Chapter Fifteen

Over the next few days, I can tell I’m making steady headway bringing the graphite sketch to life, the white paper filling with color. Still, when the alarm pulls me out of Wolfwood and the first painting is finished, I can’t quite believe it.

I pin it on the wall, carefully—it’s hard to wrangle this enormous sheet of thick paper—step back and look at it. Seeing it like this is impressive at first. It’s big and colorful and detailed, and my mother’s composition is full of movement and tension.

Then my eyes snag on a mistake. Suddenly, it’s hard for me to see anything other than the spots that aren’t perfect. I can’t see it as a whole work. I squint, and it looks better. A blur of fabulous, luscious colors. But when I let myself study the details, I can’t tell whether it’s good enough. It’ll have to be, though, won’t it? And framing will help. Even little Jaden’s paintings look like real art in the nice frames his father uses.

I reward myself with a coffee and cheap chocolate from the bodega near the studio and consider the situation. One down, seven to go.

Not that I can keep doing this for seven more paintings. No way. I’ve barely had time to breathe for the past week, constantly on the go and losing track of my own life. Hardly sleeping. And things keep adding up that the gallery wants to talk to her about. One of these days, for sure, it’s going to be something I can’t fudge.

Aside from the logistical headaches, painting is taking an emotional toll on me, too. The memories from Wolfwood still slip away when my alarm pulls me out; what doesn’t slip away is a thick, sticky layer of guilt that covers me every time. With my Wolfwood nightmares, when I was little, the emotion I was left with was terror. None of that now. Always guilt. I suppose it’s because I know it’s wrong of me to be doing this, to be doing the paintings and to be lying to my mother. Whatever the reason, I can’t escape it. Not even a recent night at Josh’s got me fully out of my head.

At some point soon, I’m going to have to tell her what’s going on. Get her to take over or at least work on the paintings together.

I’ve been avoiding thinking about this. Because, honestly, how am I ever going to confess what I’ve done? How am I ever going to get her to want to paint? She’s so relieved now that she thinks the show isn’t happening. And she’s focusing on her job hunt. Still, I don’t have a choice.

I spend the next day transferring the drawing for the second painting onto the watercolor paper. It’s a welcome break, since I don’t get lost in Wolfwood when I draw the way I do when I paint. I’m concentrating in a different way, having to look back and forth from the sketch to the bigger version. Instead of starting to paint the second when I finish, I take the next days to draw the third and fourth, too. I figure it’ll give my mother an added boost, if she sees a bunch of them are partway done. As I copy lines, I think about how to ease her into the idea of painting again and come up with the beginning of a plan to open her mind to it.

On Thursday evening, we’re sitting at the laundromat, watching our clothes and towels and sheets spin in the dryer. To save money, we wash at home in the bathroom sink—or the shower for bigger things—and then bring everything here to dry. If we hang dry them at home, it takes forever and they smell like mildew.

Usually we sit out front, near the windows. Now I’m paranoid about running into Ravi when I’m with her, so I steered us toward a dryer in the back. (Since the whole broken-face thing, I’ve been keeping a polite distance from Kai and Ravi, responding to occasional texts but nothing else.) She’s in an okay mood, because the last time she went to the library and checked job listings, a bunch of new positions had opened up at Target. Until now, she’s seen almost nothing listed anywhere that she could even apply for. Always a requirement she doesn’t meet: Need car. Need bachelor’s degree. Need experience . . .

Someone left a copy of a travel magazine here, and I’ve been paging through it, showing her pictures and discussing where we’d rather go, critiquing hotel design, salivating over food porn. Procrastinating putting my plan into motion.

“What about Morocco?” I hold out the magazine, open to a spread of a tiled interior.

“Mm,” she says. “Those colors and patterns are gorgeous.”

“They remind me of that Philip Taaffe show we went to at Pace, the one that you loved so much?” I say, tentatively mentioning something art-related, which I wouldn’t usually do.

