Jordan.
Lilly, a sturdy woman in a white tank top and bib overalls, was enthusiastic to see me walk into The Pueblo the following day.
Of course, other than Wyatt, almost everyone in Possibly had a welcoming attitude towards everyone else.
Wyatt was the only one with a revolver and carte blanche to use it, apparently, so that explained that if you thought about it.
By “sturdy,” I don’t mean to say that Lilly was exceptionally large, though she was definitely not a slender woman.
Lilly simply looked as though she could sling a bag—or an unruly teenage boy—over her shoulder and throw it or him around.
She didn’t take guff. I could see it in her eyes.
However, her eyes also told the tale that if you treated her right, she’d treat you better than well.
She didn’t look for trouble, but she wasn’t taking any, either.
“What kind of art do you like?” she asked when I was brought to her attention by one of her students who had set up an easel and canvas in the atrium.
All I could respond with was a shrug of my shoulders and a guttural noise from my throat.
Lilly cackled and slapped at her knee at my response. I liked her immediately. Just like everywhere else in Possibly, AMOR was playing inside The Pueblo during Lilly’s art classes, though at a much lower volume. Probably so it didn’t disturb the students.
Make Someone Happy by Jimmy Durante was the song du jour. It made me smile. Just like Lilly’s reaction to my response.
“I take it you ain’t never done much art?” she asked.
“No ma’am,” I said. “I just…maybe it’s something I need to try?”
She pointed a finger in my face. “You’re a good kid. I like you…?”
“Jordan.”
“I like you, Jordan,” she said.
Lilly and I had seen each other around town, but we’d never been properly introduced.
She spent most of her days in The Pueblo and I spent most of my days learning with Auggie.
The opportunity had never presented itself.
Even with all of the waves and “hellos” we’d shared over the previous weeks, we’d never had an actual conversation.
She reached around and put a hand on my shoulder blade, guiding me away from the student she had been watching when I approached them.
With no reason not to, I allowed myself to be guided to the other side of the patch of grass in the middle of the atrium.
That golden Possibly sun shone down on us, somehow not turning the room of stone into an oven.
The Pueblo was pleasantly cool, full of natural light, perfect for an artist’s work. I imagined.
“Well,” Lilly spoke, “you see, we got our painters, our sculptors—”
I looked around as she gestured, taking in the students as she pointed them out.
“—some people who like to sketch. Got some folks who like to work with clay, others with stone or metal. Oils, acrylics, charcoal…the medium finds the artist more often than not.”
“What does that mean?”
“You won’t really know what works for you until you work,” she said. “Since you’ve never really done much art before, maybe we start you out with some acrylic paints and see what happens? Maybe we can figure out what type of art you’re best suited for?”
I shrugged again. “Yeah. That sounds cool.”
“Great!” Lilly slapped my back jovially, nearly taking my breath away.
Sturdy.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
Sturdy or not, Lilly dashed around The Pueblo as if made of feathers.
She practically floated as she zipped around, grabbing a free easel, canvas, paints, and brushes.
I did my best to help her set up my station on the edge of the round of grass, but I mostly let her take charge.
Who was I to tell an artist how to set up an artist’s work station?
Before I knew it, the canvas was clamped onto the easel, Lilly had placed a mason jar of clear water to the side for me, and handed me a palette and brush.
I stood before the easel, staring at the vast whiteness, wondering what I would be instructed to do.
I’d never even attempted to paint something, but with a teacher, I couldn’t be too terrible. Right?
“Okay,” I said. “Now what?”
“Well, paint, of course.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Paint something.”
“Uh…paint what?”
“What you see,” Lilly slapped my back, nearly sending me flying into the easel, as a cackle erupted from her throat. “Specifically, paint how you see. Don’t paint this room the way it looks, paint it the way you see it. Otherwise, it’s not the best art.”
“But how?” I coughed.
“How doesn’t matter. We’re just trying to figure out what you take to,” she said. “Just start painting. See what happens. Maybe you’ll find you take to it like a duck to water.”
“Not likely,” I mumbled.
“We got a few rules around here,” Lilly crossed her arms over her broad chest. “Not being grumpier than me is one of ‘em.”
“Sorry.”
