Chapter 2
LILA
I stipple my paintbrush on the canvas in front of me, careful to press with the exact pressure needed to add dimension to my cherry blossoms. Satisfaction hums through me as the pale mauve paint smudges ever so slightly, creating an irregular shadow.
I lean forward to dip my brush again, this time in petal pink paint.
The movement causes my hair clip to loosen and a thick lock of my black hair falls into my eye.
I tuck the hair behind my ear, ignoring my paint-caked fingers, not wanting to break my concentration.
Gently, I tap my brush over the same spot on the canvas again, and the blossoms I’m painting begin to take on a three-dimensional, textured effect.
This might be my favorite part of painting—adding final details that feel insignificant at first, but ends up breathing life into the piece.
I’m so hyper focused on the flowers blooming from the brush between my fingertips, I don’t hear my name being called.
“Li-la! Hell-oooo, earth to Lila!” A voice singsongs its way into my subconscious, and I jolt out of my painting world and into reality…
where I’m standing in the middle of the warehouse space with twenty fellow artists looking at me expectantly.
I blink in surprise at the sight of them.
When I started working on my piece earlier, I had the place all to myself.
“Well, hello there.” Zane smirks at me from where he sits at a nearby potter’s wheel. The thing is ancient, caked with the remnants of clay creations that date back decades before Zane began throwing his Aztec-style pots on it. “Nice to have you back here on earth with us.”
“Sorry.” I’m a little sheepish. “I was locked in and didn’t hear everyone come in.”
“How bad is it this time, Lil? Do we need to ask you what year it is again? Who the current president is?” Alastair points at me with a can of spray paint, grinning.
I laugh. It’s hardly a secret around here at the firehouse Art Collective that I can be a total space cadet when I get absorbed in a piece I’m working on. I’ve been known to forget to eat and sleep when I’m zoned in on a painting, and the guys like to make fun of me about it every chance they get.
“Leave our little Lilabug alone, you two,” Masha chides as she wipes her turpentine-smeared hands on her stained denim shirt.
Masha was my mother’s best friend, and she still calls me by the old nickname Mom gave me.
A familiar tug of grief mixes with happy nostalgia.
I like that she’s keeping a little part of my mother alive.
Anything to stop my once-technicolor memories of my mom from fading so fast.
“What’s everyone doing here, anyway?” I ask, pushing away thoughts of my mom and looking around at the circle of familiar faces in the room.
The artists who work out of this space come and go as they please.
Some of them have families, others have day jobs, so while it’s often busy here in the warehouse, it’s unusual that everyone’s here at once. Unless…
“Shit, did I forget someone’s birthday?” I ask, my eyes widening.
Masha gives me a fond smile. “No, no. Nothing like that. Rebekah asked everyone to come in today; she wanted to talk to us all together.”
“Oh, cool.” My shoulders relax.
Rebekah is the founder of the firehouse Art Collective.
She and her late husband bought the out-of-use firehouse for pennies on the dollar back in the seventies and set up the main firehall area as an artists’ warehouse.
For over fifty years, this old ramshackle building has functioned as a safe, welcoming space for artists to gather and create.
My mom, who was also an artist, joined the collective before I was even born, so I practically grew up in this building.
Rebekah is so frail these days, she doesn't stop by much anymore, but when she does, it’s normally just to check in and admire what we’re all working on. She almost always brings donuts when she comes, too.
At the thought of donuts, my stomach rumbles. How long was I working on that painting? Judging by my current hunger level—practical starvation—I’d guess since early evening.
“Hello, everyone. Thank you all for coming in on such short notice.” We all look up as Rebekah enters the room, her movements slow and careful.
She’s gotten thinner lately, her ebony skin hollow beneath her cheekbones.
Someone rushes to get her a chair, and she eases into it before handing off the cherry red Donut Factory box that was clutched in her hands to be passed around.
She looks up. “Shall we all take a seat?”
It’s a strangely formal request, but nobody questions it. Rebekah is the matriarch around here; we respect her.
A few moments later, a bunch of random chairs are dragged into a sloppy circle, and we’re all sitting, the donut box making the rounds.
