Chapter Thirty-Three
Po would be proud. My side of the room doubled the chaos of hers. Curled-up tubes of paint, some butterflied down the middle, littered the foot of my bed. Scraps of paper took up lots of the floor. Whirs, beeps, and clicks rang from the middle of the mattress. More accurately, from the printer I’d set up on the duvet, shooting out photos.
They were mostly older family pictures. And a handful of newer ones, taken over the course of unquince prepping.
I rolled a photo of Javi at the tux fitting between my fingers. I grabbed the scissors and cut around his outline carefully. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, part rehearsal for the real apology and part mea culpa for moving the blades over his waist.
Slice. That cut was the easy bit. Chopping off the ends of his sun-lightened locks became a little harder. Then again, what was a bad haircut when I’d already stabbed him in the heart?
Moving the shears over his neck gave me pause. “This is going to hurt me a lot more than it’s going to hurt you.”
Snip.
While Javi’s head fluttered into the small mound of picture fragments, I swiped the back of the white jacket with a glue stick. Since he’d always made me feel so light and floaty, I added this portion of the pic to the photo collage of clouds.
With a wistful sigh, I brushed another layer of blue watercolor on the sky. While the paint dried, I cut more colors from pictures. Glued them over the edges of the V-neck plunging down the bodice of the dusty-rose, watercolored gown. I repeated the process, adding more definition on the tiara crowning Po.
Should I also use the photo-collage technique to cover the pencil marks? Or add more layers of paint to hide them?
I shook my head. No more covering up what came before with “prettier” things.
Besides, there was something about letting past techniques connect with the present ones: Glitter next to charcoal line work. Photo collages alongside paint. The hodgepodge of media cast an unsuspecting type of spell.
For so long I believed only a fairy godmother’s wand was capable of doing this. Like Dorothy in Oz, I’d forgotten that magic lay as close as the loafers on my feet. As close as the wooden brush in my hand.
I readjusted my grip on the brush when I started filling in Po’s mouth. Halfway through, my hand slackened. Why use watercolor when I could use the real deal?
I jumped off the floor and snagged Po’s cosmetic bag. Combing through it, my fingers closed over the glittery pink lipstick she wore when she wanted to feel “extra dressy.”
“A little bit here,” I said, daubing the makeup over the bow of her lips. Hmm. This shade would also be great for outlining the feathers flowing down the length of the gown. My eyes darted between the tube of lipstick and plumage demanding a darker silhouette.
Go grande, or return to your casa.
I hatched lines with the lipstick. Crosshatched those with a darker shade of another lipstick. That’s it. Now the feathers really started to pop. I’d have to buy her two new lipsticks now, but screw it. Ruining these would be worth it.
With a palette knife, I transferred some Hansa Medium Yellow into the well of the palette. Poured in a few drops of clean water. Stirred with the end of a brush. And voilà.
The dried-up watercolor paint came back to life.
Hope filled me. But it fled quicker than Cinderella leaving the ball. Reviving old paints didn’t come close to rekindling my relationship with Javi.
I didn’t let the pang of loss stop me from grabbing another brush. I added more yellow to the tiara. While it dried, I hot-glued some of the Disney celebration pins around the edges of the painting, creating a makeshift frame.
I stroked a few more layers of Quin Gold inside the scroll/banner flying over Po’s tiara. I blew on the paint to make it dry faster, then grabbed the bottle of Elmer’s liquid glitter glue. The red sparkles could double for Paulina’s eyeliner.
I brought the bottle’s tip over the scroll and wrote Feliz quince a?os, Po!
Fireworks went off inside of me, and when the emotions settled, I grabbed my phone. Snapped a pic and sent it to Callie.
Not exactly the plan we talked about earlier, I texted, laughing. What fun was always going down the perfectly planned path? Especially when detours could lead to something like this.
I sent the picture to Po next. Not a second passed before the phone chimed. Little Cuchara, you just gave me the quince of my dreams!!! More explosions went off inside my chest.
An ellipsis bubbled at the bottom of the screen. Then—WAIT! IS THAT MY LIPSTICK?
