Chapter Six
O n Monday morning, Stacey grabbed her mom’s emergency credit card from the dresser drawer and drove to Riverside. She knew she should have asked permission, but figured it was better to apologize later than be told no. She needed to be ready to buy something at the warehouse sale.
Three freeways and a maze of industrial parks later, she arrived at a nondescript large white building. There was a black glass door with the words “The Outlet” in white lettering. If there hadn’t been a rack of colorful swimsuits out front, she might have questioned whether she was in the right place.
Inside, the well-lit retail store had at least twenty round racks of swimsuits for men, women, and children, and glass displays full of aquatic accessories.
“Hi there,” a friendly woman’s voice called out from behind the register. She was a little older than Stacey’s mom, she guessed, with short curly brown hair and droopy cheeks. “How can I help you?” She had a twangy accent from somewhere in the south. It seemed too big for her small mouth.
“I need a swimsuit. For lifeguarding,” Stacey said.
The woman came around from behind the counter and motioned for Stacey to follow her toward the back of the store. “Are you about five foot ten?”
Stacey nodded. As they walked, the woman pulled solid red swim suits from various racks.
“I don’t like to ask girls their size. Too many lie and most don’t actually know what would fit them best. But trust me, because I do!”
By the time they reached the dressing room, the sales clerk had selected eight different suits for Stacey to try on. After pulling back the curtain, she hung them inside.
“My name’s Rosie. Give these a try, but leave your underpants on, and holler if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” Stacey said. She pulled the curtain closed, wishing she’d known about this store before the whole Lands End situation. With so many suits to choose from, at least one had to fit.
Each suit was more comfortable than the last, and they all fit Stacey better than any suit she had ever worn. The one pieces were long enough and flattered her waist and chest. Even though she still hated her thighs, the suits were cut to highlight her long legs, and somehow made her backside look smaller. The bikinis were designed for athletes, and made Stacey feel like she could pass as one. She struggled to decide which she liked best, wishing she could have them all. She knew she should choose by price.
The least expensive suit was eighty dollars. The two-pieces cost a hundred and ten. Even with the thirty percent discount flyer, she couldn’t afford more than one suit. She’d have a huge fight with her mom about it no matter what. But she’d already driven all the way there, and there was no way she was going home empty-handed.
Stacey stood in front of the mirror again in a red bikini and imagined herself at the pool. Jessie would walk in. She’d drop her towel. He’d see her and… She didn’t finish the thought. Without removing the bikini, Stacey reached for her T-shirt and pulled it over her head. She stepped into her shorts, zipped and buttoned them, and slid her feet into her flip-flops.
“You doing okay in there?” Rosie called through the curtain.
“I’m good. Thanks,” Stacey said, then bit her bottom lip. The sales lady was so nice. Stacey started to feel sick. She avoided looking at herself in the mirror. She took a deep breath, grabbed the cheapest one piece, and pulled back the curtain.
“How’d we do?” Rosie asked. She was straightening the hangers on a nearby clothing rack.
“They all fit great. Thanks so much for your help. I can only afford this one, though,” Stacey said, handing over the suit.
They walked together to the register at the front of the store. Stacey tried to stay a half-step behind, hoping the woman wouldn’t notice the bikini beneath her clothing.
Stacey clamped her arms to her ribs to stop her hand from shaking as she offered her mother’s credit card. “And I have this flyer,” she said, pulling the folded piece of paper from her pocket.
Rosie took it and looked up smiling. “Oh, you’re from Mesa Valley!” She began ringing up the purchase. “Coach Bob’s an old friend.”
Stacey’s heart was racing. Rosie is friends with Bob?
“You know, you remind me of my daughter. She’s tall, like you. She’s older now, but she was a swimmer in her high school days and hated searching for the right swimsuits.”
Stacey softened. “I wish you could do all my shopping for me,” she said quietly, surprised by the affection she felt for Rosie. “Your daughter’s lucky.”
“Well, bless your heart. What a nice thing to say!” Rosie winked at her. “Too bad you didn’t buy two suits.”
Stacey felt her face flush. Was Rosie hinting that she knew?
