Chapter Nineteen
NINETEEN
That afternoon I find myself back in the art studio with everyone else.
Most people are working on practical projects, but there are two other writers in the class.
Neither is writing an article, though—one is working on a dystopian game show novel, and the other is writing Buffy fanfic in the form of performance poetry.
Izzy said it was surprisingly good this morning.
I’ve chosen not to believe her. Everyone else is getting on with their wholesome, arty tasks, while my brain is full of murder.
“Do you mind if I look through these?” Scarlett drifts up to my table and places a hand on the pile of old magazines.
“Go for it, they’re not mine. You need them for your project?”
“Maybe.” She flicks through the top magazine without saying anything. Scarlett is one of those people who exudes such self-confidence that she doesn’t need to fill the silence. I watch as she pulls out a few pages before she looks at me. “You got your phone back, then?”
“Hmm?” I say, so she nods at my cell on the desk. “Oh, yeah, the police dropped them off earlier.”
“That’s good. Izzy said you were doing some work in the library this morning?”
“Erm, yeah, just a bit of historical research.” I don’t feel the need to elaborate.
“Oh, boring. I like vintage clothes, but I’m more of a modernist,” Scarlett replies. She picks up one of the pages, a picture of rolling hills in the sunshine. “Give me a theme?” she asks.
“I have no idea,” I admit. “Being artistic is not my forte.”
“Don’t say that.” She spreads the pages and plucks a few out. “Everyone is an artist, in their own way. What about weather? I saw the storm is still bad where your dad is.”
“Yeah, it is.” I watch her tear sections of each glossy page, arranging them loosely on the table.
The storm in the Maldives has been all over the internet, and they’re still throwing around the word “unprecedented,” even though it’s rainy season there, which is the only reason Dad and Kim could afford to go.
I spoke to Dad at lunch and they’re both okay, but there are still no boats traveling between their resort and the mainland.
There’s no way he’ll be home in the next couple of days.
I haven’t spoken to Mom today, but I imagine it’s given her a great reason to argue with my dad all the way from Australia.
“There.” Scarlett looks down at her handiwork. I move around the table to join her and shake my head, bemused.
“How did you do that so quickly?” I sigh.
There are only a few pictures layered together, and the edges are ripped and uneven, but the collage is striking; a small, lonely house placed in an expanse of green fields, the sky a thick, heavy band of solid black above it.
The whole scene is framed by a huge, rolling wave, the kind that looks like it will sweep everything away in one angry crash.
It’s not just about weather, it’s expressive, and a lump forms in my throat as I see my own helplessness in it.
“That’s really good, Scarlett. It makes me emotional,” I admit, feeling stupid as I say it, but she smiles.
“It does?” I nod. “Good. I like making art that speaks to people. Maybe you should make something that shows your own feelings instead of bottling them all up,” she says innocently.
“I don’t do that,” I respond, but I say it too quickly and she looks unconvinced. “All right, maybe I’ll give it a go.” I crack a smile. “Thanks.”
Scarlett smiles again but doesn’t say anything, just glides away toward her own station in her paisley maxi dress. I wonder how many of those floaty outfits she has.
“All good here?” Izzy appears next to me as Scarlett pauses in front of Ford, who starts gesturing toward his canvas.
The painting now has the shapes and outlines of a face on it in flat blocks of color, and I shiver as I remember what Kim called it.
Dead coloring. “Does she ever just wear jeans?” Izzy hisses, regaining my attention as she narrows her eyes at Scarlett.
“Says the resident fashionista,” I say, unscrewing the top of my water bottle as Izzy straightens her red linen playsuit and purses her matching lips.
“She’s just so…ethereal.”
I force down a gulp of water past a laugh. “You make it sound like a dirty word,” I sputter, liquid dangerously close to leaking out my nose.
“You know what I mean.” Izzy waves a hand. “What if he likes ethereal?”
I glance over at Ford and study his body language. He’s turned away from Scarlett slightly, his shoulders high and arms crossed over his chest. He uses his thumb to worry at a ring on his right hand. If anything, he looks defensive.
“I don’t think so,” I reassure Izzy, placing my bottle back on the table. “You like him that much?”
“No.” Izzy sighs, and I can almost see little love hearts reflecting in her eyes. “Yes. You don’t think he’s cute?”
“I guess so?”
“But you’re more into photographers?”
