Orfyn

 

 

Something is going on, and I need to find out what it is.

As an orphan living on the charity of others, I’ve spent my life around those who believe they’re better than me. I know the way their eyes look through me. I know how their voices sound when they talk at me. And I know how they act while congratulating themselves on how decently they treat me. That superiority isn’t in Lake’s eyes or her voice or her actions. But she’s been avoiding me big time.

A hair thingee is wrapped around her door handle, so I’m waiting it out. She’ll have to come out at some point. Until then, I’m an expert at entertaining myself when there’s a white wall begging to be beautified. Like the white wall across from her room.

I’m soon lost in the details: the folds of the white dress, the multi-colored tapestry, the long, red hair that I perfectly match to Lake’s.

After a couple of hours, Lake emerges and sees my half-finished painting. “That’s beautiful.”

I watch for her realization that the girl’s face is a perfect likeness of her own.

“Why did you make her so forlorn?” she asks.

Does she seriously not recognize herself? Or is she messing with my head? Again.

I dab my brush on the palette and add a burnt-orange streak to the girl’s hair, hoping it draws Lake’s attention to the face. “That’s how Waterhouse painted her. Want to hear the story? It’s like a fairytale.”

Lake bites her lip. It’s almost as if she’s afraid to hang out with me.

Fine. I’m not going to beg her to stay. “Don’t worry about it.”

The plan had been that she’d be so thrilled—flattered—whatever, she’d let down her guard, and I’d learn if I have any hope with her, because she’s been all about the mixed signals.

“I can’t stay long.” She sits on the floor with a good couple of feet between us.

I think this is progress. “I’ll tell you the condensed version, then. There’s a curse on this beautiful girl.” I point to her face and pause, glancing at Lake. No recognition whatsoever. “Her name is the Lady of Shalott. I can’t remember why she was cursed, but if she looks toward Camelot, she’ll die. She can only see the outside through a mirror as she weaves.” I grab a different brush and begin working on the reeds in the water. “One day, she sees Lancelot ride by on his horse—the Lancelot. He’s literally a knight in shining armor. The Lady of Shalott thinks about how bored she’s been, stuck in the castle for her whole life, never doing anything fun. She defies her fate and turns around, and when she looks at Lancelot, the mirror cracks, unleashing the curse. The Lady leaves the castle for the first time, writes her name on the boat, and gets in. She floats down the river, knowing she’s going to die.” I pause to draw out the ending, and Lake leans in closer. “When the Lady of Shalott floats by Camelot, she’s already dead, and Lancelot mourns that he never got to kiss this beautiful girl.”

I’m feeling pretty good about my plan—until Lake says, “And that’s what happens when you allow your heart to rule your head.”

Okay, maybe I should’ve chosen a picture where the girl didn’t die in the end. “You’re missing the point. She was willing to take a chance to live a more exciting life.”

Lake shakes her head, making her long hair ripple. “The Lady of Shalott threw her life away. For a guy.”

This is not going how I’d imagined. “She wanted to know what it felt like to fall in love.”

“Life is filtered … filled with disappointment when you choose someone who’s not good for you.”

I don’t think we’re only talking about the picture anymore. I started this, and there’s no going back now. “Why do you think he’s not good for her?”

“He’s a knight! He’ll never be there when she needs him. When he is home, he’ll be miserable, dreaming about his next adventure. Then he’ll blame her for holding him back, and she’ll regret ever falling in love with him.”

“Lake, not everyone is like that.” I hold her eyes with mine. “I’m not like that.”

“What are you guys doing?”

I turn to see Stryker striding toward us. Could his timing suck any worse?

Lake looks like she’s been caught doing something wrong. “We’re discussing the Lady of Shalott.”

Stryker glances at my work. “In the original, she doesn’t look that much like Lake.”

She gasps. “Is that supposed to be me?”

Thanks a lot, Stryker. I shrug self-consciously. “I wanted to make you smile.”

“I’m grabbing some pizza,” Stryker butts in. “Want to join me, Lake?”

She looks from him to me, then back to him. “Thanks, but I’m going to stay here a little longer.”

It takes superhuman strength to hold in my grin.

“No prob,” he says, smooth as a canvas. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and saunters away.

“He’s been sleeping so much lately,” Lake says as she watches him turn a corner. “This is the first time I’ve seen him in three days.”

I caught him pacing our hall last night. When I asked him if everything was okay, he gave me the finger and went back into his room, slamming the door. It caught me by surprise because he’s not normally that guy.