“Yeaaahhh.” Stacey forced a shaky chuckle. Sweat formed on her brow. If Rosie knew, would she call the police? Or Coach Bob? Or her mother? She felt like she was going to throw up.
“Here ya go, darlin’,” Rosie said, handing Stacey the swimsuit in a bag, with the receipt wrapped around her mother’s credit card. “I’m so glad you came in today.”
“Uh, thanks. Me too,” Stacey said, gripping the bag to her belly. “Actually…I need to, um… go straight to work,” she lied. “Is it okay if I change into my new suit here?”
“Sure, sweetheart. Go on ahead,” Rosie said, nodding back toward the dressing room.
Stacey maneuvered through the racks as coolly as she could. Holding her breath, she pulled the curtain closed behind her, eager to strip off her clothes. Stacey hung the bikini back on the hanger, and shoved it behind the other suits on the wall. Only then could she fully exhale.
After she put on the suit she’d purchased and was fully dressed again, Stacey finally looked at her reflection. She was disgusted with herself and couldn’t believe what she’d almost done. She leaned her head back against the back of the changing stall and waited for her pulse to slow.
On her way out of the store, Stacey waved at Rosie, but didn’t stop until she was back in her car. She unlocked the door and tossed the bag with her underwear and the credit card behind her into the back seat.
The sound of the bag hitting something solid made her turn in the driver’s seat. It had landed on her awful self-portrait from Ms. Moreno’s class, the one she desperately wished she’d never created. The painting that won first prize. Stacey had completely forgotten about it. She was grateful she hadn’t given Jessie a ride yet, or he might have seen the pile of art junk. She needed to take it into the house before she forgot again.
That evening after her shift at the pool, Stacey walked into the kitchen hoping to find her mom making dinner. Stacey had dumped the pile from the car into the entryway that morning, and her mom had strewn it across the counter like an investigation. Stacey’s self-portrait was face up, its ribbon still attached.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” her mother demanded, her hand slicing through the air toward the mess. It knocked into her wine bottle, but she grabbed it just before it toppled over.
Stacey shrugged. “Why are you making it such a big deal?”
“Because I almost broke my neck tripping over it on my way into the house tonight. And it is a big deal! A first-place award from an art contest you never mentioned? And–” she waved the receipt between them, “sixty dollars you charged to my credit card without asking? Again!”
Stacey sucked in her cheeks and inhaled sharply. Her eyes flashed to the painting she hated, to her mother’s furious expression, then back again. She felt like throwing something at both of them. Through clenched teeth she said, “I needed another suit. You even said I did.”
“I told you to wear the one you bought before! You were supposed to ask your father for the money—”
“You never listen to me!”
“You stole my credit card! Twice!”
“I didn’t steal anything!” Stacey screamed, blinking back hot tears. “I told you I would pay for it!” She balled her hands into fists.
Her mom crossed her arms and flared her nostrils. “Fine. Give me your paycheck!”
“I’ve only worked two days!”
“Exactly!” Her mom slapped the counter and the stacked art-class pottery rattled.
“You don’t get it!” Stacey grabbed her keys and stomped to pull open the front door. “No one understands what my life is like!” She slammed the door behind her.
She collapsed into the driver’s seat and turned up the radio. She whipped the car out of the driveway, finally allowing the hot tears to fall as she turned out of the neighborhood.
She drove past Gabe’s house. His car wasn’t there. She thought about going to his work, but reconsidered. What if he got in trouble for talking to her when he was supposed to be bussing tables? What if someone else was already there visiting him? Like Jenny?
She drove toward the center of town, unsure where she was headed. It had to be anywhere but home. With the windows down, she wiped at her cheeks. She squeezed her jaw to avoid screaming and her breaths skipped frantically behind her ribs.
Stacey turned right and headed down the boulevard. She heard a flapping sound and noticed a blue piece of paper flying around the backseat. It fluttered into Stacey’s face, then at the front windshield. Shit, she thought, swerving, and tried to grab it. She pulled to the side of the road, put the car in park, and grabbed the paper off the dash. It was Ms. Moreno’s Art lab flier. When Stacey took the self-portrait and pottery inside, the flier must have slipped beneath the seat.