“I can see that. God, I wanted to eat those paintings, they were so juicy. And wasn’t that also the day—”

“We followed Keanu!” After I say it, we both laugh, remembering how we were in a gallery and realized that Keanu Reeves was in there with us, and we tried to be all subtle, following him down the street, which is totally not something New Yorkers do, but he was in my mother’s favorite movie, so we made an exception.

The dryer buzzes. When I check, everything is still wet. Shoot. I add more quarters.

“This machine sucks,” I say, as it starts to rumble and spin again.

I sit back down and flip slowly through boring ad pages, shoring up my courage to say what I need to. Finally, I begin. “My half-birthday is coming up soon.”

She raises her eyebrows, amused. “Is that . . . an event?”

I smile, but my mouth has gone a bit dry. “I’ve decided it is. And I was wondering . . . there’s something I want.”

“Honey, you know we can’t afford—”

“This won’t cost money. But . . . don’t freak out.”

Her expression has gone more serious. “I’ll freak out if I want to freak out.”

I moisten my lips. “I want you to do a small watercolor for me. Of anything. Like I used to have.” My bedroom in our old apartment was covered with paintings she did for me: the two of us flying on a magic carpet, me with our neighbor’s horse-like Great Dane, the flowering trees in Tompkins Square Park . . . When we were homeless, we put our stuff in a storage facility, and when we couldn’t pay the fee, everything was sold or junked. Her paintings were the most painful of all the things I lost—her paintings and our sewing machine.

“A watercolor?” she says stiffly.

“A small one. No big deal.”

Acting nonchalant, giving her time to think, I turn to a page that shows a beautiful ancient ruin perched on a cliff over a blue-green ocean. “Ooh,” I say. “What about . . .” I read the caption. “The Yucatán, Mexico.” I look up, show her the page. Her lips are a tight line, pressed together. And pale. Her entire face is pale. Shit.

“It was only a suggestion.” I close the magazine. “The painting. I just thought—”

“Indigo, I’d rather not talk about it now.” She brings a hand to her forehead.

“But—”

“I’ve got a terrible headache.”

I stare at her. “You were fine a minute ago.”

“Please.” She stands up. “Do we have any quarters left, honey? I need coffee.” Now she’s pinching between her eyes.

God, it’s not like I asked her to jump off a bridge! A surge of anger rises in me. I try to tamp it down, reminding myself how bad she feels about having canceled the show and how she probably just associates that failure with painting in general. I hand her my last three quarters, hoping I don’t need more for the machine. After she’s left for the bodega, I release my clenched jaw and pick up the magazine again, flip it open, and transport myself onto a hammock on the beach in Mexico, imagine the breeze as I sway, the sound of the waves . . . my frustration and anger floating out to sea.

A little over a week later, I’m at the end of my shift at the Fud, thinking with exhaustion about going to the studio when I clock out. For the time being, I’ve set aside my plan to get my mom to take over—she hasn’t mentioned making a painting for me, and I haven’t brought it up again, either. So I’ve gone to Wolfwood every day except one and finished the second piece. All I want is to take the rest of the day off, but I also know there’s no room in the schedule to do that. There are six weeks left, and six more paintings. I’m at my register, thinking about all of this, when I notice Kai standing two back in my line. Seeing him sets off a surprising flush of happiness. So much for keeping my distance.

He reaches the register and hands me a can of seltzer.

“You stood on line to pay three bucks for water?” I ask, bemused.

“Tastes better with the umlaut.”

I can’t help smiling as I ring him up.

“My wasted money will be worth it if you can take a break, join me outside,” he says, putting his card back in his pocket.

I consider a second, conflicted, and finally say, “My shift is over in ten minutes. If you want to wait . . .”

When I get outside, he’s sitting on the bench in front of the store, in the sun, looking at his phone. I sit next to him, even though the bench is for customers only, not staff. These shoes are worn down and my feet are aching.

“Sun feels good,” I say, tilting my head back. The A/C is freezing inside.

