A touch of cadmium yellow—that’s what it needs.
I smile to myself, adding delicate sun-dappled highlights to the swaying grasses of the meadow scene on my canvas. The art room comforts me with its familiar scents of paint and turpentine, the slightly burned tinge of freshly sharpened pencils. It’s quiet. Only Mrs. White and I are left in the room, and she’s packing up her bag to go home for the day.
She stops behind me to survey the nearly-finished work. “It’s beautiful Vancia—luminous—your best yet, I think. It should round out your portfolio perfectly.” After a pause she asks the question I know is coming. “Send any applications yet?”
Without looking up at her, I respond with a quiet, “Not yet.” I don’t want to see the disappointment in her eyes. Mrs. White is my biggest cheerleader, and I know she doesn’t understand my apparent foot-dragging about applying for art school.
She lets out a heavy sigh and her heels click across the tile toward the classroom door. “Don’t forget to lock the door on your way out. See you after the break.”
“Okay. Enjoy your vacation,” I say, my words colored with guilt. I hate knowing I’m letting her down. I admitted my secret dream to her after she suggested I pursue art as a career. She’s been so caring toward me, expressing such an interest in my future and my talent, suggesting schools for me. But her disapproval is nothing compared with Pappa’s.
I don’t have to live with Mrs. White every day and navigate her moods and whims for my survival.
At the sound of the door opening again, I glance up. “Forget something? Oh... hi.”
Carter’s shaggy head protrudes through the opening. “Ah, the artiste at work,” he says, putting on a very bad fake French accent. “I thought I might find you in zee studio.”
He lifts his phone, and the camera flashes in my direction.
“What are you doing?”
“Capturing your light.” Coming into the room, he stands near the doorway and snaps another picture while I throw up a hand to hide my face.
“What are you talking about? All this art theory is going to your head, I think.”
“No, I’m serious,” he says. “You glow when you’re painting. You have this little light inside you, like Tinkerbell.”
“Someone has seen too many Disney movies—and it’s not me,” I mutter, embarrassed but also pleased by his observation. I actually feel warm and glowing inside when I paint.
Carter strolls over to stand at my shoulder, one hand stroking his chin and one eyebrow raised over a stuffy pursed-lip expression. “C’est magnifique. A masterpiece.” He lines up his camera phone again and takes a photo of the canvas. Then gesturing at the painting, he further slaughters the French language. “See how she uses zee elements of light and dark to convey emotion, zee internal struggle of all humanity expressed in pastels on canvas.”
I laugh, elbowing his side with my non-paintbrush arm. “They’re oils, silly, not pastels. And I only paint light subjects. I don’t like the dark. I never even use brown or black.”
“Other than that I was dead-on,” he quips. Dragging over a nearby chair, he straddles it and leans over its straight back to face me. “So, you excited about heading to D.C. for break—cherry blossoms and all that stuff?”
“Um... well, actually I’m going to Los Angeles instead.”
“Los Angeles? When did this happen? Dad got a big Hollywood fundraiser or something?”
My face heats as if being fired in the pottery kiln. For a moment I consider lying, but then decide on honesty with my one and only friend. “Well, this is going to sound kind of weird, but I’m going to have some pictures taken. For uh... modeling.” Squinting my eyes and cringing, I wait for his response.
He bobs his head up and down, his bottom lip coming out and in as he appears to think it over. “Yeah. I can see that. Cool. You’re full of surprises, Van. I didn’t even know you wanted to be a model—thought you were all into the artsy fartsy stuff.” He gestures toward the paint pallet on the table beside him.
“I don’t. I am. I mean, it’s not my idea. It’s my dad’s. He knows an agent out there, and he’s setting the whole thing up.”
“Oh. So... maybe I’m missing something here, but why are you doing it if you don’t want to be a model? Or maybe you really do want to, and you’re being all modest or something?”
“No. I definitely don’t want to do it. I just—I can’t say no to him. It’s what he wants... and I owe him.”
His face screws up into a comical scowl. “You don’t owe him. He’s your dad. What—you do every single thing he wants you to do all the time? You’re going to have to turn in your teenage rebellion card, young lady.”
I laugh. “No, I mean, well yes, I guess I kind of do what he says all the time. You know I’m adopted. And... I guess I appreciate that he took me in when most people wouldn’t have. And he probably does know what’s best for me. I mean, he’s practically running the country, right? He’s pretty smart.”
“Yeah, but big difference between making laws for the masses and planning someone else’s future. For what it’s worth, it’s your life, and I think you should do what you want to with it.”
If he’s this impassioned about the modeling thing, what would he say about the arranged marriage? I’ll never know because I’m certainly not going to tell him about that mortifying turn of events. In fact, a change of subject is in order.
“What would you do if you could do anything?” I ask. He’s registered for fall classes at a nearby junior college. He told me he’ll live at home with his mom and keep working to pay for tuition.
He rocks the chair back then lets the legs fall to the floor again. “Anything? Easy—I’d play for the Braves. But since I struck out pretty much every time I ever got up to the plate in Little League, I’d say that’s out for me.” He chuckles.
Then his smile falls and he rests his chin atop his folded hands on the chair back. “Honestly, I’d get away from here—go to a good school, you know? Somewhere maybe up north or out west, somewhere nobody knows me or where I came from. And I’d work my ass off to be the top of my class and graduate in three years and get an awesome tech job—maybe Silicon Valley or something like that, make a fortune, run for President. Along the way, buy a cool car, a house or two.”
The longing in his voice makes my chest tighten. “Why don’t you do that?”
“You know why. Hey—your turn. What would you do?”
“If I could do anything?” My heart flutters at the idea of saying it aloud. But what’s the harm? Pappa can’t hear me here. I’m ninety-nine-point-eight percent sure Carter won’t laugh at me. “I’d get away, too, go to art school, sell my paintings, buy a cool car and a house or two.”
He laughs. “You already have a cool car and a house or two. But seriously, why don’t you do that? I’d kill to have your choices.”
I shake off his words. “Just because I have money, that doesn’t mean I have choices. My dad is the one with all the money. And he makes all the choices. He doesn’t like my painting. He says it makes me a recluse, and it’s never going to go anywhere. He wants me to make a name for myself, like he did.”
“I don’t know. I don’t buy it. A girl like you—I think you can do anything—and you don’t need anyone. I mean, if money for art school is the issue, you could do both—model and make your dad happy, then take the money you earn and pay for tuition.” He nods toward my bare legs. “That’s what I’d do if I had stems like yours.”
I gasp and swat at him, and he jumps back out of his chair, striking a cheesy modeling pose. “And those cheekbones.” Another pose. “And pouty pink lips.” Pose. “And a booty like—”
He lets out a cackling laugh, dodging as I leap out of my chair and go after him with a loaded paintbrush.
“Shut up, you idiot!”
Running toward the door and throwing it open, Carter whips around and backs into the hallway, facing me with his hands up in the surrender pose and laughter still in his eyes. “I believe that’s an unauthorized use of school supplies. I gotta get to my job. See you after break, Tink. Have fun in Never Never Land.”
He spins around and saunters down the hallway, loudly singing “You Can Fly.”