She was about to crumple the paper when she read: “Escape on an ART adventure this summer.” It was super cheesy, and so typical Ms. Moreno. She probably hung travel posters all over the walls, too. Stacey grinned, imagining the colorful classroom. Ms. Moreno’s gentleness appealed more to Stacey than being alone. She filled her lungs with a gulp of air, exhaled slowly, then pulled back onto the road, and drove to campus.
The lights for the Art Studio were on. In the parking lot behind the art building, there was only one other car. A small, boxy VW with Ricky Martin, Shakira, and Selena stickers on the back windshield. Definitely Ms. Moreno’s.
Stacey turned off her car and sat for a minute, chewing her left thumbnail. She looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror, relieved that the short drive had helped the redness fade from her eyes and cheeks. She could hear Vanessa Williams’s soulful voice rang out from the classroom.
Ms. Moreno sat with her back to the door. She was the only person in the Art Studio. The music was loud enough to drown out Stacey’s footsteps, so she didn’t think Ms. Moreno noticed when she entered. There was a strong smell of rubbing alcohol that Stacey recognized from cleaning acrylic paint off brushes in class. Over that, she smelled the patchouli incense that was burning on the overhead projector.
Taped to the butcher block table was a plain sheet of paper, and in front of Ms. Moreno were mason jars of water, several brushes, a rag, and a small tin beside a large white ceramic plate. Stacey approached on her teacher’s right quietly, not wanting to startle her.
Ms. Moreno’s long, creamy brown fingers gripped a broad paintbrush, coating her paper with clean water until it reflected the fluorescent lights. Curious, Stacey inched closer, watching over her teacher’s shoulder as she used a smaller brush dipped in what looked like a pool of black ink, and touched it to the edges of the paper. It was more of a navy color that diffused to a bluish-purply-gray as it combined with the water and spread across the surface of the paper.
It was mesmerizing to watch the color move and fade. Ms. Moreno re-dipped the brush in the water and the paint, and again touched the paper’s corners. From the edges reaching inward, the blue seeped into itself, becoming darker and deeper and richer, while the center of the page stayed a watery white.
“Hi,” Ms. Moreno said without turning.
Stacey gasped. “Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
“You didn’t.” Ms. Moreno looked at Stacey out of the corner of her eye and grinned. “I saw your car lights through the windows.” She nodded toward the row of panes at the top of the wall. Then she eased more dark paint onto the corners of the soaked surface and Stacey watched as it blended into the rest. “I’m glad you’re here. Pull up a stool.”
“What are you painting?” The metal feet of the stool dragged on the concrete.
“Aurora borealis.”
“You mean that northern lights thing that happens in Alaska?” Stacey lowered herself onto the stool. “We studied it in science.”
“It happens in a lot of places the closer you get to the North Pole. Canada, Iceland, Russia…. Have you ever seen it?”
Stacey shook her head.
“Me either. But I’ve always wanted to. It was so hot today, I felt like a colder climate would be nice tonight.”
Stacey stifled a laugh. Despite the late hour, it was still about ninety degrees in the classroom. Stacey held her arms away from her body to keep the sweat from dripping down her sides. The scent of sweet jasmine emanated from her teacher, and Stacey hoped it was enough to mask her own odor.
Ms. Moreno rinsed her brush in the dirty water and dipped it in the clean water again, then re-wet the center of the page. This time the water pushed the navy paint back onto itself. Swirling the tip of her brush in a green puddle on the plate, Ms. Moreno barely grazed the paper’s wet surface with a ribbon of sea green that arched and wove its way across the diagonal of the page, diffusing at its edges into the blue.
It was magical how the clear water could both blend and separate the colors, moving like the lights in the sky, just as Stacey had imagined back when she was a freshman.
Within seconds, Ms. Moreno created two green flashes of color that danced over the darkness, then cleaned her brush and added a brighter blue hue that curved upward between them like fingers, and magenta streaks that eased downward along the edges of the inky sky.
Stacey was in awe of the scene appearing before her, and the ease of Ms. Moreno’s movements. Her teacher’s serene expression as she painted inspired a lighter feeling in Stacey as well.
