Chapter Forty-Six
Mila
Friday afternoon, I spend an hour in the art room at the high school speaking to Mrs. Frye’s advanced students about botanical illustration and choosing art as a career path.
There are about two dozen kids in the room, mostly seniors, and even though I worried they might be bored with the topic, they’re quiet and pay close attention. Afterward, Mrs. Frye asks if I’d like to see some of the students’ work.
“I’d love to,” I say.
She asks the kids to take out their most recent projects. “They’re adding to their collections from last year,” she explains, “getting ready to showcase their best pieces in the Autumn Arts Fair later this month.”
“Fantastic.” Sipping from my water bottle, I move from table to table, praising the delicate brushstrokes in a watercolor, the perspective in a landscape, the shading in a charcoal portrait. “These are really good. Lots of talent here.”
I turn down the next row, and an abstract painting catches my eye. “Oh, I love this.”
“Thanks.” The artist, a pale boy with a bleached-blond buzz cut wearing an oversized sweatshirt, doesn’t meet my eye.
“This is Felix,” Mrs. Frye says. “I keep trying to get him to display his work at the art fair, but he won’t.”
The kid shrugs.
“You should,” I tell him. “This is very impressive.”
I stand still for a moment, studying the canvas. Something about it pulls me in. The way the colors seem to vibrate. There’s a sense of movement—of expansion—beneath the brushstrokes. The sweeping curves and spirals. It’s chaotic, yet I can find organic shapes within the depths.
One shape in particular catches my eye.
It’s hidden inside the composition, but it’s unmistakable.
And I realize who this kid is.
Dickelangelo.
I glance sharply at the artist, but he’s still looking down. “Can I see some of your other work?” I ask.
“Show her your folio,” Mrs. Frye urges.
I can tell the kid doesn’t really want to do it, but he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a binder.
Setting it on the table, he pushes it toward me, and I thumb through the plastic-covered pages, more convinced than ever that Felix is behind the phallic graffiti in Hart’s Landing.
His work is eye-catching and clever, and he’s done a good job hiding the phallic imagery within each composition, but I can see it.
“Amazing. But you don’t like displaying your work?” I ask him, knowing full well he’s displayed it for all to see on driveways and public paths.
He mumbles something I don’t catch, and the bell rings. He looks up at Mrs. Frye, and I notice his startling hazel eyes. “Can I go?”
“Of course.” She smiles at him. “Have a good weekend.”
Felix shoves his folio back into his backpack, swings it onto his shoulder, and carefully moves his painting to an easel at the back of the room. Then he puts headphones on and files out with the rest of the class.
Mrs. Frye sighs. “He doesn’t have support for his art at home. Money is tight, and his family has told him there’s no money for college. He’s expected to get a job.”
“Why doesn’t he like doing the art fairs?”
“I think he just figures there’s no point.” She looks toward the door. “He tries to pretend he doesn’t care, but I think he does.”
“Couldn’t a counselor help him or something?”
Mrs. Frye shrugs. “He’s not terribly involved at school. I think art is the only class he doesn’t regularly skip. His freshman year, he got into quite a bit of trouble for pulling the fire alarm, and his reputation with teachers never really recovered.”
A twinge of sympathy pinches my heart. “Got it.”
“Well, thanks for coming today. How much longer are you in town?”
“About ten days,” I tell her, my gut clenching at the thought of being separated from Everett, even temporarily.
“Well, if you have time next week to speak to my beginner classes, I know they’d love it as well.”
“Sure. I’d like that.” We say goodbye, and I head out.
But Felix stays on my mind.
Is there anything I can do to help him? Would he even accept my help? Do I tell Everett I suspect he’s the artist behind the driveway dicks? I don’t really have any proof beyond my intuition and my eye.
So, later that afternoon, when I catch sight of him bagging groceries at the Hart’s Landing Food Mart, I make my way over. “Felix?”
He looks my way for a second but doesn’t stop what he’s doing. “Yeah?”
“I wondered if we could talk for a minute.”
“I’m working.”
“I don’t mind. We can talk right here.”
He places eggs, butter, and a box of cake mix in a bag. Says nothing.
I shift my grocery bag to one hip. “I know it’s you.”
A quick glance that barely meets my eyes. “Huh?”
“The graffiti,” I say quietly. “I know it’s you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His tone and the set of his jaw grow defensive. But he looks around to make sure no one’s listening to us.
“Can we go outside for a minute?”
He frowns. “Hey, Penny, can I take my break?”
The woman at the cash register nods. “Sure. Five minutes.”
I follow him out of the store onto the sidewalk. When he turns to face me, his expression is blank, but his leg jitters. “Your style is really distinct, Felix. Your work has confidence and flow, and so much personality. With more maturity and experience, it’s only going to get better.”
He stays silent, but I can tell he likes the compliments.
“Look, I can appreciate wanting to push boundaries, and I’m not here to get you in trouble. But you have to stop with the graffiti.”
“You still don’t know it was me.”
“Yeah, I do. I saw the hidden…shapes in your folio drawings. Very clever. I bet Mrs. Frye never noticed a thing.”
That brings a smug half-smile. “Nope.”
“She told me your family isn’t supportive of your art.”
The smile disappears. He glances at the parking lot.
“Mine wasn’t either. But it’s what I wanted to do, so I found a way to do it.”
“We’re different.”
“Sure. But I want to help you.”
He meets my eyes. “Why?”
“Because you’ve got so much potential. Because you need it. And because I know what it’s like to be judged in this town for one bad decision you made when you were young.”
“Oh yeah, I heard about that. You set the fire at the bakery, right?”
I frown at him. “I didn’t set it, okay? But yes, it happened on my watch.”
“Right.”
“Anyway,” I say, shifting my grocery bag higher on my hip, “I won’t give your name to the police if you promise me you’ll stop scandalizing the old ladies of Hart’s Landing and start using your art as a force for good.”
“Like how?”
I’ve thought about this. “If all goes well, a community center and garden is going to be built on the old foundry site. Kids will come there for art classes and experiences.”
He’s already shaking his head. “Can’t afford them.”
“Actually, I was thinking you could help out there. Assist the instructor. Show kids how to capture what they see in the garden on paper.”
His leg stops jittering. “Seriously?”
“Yes. And then if there are classes offered at your level, I’d see to it that you’re on scholarship. You could take them for free. At the very least, you’d have studio space to work in.”
He can’t quite hide a smile. “That would be cool.”
“So, do we have a deal? No more Dickelangelo, at least in public?”
“Okay.”
“Good. I’ll reach out to you when the community center is up and running.”
He glances into the store. “I should get back to work.”
“Go ahead.”
He heads for the Food Mart’s automatic door, getting close enough for it to open before he turns around. “Hey, Fire Lady? Thanks.”
“You can call me Mila, actually. And you’re welcome.”
He nods. “Thanks, Mila.”
“You’re welcome, Felix. See you around.” As I make my way to my mom’s car, I think about the community center.
About the new beginning it will give to a place that means so much to me.
About all the kids who will learn to love making art there.
About the good it will do for the environment, for the town, for Everett’s legacy.
I want to see it come to life. I want to be part of it. I want to stand beside Everett while Tad and Tiffany Hart cut the ribbon and take credit for everything.
And I want my own new beginning.
Even if it’s right back where I started.