Sister Pact (19 page)

I spend the rest of second period in the bathroom. I think I see John Strickland once on the way to art, but he doesn't seem to see me, and he disappears into the crowd. When I get to third period, Nick is there, waiting for me. He gives me a half-smile, as if he's checking the temperature of my mood and adjusting to it. Maybe I underestimated first basemen.

“Hi.” I make my way across the room.

“You okay?” he asks as he wipes mascara from under my eye. Tiny flecks of black cling to his skin. I'm changing his colors. I don't want to be responsible for his when I can't even find mine.

“I'm a mess,” I say.

“That's okay.”

Nick's arm slung around my shoulder, I check out the setup of the room.

“So today, we paint?”

“Guess so.” I fan out my pictures on the table. He reaches into his backpack and hands his to me. Then he picks mine up and looks at them, one at a time. The room starts to feel smaller, and I start to sweat. Will he think I'm stupid? That I picked something stupid to paint?

I flip through his two at a time. Baseball fields; diamonds; bases, battered and worn. Up-close pitchers' mounds. I wonder where he's going with this. I drop two of his pictures and reach down to get them, worried I'll have them out of order when I hand them back. Order matters to him.

“Sorry.” I give them back.

“It's fine.” He flashes me a smile and then jogs to the cabinet, grabbing paints for his palette.

“Okay, let's get started,” Mr. Kispert says as he walks in the room, making all the talking around us grind to a halt.

Piper bounces in, late but confident. She gives me an understanding look that feels nice coming from her. “Glad to have you back, Allie. Painting with Nick makes me feel like I'm painting in the guys' locker room.”

Nick protests, but I laugh.

“The important thing…” Mr. Kispert walks to the back of the room and starts pacing like he's a general sending his freshman and sophomore troops into battle. “Is that you really throw yourself into this project. No pressure.”

There's nervous laughter from the front of the room as the drawing and painting kids sketch.

“Little suck-ups,” Nick grunts.

“Seriously.” Piper starts sketching.

The next few minutes crawl by. I grab paints and try to assemble my palette, but nothing comes. I see flashes of colors, but I know they're straight from the pictures. Not from me. I figure it's a good enough place to start. I mix a reasonable iris blue. Then a periwinkle. And a cerulean. Mix in some snow white, whitewash, and three different shades of gray: argent, charcoal, and cedar grove. Leah's hair and her skirt are the same color: chocolate brown with fuchsia highlights. And black-blue lowlights. It's a representation of that day, the three pictures combined. But nothing about the emotions. Technique-wise, I'm fine. Emotionally, I'm screwed. I try not to panic. Maybe I can't do this clean?

My eyes slide to Nick, who is painting with work-shirt blue and baseball-mitt brown, field green, and rust. He's got one paintbrush in his teeth and another in his hand. He's leaning forward, his fingers clutching a slim brush. One spot of whitewash has made it on his face. He must feel my stare, because he looks at me.

He lifts his eyebrows like he's asking if I'm okay. I nod. I'm not okay. Not even close. I'm lost. And alone. And done.

“Time to wash up,” Mr. Kispert announces.

Nick finishes his last few strokes and comes over, carrying his brushes. “You look upset.” He looks at my painting. I wish he'd stop. Having him see my mess makes me feel like puking.

I point to my canvas. “It sucks.”

“It doesn't suck. You're just starting. You'll get it.”

“I'm sorry, it's just… I mean, obviously…”

Mr. Kispert comes over. “You guys working through lunch? No problem if you want to.”

“Yeah. She is. Thanks,” Nick says for me. “You just need to slow down and let it come to you. You've got the perspective right. Now you just have to work on the rest of—”

“The colors are wrong.”

Piper steps in. “They're not wrong. They're just not all there. It's like I'm not sure how this painting is supposed to make me feel yet.”

She's exactly right.

Nick puts his hand on my shoulder. “You use color to set the mood better than anyone I know. You'll get this.”

