When Monday rolls around, I'm still riding the high of the fantastic weekend. I text Kayla early to make sure she'll pick me up, so I can hear all about her date and she can tell me all about her weekend. It's been years since I've been this excited for a Monday. Maybe I'm sick.
When Kayla pulls up to my house, I run out to meet her, for once ignoring my rumpled appearance. So, what if my clothes have wrinkles? It's high school, not Milan fashion week.
"You're smiling," Kayla observes cautiously. "Did your plan to take over the world finally work or something?" She laughs, then speeds out of my driveway.
"Just had a good weekend. That's all," I say. Then I tell her all about it. About driving Isaiah's car and being really bad at games and nearly (but not quite) shrieking at The Blair Witch Project. I tell her about the next day when Isaiah decided to take Thomas and me for burgers at the diner by our house instead of eating leftovers, like we normally do on Saturdays. I tell her about how much fun I had and when I can finally say no more, I just keep smiling.
"Sounds like you had a nice date, then," Kayla gibes.
"Hey, now," I act offended. "But, speaking of dates, how was yours? Are you the future Mrs. Cameron Mathis?"
I know this is the only reason she even mentioned the word date. Kayla's manipulative like that. And judging by the smile she's trying to conceal, it must have gone very well.
"It was wonderful, Cade," she says as if she's auditioning to be Broadway's next Cinderella. "Dinner was delicious. We went to that new steakhouse that just opened up. He apparently knows the owner; we didn't even have to wait when we got there. Our table was already ready for us! Then we went to the movies. The movie was horribly boring. We left halfway through and went to walk around the park."
She seems so blissful, talking about her date. She has that new-relationship glow, the one she gets every time she starts dating a new guy she's been chasing for a while. She looks happy.
And beautiful. Another telltale sign that her date went well is that she's wearing makeup. Kayla's naturally pretty; she always has been. But when she's in a relationship, she's a knockout. She fixes her hair every morning and does her makeup and wears nice clothes. I've always wondered why she didn't do this when she was trying to attract a boyfriend, but she always says that she has too much respect for herself to try to get a date based on her looks.
I get that, I guess. I mean, I'm not getting a date anytime soon based on my looks, so that's nothing I've ever had to worry about.
"So, are you guys an official couple?" I ask, already knowing the answer. The car wouldn't smell like Clinique Happy if she were still single.
"We are," she grins widely. "I wanted to call you and tell you everything yesterday, but I didn't want to disrupt your amazing weekend with Isaiah." I can hear disdain in her voice. "I didn't even know you two hung out, except at school."
I should have expected her to be mad, I guess, but it somehow still takes me by surprise. I honestly don't know why she's upset, or even why she has the right to be upset. I definitely wasn't a part of her weekend planning. And I was supposed to be.
"We don't," I shrug, knowing that I'm being passive aggressive. "I mean, we didn't. That was the first time." I'm allowed to have other friends, I think, but I don't say. That would be bad.
"You were busy this weekend. Why's it matter that I hung out with Isaiah?" I feel like we're talking in circles and getting nowhere.
"I had a date. I thought you'd be happy for me, Cade. I thought you'd care." Her voice has reached a pitch that could shatter glass. When she's mad, her voice always gets higher, not louder.
"I thought you were my best friend. I thought you were supposed to be happy for me," she shrills.
I feel something inside me snap. I want to punch something. I want to bail out of her car and find a new way to school.
"Yeah? Well, I thought I was your best friend, too. But if I were, I wouldn't have been bumped for your date. You didn't even consider me, did you?" For the first time, I notice that we're parked in Kayla's parking spot at school.
I've never snapped at Kayla like this before. I've never actually let her know she's hurt me before. It's never been worth it to me to be lonely before. Because, until recently, if I didn't have Kayla, I'd have nobody. It makes me wonder what the fear of being lonely has stopped people from doing.
"Screw your best day ever," I spit, and then throw open my door and head into school, alone.
The halls are already cramped and crowded, booming with Monday morning chatter. Today, unlike most days, I don't even stop by my locker before going to the art room.
