Lake

 

 

Another marathon dream session.

Even though I lost the entire morning, it was worth it. I’d been working on something that, for once, didn’t require mouth-breathing. Sophie had me testing our octopuses’ intelligence by timing how long they took to escape from various containers. An octopus can thread itself through a hole not much larger than the diameter of its eyeball. George, my favorite, won hands down. They’re fascinating creatures. They have three hearts, and their blood uses copper rather than an iron-based carrier for oxygen. Sophie warns me not to become attached because they’re purpose isn’t for companionship. But how can I not? They’re surprisingly affectionate.

Sophie still hasn’t figured out she only lives in my dreams, but we’re getting along fairly well. She only pursed her lips twice today—a new record. And Deborah is impressed with my progress. Luckily, she attributes it to my scientific proclivity and not to the fact that Sophie still believes she has the power to flunk me.

I nuke a bowl of oatmeal in my microwave and savor the gristy aroma that reminds me of home. Grandma Bee has eaten it every morning for as long as I can remember. I hope every once in a while Dad gets up in time to chat with her over coffee. She likes that.

I grab my hat and book, planning to read under the shade of the immense oak tree. When I open my door, I discover someone on his knees. My heart rate doubles.

“Careful,” Orfyn warns. “This side is wet.”

My optical nerves are hit with an explosion of colors. The outside of my door now has a painting of downtown Pittsburgh on it, even though I don’t recall ever telling him where I’m from. On the floor lies a photo of the skyline, which he’s perfectly captured. Except instead of the city’s true grays and browns and tans, he’s painted it in vibrant blues and oranges and purples.

Orfyn looks up with a smile. Until now, I hadn’t noticed how his golden-green eyes glow against his light brown skin. “Marty seems homesick, so I’m painting everyone’s hometown on their door.”

As soon as I learned about his discipline, I made a promise to myself not to fall for him. “That’s very thoughtful,” I say, making sure to sound polite, not flirty.

“One of Sister Mo’s favorite verses is, ‘The generous man will be prosperous, and he who waters will himself be watered.’ It took me years to figure out it’s about a lot more than just money.”

“Who’s Sister Mo?” I ask.

“She runs the orphanage where I grew up. Her full name is Sister Moses the Black.”

“Is Moses the Black a saint?” I sound like I find him fascinating, which is giving the wrong impression. I need to be acting aloof and disinterested.

“He was an awesome saint. There are so many great stories about his life,” he says, stealing my chance at a quick getaway. “He was this huge black dude who lived in the fourth century in Egypt. Moses started out as a robber and ended up a monk and a priest. I guess you never know how life is going to turn out. Look at us!”

I chuckle along with him and find myself sitting on the floor, crossing my legs to match his. How did that just occur?

“Mind if I fix this bridge while we talk? The perspective is a little off.” He grabs a rag, pours some walnut oil on it, and erases the bridge I thought looked perfect.

This is the time to leave, except I’m transfixed. His long fingers barely move, yet the brush dances across my door as he recreates the Fort Duquesne Bridge in bright pink. Orfyn has me entranced as he tells me story after story about Moses the Black. He accomplished so many wonderful things, I can’t believe I’ve never heard of him.

“How did you become such a skilled storyteller?” I ask.

“I was one of the older kids at the orphanage. It was my job to get the little ones to sleep. You can only read Goodnight Moon so many times.”

“It sounds like you miss Sister Mo and those kids.”

“It’s hard sometimes. They were the only family I ever had.” He starts dotting the river with yellow specs, making it appear to sparkle. “Do you miss your parents?”

I use my standard line, which cuts off having to get into the painful parts. “My grandmother raised me.”

“What happened to your mom and dad?”

I start to examine the hem of my jeans.

“Sorry,” he says. “You don’t have to answer that.”

I’d normally joke to deflect the pain, or ignore the question, but he’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. He carries himself differently than the guys I know, as if he can’t wait to discover what’s around the next corner. And he doesn’t act cool; he just is. He also happens to be cute, none of which is helping me keep my promise to myself. But he seems genuinely curious about my life. We are going to be here for years, and it would be strange not to know anything about each other.

“My mom died of cancer when I was seven. My dad … he spends his time with his regrets.”

“What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“My dad was a professional musician, but he had to quit the band when my mom got sick. I once asked him why he didn’t join another one. He said you only get one shot and he’d had his, but life got in the way.” I don’t agree with his excuse, but one day, because of us and future Nobels, everyone might get their second shot.

“It’s great that you have your grandmother,” Orfyn says, oblivious that talking about Grandma Bee is what causes me the most distress.

How much time do we have before she stops remembering who I am? That was the most difficult part about deciding to come here. I’ll probably never see her alive again. Even though she was aware of that fact, Grandma Bee insisted I accept their offer to become a Nobel Candidate. She didn’t want me to lose this amazing opportunity because of her illness. I duck my head and blink away tears.

Orfyn gently touches my arm. “Hey, what’s your favorite color?”

Shivers run through me. What is wrong with me? I’ve been doing the opposite of what I promised myself, and now my body is betraying me, too. I grew up with an artist, and I will not bind my emotions to another. I have firsthand experience of what life is like when their dreams don’t pan out.

Dad would constantly boast about his trumpet playing. And then he’d become severely depressed because he wasn’t as successful as the people he believed weren’t as accomplished as him. During those times, Mom couldn’t do anything right. I used to hide in my closet so I couldn’t hear her cry. The only happy times for me were when he was on tour.

He grew worse after she died.

“I need to get going,” I say.

“I’m almost done. I just need to know your favorite color.”

“Green.” It’s red. Why did I say green?

“Tell me which shade you like best.” He mixes together blue, yellow, and white paint on his palette, then does it a second time. But the two greens appear completely different. “The left one is the color of spring leaves in the sunshine,” he says. “And the right one is how Central Park’s grass looks after it’s been mowed. Which do you like better?”

I can practically feel the sun’s warmth on my cheeks, and I could swear I smell freshly mown grass. I never realized color triggers one’s senses. I need to explore this concept further. I point to my choice.

He paints Lake in spring-leaf green at the top of my door. “Now I won’t have any problem finding you.” When his golden-green eyes grab hold of mine, my breath catches, and my skin feels effervescent.

Warning bells clang in my head.

Artists are dreamers, and one thing I’ve learned from my dad—and it could be the only thing—is you can’t rely on them when things get tough. I am not falling for a guy who probably thinks responsibility means selecting the appropriate shade of green.

Down the hall, Anna emerges from her room.

“Hi, Anna,” I greet, silently thanking her for the interruption.

She passes by as if we’re invisible.

I shake my head. “I’ve tried to be friendly, but she doesn’t seem to like me.”

“Her loss. I think you’re great.”

No! No! No! I hurriedly get to my feet. “I’m sure you want to get started on someone else’s door.”

He stands, thankfully taking my hint. “I’m in no rush. I like watching paint dry with you.” His adorable smile is precisely why I need him to leave. “Want to get some ice cream?”

A chocolate-dipped soft serve sounds heavenly, but this conversation has proven I need to keep my distance from Orfyn. “I can’t right now. Thank you for my door. It’s beautiful,” I say, trying to sound grateful but not interested. I’m fairly confident my delivery is closer to schizophrenic.

I tear myself away and dash down the hall, sensing his hurt eyes following me.