Where’s my fine brush? Oh, there it is. I’m dying to finish this painting already, so I can start a new one when I get to Michigan. The scenery will be different, so it wouldn’t make any sense to finish this sandy landscape up there. The whole vibe will be different, like between my mom and me and the whole Sedano’s discussion yesterday. You’d think, as the baby in the family, that I’d get along better with her, but we’ve always lived in different worlds.
Like I remember when I was little…I used to love lighting a candle on stormy nights and walking around the house in my long nightgown, pretending to be an actress in some old movie, a visitor at a mad scientist’s castle. Every now and then, I’d stop and strike a pose for the imaginary camera before wandering on. My final destination was always the bookcase in our den, the scientist’s secret library. Then I’d hear eerie violin music coming from somewhere within the walls. And just as I’d be about to pull the book on human anatomy (which was really a switch to a secret passageway), Mami would suddenly fling open the door, flick on the light, and demand, “¿Isabelita, que estás haciendo?”
“Nothing,” I’d say, and just like that, I was jolted back into reality, into her world.
It’s sort of the same thing with my family. Am I Cuban or American? Where do I belong? I was born here, but if I say I’m American, it’ll draw no, mi vida looks from my folks. If I say I’m Cuban, that wouldn’t make any sense either, since the closest I’ve come to seeing the island was with binoculars on a cruise ship one summer. But I have to know and be comfortable with it before I go to Michigan. Because here, I feel the most gringa of all my family, but there, I’ll be the Latina girl with an accent I never knew I had.
Why do I think about such lame things when I’m painting? I have to stop staring at this canvas and start already. Maybe I should add something unique to this storm scene, but what?
“Hey, Isa.” Andrew’s here—pulling off his orange poncho in the middle of the art room. Talk about being in my own world. I didn’t even hear him come in.
“Hey, sweetie!” Whoa, I just called him sweetie.
He looks tired. I totally understand; it’s been a long day. He also looks major hot with that new haircut.
“I’ve been dying to see you,” he says, inching over to my easel, taking the brush right out of my hand, and tossing it aside.
God, help me. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” He drops his face to mine and pulls me close. And that’s the extent of the conversation.
We probably shouldn’t be doing this here, with staff members nearby. But that thought goes away quickly, replaced with feelings I never knew I had. Every inch of my body is alive. I always thought that phrase sounded corny in love songs, but I get it now. The butterflies are back, frantically flapping their little wings inside me, as if trying to warn me. About what, I have no idea. Because if there is something wrong with Andrew, I just don’t care anymore.