The Art of Us

Chapter Six

Kal

Mr. Wasden loved the idea of the student mural when Kal ran it past him. He had all sorts of ideas for it and had spent the afternoon talking to the principal to get approval. Now Mr. Wasden and the principal, Mrs. Parker, stood in the front hall with Kal debating the use of the wall Wasden wanted.

Kal saw Ireland pulling the door open and hurried over to meet her. “Where are you coming from? Cutting class?”

“What?” She blinked, clearly confused, until she looked behind her and said, “Oh. You mean because I’m coming from outside. Right. I ...” Her eyebrows furrowed together as if trying to come up with a reason, but instead of explaining anything, she just shrugged and pointed to Wasden and Mrs. Parker. “What’s going on here?”

Since the art teacher and the principal seemed to be in a hot debate, it was no wonder she felt curious. “Eh. There are concerns.”

“Like what?”

“Like, can we trust the student body with art supplies like paints and not expect them to graffiti the whole school? Can we trust the student body to not be hateful, crude, or vulgar if we give them free run of a wall and art supplies? Do we really want that to be the first thing people see when they enter the school, and isn’t there a wall better suited to such things, like the one in the art hall instead?”

Ireland laughed. “She’s got a point. I wouldn’t trust any of us with unsupervised access to all this.”

Kal hadn’t expected Ireland to be on the principal’s side. He’d thought the woman was overreacting, but Ireland shrugging off his mockery made him rethink his stance. Kal had once called Mrs. Parker a handwringer since she seemed chronically worried, but both of his parents had chastised him and said he had no idea the amount of pressure that was placed on a principal.

They were right. He didn’t have any idea, which helped keep him from being too critical. Even so, he thought she was being overly dramatic about the mural. It’s not like he was asking if they could play with fireworks and matches in the front hall.

He surveyed Ireland a moment before saying, “Let’s go do some peace talks between those two. Maybe you can help me broker a deal.” He almost reached out to take her hand when he pulled back, feeling dumb for not thinking that through. She barely knew him and had ditched him at Geppetto’s. Why would she want him to take her hand?

Kal tucked his hands into his pockets and led the way back to the adults disagreeing loudly enough to be fighting.

“I was thinking that maybe giving this a framework would solve most of your concerns,” Kal said.

Both adults went quiet and turned to him to listen. He had to hand it to them for being cool enough to care what the teenager had to say.

“Yeah. Framework,” he continued. “Like maybe we do a large outline of the school’s mountain lion mascot lying under our local defining feature, a redwood tree, while staring out at our other local defining feature, the ocean. It ties in a lot of things that feel important to our area while also showing school pride. It helps us incorporate a lot of colors, too, so we can paint the outline in the sorts of colors each area requires, and maybe one of the rules is that students can only use those colors that tie into the outlined area. Like various shades of greens for the treetop, earth tones for the trunk, and blues for the ocean. It’ll keep it from being an eyesore.”

Eyesore was one of his dad’s favorite words. He used it to describe his clothes when they became too dated or worn, his bicycle when it had been wrecked on one of his rides, or even his desk, which he acknowledged was a special kind of disaster.

Wasden practically glowed with approval at Kal’s suggestion, so Kal continued. “And we’ll have other very specific rules. If anyone puts anything up that’s hateful, hurtful, or crude, we will paint over the top of it.”

“Right,” Wasden agreed. “And we put a time limit for when they can make contributions. So say we only have the supplies available for a week or two. When the time’s up, the art club can use their skills to clean it up and make each section flow into the next so it’s one cohesive piece.”

Kal had learned the word cohesive from Wasden in his first-ever art class. He liked the word and used it more often than was probably normal.