Lilly softened. “Don’t worry about the process for now, Jordan. Just paint what you see. I need to know what you can do before I can start to figure out what might be best for you.”
“It’s gonna be bad.” I cringed. “Like, really bad.”
“Art’s never bad.” Lilly grabbed me firmly by the chin and turned my head to look at her.
Typically, anyone putting their hands on me forcefully in an attempt to make me comply annoyed me.
Lilly just had a way about her. I wanted desperately to ask her if she had kids.
Or grandkids. She had one of those timeless faces that, although it was obvious she had experience, looked as if she could have been not old enough or old enough to have grandkids.
“Art is art because it’s a reflection of how the artist sees the world around them.”
I murmured, “Is not making fun of new students one of your rules?”
Lilly’s eyes softened considerably and she pinched my chin between her fingers.
“I’ll give you helpful critique, but I will never laugh at you.” She let go of my chin and ran her finger across her chest. “Cross my heart.”
I breathed out. “Okay. I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all you gotta do, sugar.” Lilly squeezed my shoulder.
What I had expected was for Lilly to step back, give me a little room, and just observe while I started painting.
Maybe give a tip here or there. Or, I don’t know, give me some idea of how to start.
Instead, she turned on her heels and walked back to the student she had been helping when I approached her.
Her leaving didn’t make me more or less nervous because I wasn’t sure how to feel.
I’d just been given the means to paint and no instruction.
For a moment, I considered quietly setting down the provided painting supplies and sneaking out of The Pueblo.
That would probably get the message across about how confident I was in my ability to just make art on the fly.
And I knew how to run like hell. What was Lilly going to do?
Chase me down and drag me back to my easel until I produced art?
You make art now!
After watching Lilly out of the corner of my eye for a moment, I realized that chasing me down was exactly what she’d do.
Possibly wasn’t Memphis or New Orleans, either.
Even if I could outrun Lilly—which was fairly likely—she’d still find me.
Sooner or later, she’d show up on Jack’s doorstep with her arms crossed over her chest.
Jack would hand me over, too. If just for the shits and grins.
So, with a deep sigh, I looked around the room.
I was supposed to paint what I saw. Or, rather, how I saw it.
I realized I had to figure out what I saw and how I saw it.
Though every part of my brain was telling me that I was wasting my time—you’re not even an artist—I forced myself to take in the atrium around me.
Brown walls. No. Rusty, sandy brown walls. Made of…bricks? Stones? Possibly hand-carved blocks of some kind? Maybe it was clay that was hand-packed and molded? I didn’t know how old The Pueblo was, so I could only guess the technology available when it was built.
Stone columns, slightly less brown than the walls—definitely sandy brown—rose from the stone floor to hold the dome above us aloft. The dome, brownish-red—burnt sienna, maybe?—from the outside, was sparkling white on the inside.
The skylight above, only visible from inside The Pueblo or if you were high enough above the building to see it, let in that golden Possibilian sunlight.
Was the inside of the dome sparkling white, or was it off white, or tan, or light brown, but the sunlight that nourished Possibly bleached it white?
The sun didn’t hit every corner on the inside of the dome due to the skylight’s positioning and shape.
If the sun was responsible for the blindingly white color, it would have happened in stages.
Parts of the dome would be less white than others.
Then again, I had no idea when Possibly was founded—it hadn’t been on the town sign—so I didn’t know how long the sun had been working on the dome.
Below the dome, in a perfect circle, edged by stone, was the lush green grass that seemed to cover every inch of Possibly that wasn’t paved or worn down into a trail.
The sunlight made it sparkle like thinly sliced blades of emerald, nearly giving it a cartoonish look.
It just never seemed real. If I hadn’t spent so many afternoons lounging in the grass around Possibly with Auggie, I would have thought it was Astroturf or some other synthetic grass.
The other students around me, under Lilly’s watch, were creating their art.
Some sculpted or molded, others painted and drew.
Some seemed perfectly content to stand by their work and think.
Maybe they were trying to figure out how they saw things, too.
Everyone was smiling, or, at the least, not unhappy.
They were content. Lilly would laugh with a student she’d stop to check on from time to time, but always quietly so as to not disturb anyone more than necessary.