered, and then that little shorty with the
terrible
eyesight (thirty-eight!), Parker, spoke up. “Did your Dad like it?”

I stared at his bright-eyed smiling face, but I couldn’t break his heart.

“He loved it,” I finally answered, feeling old wounds tear open.

The kids spread faster than wildfire, heading out into the hall to use the restroom or get a drink of water. Gray waited for them to leave before wrapping his arms around me in a warm, safe hug. “Awesome story, Sydney.” He dropped his hand down my back and led me toward the easels. “Let’s look at what the kids think.”

We walked from picture to picture. I laughed at a few of them, not because they were funny, but because they were cute. One had a purple keyboard and a young boy dancing in the background, who I guessed was Jack. One kid drew me doing a wheelie off a park bench, but it looked like my arm was broken in half.

“Needs some work,” Gray mumbled as he tickled my side.

I stopped in front of Parker’s picture, and Gray shook his head. “Well, at least he used a lot of color.”

“That’s the log truck,” I said, pointing to brown cylinders at the top of the page. It was held up by a grey rectangle that must have been the truck body. Underneath that were three vertical lines: pink, black, and blue. They were all connected by one dotted gray line. “And that’s me, my dad, and Jack.”

Reading my face, Gray grabbed my hand as if he knew I needed the comfort.

“And all that color, those rings behind us? See how they start off light and almost nonexistent in the center, then grow in intensity as you move toward the outer rings? That’s the music,” I choked out as hot, frustrated tears poured down my cheeks.