Mrs. Parker had her chin resting on her hand. She was definitely thinking it through. “You know what? I like what you’re saying, but it still needs to be monitored better than you could do out here in the hall. Even if you paint over something hateful as soon as you see it, it won’t change the fact that someone might have seen it before you. We don’t need that kind of negativity. The mural being monitored will help people follow their own better judgment. But I don’t want the headaches of before- and after-school monitoring. That just seems like a storm of trouble.” Mrs. Parker was wringing her hands as if imagining the mischief of kids in her building during nonschool hours.

“We could give access to the mural only during lunch,” Ireland said.

Kal loved that Ireland joined in the discussion. Loved that she was supporting his idea enough to help find solutions. Loved that she’d used the word “we” like they were in this together.

“I approve your project,” Mrs. Parker said, “but it has to be in the art room on the back wall there. It’s the only way it can be monitored at all times and then locked up when you’re not in the room.”

Kal then added, “Maybe we tell everyone it’ll only be up a few months so we can paint over it if it doesn’t feel like a good fit to keep long-term. That way, if we do decide to keep it, it’ll be a big surprise instead of a letdown.”

“Who is responsible for keeping that space clean and not interfering with normal classes?” Mrs. Parker asked.

“I will be,” Ireland said. “I can set it up and take it down for lunch every day.”

Kal felt his mouth go slack as he stared at Ireland in disbelief.

Mrs. Parker nodded her head several times. “Okay. You’ve convinced me. Honestly, Mr. Ellis, you should have joined the debate team, not the art club. And Miss Raine, it’s nice to see you getting involved. Let’s do this.” Mrs. Parker waved in the direction of the art hall and hurried off toward her office.

“Excellent!” Kal said.

“Good work, you two,” Wasden said. “I liked that you gave solutions that appealed to her. Compromise in situations like this shows good character. Why don’t you both come up with some thumbnail sketches to show how you envision the wall looking? It would be good if you involved the art club in the early stages, so Ireland, if you can, it would be great to see you at the art club meeting. The point of a project like this is to be inclusive, so let’s make that happen. Invite anyone else to art club who might want to come. Let’s get thumbnails from everyone and then vote on the options given. I’d like to see those thumbnails by the end of the week. We have school pride week coming up, and this would be a great way to kick it off.”

With all his instructions given, Wasden excused himself and left Ireland and Kal alone in the front hall. Kal suddenly felt nervous. He wanted to say something ... anything, but the words seemed to evaporate from his mind before they could fully form, and his tongue felt like it had been sealed to the roof of his mouth.

He had originally been fascinated with Ireland because of the way she reminded him of Brell, but the more he learned about her, the more he liked her because she was someone legitimately worth liking. The way she’d jumped in to volunteer to help every day was huge. It was a major time commitment most people would never have signed up for, and she didn’t seem to think it was that big a deal at all.

“You’re kind of extraordinary, you know that?” he blurted.

She blinked at him and her mouth fell open, but she didn’t say anything. Kal wished he hadn’t said anything. What was she thinking? Probably that I’m cracked in the head.

“Why would you say that?” she asked, interrupting his mental scolding.

“About you? Why wouldn’t I? How many people would volunteer to set up and clean up every day for a mural they got roped into helping with?”

She shifted her weight on her feet. “Why wouldn’t I? You asked for help. I don’t really see how else I can be useful here.”

“I didn’t ask you so you could be the project janitor. I asked you to help because you’re talented—specifically at drawing the redwoods. I’ve seen you sketch them in your sketchbooks, and they’re pretty amazing. It’s what gave me this idea.”

“Anyone can draw trees,” Ireland said. Her ear tips had turned pink with embarrassment at him calling attention to her work.

He shook his head. “I’m gonna have to disagree.” He frowned. “I mean, okay, I guess technically you’re right, since most preschoolers manage to pull it off. But I am going to say that not everyone can draw a good tree. You can.”

Ireland crossed her arms and leaned up against the wall. “Maybe. But ink on paper is different from painting. The last time I used oils, it looked like a tornado had happened in a paint factory. Not even Bob Ross could claim my work as a happy accident.”