I'm glad to find Mr. Camplin already in his classroom when I get there. I need to paint. I need to do something to avoid punching a solid cinder block wall. I don't want to tell Mr. Camplin that I can't afford paint, so I just tell him I don't have any.
When I finally get to a canvas, I let my body do what it wants. Before I realize it, I've filled the canvas with varying shades of orange and red, like flames licking up the canvas.
It's not long before I feel a presence hovering over my shoulder. When I turn my head, I see Mr. Camplin surveying my work. He has that gleam in his eye that he gets just before he challenges his students.
"This is very interesting, Cade," he says, surveying. "But where are you going with this?"
"Where am I going with what?"
"With your art," he nods to the canvas. "Your art always has direction. I'm curious to see where this one will leave."
As I regard my own work, I understand what he means. Everything I create always has a focus. It may not have a deep meaning, but there's always a focus. But does my art have to go anywhere? Artists paint things solid colors all the time, lately, and pass it off as "art." They slap on ridiculous, nonsense names like Blue Largo and sell them from high prices.
But even as I ponder this, I can already see the direction this painting is taking. I can see where I want to overlay the silhouettes of people dancing through the flames.
When I set to work, Mr. Camplin returns to his desk to finish getting ready for the day. Another presence takes up residence behind me as I begin adding black-brown human figures to my canvas.
"Very tribal-looking," Isaiah's low voice says from behind me. "It's interesting. I've never seen you paint before, I don't think. Not on your own, I mean."
It's true. I've never painted on my own before—not without an assignment to guide me. It's not my favorite medium and it's expensive. I can't afford paints just for fun. I'm technically stealing school resources, but I know Mr. Camplin won't mind.
"Yeah, I'm trying something new," I shrug, adding the final touches to what I can do for the moment. This is why I hate paint. You can't do everything you want all at once. It takes time to create the things you see in your head. With pencil, I can work straight through, if I want.
"Hey, my mom wanted to know if you could come over this afternoon. I showed her a picture of your drawing of Thomas. I, uh, hope you don't mind." He looks sheepish. "Anyway, she wants to meet with you. She thinks some of her former clients might be interested in your work."
I feel a mixture of betrayal and confusion and excitement rise in me. Betrayal because he showed somebody my art without my consent. Confusion because I can't imagine his mom having ever worked in a setting where she would have had clients. And excitement because if these people truly are interested in buying my work, I could finally afford the supplies I need to create the art I've always dreamed of.
I don't know how long I've been staring at him with my mouth half open until I say something.
"I, well, that. Uh. Yes? Yes. I sure. Can. Can over. I can." I'm not making even a little bit of sense, so I take a deep breath and try again. "If you don't mind being my ride, I'd love to meet with her."
And, just like that, my mood has turned completely around. Though I'm still angry at Kayla, I'm not seething. I can compartmentalize.
By the end of class, I'm already counting down the hours until this special meeting with Mrs. Rosenthal. Riverside isn't a big city by any means; it's nothing compared to Seattle or New York where artists can make a good living. But there are plenty of rich people with old money. Maybe they'd be willing to support a near-starving artist.
On my way out of the classroom, I stop by my portfolio and rifle through the works I've collected. I make sure not to grab my best works; I'm selfishly saving them for the upcoming State Art Show. So, none of my favorite pieces can be sold.
Once I've collected a fistful of drawings, Isaiah and I make our way to our second hour classes. Kayla doesn't meet us in the hallway. I wouldn't have expected her to, because of her new relationship status. But after our fight this morning, she definitely won't be joining us anytime soon. And she won't have to pretend to ignore me in chemistry or at lunch.
And by lunch, my predictions have come true. Kayla has not so much as breathed in my direction. Her blue eyes have not even accidentally fallen on me. And I feel sick. I hate fighting with anybody. I'm extremely non-confrontational, sometimes to my detriment. I just hate arguing. It makes me feel as if I've done something wrong, even when I haven't.
When Isaiah sits down beside me at our table, I haven't touched my pizza.
"You okay?" He asks, an eyebrow arched in concern.
