Chapter 29
There’s an energy at school, a restlessness that matches the feeling under my skin. With every day that passes, drawing us closer to the end of the year, excitement seems to find its way to the student body, building and spiraling outward. But for me, it’s a countdown to the art showcase.
A countdown to the day I never wanted to come.
A countdown to the unknown.
I practice the breathing that Grandee taught me to do when I feel out of control. One breath in, hold …
Fuck it.
I walk into the art building.
I make it three steps before I’m being yanked by my arm in another direction.
“I need you,” Linden, my kidnapper, tells me, and before I can even protest, she pulls me toward a room that I’ve never been in.
“Benji says it’s bad, but he doesn’t know anything.
And Carter has been mopey recently, so I’m not going to ask him.
Max … well, he only wears hoodies, so he’s no help.
” She’s talking almost as fast as she’s walking.
“I have to beat that Anna girl this year. I’m going to lose my mind. ”
“What?” I manage to get out as she leads me into a room that looks similar to the art studio, except this one is filled with reams of fabric and long tables covered in sewing machines and scissors and needles.
“My project.” She gives me a patient look. “Benji says it’s … well, he says it’s weird. I didn’t ask Max or Carter, because they are being weird. And I have to get this done before spring break.”
Linden is a dance major. This is not the dance studio. “What project?”
“My end-of-year final for design.” All her words are slow. “The dress I’ve been talking about.”
A dress? I don’t know anything about dresses. I can barely pick out pants most days. “Maybe you should ask someone who knows what they should be looking for.”
Her face turns mocking. “Or maybe you should just look at this and tell me if it’s weird or good or good weird.”
She motions to the mannequin in front of us wearing a long dress. It’s crocheted in different loops and stitches, with a beautiful silk sheath under it in the kind of dark blue that seems vast and otherworldly, and …
“It reminds me of our blankets.”
Linden smiles. “That was my inspiration, but … is it weird?”
“Did you make this? By hand?”
She smiles. “Obviously.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Reaching out and running my fingers against the varying textures, I tell her, “It’s perfect.”
Something settles in my cousin. The knowing that something personal can still be beautiful. It’s just harder to see it for what it is, when it’s a map of your soul.
“Thanks,” she tells me, and I know she means it.
It makes me think about my piece. Of Max. Of the reason I can’t draw the faces on the mural. They don’t matter. They aren’t a part of me.
And I realize the reason I haven’t wanted to draw Max is because he feels personal, which is a frightening realization.
Linden picks up a sage-green fabric and drapes it around my neck. “You should wear this in Florida.”
Florida. Spring break. I feel my insides twist.
“You’re coming, right?” She shakes her head, taking in my noncommittal expression. “You’re coming. You’ve been weird and cagey and avoidant. You need this.”
It is the last thing I need. To be stuck in a house with Carter and Linden and Benji and … Max. But I think about time and the way it takes from me when I don’t follow its rules. I’m supposed to be making tiny ripples. Just enough that Max still remembers—
No. Carter. This is about Carter.
My stomach churns and swirls with guilt and regret. Why did I think of Max and not Carter? When did that happen?
“I’m coming,” I tell Linden.
When she’s properly satisfied that I won’t back out, I head to the studio.
Max is standing at an easel toward the back.
His headphones are on, and he’s splattered in paint.
It’s in his hair, on his clothing, smeared against his cheek.
He takes the pad of his thumb and moves it across the canvas.
And I want to make a joke about how he looks like a kid painting, but … he doesn’t.
He looks determined. Possessed. Inspired.
Handsome.
And something else I can’t quite describe.
I walk over to the place where my mural section stands and run a hand over my face. It’s still not even close to done. The other pieces are next to mine and it’s meant to show cohesion, but all it shows is how far behind I am.
I still have the project with Max, and the finals in every other class, and …
Noise feels like it comes from every direction and the light is too harsh, and I will never get anything done in—
“Nieve.”
Max stands next to me. “Grab your piece.” He motions toward the canvas that is taller than I am.
“What?”
“Pick it up and follow me.” He speaks slowly this time.
“Are you getting rid of my piece?”
Max rolls his eyes, which is adorable. When did I start noticing that? “Just follow me.”
We walk back to the prop area of the studio. Fake plants and tables full of vases and immortal fruit and books are piled against each other, forgotten and abandoned after they served creativity. I angle my piece, which is light but awkward, so that it doesn’t hit anything.
The back wall is empty, and Max motions for me to set my art against it. After I do, I look up at him, waiting for further instruction. “What now?”
“Now you can work.”
No one is back here. The light that shines above is softer and coming from the high windows only. “Are you going to kill me?”
His lips press together. “I’m trying to help you. You looked overwhelmed out there, and I was…”
And then I notice it. Silence. It feels calming … and a little unsettling. “Are you going to stay?” I look around. “There isn’t even a clock.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
Max seems to always be doing this, making me admit what I want. I open my mouth but can’t seem to say it, so I nod.
Without speaking, he sets an alarm on his phone, and the two of us begin working in the quiet.
I try to concentrate, but something about Max only a few feet away from me makes everything I’m doing feel ten times harder. I draw the same thing over and over while my brain tries to tear apart the fact that I’m missing something.
When I look up, Max is watching me.
“The alarm went off,” he says quietly.
“Oh.” I sit up straighter and stretch my arms. “Just now?” I hadn’t heard it. I was so wrapped up in my work.
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Twenty— What? Why didn’t you—” I stand up.
“You looked like you were concentrating.”
The light from outside is fading, and it’s almost night.
“I’ll walk you back to the dorm.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, trying to dismiss him.
“I know. I want to.”
The sure way he says it makes me swallow down any other argument. I walk outside and don’t wait for Max as he locks up. Night has started to creep across the sky, and I close my eyes to center myself—to feel this moment.
But I feel out of control. I can’t even remember the last time I felt in control. Before Carter died. What about before then?
I stand on the beach, with soft sand underneath my feet and a sunrise on the horizon. Waves lap at my ankles as the water pulls in and out softly, like hands reaching forward, beckoning me into the depths.
Max stands next to me, and the smell of coffee and salt spray tingles in my nose. The extra mug in his hands is dark blue, and without looking at me, he holds it out.
I take a sip and relax into the moment.
“I never wanna leave here.”
I turn around, because I know that Max is still there, standing next to me. And I want to see the ocean. I want to go back. “You’re going to Carter’s uncle’s house, right?”
Max stares at me for a long time, and I wonder if he’s thinking about kissing me. He runs a hand down his face, blue and black paint smeared against yellow and white over the back of his hand. He swallows.
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
I feel my heart swell.
And suddenly, I want so badly to see what’s in his sketchbook. What colors he sees when he looks at me. I think about it all the way to the dorms and after he goes to his floor.
And when he texts me one simple thing.
Night.