Love, Life, and the List
Page 8
“Oh. So he’s an android. Got it.”
I buried my head deeper in my arms.
“But seriously, he obviously doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
But doesn’t he? I wanted to say. You feel the same way. You’re missing that piece when you look at me too. The piece that makes you feel something.
I turned my head sideways and looked at Cooper. “I have an agoraphobic mom and a war-zone dad.” And I couldn’t forget the unrequited-love thing I had going on. “How much deeper can a person get?”
“Not much.” Cooper chuckled, a sound that made my heart thump hard in my chest.
I groaned again and reburied my head. Several waves crashed against the supports below before he spoke.
“Your mom isn’t agoraphobic.”
“I know. But it seems as though she’s studying really hard to become one. She’s getting worse.”
“Worse how?”
“She used to at least go out. Leave the house. I can’t remember the last time she did that. She needs friends. That always seemed to help her before we moved here.”
“I can probably get my mom to ask her out to lunch.”
I didn’t need to say anything, just stared at him until he realized that was a ridiculous suggestion.
“You’re right,” he said. “They aren’t a good match.”
“It’s fine. She’ll be fine when my dad gets home in August.”
“Your dad gets home in August?”
I smiled at that thought. It was right around the corner. “Yes, I can’t wait. But he’ll miss the show. I mean, he would have missed the show. Now it doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe you misunderstood Mr. Wallace.”
“Nope. He was straightforward. Very. He actually used all the words I told you. No emotion, no depth, no heart. All of them.”
“That’s harsh.”
It was harsh. Being an artist defined me. It was the one thing I felt I was good at. The one thing I thought people, and Cooper, admired me for. And now I didn’t even have that. The tears I’d managed to control at the restaurant threatened to spill down my face.
“It’s just one person’s opinion, Abby.”
“He has a doctorate in art. He is a museum curator. And he is the only person close that can show my art. I needed this experience.” The lump in my throat was growing by the second, and I kept having to swallow it down.
“What about another museum? Or gallery?”
“I’ve been looking. It’s a long shot. Hundreds of people apply for shows. I thought I had an in with Mr. Wallace. But if he doesn’t like my art, you really think some stranger is going to take a chance on me?”
“Don’t let him get in your head.”
“He’s already there.” With those words the tears escaped, much to my frustration. I swiped at them angrily.
Cooper pulled me into a hug. “Don’t cry. I hate it when you cry. It makes me want to beat people up.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will be. And you’ll figure out a way to prove him wrong.” Cooper’s hand went up and down my back and I melted further against him.
As comforting as Cooper’s words were, I wasn’t sure I would figure out a way to prove Mr. Wallace wrong. I wasn’t great at changing people’s feelings.
SIX
I stared at the blank canvas. Experience. Depth. Cooper was right. I needed to prove Mr. Wallace wrong. I’d get in that art show, get accepted to the program, and prove to Mr. Wallace, to Cooper, to everyone that I was a real artist. I’d paint something new. Something different. He wasn’t making final decisions on the applications until two weeks before the show. I’d show him that I was more than what he’d seen.
I had about four weeks to paint five paintings better than I’d ever painted before. The time wasn’t what was causing a growing panic in my chest, though. I had time. Depending on the size, how detailed it was, how many continuous hours I could devote to the piece, I spent anywhere from a day to several days on a painting. Since it was summer, I had nothing but time. The tightness filling up my chest was due to the fact that I had no idea what I was going to paint. I had no idea what would be new or different or better.
I flipped through my scrapbook of inspirational photos and prints, which normally gave me ideas. But nothing was coming to me. And wasn’t the point to do something different than I normally did?
I shoved the scrapbook back in the hutch and dropped my paintbrush into the jar. I turned to leave the room and let out a scream when I saw my mom standing in the doorway behind me.
“You scared me,” I said.
“You didn’t paint anything.”
“I know.”
“Cooper told me what Mr. Wallace said.”
“What? That traitor. When did he tell you that?”
“He texted me this morning.”
“I will kill him.”