I shrug in acknowledgment, but I'm not totally sure. I don't want Kayla mad at me, but I'm not ready to end our fight, yet. Sometimes I deserve to stay mad. This is one of those times.
"What's going on?" He asks through a mouthful of food. I'm glad to know his appetite is just fine.
I shake my head but decide to tell him anyway.
"Kayla and I are fighting," I explain. And without meaning to, I all but fall apart, opening up about all of my frustrations with Kayla. I tell him about how we fought over my spending time with him and how I've been mad at her for some time.
And as I talk, it's like I'm literally venting. Like someone has popped a hole in me and I'm letting all the pressure out that as built up. When the steam in me is all gone, I feel all the better for it. Maybe I should talk things out more often.
"I'm sorry I caused an issue between you two," Isaiah sounds genuinely hurt.
"What? No!" I try to back pedal. "No. Kayla's the issue, not you. She just can't stand that I have somebody new to spend time with. Like I'm supposed to wait for her to come crawling back every time things go sour."
"Your language changes so much when you're mad at her." Isaiah is quiet in his observation, as if afraid I'm going to turn my anger towards him. "You're so disdainful. Not that your feelings aren't valid, but maybe you don't see the whole picture because you're a part of that whole picture."
Isaiah fiddles idly with his napkin while I wait for something to qualify his statement. For a moment, he says nothing, only leans forward and takes a drink from his straw. He's done this since I met him; he doesn't pick up his soda can. Instead, he leans forward and sucks on the straw while the can is on the table. This is made even more comical by his towering height. He looks like Quasimodo trying to drink like that.
"It's just that sometimes you talk about what Kayla does to you but think about what she does to herself." He looks uncomfortable, like he regrets saying every word that comes out of his mouth. "She's seventeen and can't find her identity alone, so she finds her identity in her boyfriends. She spends her time seeking the approval of guys to feel as if she's earned her own approval."
I blink hard and cast a glance to Kayla, whose body language says Cameron has just made a joke she doesn't even find a little funny, so she's laughing twice as hard to appease him. I've never considered this idea before, but it makes sense, I guess.
"And through all the boyfriend changes, you're her stability. You're the guy who always approves of her." Isaiah shrugs and I know that he's all talked out, now.
That's the thing about Isaiah. For the most part, he says exactly what needs to be said and then he's done. No more.
Is that the reason Kayla expects me to never change? Is that why she was so upset that I was unavailable for her to call this past weekend? It's a dumb reason, I think. But it's a reason, at least.
I'm not entirely sure that I am ready to forgive Kayla, yet, despite Isaiah's pressing. I'm sad for her, but that doesn't mean she can be a jerk to me. Does she really hate who she is so much that she relies on others to define who she is?
The bell rings before I can ponder this anymore. I shove as much of my pizza into my mouth as I can, wash it down with a carton of milk, and rush to class.
I have trouble concentrating on my afternoon classes. Between the excitement of meeting with Isaiah's mom about possibly selling my artwork and Isaiah's observations about Kayla bouncing around in my head, to say I'm distracted is an understatement. I can hardly manage to speak when my government teacher calls on me.
When the final bell comes, I'm grateful that this signals the end of my anticipation rather than the end of school. I collect my things quickly and begin to make my way through the hallways, activating my super power to disappear in the sea of teenagers.
When Kayla passes me, I'm so excited about my meeting with Isaiah's mom, that I forget we're fighting.
"Kayla!" I call into the crowd, sticking my hand up to wave at her. Apparently, my super power is working extremely well, though, because she doesn't acknowledge me.
Or for the first time in our friendship, she has blatantly ignored me. We have never ignored each other. That's a kind of unwritten rule among best friends I thought. Because even though we're fighting, reaching out like that could mean something important. This time it means something important.
"Kayla!" I try again, louder, more forcefully. I still get no response. Actually, no response would have been better than what actually happens.
"It must suck to be so poor that you have to ride the bus to school every day," Kayla says to the person she's walking with, the slightest curl of a sneer on the corner of her mouth. She casts one last glance toward me before walking past me. The stake through the heart. She has gone too far. She had no right to say that; I can't help that I'm poor. I can't help that I'm poor. This thought echoes through my head.
