The Art of Us

Chapter Two

Kal

Staring was rude. Especially when Ireland was trying to pay attention to Mr. Nichols as he pontificated on the highlights of World War II. But Kal couldn’t help it. Ireland Raine just looked so much like his friend Brell. Not from the front so much. When he looked at her straight on, the differences were enough to spoil the illusion. But from the side?

They could be twins from the side. Their espresso-brown hair was the same. The slight, barely noticeable upturn of their noses was the same. The pale, oval-shaped face. The glacial blue eyes. He’d stared at her for the first several days after transferring schools and sitting next to her in the history class they had together.

He couldn’t help it.

It was like seeing a ghost.

He’d expected her to turn to him and ask to borrow a pen or paper or some other random object that she’d forgotten because the thing about Brell was that she was never prepared. If they were going out in cooler weather, she would need to borrow a jacket. If they were going out when it was too sunny, she would need a hat or sunglasses or sunscreen.

Ireland never turned to him to ask for anything because she wasn’t Brell.

Brell was gone.

He’d moved to California. The distance had been too much for her to deal with and their only contact had been the occasional likes, hearts, and smiley faces online.

She moved on to new friends. Friends who sucked the life out of everything they touched.

When he’d got the news that Brell had been in a shooting accident while she was out drinking with those new friends, he’d felt destroyed. He hadn’t been there for her. And now she was gone. He could logically say it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t chosen those friends for her. But even though he didn’t believe in ghosts, he was pretty sure Brell was haunting him.

He sucked in a hard breath and tried to focus on what Mr. Nichols was saying.

Ireland was not Brell. He’d told himself that in the beginning when Ireland had rather pointedly ignored him, indicating she wasn’t interested in getting to know him. So he’d moved on.

Except he apparently hadn’t moved on because he’d noticed Ireland again a couple of weeks back. He’d seen her slip through the shadows of Geppetto’s while he had been in the middle of a set. He’d seen her, thought it was Brell, and almost forgotten the lines to the cover he was singing.

She wasn’t Brell. He had to remember that. It wasn’t fair to impose his emotional baggage for one girl on the other. He’d forced himself to look away so he could finish the song. Once done, he looked back in time to see Ireland tucking a piece of pizza into her bag from off a table that hadn’t yet been cleared by the busser.

He suddenly wasn’t as worried about how she looked like a blast from the past. He was curious why she would need to steal someone else’s abandoned food. He’d watched her slip out of the restaurant through the side door, and then he’d spent the rest of the night wondering what that had all been about.

Kal liked having a mystery to solve.

When he saw her again in school, he’d gone back to surveying her, trying to figure her out. He felt okay about the staring because he was pretty sure she didn’t notice him at all.

Now that she was talking to him, he found he wanted her to keep talking. And he also figured she noticed the staring.

She had a look in her eyes he didn’t really understand. Wariness. Fear. Worry. Anxiety. He knew the names of those emotions—had spent years working to perfect capturing them in ink and paint—but he didn’t understand them on her. Ireland Raine was haunted. He just didn’t know what was haunting her. Basic high school drama, like friends or no friends? Trying to figure out college? Maybe she had an actual ghost floating along behind her every step. Or maybe she was haunted by an old boyfriend like he was haunted by an old girlfriend? Memories of people were sometimes painful specters.

Brell had said she understood when his parents had moved him out of Phoenix, Arizona, to Arcata, California. She had held his hand when he told her that his grandma died. She’d made it seem like no big deal when he’d told her that his family was moving so they could help take care of his grandpa. His grandpa was becoming far frailer and struggling to do basic things for himself, and with Grandma gone, there was no one to help him. She had been the one who’d held Grandpa’s life together in any organized kind of way.

Moving had made sense to Kal logically. But emotionally? Emotionally, he was wrecked. He had thought he and Brell could make a go of the long-distance thing. But, apparently, that wasn’t going to happen. Brell dropped him and didn’t look back. She’d gone off to a different life. And that life had killed her.

That loss cut into his heart.

Which meant he was haunted too. He knew he needed to move forward in his life, but moving forward was not the same thing as getting over it.