I follow Izzy’s gaze to a door at the far side of the room, which hides a makeshift darkroom. We’ve hardly seen Noah this afternoon, because he disappeared behind that door almost as soon as the class started. I wonder if he’s developing the photos he took of Scarlett yesterday.
Maybe Noah likes ethereal.
“Don’t be silly,” I say, brushing off the implication as I move the leftover magazine pages around.
This is the second time Izzy’s asked if I like Noah, and I need to nip her enthusiasm in the bud now, because if I don’t, Izzy will have set us up on a date that neither of us knows about until it’s too late.
I speak from experience. “You know, my murder board will be kind of like a collage, when I add all my new stuff to it.”
“Oh, so we’re really not talking about Noah, then.
” Izzy rests her forearms on the desk, leaning her weight on them.
“I guess it will. It probably shouldn’t be shared with the general public, though.
Anyway.” She levels me with a look and gives me her phone.
“I came over to show you this. Looks like they have a suspect in custody for Helen’s murder. ”
“Give me that.” I grab it and read the breaking news article.
There’s not much in the way of detail, but it reports an unhoused white man in his thirties is in custody.
He is being questioned in connection with the murder of local student Helen Coleman, age nineteen.
A sense of relief creeps through me. “Do you really think it was him?”
“I hope so,” Izzy says, pushing herself to standing. “Plus, it’s the only thing that will convince my mom to let me stay now that we know your dad can’t get home. Right, I better get back to it. Weaving by hand is taking way longer than I remember.” She pauses. “Hey, I’ve just had an idea!”
“Why do I have the feeling this is actually why you came over?” I ask. I know Izzy, and if she’s mentioning an idea now, it means she’s been thinking about it for a while.
“What if we do something on Friday night, while we still have the place to ourselves? Just in case your dad and Kim fly back this weekend.”
“What, like go out?” I think of the outfits I packed. “I don’t think I’m going to get in anywhere around here.”
“No, not go out.” Izzy pauses and starts to bite her bottom lip before remembering she spent ten minutes creating the perfect matte red lip this morning. “I thought we could stay in. Maybe have a few people round…”
“Oh, Iz,” I groan, closing my eyes. “Who have you asked?”
“No one!” she says, but she says it too quickly. I open my eyes and stare her down. “Honestly, no one, just Ford and maybe Scarlett, mainly because she was right there at my bloody elbow. I thought we could ask Noah too, though?”
I close my eyes again, forcing myself to take a deep breath through my nose.
Parties, as Izzy well knows, are not my thing.
At all. And the mere thought of being in charge of one, in my dad’s flat, no less, especially after what happened at the last event we attended…
My palms start to sweat. “I don’t think that’s the best idea. ”
“I’ll help you with your murder collage later,” she coaxes. I crack an eyelid.
“Even though you think all my research is disturbed?”
“Yes.” She shrugs and stuffs her hands into her pockets.
“But it makes you feel better, so…” What she doesn’t acknowledge is that it’s weird that I feel more comfortable with a murder collage than I do with a party, but we both know some things are best left unsaid.
“Please? You can do that to feel better, but I need some social interaction if I’m going to heal.
And what’s a party—no, a gathering—if not social interaction?
” she says, going for full-on puppy-dog eyes.
“Fine,” I sigh. “But don’t invite too many people. Knowing my luck, Dad will be back Saturday morning and the house will be a wreck.”
“Promise,” she says, before letting out a squeal of delight.
“I’ll organize everything, don’t worry. I just need to figure out how to get Ford alone, and then he’s mine, I can feel it.
” She starts to leave but pauses as Noah emerges from the darkroom.
He squints over at us as his eyes adjust and holds up one hand in a wave.
“Maybe you should be the one to ask Noah? That way he’ll know you’re the one who wants him there. ”
“Stop,” I mumble as we wave back, and a warm feeling brushes across my cheeks because I think I want Noah there the way Izzy wants Ford there.
Well, not exactly the way Izzy wants Ford there.
Poor guy has no idea what he’s in for. I push the thought away, not quite ready to examine how I feel about a boy who spent his childhood teasing me.
“Ask him.” Izzy nudges me with her hip. “Trust me.”
The words seem to echo as Izzy walks back to her station, and a sinking feeling fills my stomach. That was the worst thing she could have said.
Things always go downhill when the plan ends in Izzy saying “trust me.”