A great scholar once said you can’t make huevos rancheros without breaking a few eggs
Great scholar, huh? I could get used to that.
Yes! Finally, we were on the same page. I promised myself not to turn over this moment too quickly. It was okay to linger inside this chapter for a bit longer.
I’ll see you tomorrow night, Little Cuchara. We can go over the final menu for the art fundraiser. Miss you.
I miss you too.
I set the phone next to the mixed-media portrait of Po, smiling at the quincea?era she deserved to be.
My eyes flicked between the painting and her text: Little Cuchara, you just gave me the quince of my dreams!!!
My breath hitched. I turned to my utility bag. My eyes burned holes through the fabric as I pictured the ex-pencil-wand inside.
Maybe I’d hung up my fairy godmother robes too quickly, because what if…
Before I lost my nerve, I texted the portrait to one more person. Followed it up with I have an idea, but I’ll need your help.
At Angie’s quincea?era, I’d tried to rush her out of the bridal suite. Forced her to face her birthday guests and recite an unrehearsed speech, all before she was 100 percent ready.
Now the glass loafer was on the other foot. Sweat dotted my forehead, although I only had to face one person. Although I’d practiced my apology all week.
I reached for my utility bag, fishing for the oil blotters. Great. No blotters. Only an art chamois. The cloth couldn’t absorb the extra sheen. It mopped up my clammy armpits nicely, though.
I tipped my head toward the horizon. Late afternoon sun gilded cresting waves. “Mom, if you’re on fairy godmother duty today, can you help your girl out?” I whispered.
An ocean gust blew around me. Or was it my wish being granted?
Like pulled curtains, the crowd parted. It became easier to shuffle through the moviegoers to find Javi.
He sat on the same Guatemalan textile he’d brought to the Jaws screening. My heart skipped a beat at the forlorn way he gripped the trenta-size Starbucks cup of water.
Okay, fairy Mom-mother, tell me you have another miracle up your robe’s sleeve. I filled my lungs with briny air and yelled, “Javi!”
He turned toward me. His jaw flexed. The rest of his face hardened, taking in my appearance.
I lowered my gaze. So this patch of shoreline hadn’t transformed into a bog, after all. It was only me, my hope, and I, sinking with another possible loss.
Unrooting my feet, I rushed forth. Stopped at the edge of his blanket. “Um, can I sit?”
He bit on the straw. After a long sip of water, he shrugged. “Be my guest.”
My lips buzzed with Beauty and the Beast jokes. Except, no more hiding my feelings behind Pinterest boards. Or comedy. Not to mention, time waited for no one.
“I can’t stay for long. I have to be at SBA’s art fundraiser later.” I inched down onto the blanket. So cozy, familiar. Him letting me stay unraveled some of my nerves. “You know how I told you I entered a piece? Do you want to see it?”
He nodded, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not as big as the one on the Mickey appliqué on his bag, but both grins helped me hope.
I pulled out my phone to show him. Sharing my work sent ripples of nervousness and excitement up my limbs. Two sides of the same nickel, as Po would say.
“It’s of Po. At her quince. What her quincea?era should’ve been, anyway.”
I extended my phone. His fingertips knocked against mine when he took it. Maybe there wasn’t the full blaze of fireworks from before. But there was definitely still a spark. At least on my end.
He zoomed in on the picture. “It’s awesome,” he said, tracing the parts where one medium became another.
I perked up. Yup. People with broken hearts knew where to look for busted seams. Where to find the new stitches patching old tears.
When he studied the portrait’s clouds, he looked up. “Is this part filled with my stormtrooper suit?”
I nodded. “I couldn’t dive into painting again without including some of my favorite people as, like, personal floatation devices.”
A small laugh. “Is that a lifeguard joke?”
I shrugged. So what if I’d promised myself no jokes? Progress, not perfection.
“If you look at the rest of the sky, you’ll see photos of my dad’s blue ties. And here,” I said, pointing to the slants of sun, “I used pics of Mom’s catering truck and her favorite yellow dress for the sunbeams.”
He lowered the screen, setting it between us. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Me too.” A stab inside my chest.
