Part 15 (2/2)

Chapter Eleven.

dream of walking alongside the creek, the trees and rocks, gra.s.ses and water lit by the moon with an icy silvery light. It is like walking through a ghost story. All is silent. Then suddenly, the white bird is standing before me, poised on its slender legs. Its neck is curved and sleek, s.h.i.+ning feathers tucked tightly against its graceful body. The bird peers at me with an orange eye, head c.o.c.ked to the side. A sense of wonder, electrifying, charges through my body. The ground seems to tremble and roll beneath my feet, yet the bird remains perfectly still, watching me. I struggle to keep my footing, and when I begin to fall, the bird suddenly stretches out its wings and soars into the air. It circles around me, its wings V-shaped and stark against the starry night sky. My breath runs away from me in a rush, I can't catch it, and I fall to my knees, then I'm falling and falling....

I wake abruptly, my heart throbbing. The bird. Its unwavering gaze stays with me. If a bird could have an expression, this one seemed ... expectant. Like it was telling me I had work to do. Yes, this bird that looked like the swash of a paintbrush 167.

seems ever to be propelling me toward my art, toward Nate's art. It was the bird that made me realize how dearly art matters, that gave me this connection to Nate. Maybe, if I could show the world Nate's sculptures, if I could convince Damian to show his paintings, maybe everyone could see this better side of both of them, and Nate could be remembered as more than a screw up, and Damian could have a second chance. He could go to art school.

7:52. Oh my gosh. My first day back, and I'm late. My neck and back are coated in sweat, my hair is plastered to my cheeks. I was dreaming so hard I slept right through my alarm clock. This morning, the notion of school doesn't feel as unappealing as it usually does. I'm looking forward to art cla.s.s, to talking to Helena about the kernel of an idea I had during the night. Mostly, though, I'm excited to see Damian again. Just the thought of him makes my stomach feel fluttery and light.

Quickly, I dress and run downstairs. My parents have already left for work, I putter around the kitchen, looking for something quick to eat, when I spot my dad's crystal tumbler in the sink. The sound of his weeping still rings in my ears. Suddenly, I am gripped by an urge to see his den. I grab a strawberry Pop-Tart and race back up the stairs. The door to the den is open slightly. It creaks and groans as I push it open farther. The room is painted brick red and six long bookshelves line each of the walls. A large, worn, brown leather armchair 168.

takes primacy over the den like a throne, overshadowing the ornately carved antique wooden desk and a rattily upholstered couch that bears the scars of a long-dead cat's claws. The armchair faces a flat-screen television and a small wooden stool crouches beside it. As I approach the armchair, which still bears the impressions of my father's body, I notice something s.h.i.+ny underneath the stool. I kneel to see what it is. A facedown silver picture frame. I draw it out and pick it up. It's a photograph of my dad and Nate that was taken during a vacation to Disney World when I was seven and Nate was eleven. They're smiling, and Nate's head is thrown back, like he'd been laughing. He holds a stuffed Dumbo in one hand and a puff of cotton candy in the other, and his tongue is bright blue. They both look so young, so happy.

There is a hairline crack in the protective gla.s.s, but other than that, the photo and its frame are unblemished. I run my thumb along the crack. It stretches down the middle of the picture, severing Nate from my dad's arms. Does my father trace his fingers over this same crack while he cries? His sorrow lingers in the air, pressing on it, on me, heavily.

I replace the frame, and back out of the room. It's impossible for me to think of my dad with anything but resentment now. There isn't room for pity or for empathy anymore. Not since he left Mom and me to go on without him.

I hoist my backpack onto my shoulder, go out to the garage 169.

and mount my bike. Pumping my legs hard and fast, I pedal away. Enough.

The school day pa.s.ses and I feel like I've been walking through a cloud. Sounds seem m.u.f.fled, I barely notice the other kids shuffling past me in the hallways, the teachers rambling in cla.s.s. I don't pay any attention to the fact that Rachel is still ignoring me, doesn't look my way once. It's like I'm not there. Without Helena around, I take my lunch to the library and eat alone.

At the end of the day, as I step out of the art room, I hear someone calling my name. Slowly, I turn to see Helena standing in the doorway of the studio, waving frantically at me.

”Hey, wait up for a second!” Helena calls.

I pause, still feeling slow, fuzzy. I wait for Helena to jog over to catch up with me.