With the narrowest brush, Ms. Moreno pulled rivers of navy between the bright aurora borealis streaks. The colors began blending at their blurry edges, while unifying into one picturesque night scene. Each color stretched and moved harmoniously with the others, but remained individual and pure. It was like watching a ballet of paint. Stacey was hypnotized by the paint’s flow on the page under the iridescent lights.
“Now we’ve seen it,” Ms. Moreno said. Stacey turned to look at her, and her teacher lifted her eyebrows. “Ready to try?” She motioned toward another piece of paper taped to the table.
Stacey tilted back, both hands up. “Uh uh. There’s no way I could do that.”
“Why not try? It’s only a piece of paper.”
Stacey shrugged, rocking back on the legs of the stool.
“You’re here. What else did you plan to do?” Ms. Moreno smiled. “Give it a shot.”
Stacey shrugged again, then pulled the stool up to the table. She used a large brush to coat the paper with water.
“Now, mix equal parts azure and amethyst on your palette. Add a tiny bit of black,” Ms. Moreno instructed.
Stacey combined the colors as directed and noted how they blended first to electric blue, then the addition of black turned it to the midnight color Ms. Moreno had used. She dragged the large brush across the top of the blank white page, creating an inky streak of sky.
“Before you put any more paint down, decide in your mind how you want your composition to look. Art should be approached with intention, but be flexible with how it wants to turn out. If you cover the paper with all that darkness, there won’t be space for the light to show. Leave breathing room.”
Stacey remembered the way Ms. Moreno only touched the very edges of the page at first, reapplying the paint there multiple times, and using clean water to push the color outward and keep the center mostly white. Stacey did the same. The night sky deepened into itself as she added more of the dark tones along the top edge. Her composition wouldn’t have the bright colors drifting off the top of the sheet like Ms. Moreno’s. Stacey’s own northern lights would be smaller, a flash in the distance.
Ms. Moreno explained the rest of the process again step-by-step. Stacey traded out the large brush for smaller ones, alternating the dark and vibrant hues. She imitated Ms. Moreno’s way of holding her elbow out, her finger-grip loose on the brush. Along with the smooth swipe of the bristles across the grain of the paper, Stacey felt a gentle wave passing through her own body, as though the day’s worries had been washed away.
Minutes later, Stacey’s aurora borealis appeared before her. Without knowing it, the world around her had evaporated, and she’d managed to escape to this magical place, at least for twenty minutes or so.
Ms. Moreno stood next to her. “Hermosa,” she said.
Stacey eased back on the stool and grinned. “Thank you.”
“Ready for the fun part?” Her teacher held up two old toothbrushes with a mischievous smile.
Stacey cocked her head, skeptical of Ms. Moreno’s enthusiasm.
Ms. Moreno poured a puddle of white onto a plate. She handed Stacey a toothbrush, and dipped her own toothbrush into the water, then into the paint. “Don’t forget to tap it on the side of the plate to get the excess off,” she said, demonstrating. She aligned her toothbrush with the ribbons of color on the paper and pulled her finger up the bristles. A faint spray of stars flicked across the scene. She did it again and again, angling the toothbrush to scatter the stars across the paper. At one end, the tiny stars were smaller and closer. On the other side, they were spread apart, giving the night sky a natural curvature.
Ms. Moreno rinsed the toothbrush, wiped it on the rag, then dipped her fingers in the water and did the same. Her dark fingers were coated in chalky white paint that pooled under her fingernails, but she didn’t seem to care. She nodded in Stacey’s direction, encouraging her to try.
Stacey didn’t tap off enough paint or angle her toothbrush the right way. Her first spray of scattered stars was chaotic; some were too large, and they all fell across the bottom of the paper.
“Damnit,” Stacey said, dropping the toothbrush on the table and grabbing the rag.
“Wait!”
“They’re too big! I need to—”
“If you wipe them away, you’ll lift off all the beautiful color you laid down beneath it. Just wait, Stacey.”
“But I totally messed up.”
“No, you didn’t. There are no mistakes in art.”
Stacey rolled her eyes. “I remember. Only lessons.”