“What I want to know is, why you didn’t tell me.”
“I don’t know. The more times I say it out loud, the more I believe it. I wasn’t even going to tell Cooper. He forced it out of me.”
She shook her head. “That boy doesn’t have to force anything out of you.”
“I know. I told him without much effort. I have no willpower when it comes to him. Keep that to yourself.”
She smiled. My mom knew about my history with Cooper. She was the one I cried to last summer after that fateful late-night walk on the beach where I told him how I felt and he laughed it off.
I brushed by her and out to the living room, where Grandpa was sleeping in the recliner. I sat on the couch, thinking my mom wouldn’t try to talk to me in here with Grandpa napping. I should’ve known better.
She sat next to me. “I think your paintings are beautiful.”
Grandpa snorted awake. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he said.
“It’s okay, Gramps, when a man gets to be your age, he can’t help it.”
“Would you punish your daughter for me?” he said.
My mom laughed. “We’re talking about Mr. Wallace.”
“No depth, huh?” Grandpa said.
“You told him?” I threw my hands in the air.
“I’m not allowed to know?” Grandpa asked, indignant. “Since when am I not allowed to know?”
“Since I have no heart,” I said.
Mom patted my shoulder. “You have a heart, baby. It’s your art Mr. Wallace is referring to.”
“So you agree with him?”
“I never said that. You know your father and I love what you do.”
“Wait, did you tell Dad? He doesn’t need to worry about this right now.”
“He likes to be kept up to date too.”
I sighed. “I need to start waking up earlier.”
My mom gestured to the paintings hung around the living room. They were like windows that let in no light, but made the room seem endless. Each one was a different scene of the outside world. I’d painted busy places like Times Square and the Strip in Vegas, but also serene places, like countryside villas in France and green-covered bluffs in Ireland. Not that I’d ever been to any of those places, but I’d seen a lot of pictures. I’d painted these one by one since our move here, thinking they could inspire my mom to see more of the world, but I wasn’t really sure they helped. Maybe they actually made her feel like she didn’t need to go anywhere, since she had the whole world in her living room.
I buried my head deeper in my arms.
“But seriously, he obviously doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
But doesn’t he? I wanted to say. You feel the same way. You’re missing that piece when you look at me too. The piece that makes you feel something.
I turned my head sideways and looked at Cooper. “I have an agoraphobic mom and a war-zone dad.” And I couldn’t forget the unrequited-love thing I had going on. “How much deeper can a person get?”
“Not much.” Cooper chuckled, a sound that made my heart thump hard in my chest.
I groaned again and reburied my head. Several waves crashed against the supports below before he spoke.
“Your mom isn’t agoraphobic.”
“I know. But it seems as though she’s studying really hard to become one. She’s getting worse.”
“Worse how?”
“She used to at least go out. Leave the house. I can’t remember the last time she did that. She needs friends. That always seemed to help her before we moved here.”
“I can probably get my mom to ask her out to lunch.”
I didn’t need to say anything, just stared at him until he realized that was a ridiculous suggestion.
“You’re right,” he said. “They aren’t a good match.”
“It’s fine. She’ll be fine when my dad gets home in August.”
“Your dad gets home in August?”
I smiled at that thought. It was right around the corner. “Yes, I can’t wait. But he’ll miss the show. I mean, he would have missed the show. Now it doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe you misunderstood Mr. Wallace.”
“Nope. He was straightforward. Very. He actually used all the words I told you. No emotion, no depth, no heart. All of them.”
“That’s harsh.”
It was harsh. Being an artist defined me. It was the one thing I felt I was good at. The one thing I thought people, and Cooper, admired me for. And now I didn’t even have that. The tears I’d managed to control at the restaurant threatened to spill down my face.
“It’s just one person’s opinion, Abby.”
“He has a doctorate in art. He is a museum curator. And he is the only person close that can show my art. I needed this experience.” The lump in my throat was growing by the second, and I kept having to swallow it down.
“What about another museum? Or gallery?”