I blush. It's nice that Nick gets my work, but he can't help me. If I'm going to be honest with myself, I wish I had some pharmaceutical backup. Because with the drugs, Leah came and lent me her colors. Even if they weren't mine, they were a direction. And right now I feel like I'm on the ragged edge, very close to losing it all.

“You're not used to being patient.” He sits on the top of one of the tables. “It's always come so easy for you. Happens in baseball too. Sometimes you lose your rhythm. You just have to get it back.”

Is he right? Have I taken art for granted this whole time? If I relax, will it come to me? I look at my painting. I look at the pictures I brought with me. I close my eyes and remember that day. Freedom. Possibilities. Hope. What's the color of hope? I've honestly got no idea.

He winks and backpedals out the door.

Piper stays for a moment longer. “Nick's right. You'll get it.”

She leaves, and I know I should too. Because staying here, staring at this thing, isn't helping.

“You doing better, Allie?” Mr. Kispert sits at his desk, facing me, spooning yogurt into his mouth.

“Honestly?”

“You stay and work through lunch if you like.”

I work on my painting, but the bell's about to ring for sixth period. I'm closer to what I want but not there.

I take my brushes back to the sink. As I'm washing them out, I look over and see Mr. Kispert looking at my work. My stomach tenses. I don't want him to know that I'm not good enough. But I also don't want him to tell me it's beautiful, because if he did that, I'd know that he was lying all the other times he said I was talented. I don't want Mr. Kispert to lie to me. In here, with my art, I'm all about truth.

“This is a good start,” he says. “The colors are much closer than your first attempt.”

I join him as he appraises my work.

“The blues and whites are fine. And the gray is perfect,” he says.

My eyes scan each color as he names them.

“It seems as if you're missing some though.”

“Yes,” I say.

“I'm not sure which.”

“I know.”

“You need to figure out your point of view for this painting. What you want it to say.”

I wonder if he's disappointed in me and my work. I hope he's not sorry he put me in this class.

“This is an excellent start.”

I sigh, relieved. Maybe I can do this.

“You've got to get to class. I can't let you stay here all day.” He goes to help some other students set up, passing Nick, who has returned.

“How do you feel about it now?” he asks, standing, his hands on his hips, studying my painting.

“Better. But not great. Do you ever worry you can't do this?”

“No. And neither should you. Art isn't something you can question. You need to know you're good. Even when you're stumbling. You need to believe it's going to come to you.”

“I guess.”

“Look, Allie, watching you get where you're going is half the fun. Your whiffs are better than most people's home runs. It's not a level playing field. It just isn't.”

“Thanks.”

“You're tough.” He pulls me by my hand, away from my painting and out the door. “Can I give you a ride home?”

I stop. He does too. “Nick, I just can't right now. You know. I am just in a weird place…”

“It's okay. Friends can walk each other to class, can't they?”

• • •

We pull up in front of my house. I keep going over my painting, trying to piece together what's already there and what needs to be added.

“See you tomorrow,” Nick says.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Sure thing.”

I walk up the steps to the front of my house. He toots the horn. I turn to wave. I just need some time alone to work this through. I find Mom waiting for me. This can't be good.

“Hi,” I say, dropping my backpack on the floor.

“I want to talk to you.”

This is bad. She never wants to talk.

“Okay, but I've got a ton of homework, so can we talk while I eat?” I try to walk by her into the kitchen, but she blocks my way, one hand pointing to the living room. What did I do? What lie will I have to explain?

“Allie, please sit down.” She motions to the couch in the living room, the one we were never allowed to sit on. Dad's spot.

“You're scaring me,” I say. True.

“I'm sorry. I'm not doing this well.” She shifts her position and then gets up. “I need to get something.”

I don't know what I'm so scared of. After all that's happened, what could she say that would make any of it worse?

A few moments later, Mom comes in holding her painting. The one I took. “I found this in your room.”