Rebekah starts by complimenting a middle-aged woman named Angel on her latest fashion design—a dress made out of scraps of materials she salvaged from dumpsters around the city.
The box reaches me, and I study all of the glossy, colorful donuts before I greedily select a huge apple fritter.
I sink my teeth into the soft, warm dough right away, tuning back into the conversation.
“There's no easy way to say this, but I can’t afford to keep the lights on anymore,” Rebekah says.
I’m lightheaded when those words land in my brain, and it has nothing to do with my lack of eating today.
As she continues talking, my thoughts are such a mess, I can only catch snippets: “Medical bills…crippling property taxes…an offer…can’t refuse, as much as I want to…
visit Florida, see my son…thank you for so many amazing years… ”
My mouth goes so dry I have to choke down my fritter.
I set the rest of my donut down in my lap, my appetite suddenly nonexistent as Rebekah’s words all blur together into an abstract image I can’t make sense of.
She’s selling the firehouse, and the potential buyers aren’t interested in continuing to let a collective of broke artists operate in the building.
The pain on her face is evident; she must be desperate. When she finally stops speaking, a loud silence fills the space, and the lines of worry on her face seem to grow a little deeper.
“Is there anything we can do?” Masha asks after a few tense moments. I whip my head around to see she looks as shocked as I feel. Everyone in the room is wearing the same expression.
Nobody saw this coming.
Or maybe they did but chose not to believe it was possible.
Rebekah winces, then shakes her head. “I’m sorry, everyone. The offer was all cash, well over the asking price. It will dig me out of the hole and then some. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to.”
Another awkward silence follows, and hot tears prick the back of my eyes. I force them away. If I’ve learned anything in my twenty-three years on this planet, it’s that crying never changes things. Tears don't bring back what you’ve lost.
“Thank you, Rebekah.” I finally find my voice. “For everything you’ve done for all of us.”
They’re the magic words, transforming the atmosphere in the room from simmering silence to our little art family hugging and crying. The relief on Rebekah’s face is evident.
I stand off to the side, not wanting comfort…but just space to think.
Mom always used to say where there’s a will, there’s a way, and my will to save Firehouse Collective is ironclad.
This is my home. My family. My mom’s legacy—her life’s work took place right here in this warehouse. I can’t lose it…so I need to find a way to save it.
There’s no other choice.
A few moments later, Rebekah spots me at the side of the crowd and makes her way over, taking my hands in hers.
“Lila…” she begins.
I school my features into careful neutrality. “How much time do we have to fix this?”
When I step back from my canvas again, my shell-pink blossoms have ripened to bruise-colored purples. In the world of my painting, the season is turning. The blossoms don’t have much time left.
After Rebekah left earlier, the others all headed out soon after, too.
I said goodbye to everyone, then stayed in the main art space of the warehouse instead of going upstairs to the small apartment space there—although apartment is a generous word.
It’s more of a single-room-the-size-of-a-shoebox situation.
When I said this place was my home, I meant figuratively…
but since I lost my mom, I’ve literally been living here, too.
Before, my mom and I shared an apartment nearby, but after she passed, the landlord didn’t want the liability of renting solely to a young girl without a credit score.
Rebekah, amazing woman that she is, offered to let me rent the space upstairs.
Tonight, I wanted to let myself get lost in my work for a while longer so I could delay being alone with my thoughts and having to face reality, but it didn’t work.
Instead, the sky darkened and the blossoms rotted as my distress seeped into my painting and Rebekah’s words from earlier continued to spin in my mind.
One month until the sale closes.
Thirty short days to come up with…something.
Apparently, the prospective buyer is some asshole property development group worth billions.
Rebekah said she didn’t know why they wanted the firehouse, or what their plans are for the building, just that they swooped in with an offer she couldn’t refuse and an expedited timeline that would guarantee her cash in hand, fast.
My guess is she didn’t want to know. Knowing would make selling harder.
A sharp series of taps come from the front door, and I almost jump out of my skin.
Nobody ever knocks on the door here; all of us artists have keys so we can access the space twenty-four-seven—because creativity can strike at any hour of the day.
The knock comes again.
Maybe someone forgot their key?
I step forward cautiously, then check my phone. It’s after nine. I’m a woman, alone in a warehouse.