Lake frowns. “Maybe I should go see if he’s okay.”

“Whatever you want to do,” I force myself to say. I start working on the trees in the background as if I could care less what she decides.

After an epically long minute, she says, “I’ll look for him later.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Lake picks up a tube of oil paint and reads the color’s name, puts it down, picks up another and then another.

“What’s your favorite painting?” Her voice sounds different, as if her vocal cords are finally allowed to release her words. And the tension in her face is gone. Even her lips look fuller.

I want to go back to the conversation we were having before, but at least we’re still talking. “It’s an almost-finished copy of The Birth of Venus.”

“I’ve always liked that painting,” she says. “But I thought it was finished.”

“That’s the original. The one I’m talking about was on the underside of a bridge.”

“You mentioned that when I first met you,” she says. “I thought you were joking.”

Crap. I’ve painted myself into a corner. “Artists learn from everything we see.” Will she make the leap that I also wasn’t joking about being a street artist? But I want her to know about that painting because it’s important to me.

I reach behind me and add more paint to my brush as an excuse to glimpse at her. She looks more curious than anything else, so I continue. “I hung out under that bridge for a week, studying the technique. I liked that nobody owned it, except maybe the New York Transportation Department. They demolished the bridge last year, but that unfinished painting had to be worth more than the bridge itself. And nobody knew about it. That’s the painting that made me realize what I wanted to do.”

Lake draws her strawberry-blond eyebrows together. “Do you know who painted it?”

“I asked around, but I never found anyone who knew, so I always picture a homeless guy,” I say. “I even made up a story about his life. In my mind, his paintings hang in museums all over the world, but he was mugged while at a show in New York, and he got amnesia. He ended up living on the streets, not remembering he was once a respected artist, but he never lost his passion to paint.” I let out a laugh. “That sounds kinda dumb, doesn’t it?”

“No, it’s imaginative. It’s fascinating how differently our minds work.”

“What would your story about him be?”

Lake’s forehead crinkles. “I have no idea, which is my point. Now, if you asked me to tell you what elements need to be in play to make a steel bridge decompose, I’m your girl.”

I laugh along with her. “You are a romantic.”

“I prefer your story to the … fairytale,” Lake says.

“Bad choice. I’ll cover this one over and paint you something else.”

“No, please don’t. I like it.” While staring at my painting of her, she says, “My Grandma Bee has Alzheimer’s. I have to believe Sophie and I can find the cure in time to help her.” Her face is as determined as Sister Mo during Lent.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“The cruelest aspect of that disease is you not only forget everyone you’ve ever loved, you don’t remember your own life. All those experiences. Gone. It’s almost as if you never existed.”

What I don’t tell her is that I couldn’t have chosen a better subject. At this moment, Lake’s flushed cheeks and sad-looking eyes perfectly match the girl’s in The Lady of Shalott.

“Do you believe we can make a difference?” she asks.

“If anyone can, it’s you guys.”

“Why aren’t you including yourself?”

I touch up the water as a stall tactic until coming to the decision to stop dodging the truth. “You were all chosen for a reason. I was just a body available for purchase.”

She tilts her head. “Is the money the reason you agreed to come here?”

“I don’t even know much they gave the church.”

“Then, why are you selling yourself short?”

When Lake inches closer, I feel bolder. “I didn’t know what they were going to do to me until I got here.”

“Then you’re more courageous than me. I had two weeks to decide if I was going to accept their offer.”

“I did it to become a famous artist, but you’re trying to end Alzheimer’s.”

Lake smirks. “I’m not here for entirely altruistic reasons. I want to be recognized for my achievements, just like you.” She points to my painting. “The real difference between us is you’re already using your enhanced knowledge outside of the dreamstate.”

“I never thought of it that way.” The pride I’ve always felt after finishing a painting returns for the first time since I got here. Thanks to Lake.

“Do you think we’ll be able to experience a normal life after leaving here?” she asks.

“I’ve always thought being normal is overrated.”

She looks at me with a funny smile.

“What?” I ask. “Do I have paint on my face?”

“You’re … different than I thought you’d be.”

I lean in closer and whisper mysteriously, “Is that a good or bad thing?”

Lake gives me a sad little smile. I could never recreate the way her eyes look at this moment. “Both.” She looks away, breaking the spell. She rises and brushes off the back of her jeans. “I should find Stryker.”

What? Now?

“Thank you for painting me, but I don’t look like that.”

“Don’t you know how beautiful you are?”

She bites her lip. “I really need to go.”

What just happened?