The Rules of You and Me (3 page)

I could imagine what my mother would say if she was there. “It’s ridiculous how some people don’t care about the image they project to the rest of the world, Hannah. Aren’t you glad we know better?”

We didn’t go all the way into Asheville. The restaurant Aunt Lydia wanted to take me to was on the outskirts of town. Tall trees half-hid the little brown building, and a bright green neon sign read “Papa Gino’s.”

The restaurant was Italian in the way that people who have never been to Italy think it is. Red-checked tablecloths covered the little tables, and a pizza buffet was set up along one wall.

“
Lydia!” A woman’s voice boomed as we entered the dimly lit room. A gray-haired tiny woman rushed over to hug Aunt Lydia. She looked too small for the commanding voice that came out of her. “You haven’t been to see us in ages,
Capretta
!”

“
I’m sorry,” Aunt Lydia said. “I haven’t gotten out much. But my niece is staying with me, so I brought her to meet you.” She gestured toward me. “This is Hannah. Hannah, this is Rita Lagasse.”

The old woman scowled at Aunt Lydia. “Don’t be so formal. Everyone calls me Mama Rita,” she told me just before she enveloped me in a tight hug that locked my arms at my sides. For such a small old woman, she was pretty strong.

Mama Rita led us to a table near one of the few windows in the place. “Best seat in the house,” she said proudly.

“
Thank you, Mama,” Lydia said. Mama Rita took our orders for drinks and then hurried away, disappearing through a wooden door.

“
So,” Aunt Lydia said, resting her arms on the table and leaning forward, “what are your plans?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Plans?”

“
For your visit. Did you have something you wanted to do or see while you’re here?”

I shrugged. “I just came to visit.” I hadn’t really thought about what I’d do here in Asheville. My sole focus had been to get away from Willowbrook.

“
Okay,” Aunt Lydia said. She said it in a way like my being there, without any specific goals, was an inconvenience to her. She furrowed her brow and tapped her fingers on the table. “Hey, you’re a good student, right? There are a lot of museums you can visit around here.”

Visiting museums sounded exactly like something the Hannah I wasn’t supposed to be would do. She would waste away her summer learning while other seventeen-year-olds were out doing whatever it was normal seventeen-year-olds did. Steal beer? Watch R rated movies?

“
My life coach says I should expand my experiences to new things,” I said. “So I think museums are out. I’ve been to plenty of those.”

Aunt Lydia stared at me as if I’d grown another head. “What the heck is a life coach?”

I stared down at my hands as a burning sensation crept up my neck. Apparently, Mom had never bothered to tell Aunt Lydia about Mark. “Oh, um,” I said, stammering for an explanation that wouldn’t reveal too much. “He’s someone who helps me figure out what step would be best to take in my life. You know, like when I’m confused about something or having a problem. He listens and helps me figure it out.”

“
So, like a therapist?”

I glanced around the room quickly to see if anyone had overheard her. “No, he’s a
life coach
. It’s different.”

“
How exactly?” Aunt Lydia asked.

I was saved from answering by the return of Mama Rita, who placed two glasses of tea on the table between us. “Here you go, girls,” she boomed. “Now, have you decided what to eat yet?”

I looked down at the unopened menu in my hands. I hadn’t even looked at it since we sat down.

Aunt Lydia must have noticed my look of panic because she said, “How about if I pick something out for both of us?”

I nodded and set the menu on the table. “Okay.”

Aunt Lydia ordered two plates of ravioli, Caesar salads, and mozzarella sticks. After Mama Rita left, we sat at the table in silence for a few moments. The other diners around us ate and talked and laughed, bits of their conversations drifting toward me over the silence at my own table. A long time ago, Aunt Lydia and I had been so close, I used to pretend she was my older sister. She had never seemed as old as she actually was. Even when things were structured and ordered to perfection at my own house, Aunt Lydia would always let me just be a kid when I was around her.

But now I didn’t even know what to say to her. The silence stretched on until it became uncomfortable. I sipped my tea, then carefully replaced it, wiping away the bead of condensation on the glass. I reached over to adjust the little silk rose in the glass vase in the center of the table so that the leaves were aligned evenly on each side.