Kal laughed. Ireland probably wasn’t trying to be funny, but she grinned at him. As he held her gaze, the one word that kept coming to his mind was cerulean . Her eyes were the deep blue of a clear sky on a bright summer day. “Hey,” he said. “Want to come get a burger with me and come up with some thumbnails?”

The grin was gone, replaced with something else. “Oh. Actually ...” she checked the clock on the wall. “I didn’t bring my wallet, and anyway, I should get home.”

She was going to try to ditch him again. “Wallet schmallet,” he said, reaching out his hand and hoping she’d take it. “I actually forgot mine too. Let’s go to my house instead. I don’t live too far from here. I can make us some sandwiches, and we can work. You heard Wasden. He wants those thumbnails by the end of the week.” She looked at his hand as if his fingers were spider legs. “We don’t want to disappoint him.”

Wasden was the kind of guy who expected the best in people. No one wanted to disappoint him.

Apparently, Ireland wasn’t any different because bringing Wasden up decided it for her. “Okay.” She slipped her hand in his, and Kal’s breath caught at the immediate warmth and comfort that came from having his fingers wrapped around hers. In a way, it felt like she was trusting him with the rough calluses of her palm that came from hoisting a duffel bag into the air every day. Even though he knew she wasn’t really trusting him with anything because she didn’t know that he knew.

“Okay, then.” He walked with her to his truck and pressed the key fob. He regretted having to drop her hand, but he had to so he could open her door and clear away the debris enough to fit another human in his truck. “Ignore the mess,” he said as he shoved aside a bunch of various papers and empty food wrappers so that Ireland wouldn’t have to sit on them when she got in. Why did he never keep his truck clean? He didn’t want Ireland to think he was a slob, but as he cast a critical eye over the front seat, the debris on the floormats and the dust on the dashboard were silent witnesses to the fact that he hadn’t spent a lot of time keeping his space clean. To be fair to him, it was too cold to deep clean the car, not that the weather excused the lack of basic upkeep. He peeked in Ireland’s direction as she slid in on the passenger’s side.

She didn’t look repulsed or even slightly bothered by the hygienic negligence. But then ... she was living in a bathroom, so maybe he should count his blessings that her standards had been reduced by her situation.

Count his blessings that she lived in a bathroom? Where had that thought come from? He peeked at her again, glad she couldn’t hear his thoughts. If she could, she would think he was the kind of heartless guy who tripped puppies and yelled obscenities at old ladies.

He hoped his need to feed her wasn’t too obvious. Looking casual about the whole thing was harder than he’d imagined. He’d spent the weekend trying to come up with ways to help her or get her to open up to him, but seriously, what could he say? “Hey, so that bathroom thing ... it sucks, amirite ? Let’s talk about it.” And although he’d almost told his parents about her situation, he’d managed to keep her secret from them too—a thing he felt he should get an award for doing because that was harder than he’d imagined as well.

They drove to his house in relative silence. But it wasn’t awkward like he felt like silence should probably be. Ireland seemed comfortable with the silence and, oddly, he felt comfortable too.

At Kal’s house, they both got out and went inside. He looked around the living room—white, clean, spacious—as if seeing it for the first time. They hadn’t lived there long. Not even a whole year yet. They’d bought it because they were moving his grandfather in with them and needed to make sure the space fit everyone comfortably. His mom was a hobbyist interior decorator, so the bookshelves were curated with a mix of classy, leather-bound books, Grandpa’s personal mementos, and comfortable knickknacks that Kal and his siblings had made his mom and dad growing up. His mom managed to make all of this come together in a way that looked like it belonged on the homepage of Good Housekeeping ’s website.

If anyone had ever asked him if bits of childish art and actual art could live in harmony next to each other, he probably would have said, “Not a chance.” But his mom had proved otherwise.