He hadn’t gotten over anything.

But he was trying to move forward.

Moving forward was psychological first aid.

That’s what his dad said, anyway.

His dad felt sympathy for his broken heart, but his mom was the one who felt the empathy. They encouraged him in his painting. They encouraged him to join the band, Shadow Dimension, when the band was looking for someone who could really sing. His parents had all but demanded he try out for the gig at Geppetto’s when they were holding tryouts for Friday night entertainment, even if it only paid in pizza and a bit of pocket change for each band member.

His dad liked the way that particular extracurricular looked on a college application.

His mom liked that it fed his soul.

It didn’t at first. No talent can make up for the terror of stage fright. When he first got up on the little stage at the side of the old-fashioned pizza parlor, his first instinct was to duck and hide. He was too out in the open, too visible. His vision narrowed and he almost fell off the stage and passed out. But he saw his mom looking panicked and his dad nodding his head and mouthing the first few words to the cover he was doing, and he was able to sing. The music took the edge off the fear and almost made him forget that he was in front of a crowd.

He sent the video clip his mom had taken of him onstage with his new band to Brell. She didn’t respond, and it felt like she’d stomped on his heart all over again. He even got mad at her. But then he got the news that she was gone. Gone because of one of her so-called new friends because they were young and drunk and stupid.

Could he have stopped it if he hadn’t left Arizona? Could he have stopped it if he had called every day in the beginning after he’d moved? Maybe. Maybe not.

Since he’d first noticed Ireland Raine stealing remnants of other people’s dinners, it had taken his mind off of everything in a way that even his music or art hadn’t. She had given him a new focus, one that helped him to forget that the person he’d thought was his person didn’t think he was worth even a text message.

He supposed that was why he invited Ireland to dinner. She clearly needed food for some reason, and it was within his power to feed her as much as she could handle eating—at least on Fridays.

Brell had loved pizza. She didn’t care what toppings were on it. She didn’t care if it had been left out all night or even if it smelled a little off. How many times had he warned her that she was going to die of food poisoning?

Ireland is not Brell.

And Brell didn’t die from being poisoned.

I’m spiraling.

Kal needed to pull himself out of the whirlpool of his thoughts. He reminded himself several more times that Ireland was not Brell before class was over. He expected Ireland to talk to him after class. Maybe they’d walk out together, hang out in the halls for a minute. But she ditched fast, with nothing more than a strained smile and a nod.

Weird.

Or “oddball,” as Brell would say.

Stop it.

He shook his head and went to his next class.

Art.

He was a little sad that he didn’t have this class with Ireland. He really did like her style. She was good—really good. She deserved to be in the advanced art class. He couldn’t figure out why someone with as much raw talent as she had was taking a beginners’ course.

It didn’t make sense.

“Hey, Wasden.”

The art instructor looked up from where he had been tacking up blank white posters at the front of the room.

“What’s up, Kal?” Mr. Wasden replied.

“Just living the dream, man.” Or living the nightmare. Over and over and over and over and over—stop .

I’m spiraling.

Kal took a deep breath. Then he took a second one because the first hadn’t done what it was supposed to. Then a third.

“You okay, kid?”

The third one worked. “Yeah. ’S all good. You’re looking extra tanned today.”

Wasden didn’t really look tanned so much as burned. His skin had apparently taken a beating.

“Should’ve worn sunscreen,” Wasden said. “Did some fishing with my daughters after school yesterday,”

“It’s still winter, man.”

“With my girls, the sun is always shining. And, okay, though the sun was out, it was seriously cold, but no regrets. I’m stealing every minute I can before they grow up on me. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah. Gotta take moments while you’ve got ’em.”

Mr. Wasden placed a hand on Kal’s shoulder and gave a quick squeeze of solidarity before Kal made his way to his seat.

“Okay, class.” Mr. Wasden clapped his hands together, and everyone stopped what they were doing to listen. “We’re doing monster races today.” He reached into a bowl of the large artist trophy he kept on a pedestal at the front of the room. “Mara Washington?” He glanced around the room until he made eye contact with Mara, who was twirling the end of one of her ebony box braids and staring out the window. “Come on up.”