“I’ve been looking. It’s a long shot. Hundreds of people apply for shows. I thought I had an in with Mr. Wallace. But if he doesn’t like my art, you really think some stranger is going to take a chance on me?”
“Don’t let him get in your head.”
“He’s already there.” With those words the tears escaped, much to my frustration. I swiped at them angrily.
Cooper pulled me into a hug. “Don’t cry. I hate it when you cry. It makes me want to beat people up.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will be. And you’ll figure out a way to prove him wrong.” Cooper’s hand went up and down my back and I melted further against him.
As comforting as Cooper’s words were, I wasn’t sure I would figure out a way to prove Mr. Wallace wrong. I wasn’t great at changing people’s feelings.
SIX
I stared at the blank canvas. Experience. Depth. Cooper was right. I needed to prove Mr. Wallace wrong. I’d get in that art show, get accepted to the program, and prove to Mr. Wallace, to Cooper, to everyone that I was a real artist. I’d paint something new. Something different. He wasn’t making final decisions on the applications until two weeks before the show. I’d show him that I was more than what he’d seen.
I had about four weeks to paint five paintings better than I’d ever painted before. The time wasn’t what was causing a growing panic in my chest, though. I had time. Depending on the size, how detailed it was, how many continuous hours I could devote to the piece, I spent anywhere from a day to several days on a painting. Since it was summer, I had nothing but time. The tightness filling up my chest was due to the fact that I had no idea what I was going to paint. I had no idea what would be new or different or better.
I flipped through my scrapbook of inspirational photos and prints, which normally gave me ideas. But nothing was coming to me. And wasn’t the point to do something different than I normally did?
I shoved the scrapbook back in the hutch and dropped my paintbrush into the jar. I turned to leave the room and let out a scream when I saw my mom standing in the doorway behind me.
“You scared me,” I said.
“You didn’t paint anything.”
“I know.”
“Cooper told me what Mr. Wallace said.”
“What? That traitor. When did he tell you that?”
“He texted me this morning.”
“I will kill him.”
“What I want to know is, why you didn’t tell me.”
“I don’t know. The more times I say it out loud, the more I believe it. I wasn’t even going to tell Cooper. He forced it out of me.”
She shook her head. “That boy doesn’t have to force anything out of you.”
“I know. I told him without much effort. I have no willpower when it comes to him. Keep that to yourself.”
She smiled. My mom knew about my history with Cooper. She was the one I cried to last summer after that fateful late-night walk on the beach where I told him how I felt and he laughed it off.
I brushed by her and out to the living room, where Grandpa was sleeping in the recliner. I sat on the couch, thinking my mom wouldn’t try to talk to me in here with Grandpa napping. I should’ve known better.
She sat next to me. “I think your paintings are beautiful.”
Grandpa snorted awake. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he said.
“It’s okay, Gramps, when a man gets to be your age, he can’t help it.”
“Would you punish your daughter for me?” he said.
My mom laughed. “We’re talking about Mr. Wallace.”
“No depth, huh?” Grandpa said.
“You told him?” I threw my hands in the air.
“I’m not allowed to know?” Grandpa asked, indignant. “Since when am I not allowed to know?”
“Since I have no heart,” I said.
Mom patted my shoulder. “You have a heart, baby. It’s your art Mr. Wallace is referring to.”
“So you agree with him?”
“I never said that. You know your father and I love what you do.”
“Wait, did you tell Dad? He doesn’t need to worry about this right now.”
“He likes to be kept up to date too.”
I sighed. “I need to start waking up earlier.”
My mom gestured to the paintings hung around the living room. They were like windows that let in no light, but made the room seem endless. Each one was a different scene of the outside world. I’d painted busy places like Times Square and the Strip in Vegas, but also serene places, like countryside villas in France and green-covered bluffs in Ireland. Not that I’d ever been to any of those places, but I’d seen a lot of pictures. I’d painted these one by one since our move here, thinking they could inspire my mom to see more of the world, but I wasn’t really sure they helped. Maybe they actually made her feel like she didn’t need to go anywhere, since she had the whole world in her living room.