”Hey, how are you? How were your holidays?” Helena starts, then coughs as she fights to catch her breath. ”Are you all right? You seemed kind of out of it in art today.”

I stare at her curiously, hearing the words but not quite understanding them. ”I'm -- what?” Helena's eyes widen as if to say, See, this is exactly what I'm talking about ”Oh, I'm fine. Just a little ... tired,” I tell her, trying to snap out of this strange soupy funk. ”You know, the holidays were ... weird. How about you?”

170.

”Are you sure you're okay? You still seem kind of s.p.a.cey,” Helena asks.

”Yeah, I'm sure. I'm okay. Just.,. I'm tired.... It was a rough couple of weeks,” I try to explain.

”Did something happen? Hey -- I know -- want to go to the diner? We can share some pie and you can tell me all about it?”

I am thoroughly alert now. I think about what my mom would have to say about this idea, and that decides it for me. ”You know what, I'd love that. Let me just tell someone....” We've been walking through the school, and have reached the door to the student parking lot. This morning I was so fixated on seeing Damian again, but then, after entering my father's den, I couldn't even look at him in cla.s.s. Now, the notion of Helena's company feels safe, soothing. I've needed a friend.

I should let Damian know I won't be coming to the barn today, though, and I crane my neck to look for him. Then I spot the familiar black-cloaked back striding toward the blue El Camino. ”Will you wait for me here a sec?” I ask Helena.

As she nods, I begin to sprint toward Damian's car. ”Hey, Damian!” I holler, not paying any attention to the many heads that turn in my direction across the parking lot.

Damian hears and turns, too. ”Hi,” I say as I catch up to him.

”Hi,” he replies easily. ”Did you have a good holiday?”

”Yeah,” I say, my pulse leaping. ”You?”

171.

”It was nice,” he says, smiling. ”Hey, happy New Year.”

”Happy New Year,” I tell him, remembering how I'd thought about him on New Year's Eve, and feeling my cheeks grow warm. Thank goodness he can't read my mind. ”So, I just wanted to let you know, I'm not going to come over to work today.”

”Oh, okay,” Damian says slowly. ”Is anything wrong?”

I catch a glint of worry in his eyes. ”No, no, nothing at all. I'm just going to go to the diner with Helena. She, uh, wanted to talk to me about something.”

”All right,” he says reluctantly.

”But can I come over tomorrow?” I ask, worried that he might be angry, might not want me to come over anymore.

”Sure, no problem.” His voice, dull.

”Hey, you're not upset with me, are you?”

”No. It's just that -- you're not not coming because you're avoiding me or anything, are you?”

”Of course not,” I make my voice sound light. ”No, I just need to take a day and think about the map and what I want to do with it and everything.” He's worried I was upset with him?

”Okay. Then I'll see you tomorrow.” Damian looks relieved, but with his brow wrinkled, I can tell he isn't fully convinced.

”Cool, thanks.” I put my hand on his arm and squeeze gently before turning back to Helena.

As I come back over to Helenas side, she says, ”You know, I 172.

saw Calico had a canvas of his stretched out on her desk today. He's really good. Like, an amazing painter.” She c.o.c.ks her head and looks at me intently.

”I know,” I tell her, ”He does these incredible paintings where he sticks objects -- you know, like washers and screws and bits of metal -- right into the paint. They're unbelievable.”

”Really!'” Helena asks as we -- I'm wheeling my bike along beside me -- stroll out of the parking lot and head toward Union Street. ”I wonder why he doesn't tell anybody, or show anyone.”

”I know. I tried to tell him that he should. He's being stubborn.”

We approach the diner, which, with its s.h.i.+ny aluminum exterior and big windows covered in paper snowflakes, looks like something from the 1950s. We settle into one of the booths, and I recall how, just a few weeks ago, sitting across from Damian, I'd felt so sad, helpless, and sorry. But now I feel hopeful, buoyed by some sense of promise. Maybe I can do something, something good and meaningful. After we order hot chocolates and a slice of strawberry rhubarb pie, I begin to tell Helena everything.

”Actually, I was wondering if you could help me. I...” My voice trails off as I try to figure out how to form the right words, how to explain what I want to do, how to tell her about Nate.

”Help you with what?” Helena asks eagerly. Her eyes s.h.i.+ne with a brilliant curiosity.

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