I didn’t run from it like before. I let it rip through me. Let it run out of steam instead of allowing it to fester. “I’m also sorry about us,” I said. “I promised to not hurt you seconds before I did. If you can’t forgive me, I’ll understand.” I exhaled, releasing some guilt and shame.
Yes, I’d fallen way short of acting perfectly. And although I was prepared to accept the consequences of my actions, I was also ready to cut myself slack for making mistakes.
But that didn’t mean I’d resigned myself for this to be the way our tale ended.
“Before you make that decision, I want to tell you more of the story. If that’s okay with you,” I said.
He didn’t say he’d forgive me no matter what. Or that he’d accept my past pain as a hall pass for bad behavior. Instead, he offered a small nod.
I took him up on the invite and told him everything he didn’t already know.
I told him about making lists for Mom’s medications. Keeping track of them gave me a sense of control over her illness, over the impending tragic ending. Once Mom’s dark, bronzy skin started to blanch, the watercolors went straight into the closet.
Po helped me realize a missing mom… and a non-present sister… had ruined her quince. Not a missing tilde.
I told him how Po had been looking out for me this entire time in such a low-key way I hadn’t even noticed. How could I when I had become so obsessed with Mandy Whitmore?
I told him how I really believed that with the fairy godmother’s apprenticeship, I could patch up my heart permanently. I’d learn how to transform my family’s messy life into a real-life version of her grid.
If I wanted to fix the “problems” at home, though, I should’ve started with myself. And while the Mandy Band-Aid alleviated the pain inside my chest, it would never heal it.
It would never heal the hurt of having watched my mom wither away so slowly.
Or make up for the time I’d spent in limbo since she’d passed.
Much less help me mourn the lifetime of moments we had—and those we never would have.
Once upon a time, I thought it was a random algorithm that led me to Mandy’s grid. In reality, the only thing that’d escorted me there was me. My unconscious desire to live out the milestone moments I’d never get to experience with Mom, and my conscious wish to learn from Mandy how to plan a happily ever after.
That way I could prevent another hole the size of a person from cutting into me. No more hurting. No more catastrophes. Living in a state that swung between earthquakes, fire seasons, and a never-ending drought, I should’ve known that disasters would always spring up.
This moment was proof of that.
My entire body relaxed when I finished talking, deflating like week-old helium balloons.
Javi scooted in. The floral notes of his shampoo wafted over. Must paint lavender fields before the summer ends. Would that be the last party favor from our time together?
“Have you ever heard of kintsugi?” he asked, grabbing his cup of water. I shook my head. “My mom told me about it after my dad died. It’s the Japanese art of repairing broken ceramics with powdered metals, mostly gold.”
“Is it more about fixing the pot? Or about highlighting the cracks inside of it?”
His eyes crinkled over the rim of the cup. Taking a sip, he said, “You tell me, Castle Towers.”
Huh. I glanced down at my palms, picturing the lines overlayed with glitter. I imagined the edges of the Mom-shaped hole beginning to glow. Lights at the end of the tunnel. Rows of lighthouses ready to lead me out of the dark if I ever fell in again.
“I’ll have to think about it. Can I text you a hypothesis later?” I asked.
“Okay.”
Cheers erupted from the crowd. Not because Javi was maybe giving me another chance, but because the previews hit the screen. My cue to exit stage left. I rose to my feet.
“Sucks you can’t stay. This is one of my all-time favorite movies,” Javi said.
“What is it?”
He leaned back onto the Guatemalan textile, arms butterflied behind his head. “Cast Away.”
“Synopsis, please, sans spoilers.”
A smile bloomed, then broadened, finally matching the size of the one on the Mickey appliqué. “Control freak gets stranded on an island where nothing’s in his control.”
Oh boy. “I don’t have to stay to watch it—I pretty much lived it.”
He laugh-snorted. Gosh, how I’d missed that sound. “You should watch it this weekend.”
“I will,” I said, gulping before continuing. “And Javi? Thanks for listening.”
He nodded. I turned and walked away, a little lighter on my loafers.
Not a perfect resolution between us tonight. But hopefully, a new start.