I wish I wasn’t Samantha. She's boring and plain looking. She sits at the end of the hall and writes in a dog-eared old notebook while everyone else is talking to their friends. It’s not that she's a nerd, or a loser; she isn’t even one of the goth kids, all sullen and sour at the world, or an art club member, who talk with their hands and wear bamboo clothing and lots of beads. She's the kid-that-sits-at-the-end-of-the-hall-and-daydreams-all-day-and-constantly-talks-about-being-a-writer. That’s Samantha’s thing. My thing.
Today is the last day of school before summer starts. I should be excited like the rest of my classmates. Instead I sit on the corner bench at the end of the hall with my notebook propped up on my knees, ignoring the chatter and laughter going on around me. I know what the start of summer means - it means dad is going to make me work full time at my job now, instead of just Saturdays and twice a week after school. I work at the bakery down the street from our house. It’s called “Mm-mm-Muffins”, which, if you ask me, is the most unoriginal name ever. The job itself isn’t bad, it’s my boss. Mrs. Beth has run the muffin shop for fifteen years and it must have made her crotchety and bitter because she’s ‘mm-mm-mean’. Dad says she’s good people, but I don’t think dad knows anything about good people.
I don’t like work, and I don’t like school much either. What I do like is writing. When I write, time comes to a halt. I come alive in the pages. I write all kinds of stuff - poetry, short stories and even novels. I have one story I’ve been working on for nearly a year now. I don’t want it to end. My character’s name is Anastasia and she’s the queen of all Mary-Sue’s. I learned that term in English (the one class in school I like) and it suits Anastasia perfectly. She's everything I wish I could be. She's medium height and curvy, not too tall, not too skinny. She's got long luxurious red curls instead of thin brown hair, and blue eyes that sparkle instead of glasses. And Anastasia is a fighter -she knows what she wants and goes after it. I know the story is silly, ridiculous even, but it’s a vacation from life. Everyone at high school knows I want to be a writer since I stupidly announced it on the first day of school in Career and Personal Planning. The CAP teacher, a tall, big-boned blonde lady who was fired later that year, said something that day that I've often heard repeated from my dad - “Don’t quit your day job.”
I wasn’t crushed when she said it, just put off. I wondered what right this Amazon woman had to brush off my dreams so scornfully.
No one at school seems to make fun of me even though I sit on the bench during lunch and scribble away furiously. Some people even gravitate towards me, curious what I’m writing. Occasionally a well-meaning student or teacher will ask, “Anything published yet, Sam?”
And I'll shuffle my feet and swallow my pride and say, “No, still nothing yet.”
“Well you know what they say, got to keep on trying!”
I know all about “keep on trying”. I pin all my rejection slips on the wall above my dresser as a reminder. They make me angry enough to keep writing. Dad says I’ll probably end up wallpapering my entire room that way. When I think about it, it’s sort of funny, but Dad hadn’t meant it as funny.
I wonder about my classmates as they mill around me, talking to one another, cheerfully cleaning out their lockers and exchanging summer plans. Do their fathers crack jokes at the dinner table, or read their report cards and say good job? Maybe they offer to help with homework. Or hug them...
In my story Anastasia is going to fight a dragon. She's strong and plucky and brave. My heroine will slay the dragon that guards her and break free of the palace that she was locked in. That’s why I sit here by myself, writing feverishly as I wait for the buzzer that will signal the end of a school year - I wish to be sucked into the story.
I wish to be Anastasia.
“I expect you’ll want to talk to Mrs. Beth about full time now that you have nothing else to do all summer.” His voice is hard and flat, daring me to disagree.
“I have homework.” I stab at my Hamburger Helper, refusing to look at dad. He's just come in the door and I hear him plonk his briefcase down on the floor inside the kitchen.
“Dinner is in the microwave.” I change the subject. “How was work?”
“Fine.”
I hear him move around in the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors and I shovel hamburger down my throat as fast as I can, hoping to finish before he sits down.
“You have work tomorrow, Samantha?”
He always says my name in a tone, like I'm in trouble for something. I've given up asking him to call me Sam, he won't.
“Yes.”
“Well you can ask her then.”
“I guess.” I won't actually ask her for full time work. Just pretend that I have, and that she has said I can only have part time. That'll be enough for dad, he’ll probably curse and grumble that I would get lazy over the summer, but he won't bother to ask her. Life with dad isn't fun, but it's predictable.
I never fight him, just compromise without him knowing. It's how I stay sane.
“Finished already?” His gaze is critical, knowing.
“Yeah.” I scrape my plate into the garbage and put it in the dishwasher. “I’ll be in my room.”
He shouts up the stairs at me to be in bed by ten. I’ll be in bed alright, just under the covers with a flash-light and a pen, writing the further adventures of Anastasia. I write until my eyes grow too blurred to see the page. Then I tuck my work in the top drawer of my night-stand and settle back under my blankets, drifting off with vague trepidation about work tomorrow, which flavours each and every dream.