By the time I get to Isaiah's locker, I'm furious. I've never been so mad. I thought this morning was the angriest I've ever been. But that was mere annoyance compared to the fiery feeling I feel now.
It's not until Isaiah looks at me, horrified, that I'm aware of the tears on my face. I'm not crying, not really. I'm just so mad that my emotions are materializing into tears. Red-eyed, fury-inspired tears.
"I'm fine," I hold my hand up to stop him from asking the obvious. "I'll tell you about it in the car. I'll wait for you in the parking lot."
Once I'm out of the building and away from the scrutiny of my classmates' eyes, I let my shoulders drop. I let the full impact of what Kayla said hit me. And I want to cry because I feel violated. But I don't. I didn't cry when my dad left, and I won't cry now. I will not show weakness and I will not weep.
I hear Isaiah's car unlock and I look up to see him walking across the lawn between the parking lot and the school. I climb into his passenger seat and breathe in deep.
Count to ten, I tell myself. And I do. I'm not sure it helps, so I do it a second, a third, and a fourth time. By the fifth time, Isaiah has made it into the car and puts a large cardboard tube in my lap. My drawings. I had completely forgotten to grab them, even after I made sure to pack them up this morning.
"I won't ask if you don't want to talk about it," Isaiah says kindly, starting his car and putting it into drive. I consider saying nothing, but I feel that Isaiah deserves an explanation.
"I'm sorry," I say at last, staring at the road ahead. "Kayla just-" I don't know what to say. Maybe I deserved it, for my screw your best day, ever comment. But nobody deserves to be made fun of for their lot in life. Nobody.
"She just said something to really hurt me. I got so mad that I actually, literally saw red. I guess it's not really a big deal, but to me, at the moment, it was."
We sit in silence for the rest of the ride to Isaiah's house. The closer we get to his mansion, the more nervous I become. My thoughts race with images of their massive study, cavernous, and Isaiah's mom sitting on her studded leather through of an armchair. Maybe she's not a monster or some great ruler, but this certainly felt like preparing to enter the belly of the beast.
When we pull up to the circle drive in front of Isaiah's house, I can feel myself blanch. I don't know how to market my art; I barely know how to make it. It practically makes itself.
"Dude, calm down, it's just my mom," Isaiah chuckles. "It's not like you're going to court or anything."
I breathe deeply—trying to steel myself—as I follow Isaiah. This time, he doesn't lead me to the dark, wood-walled library, but to the kitchen, instead. The tiled walls are so white, I'm nearly dazzled. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in so much sunlight, I might as well be standing outside. Everything in the room is all robin's egg blue and lemon yellow and crisp white. It's all so bright. As if the room were inspired by Isaiah's smile. Or maybe it's the other way around. It would be impossible for even me to disappear in this warm, welcoming room.
Isaiah's mom is sitting at the counter, cutting the stems off flowers and arranging them in a vase. She's wearing an oversized button-down shirt and looks like she belongs in The Hamptons, not Texas. It's far too hot here to dress for gardening like that.
"Cade Swanson!" She exclaims when she looks up. She smiles a practiced, party hostess smile at me and stands to give me an uncomfortable, stiff-armed hug. A handshake would have sufficed.
"I'm so glad you came to meet with me. I hope you brought some artwork for me to look at. But before we talk business, can I get you anything? Isaiah told me how your mom had cookies and milk waiting on you when you got home." She's now talking so fast that my head spins. "That's just so quaint; I love it. I was never a natural homemaker like that."
That's obvious from her arrangement of roses and carnations. And something about the way she says quaint unsettles me, but I ignore it. As she's talking, she pulls a jug of milk from a stainless-steel refrigerator as big as my bedroom. From the pantry, she retrieves a bag of chocolate chip cookies and though they are the name brand, they're nothing like my mom's made-with-love-and-the-good-vanilla cookies.
I politely accept what she offers, but I'm too nervous to eat, anyway. All this meeting business has had my stomach in knots all day.
"I brought some of my drawings," I tell her after an uncomfortable silence. "I don't really know where to go from here."