“Mm. I think I might be sick if I stand up. Avocado seltzer was a mistake.”

I look at him. “I thought you got lime. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“In my defense, I thought I got lime, too. Then I tasted it.”

“The umlaut didn’t help?”

He laughs full on, then puts a hand on his stomach. “Ugh.”

I close my eyes and lean back. Not that I can spare much time. Need to get home and check in with my mom, eat, then go to Brooklyn. I’m gathering momentum to tell him I need to get going when I sense someone standing next to the bench. Shawna, my boss.

“Indigo,” she says. “Sorry to be a jerk, but not with your shirt on, okay?”

I sigh. “I know, I know. Sorry.”

“No biggie. Have a good rest of the day.” With a cheery wave, she heads inside.

I stand reluctantly. “Can’t sit on the bench in uniform. Which way you walking?”

“North,” Kai says, pushing himself up. His biceps strain lightly against the sleeves of his tee. “New comic store. Not far from your block.”

We head toward Essex Street.

“Beautiful day,” he says. “Perfect for Coney Island. Wanna go?”

I glance over at him. “Right now?”

“Isn’t the roller coaster calling to you? Indigo, come risk your life on meeeeee!”

“Sorry,” I say, smiling. “Another time, though.”

He narrows his eyes. “I can’t tell if you’re lying or not.”

“Why would I lie about wanting to go to Coney Island?” Not that I can afford it or that I think I should spend time with Kai, but it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to. In fact, going there with him right now sounds fantastic.

“I don’t know,” Kai says. “Maybe you’re worried I’m not tall enough to ride the rides, but you don’t want to bring it up.”

I laugh. “Can we just put this whole subject to rest? How tall are you?”

“Five-nine.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Maybe on your player stats.”

“Five-eight-and-a-half?”

My eyebrows stay raised.

“Five-seven is really just like five-eight.”

“Five-seven,” I say, suspecting it’s more like five-six-and-a-half. “Okay. So without heels I’m only four inches taller. Big deal. No more jokes or derogatory statements need to be made.” It’s not like I care about his height at all, but I have a feeling it’s a real issue for him, even though he jokes about it.

“So, no Coney,” he says. “How about . . . Ravi’s having a party soon. Y’know, a first thing at the new place. Nothing crazy, his parents will be around.”

“Oh. Um, when is it?”

“Next Tuesday. Midweek, since everyone is away on the weekends. On the early side. Super chill.”

“Tuesday? I think I have something.”

“Is it because of the other day?” Kai asks. “I promise Fiona didn’t mean anything bad. Or if it’s that you feel like we’re an annoyingly tight group, we’re not. We’ve been friends a long time, but we don’t even have that much in common anymore. We’re . . . a dysfunctional family who prefers when there are non-family members around so we don’t drive each other nuts.”

“So, you want to use me,” I say. “A diversion.”

“You are very diverting.”

I can’t tell whether he’s flirting or whether this is the same sort of teasing banter we traded when we were younger. I can’t tell whether I’m flirting, either. Does it count as flirting if you always joked around, and you’re just kind of acting like the kids you used to be?

“Honestly, though,” he says, “I probably won’t know a lot of people there. It’ll be Ravi’s friends from school.” Before I can ask, he adds, “We didn’t go to the same high school. He went to boarding school.”

“Oh. Well, thanks for the invite. I’ll let you know.”

We’ve started walking up Avenue A, nearing a spot where there’s always a small group of people hanging out on the sidewalk. All look unwashed and strung out. As we’re approaching, a skinny guy with a sore on his face and too many clothes on for such a hot day calls, “Hey! Kid!” right at us.

I sense a jolt of surprise from Kai. “Hey!” he calls back, gives me a quick look, and jogs over to the guy. Possibilities flash through my mind: he’s Kai’s dealer, Kai’s his dealer . . . Not that either seems likely, I just can’t think of anything else.