Then I realized this was something my mother would do. I let my hand drop back to my lap.

Aunt Lydia had been watching me without speaking. She sipped her own drink, then said, “How is your father?”

My jaw clenched as an icy chill raced down my spine. “Fine. Mom says he’s enjoying himself at the…the center.”

Even I couldn’t say the word
rehab
, but I didn’t want to call it a resort like Mom did. The old Hannah would buy into Mom’s lie and paint over reality with the rainbow brush of perfection.

Aunt Lydia nodded. “That’s good. I hope he can get the help he needs there.”

I waved a hand as if it didn’t matter. “He’s making a lot of friends. I’m sure he’ll come back all refreshed and ready to get back to work.”

“
Do you think that’s a good idea?” Aunt Lydia asked. “Him going back to work so quickly? Maybe all the stress of his job is what caused him to start taking the—”

“
I’d really rather not talk about this at dinner,” I said. Rule #6: No unpleasant discussions at dinner. It ruins digestion.

Aunt Lydia pressed her lips together, but then she nodded. “If that’s what you want, Hannah. But just remember that I’m here if you want to talk about it.”

I spotted Mama Rita walking backward through the swinging kitchen door with a tray balanced on one hand. Our appetizers and salads. Thank goodness.

“
I’m starving,” I lied as Mama Rita brought the food over. “I’m really too hungry and tired to talk. Can we just eat?”

Aunt Lydia smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes and looked strained. “Sure. I promise, you’ll love the food.”

“
Hannah? Can you get the door?”

I cast a glance at the kitchen ceiling, which was marked with strange brown stains and cracks that snaked across the plaster. Aunt Lydia’s muffled voice sounded like it came from somewhere above me, but I wasn’t sure exactly where since the house had only one floor as far as I could tell.

The doorbell rang again and I cringed as I pushed myself out of my chair. I had only been out of bed for fifteen minutes and had just settled down to a bowl of Corn Flakes at the tiny counter which served as a table in Aunt Lydia’s even tinier kitchen. I hadn’t seen Aunt Lydia since I’d gotten up, so I had assumed she’d gone somewhere. But apparently, she had hiding places in the tiny house.

I opened the door to find a towering pile of canvases and boxes.

“
I couldn’t find the size you wanted,” said a voice behind the boxes. “So I bought the closest I could get. Sorry.”

I stepped back as the pile, carried by two slender arms, moved over the threshold and into the house. As the canvases and boxes moved past me, I could see the back of a girl’s body. Her overalls were paint-splattered and looked four sizes too big. She wore a fitted white T-shirt that had ridden up to reveal a stretch of brown skin of her lower back.

She dropped the collection of canvases and boxes into a chair in the living room, even though I wasn’t sure how she managed to see the chair at all, and then turned to me, blowing a lock of dyed orange hair out of her eyes.

“
You’re not Lydia,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

I shook my head. “No, sorry.”

“
Where’s Lydia?”

I pointed to the ceiling. “Somewhere up there, I think?”

The girl brightened. “In her studio already? Maybe it’s a good day. Lydia!”

“
Ashton?” Aunt Lydia’s voice called back, muffled through the ceiling above us.

“
Of course it’s me,” the girl yelled back. “I got the canvases, but not the size you wanted.”

“
What?” Aunt Lydia called.

“
I got the canvases!” The girl yelled louder, cupping her hands around her mouth. “But not the right size!”

“
Bring them up and I’ll take a look!”

The girl blew her hair out of her eyes again and then looked at me. “Do you think you could help me carry these things?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Sure.”

I wasn’t sure exactly where we were going. If Aunt Lydia had a studio in the house, I hadn’t yet seen it.

“
I’m Ashton McNeil, by the way,” the girl said, holding out a hand toward me.

I shook her hand, firmly like my dad had taught me. Rule #7: Always have a good handshake. “Hannah Cohen,” I told her.