"Isaiah, sweetie, do you mind leaving me and Cade alone to talk business?" Mrs. Rosenthal asks.
I feel terror rise in my stomach, all the way up to my throat.
"No," I can hear the panic in my own voice. "No, he can stay."
I'm sure I sound desperate. But I'm not sitting through this alone. I'm already not good at talking to adults, much less ones I really want to impress. I try to beg him with my eyes to stay. He does.
Slowly, I begin to unroll the drawings I stored in the cardboard tube. I lay them out neatly in front of myself. Sometimes it's nice to see my old works laid out like this. To remember when I created these works. Each drawing has a story and memories attached to it.
If somebody buys my art, will they figure out its story? Will they care to figure it out?
"These are very good," Mrs. Rosenthal says in a voice that seems like she should be stroking her chin. "None of them are as good as the one Isaiah showed me, but these are very good."
She speaks in a deep alto voice with an affected accent, the kind of accent rich people on sit-coms have.
"These two, yes." She's speaking in sentence fragments; nothing she's saying makes very much sense. "Oh, yes. David would love this one, for sure."
She touches each drawing as if trying to read their auras or something. Her eyes are glistening like a mad man's. When she finally regains her composure, she looks at me with an eerily calm face. Her lips make a perfect line across her face, not smiling or frowning. She sits across from me, a strange, distant look in her eye.
"I'd like to act as your agent." She says in a very business-like voice. "I can negotiate the sale of your art and things of that nature. Maybe I can even get you a show at my friend, Martin's gallery. He owns the gallery downtown."
I'm nearly stammering before she finishes speaking.
"I've never done anything like that. I'm not even good enough for that. The gallery downtown? Do you really think?"
I'm almost completing my sentences. Almost. It's all coming out so fast and jumbled that even I can't really understand what I'm saying.
"Nonsense," Mrs. Rosenthal says, shaking her head. "You're plenty talented. I can't make you any promises on an entire show, but I can definitely get you some space in the gallery. Martin owes me a favor."
My own space in a gallery? I wouldn't even know what to do with my own space. My body is practically vibrating with energy and anticipation. What 18-year-old gets his own space in a professional, high-end gallery?
My reflecting is interrupted by the thud of a notebook. Mrs. Rosenthal opens the cover to reveal pages of checks, those large ones like businesses use.
"Here's what I'm willing to offer," she says in a business-like tone. "I believe in you. I believe in young talent. I'm prepared to pay you one-thousand five hundred dollars for the artwork you've brought today."
I hate when people are pretentious enough to say it like that. Why not just say fifteen-hundred dollars, like every average human being? Wait. $1500? For my drawings? One is literally just a bowl of fruit.
"I won't make any profit," she continues. "I intend to sell these pieces for $200 and these for $150." She points to drawings as she speaks.
"I just want to work as a middleman for you. Gain you some exposure. My son says you're his best friend and I'll do anything to help his friends become successful. Teach a man to fish and all that."
It's only now that I realize my mouth is open. I'm literally so stunned by all this that I have forgotten how to speak. First, I never realized that Isaiah considered me his best friend. But, also, there is a check sitting in front of me for $1500 and it has my name on it. I can cash this check today, and buy the watercolor pencils I want. I can buy paints. I can buy the supplies to make the art I've always wanted to make.
"If you have any other pieces to sell, please do not hesitate to bring them to me. In this city, there is no shortage of art patrons and supporters."
There's a finality in her voice that tells me our meeting is over. I look to Isaiah, still shell-shocked by the check and the reeling feeling that I may have gallery space. After a moment of total silence, Isaiah nods toward the door to signal that it's time to go.
"Okay," he says breathily. "I'm going to run Cade home."
"Thank you, Mrs. Rosenthal," I finally find the words to say. "Thank you so much for your help. For everything."
Isaiah all but pushes me out of the door before I can become a babbling wreck.
By the time I get into Isaiah's car, I'm clutching the check tightly, holding it in front of my face. I'm starting at it like I'm Charlie Bucket and it's my golden ticket. Mrs. Rosenthal has given me the keys to my own chocolate factory, the keys to my own future.