Chapter 24
My cousin has always been clairvoyant.
As children, we would sit in front of each other like mirrors, trying to read each other’s minds. Most of the time, we were right. Two girls with one brain.
So, when Linden finally makes it home the day before we’re supposed to head back to campus, I wait for her to ask me about the phone call, to question why Grandee keeps tiptoeing around me, or to tell me how ridiculous I am.
But Linden doesn’t say anything.
All day I wait for the things in my mind to be echoed back at me while we do all the things that Grandee can’t because of her bad hip or because she can’t bend down that far … or that she just plain old doesn’t want to so she pretends like it hurts her body.
We fill feed stores, mend a fence, clean out a pantry, and organize shelves of Grandee’s dye.
All in silence.
Finally, in the car, an hour away from the school, I break. “You’re really not going to ask me what’s wrong?”
“Is there something you want me to ask you?” she says, never taking her eyes from the road.
“You’re not going to ask me why I called you on New Year’s Day?”
She glances at me from the driver’s seat. “Do you want to talk about it?”
No, I do not. But I want her to ask me. I want her to try to pry out of me what happened so I don’t have to just sit here and be vulnerable, a choice I’m not sure I can make.
She sighs. “If you want me to ask you something, just tell me what it is so we can stop playing these games.”
The problem is, I don’t know what those things could be. “You’re not curious why I called?”
“Nieve, if you want to talk, I’m always here, but I’m not going to chase you down to do it.”
It’s mature and rational and I hate it.
What it doesn’t account for is how hard it is for me to get the words out when they feel like glass shards tearing their way through my body.
I stare out the window at the fields going by. I can’t ever remember a time where I’ve felt so disconnected from the people I love. Where I’ve felt misunderstood on a level that was too big to overcome.
How can we ever be the same if we can’t even agree on what the truth is?
My truth? I shared an important moment with Max. I watched her and Carter get closer. I feel like everything I know to be true is gone before I can even process it.
School begins again with bare trees and full expectations.
I spend most of my time in the studio. It’s the only place where I can’t feel time trying to correct itself. It’s the only place that always feels right. My version of Goldilocks’s porridge.
I shake out my hands and reach for a pencil. The mural panels at the back of the studio are in varying shades of completion. A few have paint, others are rough sketches. But my section is still blank.
I sit on the floor and put my earbuds in. My eyes close, and I feel the beat in my chest as my body sways to the music, and I wait. Some people see visions, others see lines or colors, and some just have a vague idea of what they’re trying to uncover as they go.
I wait for possession.
The drawing takes hold of my hands, and I let it. Lines and shading and smudges that, consciously, I don’t know what they are, but unconsciously, it’s the art that has been stirring inside me.
And like the snapping of a thread, the possession is over, a broken spell.
Stepping back, I see what I’ve done. This isn’t the Romeo and Juliet I had drawn before but Romeo and Juliet—their rough sketches—searching for each other in a crowd.
The people separating them fight and argue and hold weapons.
The clock says it’s 8:00 PM, and I realize I’ve been sitting for six hours straight. My body is stiff as I stretch, forcing my muscles to move.
And that’s when I see Max.
He works at his desk, with acrylic paint and a canvas; his face is pulled into concentration. Headphones are over his ears, and he tugs at his lip with his teeth as he works. I stand there, rooted to the floor, and watch as he methodically moves his brush.
And all I can wonder is, What is he listening to?
Is it classical?
Rap?
Some annoying heavy metal music?
Pop?
And why do I even care? Why am I so curious about Max?
Because you can’t stop thinking about what it was like to kiss him.
After a bit, he takes a deep sigh and pulls his headphones down to his neck and turns toward me. He’s not smiling. My heart beats furiously because all I can see in my mind are the last moments I remember with Max. Moments that he doesn’t remember.
There’s a rag on the desk that he picks up. He wipes his hands off and eventually looks up at me. “That’s not what you told Doc you were doing.” He inclines his head to the spot where I had been sitting.
It’s so … casual. Nothing like what is happening inside of me.