Mr. Wasden reached in again, his burned fingers crinkling the slips of paper together until they found one. “Kal Ellis.” Mr. Wasden looked at Kal and flourished a hand toward the front. “You’re up.”

Once both he and Mara had placed themselves in front of one of the posters, Mr. Wasden handed them each a compressed charcoal stick and told them the rules of his game. “It’s monster races. What that means is that you are all going to create a monster by shouting out characteristics. Mara and Kal here are going to sketch out what they hear you say. It’s totally up to their interpretation. And don’t limit yourselves to just physical characteristics. Talk about what these monsters are like on the inside. The things that go on inside our heads and souls affect us physically and can be drawn by a skilled artist. Everyone in this room is skilled enough to be capable of portraying internal characteristics. Okay!” He clapped his hands together again. “Let the races begin! Don’t be shy. Start shouting out characteristics.”

“Huge,” someone yelled.

“Horns,” someone else called.

“Fangs.”

“Claws.”

“Cruel.”

Kal let the bit of charcoal in his hand glide over the surface of the poster.

“Growling.”

“Hairy.”

“Striped.”

“Late for dinner.” That one brought laughter from everyone.

“Tail.”

“Scary and breathes fire.”

At this, without thinking, Kal drew a gun in the claws of his creature. He stopped so abruptly, the charcoal in his hand dropped to the floor with a clatter.

Breathe.

He took a deep breath. Another one. A third. People were still calling out words that sounded fuzzy and far away. They weren’t traumatized by what he’d drawn the way he had been. They didn’t know his past. They weren’t psychoanalyzing him, but simply playing the game.

Breathe.

He bent and picked up the charcoal.

I should go home , he thought even as he added a hunch to the shoulders of his monster and a menacing stare in the eyes.

“Scales.”

“Spikes.”

Kal stopped when Mr. Wasden called out, “Time! Take a step back, Mara and Kal, and let the class get a good view of your monsters.”

Doing as he was told, Kal stepped back so the class could view the finished product.

His monster was definitely more frightening and monsterlike than Mara’s. Hers could almost be called cute, like something that would be lurking in the woods of the book Where the Wild Things Are . Kal’s was menacing—dark in a visceral way that could leave people with nightmares if they were the sort of people who had nightmares.

Kal was the sort of person who had nightmares.

He wasn’t always, but that was before he’d started imagining Brell’s final moments.

The class was applauding the two efforts. They were both good. Mara’s was better, but Kal wasn’t surprised by that. Mara was an excellent artist. He felt certain she’d be working for Disney, or at least giving Disney some competition, once she graduated college.

Mr. Wasden’s voice brought Kal back to attention. “So let’s consider the concept of ideas. It’s my belief that ideas are all around us just waiting to be picked out of the air and put to good use. And just because one person pulls an idea out of the ether doesn’t mean it’s not still available to the next person who reaches for it.

“Ideas are not on a first-come, first-served basis. The most interesting thing isn’t the idea, but the creator who puts the idea to use. We are all unique individuals with our own quirky viewpoints and interests. It makes the work we do and the lives we live unrepeated and unrepeatable. Mara and Kal were given the exact same material and information to work from and yet returned to us two wholly different results.”

Mr. Wasden took the class through the style, tone, and voice of each piece. He didn’t call attention to the gun in the monster’s hand. Mr. Wasden then invited the class to participate in the discussion so they could talk about the things they noticed.

Charisma, who sat in front and was enrolled in an art school in Japan to learn anime after she graduated, said, “I like that Kal included the gun as his way of describing ‘scary’ and ‘fire.’ It is not at all what I was thinking when I said it.” She pushed her red-rimmed glasses up higher on her nose as she squinted thoughtfully at the images in front of her, and said, “I was thinking of a fire-breathing dragon, but that was definitely a different way of illustrating it.”

Kal tensed. He shouldn’t have drawn that, shouldn’t have called attention to the monster of his nightmares. Mr. Wasden only agreed with Charisma and moved on to the next comment from Julianna, a blond who lived a few houses down from Kal. She didn’t get out much, so he only saw her in art class and at the occasional art club meeting even though they lived so close to each other. Julianna discussed the various levels of scary for different audiences. Kal’s shoulders relaxed, and he managed to make it through the rest of the class period without the internal chanting telling him that he should go home.

