There in the middle of the room, on canvas that is bigger than me, even, is a picture of me, life-sized, in my hot spandex dress - the dress that caused all the trouble.
I’m sitting in the stance that Israel put me in, the stance that screams royalty and Grace, which I also most certainly am not. I’m all limbs and a tiny waist. My very curvy front is outlined by the dress. My hair tumbles down my back in waves, flowing down my arms. The moonlight streams in the window and gives my whole being an ethereal glow. My face looks as serene and melancholy as I have ever seen it, like there’s a primeval sense of longing. I’m not sure what to think, seeing my face on a picture this big. It’s a crazy good painting; and in some ways I see myself in the picture, but in other ways, it’s like a totally different person. I can’t help but smile at the tiara that dangles from my fingers. It’s as if I question my right to wear it. Israel knows me so well.
Surrounding giant me on the floor are smaller pictures of me in the same stance, the same dress; but my face has different expressions and different smiles. The one looks almost constipated, like Israel said, but also pensive. I’m not sure what to think of seeing myself so much, but I guess Israel knows what he’s doing. I’m ready to go back downstairs. I seriously need an escape from me. There’s a step on the stair.
I turn to look, but I know who’s there. So much for surprising Oliver with my dress… I turn back around, with my back to him. I’m not sure what he’s thinking right now. He comes up behind me, hugs me, and rests his chin on my shoulder. I lean back against him. He stands there a while. He clears his throat. “Um, where’d you get that…um…dress?”
I sigh. “Well, it was going to be a surprise. That’s my dress for the dance. I looked at a lot of dresses with JuneBug, and that’s the one I picked out. I tried on many different kinds, you know; the long lacy ones, frilly ones, sparkling even. I can’t explain it, only to say they weren’t me. But then, I found this one, and I tried it on, and it was just like, fate?” I feel a little silly now.
Oliver harrumphs. “Fate, huh? Well, I can honestly say it fits you. But, um, brother or not, that’s not how a brother sees a sister, if you ask me.”
I turn and wrap my arms around him. “Hey. I didn’t know, um, how big his art would turn out to be, you know? But he’s really good, don’t you think?”
Oliver looks at the art again. “Yeah, I guess so. I wish he’d find a different subject, though.”
There’s more footsteps on the stairs. It’s Israel. His face tells me he wasn’t ready for anyone to see it. “I’m sorry, Israel. I didn’t know you had your paintings up here.”
He shrugs. “That’s alright. Besides, you should be the first to see it anyway since it’s all you. What do you think, mi hija? I was trying to capture a young woman on the verge of becoming someone else. It’s all about embracing womanhood in its truest and fullest capacity. Do you think I’ve done that?”
I look at the paintings again and try to see them objectively through new eyes and not looking at every flaw I’m self-conscious about. “Um, I think so, yeah.”
Israel must see Oliver’s narrowed eyes. Israel chuckles.
“I’m not trying to get under your skin with these pictures, but when she came in the house with that dress, well, I had to seize the moment. The way she looked that night, in all her vulnerability… I felt like it was a gift, and I couldn’t waste the opportunity.”
Oliver’s jaw twitches. This is never a good sign. I cross the room and lean into Israel and hug him hard and fast. “Thank you, Israel. My mom will love them, I’m sure. We’re going to take off.” I look back at Oliver and hope he comes with me.
I head downstairs and Oliver follows. I feel his tension on my back. “I don’t like the idea of people seeing you in a painting. Not like that,” he growls.
I stop on the bottom stair and turn to face him. “I’m fully dressed. I don’t know what the problem is. Besides, it doesn’t really look like me completely. That’s a me that’s like got the artist’s sheen on it. it’s like the best version of me, you know, without any human flaws. Kind of like a stained-glass church window painting?”
He snorts. “I don’t know about you, but I ain’t seen any saints dressed like that in a church window.”
I try to be patient, but he makes it hard. “Okay, fine. But you get the point I’m making. It’s me, but it isn’t me. Besides, I gave him permission to paint me. And I’m more than a little flattered. You sure you aren’t jealous because he’s a painter and that’s not your thing?”
He laughs. “Why would I be jealous when I’ve got the real thing? All he’s got are paintings.”
I take his hand. “That’s right. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
We go outside and he follows me home. He walks me inside.
“Oliver! Stay for supper,” Mom insists. “Katie. Please walk Big Brutus while I figure out what I’m making.”
Oliver goes and gets Big Brutus on the leash. We take a long walk, hand-in-hand. My heart wants to burst with joy. I feel like every actress in every rom-com ever made. I’m at the height of my happiness, walking beside my beautiful, kind, caring, ever-so-wonderful boyfriend who hasn’t left me despite all my drama. I grin ear to ear. He stops beside me. “What are you so happy about? Your painting done by Israel, the ‘he’s-not-hot-he’s-my-brother-misunderstood-Latin-painter’?” Sheesh. I look him in the eye.
“No. I was just thinking how I have the best boyfriend…ever,” I say, as I tap his chest with my pointer finger. Then I lean in and kiss him like I mean it. Pretty soon we’re all wrapped up in each other. Big Brutus jumps on us and does his best to knock us down, but we don’t notice. Finally, one of us comes up for air. Big Brutus sits at Oliver’s side, having tangled his leash all up running all around us. It takes a few minutes to get untangled. We continue with our walk.
We go back inside. I can tell mom has outdone herself from the smells wafting from the kitchen. Mom can cook just about anything, but she excels at Italian food. Tonight, she has made a delicious Caesar salad, with her own homemade dressing, homemade garlic bread, and baked manicotti. “I must say, Mom, you’ve outdone yourself again. This is the Bomb!” I call from my seat at the table.
Oliver nods in agreement. “Fantastic food, Ms. Albright.”
“Wait for it, you two…” She parades out of the kitchen with her pan in front of her. “Tiramisu!”
I grab Oliver’s arm and lean in, all conspiring. “My absolutely fruitly favorite. That I haven’t had in like Ages. Oh, wow, oh, wow! I’m so psyched.” Oliver laughs. “You don’t get it, Oli! Mom’s tiramisu is like out of this world.”
He takes some on a plate. “Don’t worry. I believe you.” We finish supper, and then we sit and talk for a while. Mom hops up to clear the table. Oliver stands. “No. Mrs. Albright, you made the meal. We’ll clean up.”
I raise my eyebrows and look at him. “Will we, now, Oliver?”
He winks at me. “Yes, Katie. Yes, we will. At my house, that’s how we reward the cook.”
I get up. “Well, alrighty then.”
Mom’s about ready to cry. She puts her hand on her heart. “Oh Oliver, you just made my day.” She comes over to where he is and places her hands on his shoulders. She leans in. Oh please, oh please, do not let this turn into a Mrs. Robinson moment.
I can’t bear the shame if mom kisses my boyfriend, even it is out of gratefulness because she’s never had a man wash her dishes, even though she was married for like twenty years. She leans in on tiptoe and pecks his cheek. Phew. Wow. She had me going. Oliver looks relieved, too. His face is cherry red.
He clears his throat. “Let’s go wash the dishes.”