Chapter 43 Paint Me
Back on campus, I constantly scan the halls for Kang.
I haven’t heard from him since that Merry Christmas message and, while I appreciate his respect for the time I asked him to give me, part of me—the immature, hardcore romantic—wishes he would seek me out, fight for me a little like in the TV shows and Korean dramas I love so much.
I have an appointment with Ms. Romes as soon as classes are back in session. She greets me with a handshake and leads me out of her office into another hallway. We walk up a stairway and down another long corridor and I know where she’s taking me. We’re in the Arts wing.
Ms. Romes stops in front of a studio art classroom and checks the time on her phone. “The class starts in a few minutes, so Mann must be on her way if you’d like to meet her.”
“What are we doing here?”
She points to a sign by the door and smiles. “ART-240 Painting I.”
“No,” I instinctively say.
“Let’s just go inside, okay?” Ms. Romes suggests. “Just to take a look around.”
“But…” I pause for a second, thinking about it.
“I’ll be right here if you need me.”
“I need more time; I have to take it little by little.”
She nods. “Okay.”
So, the first day, I just stand in the doorway looking at the empty classroom for a few minutes before the instructor or students arrive.
On Wednesday, I watch part of the class from the hallway.
On Friday, I feel bold enough to sit in on an entire class beside the open doorway as the students work their magic.
The next Monday, I walk by the studio art room but no class is in session.
I open the door and stand there, motionless.
Then I take a deep breath and enter. The first thing that hits me once again is the smell, the scent of fresh paint that I know so well.
I close my eyes and inhale. “You’re an amazing artist, baby!” The smell brings my mother’s voice straight back to me, like a stab to the heart.
I open my eyes and see all the canvases, the students’ works in progress, some still gleaming with fresh paint.
The only light comes from the large windows on one of the walls, which frame the snow outside and a leafless tree, making it seem as if the art studio has been abandoned by the cold world. It’s almost dreamlike.
I walk among the paintings, some very simple and others very detailed. I run my finger across a blank canvas, admiring the texture. And I remember my art teacher from high school.
“Another portrait of your mother, Klara?”
From the moment I found out about my mother’s cancer, I became obsessed with immortalizing her face. I painted portraits of her nonstop, trying to get it right. My teacher didn’t know what was going on at home; I was becoming more and more closed off.
“Portraits were last month’s theme, Klara. You’re very talented, but I can’t put another portrait in the student exhibit.”
I say nothing.
She sighs. “Why don’t you take a break? You can rejoin the art club next month after the exhibit.”
I stare at my mother’s portrait. I’d been trying to capture the beauty of her hair, which she’d already begun to lose. I force myself to smile at the teacher. “Okay, I’ll come back for the painting when it dries.”
That was the last picture I painted. On some level I think I like the fact that it was of my mother’s face.
“Klara Rodríguez,” an unfamiliar voice calls from the door.
I turn to see Mann. She’s tall and thin with white hair in a messy bun.
“Talented painter from Cooper High School, winner of several district art contests going back as far as elementary school. I’ve seen you watching the classes. I’m glad you finally came in, welcome.”
“Thank you.”
Mann studies me for a few seconds and then begins walking toward me. “Shall I prepare a canvas for you?”
“No.” I shake my head energetically.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t come to paint.”
“Really? The look in your eyes seemed to suggest the opposite.”
I don’t respond.
“When was the last time you painted?”
“A long time ago.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are you afraid of, Klara?”
My eyes linger over an almost finished painting of a sunset. “Of myself.” The words leave my mouth of their own accord.
“Are you afraid of what you might see of yourself reflected on the canvas?”
“I guess.”
“So?” she says, as she begins to set up a canvas and paints.
“So?”
“So, aren’t we artists all a jumble of emotions, of fears?
Isn’t our very sensitivity what enables us to be inspired?
” Mann says with a smile. “Art is always an expression of the artist’s inner life.
We don’t remember a painting for its beauty, but for how it made us feel when we looked at it.
” She guides me over to the blank canvas.
“You don’t have to paint anything elaborate.
I just want you to permit yourself to touch and feel the paint, to shout out your fears, if necessary, to release all your emotions. ”
My hand trembles as I sink my fingers into the black paint. It’s been so long. I lift my hand and watch the paint drip down my fingers and into the center of my palm. With tears in my eyes, I press my hand against the canvas.
“Oh, you’ve painted another portrait of me, baby. It’s wonderful, and look how beautiful my hair looks. Hopefully it will grow back looking like that again soon.”
I pull my hand away from the canvas. “I can’t.”
Mann takes my wrist and places my hand back on the canvas, moving it smoothly to create sinuous black lines. “Yes, you can.” She takes my other hand and dips it into the red paint, then moves it across the canvas to make red lines beside the black ones.
I feel tears begin to roll down my cheeks and drip from my chin. I sigh and feel a sob caught in my throat.
“Cry, scream, do what you have to do. Your art is your exit, the doorway out of all that.”
“I’m broken… Everything I create will be broken.”
Mann releases my hands. “Art is to console those who are broken by life,” she whispers.
“Vincent van Gogh said that.”