The next morning is too cheerful to be a workday. Side-walks reflect the sun back at me, birds in the trees along the walkway call to anyone who will listen, and I can hear the distant happy screeching of a couple of little boys playing in the nearby park. It's way too nice to work today. Although, even if I had to wade through six inches of freezing snow I'd still tell you it was too nice to work. Any kind of day is too nice to be stuck in the bakery.
My book bag bumps against my hip with each step and I take comfort in the thought that I’ve remembered to bring a book to read. At least there'll be that sweet half-hour reading escape during lunchtime.
As usual I get a little queasy as the bakery comes into sight. My stomach always feels funny when I get nervous, and I always get nervous coming here, even after nearly a year.
Mrs. Beth is no more cheerful then usual when I walk in the door. She gives me a piercing stare with watery blue eyes and a crisp, “Good morning,” which I translate in my head to mean, “You again?”.
My boss hates me. Or at the very least she thinks I’m a complete idiot. She always talks to me like my IQ is lower than dirt; it drives me crazy. I don’t say any of the things I wish I could say. As usual, I just try to stay out of her way for the entire day, packaging hot dog buns and shrink-wrapping oatmeal cookies while she's in the back making her stupid muffins.
I’d learned the lesson of paying careful attention to everything she says, since last week she exploded at me. Her fat cheeks had gone all red and she’d growled, “Where is your brain at, Sam? Sometimes I wonder about you!”
Last week had been a lecture on the importance of not asking stupid questions. I wonder what this week will be. Whatever it is, I want to avoid it at all costs, so I do my job as fast as I can and try to stay out of her way. Lunch is the one and only good thing about the day, and after seven excruciating hours I'm finally free.
There's a witch in the tale of Anastasia, and it seems that each day after work the witch grows more horrible, her face uglier, her toothless smile more wicked.
I write more of my story on the bus ride into town. I rarely ever go straight home after work, since that mostly consists of sitting around awkwardly with dad until dinnertime, enduring his growling comments about how I should be doing something with my life instead of wasting my time on “that crap”, which is how he refers to my fantasy books.
Instead I go straight downtown to my favourite spot in the world. Dad thinks I go to the library, because if I told him where I'm really going, he’d go off the deep end.
Legend Art Gallery is a tiny little shop tucked way down a side street. It isn’t your typical art gallery, with glaring white walls and bare floors and old ladies in business suits who eye you suspiciously, like you’re about two years old and you might start running down the halls screaming or get chocolate sauce on one of the priceless paintings. Legend is different. It's small and dark except for the lights that shine down on the pictures. Here and there in front of a picture you can sit down in one of the squishy green armchairs and stare to your heart's content. The best part is that it's open till nine, so I can come in after work.
I can't paint to save my life, but I love looking at paintings and imagining the artists that do them. And it's good art here not just rude splashes of colour on canvas. Every picture is vibrant and alive. Modern art, but with soul. Mr. Pinsner, the man who owns the gallery, is never there after five, but his son Benji works the evening shift and I like him a lot. Last month, Benji dyed his hair black and cut it so that it slants over one eye; he always wears collared shirts and sweaters. I thought he was gay at first, but it turns out he just likes his pants tight. It’s a scene thing I guess. I don’t really get it.
“Hey, Sam!” Benji’s smile lights up his face when I come in and I grin back. Someone is actually excited to see me.
“Hi, how’s work today?”
“Boooring.” Benji rolls his eyes heavenward. “I’ve had one sale today, just one.”
“Not enough art lovers.”
“Nope.”
I wander over to the first painting, a landscape made blurry with shades of blues and greys. “Any new paintings?”
“Since your last visit?”
I laugh. “I know, it’s only been two days.”
“Actually,” Benji grins, “There's a new one down at the end.”
I make my way down to the end of the gallery slowly, savouring each painting. I made up my mind a long time ago what kinds of paintings I'll buy first when I get rich. I like to dream about them hanging in a home that belongs only to me. When I reach the end of the gallery I stop short and gaze at the newcomer. Exhaling, drawn in by the magnificent colour and image. Benji chuckles behind me.
“Brilliant isn’t it?”
It's beyond brilliant. It's a tapestry of red, orange and gold that swirl together and somehow form the outline of a herd of horses galloping across the sky.
“Amazing!”
The artist's signature is a dramatic flourish at the end of the canvas and I have to look at the card on the wall to see the name.
Patricia Da’Silva
I stare at the name.
You know that feeling you get when someone tells you something big? Like maybe someone tells you a distant cousin died and left you all his money or your family is suddenly moving to Afghanistan or something equally bizarre. The feeling hits you in the pit of your stomach and makes your knees watery; maybe your legs feel numb and you have to sit down if the news is shocking enough. The first thing that goes through my mind is denial. Da'Silva. Maybe someone simply has the same last name as me. Or maybe not. Maybe this is why dad gets that twisted look on his face every time I mention anything related to art. That makes sense. I hear dad’s voice in my head now, thundering at me for asking about mom one day: “Her name was Pat,” he had growled. “She was very flaky and irresponsible and that’s all you need to know.”
Patricia Da’Silva.
I look at the name and try to wrap my mind around it.