The perfectly structured shelves, along with the plush area rugs, the oversized sofa with the perfectly matching throw pillows, and the perfectly oversized fireplace made him suddenly feel like a perfect snob.

He sketched another glance at Ireland, wishing that he could read thoughts. It wasn’t too much to ask to be able to read thoughts, was it? The scene before him was nothing like a bathroom in the woods. He decided then and there to not take her on a tour to show off the library or the theater room.

“It’s a really nice house,” Ireland said. There was a quiet reverence to the comment, which probably wouldn’t have bothered Kal, except he knew the circumstances she came from. Guilt saturated every cell in his body. He’d never really thought of himself as rich before. Comfortable, maybe, but not rich. Not before this moment. And, okay, he had friends and even some family who lived in less-than-ideal circumstances, so it wasn’t like he had no understanding of people being poor. But Ireland’s situation seemed different to him somehow. His friends and family who were not as well off as he was had community and family around them to support them. They weren’t alone. Ireland was by herself in the woods.

Kal shook himself out of his thoughts and tried to smile at her. But could she see the conflict in him? Probably. He had to stop being such so ridiculous. They had needed the larger space so that Grandpa would feel okay with moving out of his old house. And his mom had wanted space for his brothers to stay when they came to visit.

“Is this your work?” Ireland pointed to the painting on the far wall. It was of a woman in a white ball gown holding a fistful of balloon strings, but instead of balloons on the other ends of the strings, there were puffy owls and one bumblebee. The background was a starry twilight sky. He’d always liked it.

“No. That’s my grandfather’s. He’s an artist. He sold most of his work over time to pay bills, but we managed to hang on to a few pieces before he could sell everything. He calls this one Twilight Flyers . Do you want something to drink, maybe eat?”

She tilted her head back so she could see up into the vaulted ceiling and the windows that let in the warm afternoon light. “Sure.” She turned away from him and wandered over to the bookshelves, inspecting the books that were there. Her brow was furrowed in what might have been confusion.

Though he wasn’t sure why she would be confused.

“These your siblings?” She pointed to a family portrait showing off the five kids in their family.

“Yeah. I’m the youngest. They’re all moved out—either in college or married.”

“All boys?”

“Yep. My parents say they wouldn’t trade any of us for a girl, but I know they both wanted a daughter. They were glad when they started getting daughters-in-law.” Kal wished that Ireland would turn and look at him so that he could know how she felt at that moment. Which was stupid because how was he supposed to know how she felt just because they locked eyes? And yet he did feel that if he could actually see into her eyes, he would be able to know where she was at emotionally.

His mom sometimes called Kal an empath. She said that his feelings were bigger than his body, which was why she thought he fell so hard for Brell and fell so hard again when Brell dropped him. And then he seemed to never stop falling when Brell was suddenly gone. Big emotions. They weren’t exactly manly, but he was what he was. And he’d decided to embrace it a long time ago. It was fine to be both a man and be hyperemotional—though his mom said he was still her little boy and not exactly a man yet. She thought she was funny when she said things like that. He thought it was more annoying than endearing.

Ireland finally did look at him then, as if her confusion was greater than it had been when she was looking at the books.

“Right,” he said. “Sorry. I’m supposed to go get food now. You want to come with me, or do you want to hang out here?”

“I’ll come with you.” She followed him through the living room, down the short hallway, and into the kitchen.

He watched Ireland take everything in. Her head kept swiveling, from the leaded glass in the white decorator cabinets to the art on the wall to the single stained-glass window in its octagonal frame in the breakfast nook.

Yes. Guilt had settled uncomfortably over Kal’s shoulders. His life really was fire. And he’d never bothered to be grateful for it.

Kal opened the fridge and pulled out the various deli meats and cheeses that had already been sliced by their local butcher. He then pulled out the mustard, mayo, pickles, and romaine lettuce.