First, I register fear. She knows. Then outrage. How did she find it? And finally, the worst feeling of all: loss—overpowering and strong. She hid the best part of herself from me.

“I guess…” she finally says. “I guess you found them.”

“Guess so.” I look down so I won't yell at her. That won't help. But I want to ask her how she could give it up. Instead I say, “It's beautiful.”

Her face softens. Her eyes linger over the trees in the picture. She smiles, small but real. “It was always my favorite.”

I stand. “Why did you stop painting, Mom?”

“I don't know. I just…”

“Just what? You were good. You were incredible.”

“It may be hard for you to understand. Sometimes in life, you have to make choices. That's all.”

I close the distance between us. I need to hear her explanation. My mom didn't have to be like this: deadened and broken. She could have been the way her paintings were: beautiful and alive. “So tell me,” I say.

“It was a long time ago.”

“Was it Dad? Did he make you?”
Sometimes guys make you do awful things
, Emery told me. And it's true.

“Dad had his reasons.”

Fire builds inside me. He did it. I knew it. He's always doing things like this. And now I know he killed my mother.

“I was obsessed with it. I got carried away…” She rubs her hands on her legs.

“Of course you did. I saw how good you were.” Does she think I wouldn't get that? I'm on her side. She's an artist. Like me. We get lost sometimes. It happens.

“You don't understand. It was too much. I couldn't paint and watch you two…”

The world closes in on me. It wasn't Dad who stopped her. It was me. And Leah. “What are you talking about, Mom?”

“It was so long ago. Why should we talk about it now?”

“Tell me.” I need to know. I need to hear the truth. Did Leah and I kill Mom?

“I was painting. I was working on a scene. I was really into it. You were a year and a half old. Leah was almost three. You were sleeping in your crib. I guess you were crying, and I didn't hear you.”

I nod to keep her going.

“Leah went to help you. She got you out of your crib.” Mom lifts a hand to her forehead and rubs her brow. “And she couldn't find me. I was in the garage looking for one of my paints. I couldn't find it, and I needed that color. Just then.”

Like me earlier today—sometimes when you're locked in, you can't pull yourself out. For anyone. Mom's telling the truth.

“It's okay, just say it.”

“Leah took you outside.”

“Oh, Mom…”

“I was crazy looking for you by the time your father came home. Jessica from down the street…” Mom makes a face. She used to call her
that Jessica
when she was talking to Dad. “She walked you back. She said she found you two in the street…”

“But we were okay.”

“But you might not have been. Something could've happened to you, and it would have been my fault.”

I see Mom's struggle, and I know what she's thinking. She's thinking she doesn't deserve us. But she's wrong. Everyone makes mistakes. She shouldn't have to pay forever for one mistake. “But we were okay,” I say again.

“He told me I had to get a grip. Be a real mother to you two. He wasn't wrong. So I let him pack up my paintings and put them in storage.”

“You know what, Mom? He's a bully.” I can envision how that whole conversation went down. Dad scared. Then mad. Then nuclear. Dad did this. Mom screwed up, but he could have handled it a different way. Hired help. Gotten her a studio. Instead he killed her a little at a time. Because when you're an artist, every day you don't paint or sculpt or draw kills you.

“I didn't want you to know. Or to think I loved art more than I loved you two.”

“We would never…”

“But you know, I think Leah remembered. After that, she always looked at me like she didn't trust me. Like she was waiting for me to screw up again.”

“That was just the way Leah was.”

“Maybe.”

“Mom, whatever happened, you need to start painting again.”

“You're not mad at me then?”

“For making a mistake, no. For giving up, yes.”

Mom smiles a little.

“Can I ask you something? Why did Leah start going to Dr. Gates to begin with?”

Her face falls, and she shakes her head.

“No more lies, Mom. I need to know.”

“Do you remember winter break two years ago? You went skiing with Emery's family for the week?”

I nod.

“That was her first attempt.”