As Kal gathered up his stuff at the end of class, Mr. Wasden said, “Hey, Kal. Do you have a minute to talk?”

He tensed again because Wasden knew about Brell. Kal had told him everything one evening when they’d been making flyers for the school’s art show, but even so, he might not be chill about Kal’s visual of a gun. He nodded and shuffled to Mr. Wasden’s desk.

“You okay?”

Kal shifted and gave another nod. “Sure.”

“I get what happened there, but maybe let’s leave firearms out of our classroom art, huh?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. This time. Take a seat. Let’s chat.”

Kal sat in the beat-up, azure-blue armchair. The upholstery could have used a makeover, but the chair had become the art room’s icon of chill, which meant no one would ever do anything to change it.

“You know,” Mr. Wasden said, “art is an excellent way to work through all the stuff in our heads. Our worries, our hopes, our fears, everything. I have a little daughter. She’s four. And I often help my wife do her hair. At first, that was my least favorite thing to do for her because her hair was always so tangled in the morning. But my wife bought this detangler spray, and now I can brush through her hair without her crying and telling me how much she wishes Mommy would help her instead.”

Wasden tapped his reddened fingers on the desk. “Art is a detangler for the knots that happen in our minds. I know this is probably kind of a crappy metaphor, but I’m an art teacher, not an English teacher. So there’s that. Anyway, I know you’ve been dealing with some ridiculously hard things, and probably have enough going on to keep you busy without new things, but would you be willing to help me assemble a school-wide art project? I want something that unifies us, something that gives hope. I like your level of creativity. What are your thoughts on that?”

“Yeah, I could do that.” Kal wasn’t sure why he agreed. Maybe because he was sitting in the chill chair.

“Perfect! So come up with some ideas, something that can spread some positivity—a little detangler for everyone. I think we can all use that, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Definitely.” Stupid chill chair. Yet Kal liked the idea of unifying the students. Even without the chair, he would have said yes.

“Good. Then we agree. You have great ideas, and I think we have the potential to do some good in the school. By Monday, bring me at least three concepts for a school-wide project that anyone can participate in—not just the art students. Okay?”

Kal felt like a bobblehead with all the nodding he was doing. “Okay.”

“Are you okay? Do you want to talk?”

Kal shook his head. “I’m fine. Actually doing better. Thanks.” He really did feel like he was doing better, but that might have been the chill chair’s influence as well.

“If you say so, but Kal? I’m here, you know. I know I just sat here doing all the talking, but if you ever need to talk or vent or even just sit in silence with someone else who won’t judge, you can. Anytime.”

“Right. Thanks, Wasden. I appreciate it.”

“You bet. Also, I heard you were playing at Geppetto’s. That’s cool, man. I’ll have to come in sometime and hear you. What instrument are you on?”

“Guitar and vocals. How ’bout you? You play?” Kal asked.

“Not unless you count Spotify.”

Kal laughed and reluctantly relinquished his time in the chill chair as he stood. “Nice. I say it counts.”

He then turned to leave at the same time Ireland was coming in for her class. “Hey!” He smiled wide as if letting her see all his teeth would prove to her that he was glad to see her. He would have rolled his eyes at himself but didn’t want her thinking he was rolling his eyes at her.

They weren’t exactly friends—not yet, anyway, but Ireland had a fragility to her that made him want to help her.

She looked from him to Mr. Wasden. “Hey.” Her wary tone made Mr. Wasden look in her direction. The guy was a perceptive person. Did he see how something was ... off with Ireland Raine? Did he see how she seemed to need someone?

If he did see it, he didn’t say anything.

So Kal waved. “Catch you later, Bre—Ireland.” He felt his face flush hot and hurried out. Had she noticed how he’d almost called her a different name? Maybe she hadn’t.

But he noticed.

And he hated that he kept comparing her to his friend from Arizona.

She’s not Brell.

She couldn’t be.

Brell was dead.