Ireland’s eyes had shifted from confusion to curiosity to hunger. Kal wasn’t going to lie. Having a girl look at him with that ravenous need would have been totally awesome if it had been him that she needed. But she wasn’t looking at him; she was looking at the foods placed on the island in the center of his kitchen.

“What can I help with?” she asked.

“You can cut the tomato.” He pointed to the various vegetables and fruits in the bowl on the center of the island.

He handed her a cutting board and a knife.

“Wow,” she murmured.

“What?”

“Even your knives are fancy.”

Kal glanced at the knife in her hand. It was a Cutco. His mom insisted on that particular brand. She sent them in once every year to get them sharpened.

He didn’t know how to respond to her comment, so he instead asked what kind of cheese she wanted. They busied themselves with sandwich making before taking their food to the breakfast nook to eat and start the thumbnails Mr. Wasden wanted.

They had a dozen good ones before he realized she was staring at him.

“I’ve got mustard on my face, don’t I?” He swiped at his cheeks and around his mouth.

She laughed. “No. I’m just impressed. You came up with those sketches fast. And they’re good. Really good.”

“Thanks.”

“You really love art, don’t you? I mean, I sketch because it feels like cheap therapy, but you are on a whole different level.”

“Asking if I love art is like asking if I love cheeseburgers.”

“Is this where you tell me you’re vegan?” Her lips turned up at the corners so slightly that he could only describe it as a Mona Lisa smile.

He laughed at her joke and felt warmth flood his insides at this new connection with her—this connection of just talking and joking and eating and art.

“Yep. Vegan. That’s me. The sandwiches we just ate were made of vegan meats and cheeses.”

She nodded. “Nice. Quality replicas are hard to find. So, vegan, huh?”

“Yeah. Don’t even get me started on the evils of ice cream or, worse, pepperoni.”

When she looked pretend shocked at him, he laughed and held up his hands. “I kid. I kid. I love all of that, including the art. Don’t tell anyone, but I actually applied for an art scholarship.”

“That’s awesome. Why would it matter if anyone knew?”

“Eh, my dad. He would think it was awesome times zero.”

Ireland leaned back in her chair and puffed out her cheeks in a huge sigh. “You are evil.”

“What? Why?” She didn’t really think he was evil, did she?

“You turned the word awesome into a math problem. You’ve completely ruined awesome for me.”

Ah. She was joking. Funny. Ireland’s sense of humor surprised Kal. Her circumstances led him to believe that she would be all mopey and sad and scared. All. The. Time. But she thrummed with strength and humor and, sure, hunger too, but she wasn’t some helpless girl who needed him to save her. Even so, he couldn’t stop himself from trying.

“Why would your dad not want you to have an art scholarship?” she asked, her fingers playing with the cloth napkin by her now empty plate. “Isn’t every parent hoping their kid gets a scholarship so they get out of paying for college and buy themselves boats or expensive ...” She looked around as if trying to think of something expensive enough. “Rocks,” she finally finished.

“Rocks?”

“Landscaping is expensive ... I hear.”

“But rocks?”

She shrugged. “Diamonds are rocks.”

He laughed at that, then stood and picked up their dishes to rinse off and put in the dishwasher.

“We’ve got the whole thumbnail thing figured out,” she said. “I should get going.”

“Right. Let me drive you home.” It was a jerk suggestion since he knew what her living situation was like, but he hoped she would decide to trust him enough on her own to tell the truth.

“I actually really like walking.” Her words came out too fast.

“I do too. Want me to walk with you?”

“No. No, thank you. I’m good. I’ll see you tomorrow in school.” She all but fled to the front door to make her escape.

He followed her and waved goodbye from the open door. Then he closed it and hung his head in his hands, letting his fingers drum the top of his head while he considered all the different things he could do.

“I should tell someone,” he said to his now empty house. But who could he tell and not have her resent him forever?

He couldn’t think of anyone. And worse, he was sure she would do more than just resent him if he told anyone. The independent girl who’d just fled from his house would hate him.