“Yeah, it just sort of happened.” Even though he’s an artist, too, sometimes people don’t get it, so I have an explanation all lined up when he replies.
“It’s good.” He pulls out a Tupperware container of stir-fry, and I realize I’ve only eaten half a doughnut. The microwave whirls as he heats up the food.
I should take a break, head to the dining hall and grab something to eat, but I can’t seem to make myself move away from Max. “Do you think Doc is gonna be mad?” I ask while he waits in front of the microwave.
Max shakes his head, noncommittal. Not a no, but not a yes. “Maybe. He plans the composition pretty intensely.”
When he turns around, he has two bowls and places one in front of me. “Oh, no, that’s—”
“Just eat it.” He motions to my food with his fork as he looks down. “I can hear your stomach from here.”
I debate making a scene, but it smells delicious. Garlic and onions and soy sauce and sesame oil.
And it is.
Not the shit I reheat in a bag. We’re silent as we finish our meal. It feels tense, and I know it’s because of me and my intrusive thoughts.
I love the way you taste.
I clear my throat, ready to address it. Maybe I can just tell him about how my mind—
Max sets down his fork. “Are you trying to say something with the crowd?” he asks, his arms crossed over his stomach as he leans back and looks at my part of the mural.
The mural? I play along and pretend that’s what I’ve been sitting here thinking about, too. Instead of …
He lets out a groan as his lips graze my collarbone.
I blink the thought away.
“It’s supposed to be two people who can’t be together.”
“Yeah, that’s clear.” He looks at me like I’ve said something ridiculous. “But you’re going to struggle because you’ve gotten good at one thing and not really practiced anything else.”
I sit up, clearly not hearing him correctly. “What?”
“I saw your portfolio. You’re great at body parts and objects, but you struggle with faces.”
He’s … right, but he’s just declared it. Like it was nothing. “That’s not— I’m not—” I don’t even know what I want to say.
“Their faces will be the centerpiece of the story. They’ll set the tone as the first thing someone takes in. And then after that, they will notice your completely proportionate fingers.”
My mouth falls open. “Is this … Is this because I left those notes on your work? Is this because I stole your literal trash and made it better?”
“That’s not what you did. You drew flowers on top of my work. And stop changing the subject because you’re uncomfortable with being critiqued.”
The tone he uses feels familiar, like the version of him from before Carter died. The one that hated me. But Max doesn’t seem like he hates me—he just seems … honest. Direct. “So, tell me—what should I be doing?” I motion to the panel. “Critique me.”
He walks over to my drawing. “This isn’t about the hands. It isn’t about how many people are pulling at them or keeping them from each other. It’s about them. Their story. Why do the faces matter?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “They matter because everyone has a face.” I say it like he’s the idiot, but I know what he’s talking about, and I hate that, too.
“Are they in pain? Are they longing for each other? Are they angry, sad, or smiling because they’re looking at each other?” He points at the blank faces. “These two people are the whole point, not the hands that keep them back. What do they feel?”
And I see it. The blank spaces where I’m not willing to admit what these two people are feeling because I don’t know. When I look back to Max, he’s already back at his work.
I decide to be done for the evening. Maybe a good night’s sleep will help untangle my thoughts.
I grab my things, and on my way out the door, I say to Max, “Color tells a story. Make sure you’re thinking about that.”
It’s petty, and I expect it to make me feel better, but instead of an argument, he nods. “Yellow here?” he asks me.
I hate the way my chest feels wide at the way he looks at me, like he genuinely values my opinion.
“More gold than yellow. Maybe a mustard.”
He scratches at his sleeve, and I see the purple yarn still tied there. At least that’s the same.
“Yeah,” he agrees before putting his headphones back on.
I head out and think about the two people in the mural and what they feel for each other.
I feel like I should know.
But I’m worried that I don’t.
The next morning, I spend the first hour I’m awake furiously checking on Grandee, my mother, and Linden while grabbing a quick breakfast from the dining hall. It’s become a habit, more like a compulsion to make sure they’re okay. Especially after what happened with Max.
Whole days can change.
Or they did once.