I don’t stare but keep glancing over, trying to figure it out. The guy is animated, like he’s explaining something complicated, hands moving up and down. Kai has his hands in his pockets and isn’t nodding or anything like that. No money is being exchanged. After a few minutes, Kai gestures over at me, fist-bumps, and then heads back.

We walk for half a block in silence.

“Shoot,” Kai says, stopping. “I’m sorry. I just feel like I should call my dad. Do you . . . You okay going on without me?”

“Yeah, of course. Everything okay?”

“I mean, I don’t know what my mom’s told yours . . .” He must see the confusion on my face, because his expression changes. “That was Hiro,” he says. “Sorry, I assumed you recognized him.”

I don’t get it right away, then my jaw drops. That was his brother? His brother who is only in his early twenties, who used to be so cute and athletic and funny? That run-down, vacant-eyed, skinny old guy was Hiro?

“That was Hiro?” I say inanely.

“He’s in and out of rehab,” Kai explains. “I don’t know the last time my dad heard from him, and I feel like I should tell him I saw him, now, in case . . . I don’t know, in case it matters.”

“Of course. I can wait . . .”

He shakes his head. “I might end up walking back, if my dad wants me to give him some cash. He said he’s got a new place and needs help with rent.” Kai looks skeptical. “Or might see if I can get him to take a cab with me somewhere. To my dad’s office or whatever. I don’t know. Maybe my dad won’t want me to do anything. My parents are always changing their minds about how to help him.”

“I’m so sorry.” It’s the best I can offer.

He nods, and gives a brief, sad smile. “Anyway, hard to see him, but I guess every time I see him and he’s semi-okay, it’s a win.”

I want to give him a hug but worry it might seem like pity, and I know that’s the worst feeling, when people pity you. It’s like they’re saying they’re glad they’re not you. So instead I find myself resting a hand awkwardly on his shoulder. Through his thin T-shirt I can feel how warm and toned and alive his body is, and—whoa—an intense, electric fizz surges through me. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something.

“Okay, well . . . see you soon,” I say, withdrawing my hand quickly, before the fizz short-circuits me or something. And with a final small smile and wave, I walk toward home.

Later, lying in bed, I send Kai a text. One I’d want to get if I were him.

Me: Hope everything went ok with Hiro. Dont worry I won’t tell my mom or mention it in front of your mom

He writes back almost immediately.

Kai: Thanks it is hard but don’t worry okay to talk about it, not a secret or anything

Kai: He’s sick. No shame

Oh. Of course, not like I think he should be ashamed. I’m just not used to people being open about stuff like that.

Me: I really hope things turn around for him

There’s a brief pause, then:

Kai: When your mom was in the hospital and had bad head pain or whatever did they give her opioids?

I don’t answer immediately, too surprised he knows about my mom’s illness. But of course he does. It was a major crisis. Annika visited her in the hospital. Still, I feel an uncomfortable tightening, like he’s too close. At the same time, I also feel an unfamiliar sensation of wanting to tell him more, wanting him to know the truth about the direction our lives took after she was sick. There’s something about Kai that makes me feel safe. (And something else about him that makes me feel very unsafe, in that electric-fizz sort of way.)

With everything about my life so tangled up with my mom’s, though, the truth about some things isn’t mine to share. Even if I found someone I wanted to share it with. Not to mention that the whole story leads to me forging paintings for his mother’s gallery.

Me: Don’t think she took opioids. Not that sort of pain. If she did wasn’t a big deal and def doesn’t take them now

Kai: Shes lucky. They gave them to hiro. Took them for some soccer injury and never got off not like he was an angle before that did plenty other stuff but wasn’t so hooked, and now its everything

Kai: *angel

Me: Thts terrible

Kai: Its true, you should pity me a lot, so much that you come to r’s party. You wouldn’t want to disappoint someone with sad story right? Like watching the olympics you have to root for the athlete with the sad backstory

I laugh, then cover my mouth, aware of my mom sleeping on the other side of the room.

Me: Ill try. really