“Well, sure, that’s true. But sometimes we have to let the painting tell us what it wants to be.”
“Should I start over?” Stacey stood up and reached for a new piece of paper from the center of the table.
“No,” Ms. Moreno said, gently putting her hand on Stacey’s shoulder. “Stop trying to control every detail. Wait and see what happens.” She stared at Stacey’s paper.
Stacey plopped back down on the stool and tried to see what Ms. Moreno was looking at. Her paper was still damp, and the white splatters had already begun to bleed into the wet page. A misty aura formed along the bottom of the composition.
“Do you think you can replicate that coming from the other direction?”
Without a word, convinced the painting was a lost cause anyway, Stacey dipped her toothbrush in the water and the paint. She angled the toothbrush, and used her opposite finger to pull the bristles. Across the bottom of the page, another layer of misty white bled into the original splatters.
Stacey looked up at the ceiling tiles, and tossed the toothbrush aside. “They don’t look anything like stars!”
“Stand up and step back,” Ms. Moreno said calmly.
Stacey fought the urge to dump the mason jar of filthy water on her painting.
Ms. Moreno stood about three feet from the table. “Stacey, stand here with me, and squint your eyes.”
Chewing the inside of her cheek, Stacey obeyed. The legs of the stool scraped the concrete floor as she pushed away from the butcher block. She took the spot next to her teacher.
Softly, Ms. Moreno said, “When things don’t go the way we want them to, we can learn not to make the same mistake. Or, we can learn how to make something new, and be open to appreciating the unexpected.”
Stacey squinted at her painting. Suddenly, the white mist formed by the splatters made sense. Approaching the table again, Stacey grabbed a paintbrush, wet it, and dipped it in the white paint, not bothering to sit. She spread the paint across the bottom of the page, rinsing and adding water so it became milky. She added hints of blue, keeping her eyes narrowed. She grabbed the toothbrush again, tapping it until almost no paint remained, then flicked it more gently. She went back and forth between the brushes, tilting her head this way and that.
Stacey worked in silence, not noticing any smells in the room, or the song being played, or the ticking of the classroom clock. When she put down her brush and stepped back, Ms. Moreno joined her. Standing side-by-side, they assessed their paintings.
While Stacey was occupied, Ms. Moreno had added the tops of dark trees to the bottom of her painting. Stacey’s was now a serene snowy landscape. The paintings both started the same way, and complemented one another, but each finished scene was an entirely unique version of the northern lights.
Stacey felt something release–as though the tension across her shoulders dissolved–as she realized what she was capable of creating. She never would have painted anything like this on her own.
“Seems like a change of perspective was all you needed,” Ms. Moreno said.
“Maybe.” Stacey nodded. “I’m glad I came.”
“You did a great job. Why don’t you take some paper and that small palette of watercolors with you?” Ms. Moreno told her. “You can practice at home and show me when you come back.”
“Oh, I don’t think…”
Ms. Moreno pushed the tin into Stacey’s hand and shrugged. “Either way, take it.”
“Thanks,” Stacey said, accepting the paints and stack of paper.
“I’m really glad you came tonight.”
As she drove home, Stacey kept mumbling Ms. Moreno’s words. Approach with intention. Be flexible with how it turns out.
The two-lane road had no street lamps, and the silver bullet’s headlights cut through the blackness. She thought of being in the art room, the water diffusing the darkness into shades of blue and gray and purple on the page, and how the brightness of the northern lights could only be visible when she left room for it. She thought of how she had screamed at her mom earlier. They’d both been so angry. So dark.
In the sky to the east, a full moon was rising. As she drove, the pale blue glow of the moonlight fell on the dark foothills and grassy fields giving the appearance of rolling waves. Stacey remembered the peaceful wave that passed through her as she painted. She wanted to hold tight to that feeling when she walked in the door at home.
Pulling into the dark driveway, the only light in the house was shining from her mom’s bedroom window. She put the car in park and grabbed the pile of paints and paper from the seat beside her. Even though it felt a little childish, she thought about giving her mom the aurora borealis painting as a sort of peace offering. This particular artwork was one she didn’t want to hide away. She hoped it could bring a little light back for them both.