But this version of my mother has been the same since I woke up on New Year’s Day. A free spirit living in France with a sculptor who calls her the muse. She only half listens when I update her on my life or my art. It makes me miss the mom I grew up with who curated her life like she curated art.
Back inside the studio, it feels like every student is trying to catch up after being gone the entire winter break.
“Doc was looking for you,” a third-year whose name I never learned says as he walks past me.
I find Doc standing over by the mural.
Specifically, my section of it.
He’s pointing as he talks to three boys who’ve been working on King Richard III. And I know, I just know, that he’s going to tell me I’m no longer part of it.
I don’t know why that stings so much.
Does that mean I have to leave the workshop? Does that mean I can’t take his courses? Does that mean I’m not in art anymore? Do I lose my spot at school? Do I—
“Nieve.” Doc smiles at me. “You’re here finally.”
He’s smiling. He wouldn’t smile if he was going to kick me out, right? “I was here late last night.”
“I want to talk to you about something.” His head dips low as he puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me away from the mural.
We’ve taken five steps when I realize he’s moving me toward Max’s desk. My feet start to drag, until slowly, I pull to a stop a few feet away.
“Hey,” Doc says as he looks over Max’s shoulder. “Looks nice.”
Max nods instead of speaking, and I can’t help but feel sick. He won’t look at me. Did he tell Doc about my issue with the faces?
“So, I know you’ve been struggling to finish your piece.” Doc looks at me a second before he glances back to Max, and I know I was right.
Max told him I can’t do it. Maybe I was wrong and there is only one version of Max. The one who hates me.
“Doc, I had a breakthrough and—” I clear my throat to keep the whine out of my voice. “I can do this. I was struggling with the faces, but—”
“This class is more than just finished pieces, Nieve. Max—”
But I’m ignoring Max as he comes to stand next to me. This isn’t about him. “I don’t know what he said, but I’ve been getting better.”
“Nieve—”
“I’ll get the expressions right. I—”
“Nieve.” Doc puts his hand on my arm to stop me. “I know you can, but there’s another way I want you to approach this project. You and Max. I want him to help you get ready for the unveiling.”
I look at Max again, hoping there will be an answer on his face, but he just stands there with his arms crossed and his eyes on his shoes.
Fuck.
“Unveiling? What unveiling?”
“The Founders Gala.”
“You mean the Alumni Festival? I’m not going.”
Doc doesn’t address what I’ve said but shakes his head. “The Founders Gala. Remember that drawing of the hands? The one Max gave you?”
Gave. A generous word. And why does he keep saying Founders Gala?
Doc smiles again. “I want you to do that.”
I can feel my brows pull together. “I’m not following. You want me to work with Max?”
“Yes.” Doc looks excited as he explains how he wants us to do two original pieces together using the technique of layering, but all I can think about are the hundred moments today where Max was so close I could touch him.
And yet he doesn’t have any memory of the night we spent together happening.
It’s not just my mind that’s split in two; it’s my pride. My heart.
No, not my heart. Never my heart.
But even I know that’s not true. It’s always my heart.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I don’t think I could handle working closely with Max for the next few months. We could trigger time again and again, and my heart could break again and—
“Not all the spots for the Founders Gala showcase have been filled,” Doc continues. “And I want to submit your work for the couples—”
“I’m not going.” My voice has risen, and heads turn in our direction. For a moment, I feel bad that I’ve just yelled at him, but … “I’m not going.”
“Max said that you hadn’t planned on going, but it’s mandatory for all students to attend, Nieve. And your grandmother’s donating work. I’m sure she’d love your support.”
My grandmother never donates work. She said the school has already taken more than it should have from our family. “There must be a mistake.”
“Are you—”
“It’s fine.” Max is the one who interrupts Doc. “Just forget it.”
Doc looks dejected, and his eyes move to Max. “I’m sorry. I thought this was your best shot.”
“It’s fine.” Max says the words fast, and he’s already backing away. He won’t look at me.
“I’ll keep thinking,” Doc tells him.
“Thinking of what?” I ask.
Doc presses his lips together. “It’s … You’ll have to talk with Max about it.”