“
Lydia’s niece?” Ashton asked, raising her eyebrows. “She’s talked about you before, but she didn’t say you were coming.”

I couldn't help feeling surprised that Aunt Lydia had mentioned me to this girl. They must have known each other pretty well if they had actually talked about me. I didn’t think Aunt Lydia had thought too much about me or my parents over the years.

“
It was kind of a last minute thing,” I said, shrugging. “I decided not to go to Paris.”

Ashton snorted. “Oh, yeah, I decided not to go to Paris last week too.” She smirked as she hefted the boxes into my arms.

They were heavier than they looked and paint fumes rose up from the cardboard, stinging my nose. Ashton picked up the stack of canvases and hefted them onto her shoulder as she walked out of the room. I followed behind, noticing how Ashton seemed to know the house well enough to know exactly where she was going.

In the hall, Ashton reached up to pull at the string to the attic. The wooden ladder unfolded and then Ashton began to climb, expertly keeping the canvases balanced on her shoulder as she went up. My mouth went dry as I looked up at the ladder. I’d always had a fear of heights. Anything over three feet above ground was enough to make me dizzy.

“
Bring those boxes up,” Ashton called back to me as she disappeared into the hole in the ceiling.

It’s just an attic,
I told myself. Taking a deep breath, I put one foot on the bottom step. I tried to see over the side of the boxes in my arms to watch my footing, but it was nearly impossible. The only good thing about that was that I also couldn’t see how high up I was. I went up the ladder slowly, carefully finding each step with only my foot as my pulse pounded in my ears.

I climbed into a small attic area and quickly moved away from the gaping doorway in the floor. The roof was low, the exposed rafters only an inch above our heads. Exposed bulbs lit the room and the floor had been finished with sheets of plywood. All around the attic were canvases stacked against the angled walls and some on easels. Most had only bits of paint splashed across them, leaving pencil outlines uncolored. Others were completely blank.

Aunt Lydia sat on a wooden stool in front of an easel, a paintbrush in one hand. The easel was turned so that we couldn’t see the painting on the canvas from where Ashton and I stood.

“
Working hard?” Ashton asked as she placed the blank canvases on a table. She gestured for me to set the boxes down nearby.

Aunt Lydia wiped her brow with the back of her hand. It was so hot in the attic already I didn’t know how she could stand to sit up there for long. “Not working enough,” she said. “If I did, maybe I’d actually finish something.”

“
You’re going through a dry spell,” Ashton told her.

“
I’m going through a dry
life
,” Aunt Lydia corrected. She tossed the paintbrush onto the table and then stood, stretching.

“
This is your studio?” I asked as I looked around the dusty attic. Sweat prickled along my hairline as the heat closed in on me.

“
I was going to use the guest room,” Aunt Lydia told me, “but then I thought maybe I’d better save it for, you know, actual guests. Be thankful you’re not stuck smelling turpentine while you sleep.”

“
Seriously,” Ashton said. She picked up one of the canvases and handed it to Aunt Lydia. “This is the closest I could find to what you wanted. It’s not quite right, but maybe it’ll work?”

Aunt Lydia scrutinized the canvas. “Maybe. I don’t know. I had this dream about the perfect painting and the size of the canvas was so clear in my head. It’s silly, but I thought if I could find that size, maybe I could paint the picture and finally finish something.” She laughed. “It probably doesn’t matter. I’m a failure regardless.”

“
Don’t talk like that.” Ashton turned to me, frowning. “Tell your aunt not to talk like that.”

Ashton seemed to be waiting for me to actually follow her orders, so I said, “Um, don’t talk like that?”

Aunt Lydia rolled her eyes. “Thanks, girls. But maybe it’s time I admit the truth. My painting days are behind me. I should go back to overseeing other artists’ work and give up on my own. It won’t be the first thing I’ve given up in my life.”

I wondered what else Aunt Lydia had given up, but Ashton spoke before I could. “I don’t want to hear those words come out of your mouth again, Lydia Montgomery. You are not a failure. You’re a genius. One day the rest of the world will see it too. So sit down and paint.”