I press both palms against the canvas and the paint squishes through my fingers as I lick salty tears from my lips.
“Cancer sucks,” I say in a whisper. “I hate it—I hate that it took my mother from me.” I slap the canvas hard and scoop up more paint.
I continue tracing lines and tapping out shapes with my fingers.
“I hate that it ravaged my body and ruined my mind. I miss my mom so much. And I’m so tired of living in fear. I’m…” My voice breaks.
Mann puts an arm around me and I turn to her, crying against her shoulder. “Pssst, Klara, you’re an artist. Welcome back.” She turns me around to face the canvas.
I look at the marks I’ve made and they somehow make sense to me. I can see anger and sadness, but I also see what I could create from them.
“Take as much time as you need,” Mann tells me as she heads for the door.
After taking a few minutes to compose myself, I start pouring some colors onto a palette, then take the brush and use black to create a figure in the middle of the chaos, outlining it in white to make it stand out.
It’s clearly a girl. I add a darker shade of red and touches of gray to create a chaotic, fiery background.
At the girl’s feet I add more grays, like ashes fallen from the flames of the sky.
I remember one night I sat shut away in my room listening to Kang’s show and I began to trace the full moon with my finger on the windowpane.
I now use white to paint the moon in the red sky.
As I paint, the smiling faces of my mother, Kamila, Andy, Dario float through my mind, along with all the new people who have entered my life: Diego, Perla, Ellie, and…
Kang. Through the chaos, fire, ashes, and darkness these people have been my full moon, there to light my way.
I lose track of time and it’s not until someone opens the door that I realize how long it’s been. I stop painting as Mann enters. “How are we doing?”
I shrug. “It’s nothing special.”
“Let’s see,” she says, stopping before the canvas, resting her chin on one hand. “Wow. It’s beautiful, so much… pain…” Her voice trails off.
“Thank you,” I say, even though I think she’s just being polite.
“Thank you for returning to painting. I can tell that you’re going to make an important contribution to art, Klara.”
I fall silent.
“By the way, your friends are outside looking for you,” she says.
“What?” Ellie texted a while back and I told her I was in the art studio, but I didn’t expect her to come.
I wipe my hands but the paint has stained my fingertips.
I don’t mind; it feels good to get my hands dirty again.
When I get downstairs, I’m surprised by the sound of cheers and clapping from my friends standing at the end of the hallway.
“Klara! Klara! Klara!” Perla, Ellie, and Diego chant in unison.
I take a deep breath to keep the tears from coming; I’ve already cried enough today.
“It’s okay to celebrate small victories in a big way, Klara.”
I smile and start walking toward them, shaking my head.
“You guys are totally crazy,” I say as I hug each of them.
“Oh, shush! You’re finally painting again! I’m so happy for you.”
“It’s no big deal,” I say quietly.
“Don’t sell yourself short. Of course it is. When Kang asked my mom to help you get back into art, I honestly didn’t think it would work,” Perla says.
“What?”
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Diego says. “Kang was the one who gave Ms. Romes the idea to walk you to the art room. He told us about it, too, so we could encourage you, but he asked us not to say anything. I guess we’re not very good at keeping secrets.”
I freeze. Kang did all this for me, even though we’re not together, even though I asked him to give me time to think.
My mind travels back to the first time I listened to his show, to our first text messages, the hallway outside the auditorium where we first spoke, the party, the hot chocolate, our first kiss, our date to the movies (and the many dates after), our conversation at the ice cream shop, his deep black eyes, his warm smile, those dimples…
And I’m overwhelmed by all my feelings for him, which I’ve been trying to ignore for the past month and a half.
I want to see him, to hug him, to tell him that he’s too good for this world and that staying away from him has been so painful, that I only did it because I thought it was the best thing for him, but… is it?
I call him, but his phone goes straight to voicemail. Ah, that’s not good. I rush through the building, with my friends chasing behind me.
“Klara?” Diego calls out from behind. “What are we doing?”
“I need to find him,” I say, out of breath.
“He’s not on campus!” Perla says, stopping me.
“What? How do you know?” I ask.
“He’s in Charlotte.” She says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Oh… the talent show. What time does it start?”
“Kang said at seven.”
I look at the time. The talent show starts in three hours.
If we leave now, will we make it? Can I make it?
I want to talk to him; I want to be there for him.
He wasn’t sure about being able to perform and he took the risk; he’s facing his fears.
Maybe it’s time I face mine. This can be the beginning of me going out in the world beyond this small town, conquering a road trip.
I look at my friends.
I’m not alone.
“Are we doing this or what?” Ellie asks, excited.
“Doing what?” Diego furrows his eyebrows.
“Rushing to Charlotte to make a romantic gesture,” Ellie explains. “How are you not catching the vibe, Diego?”
“Oh.” Perla beams at me, catching on herself. “Didn’t take you for a romantic, Klara with a K.”
I take a deep breath. I can do this. I can…
“Hey.” Perla holds my hand. “We’ll be with you the whole time, and if at some point you want to come back, we can, all right?”
I nod.
“Let’s go.” Ellie cheers as we head out to the parking lot.
I take another deep breath as I climb into the passenger seat and Diego drives off.