The Art of Us

Chapter Eleven

Ireland

Mr. and Mrs. Washington, or Jarrod and Grace, as they insisted Ireland call them, were sitcom-family perfect. The house was almost museum perfect, all cold marble and warm stone and masterwork paintings. But it wasn’t so flawless that it didn’t look lived in. The house felt very much like a home. Family pictures hung on the walls along with the expensive art. It reminded Ireland of Kal’s house and how there had been little bits of handmade kids’ art alongside the expensive decor.

So that’s what being in a well-off family looked like.

“You’re home early.” Grace lounged on the couch. She looked a lot like Scarlet Johansson, who played the Black Widow in the Marvel movies. Her honey-colored hair was up in a bun and her silky-smooth feet were propped up on the coffee table. Her toes were painted red and looked like they’d just been treated to a pedicure. She closed the book she’d been reading, a romance, if the pink cover art that looked split in half between modern and historical was any indicator.

Ireland checked her phone. 10:28. She was early. She shifted uncomfortably under Grace’s gaze. She wasn’t quite sure what to say about being early. Was that a bad thing? Didn’t adults want children to be early when they came home from something? Maybe they didn’t. She jiggled her head and shoulders in what might have been a shrug but probably came off looking like an allergic spasm.

Grace slid her feet off of the coffee table and patted the spot next to her on the couch, waving her other hand to beckon Ireland forward, her several gold bracelets jangling together against her thin wrist. “Why don’t you come sit down by me, and we can get to know one another.”

Grace’s tone went a pitch higher than usual, as if she had just offered cotton candy and a pony ride to a small child—as if she’d offered something fun. The idea of getting to know each other being fun felt like a top-ten lie on Grace’s part. At least they wouldn’t be going over house rules again. They had done that before Ireland left to go to Geppetto’s to meet Kal. Mr. Wasden had been with her during the house rules part and while they took a tour of the house. But now it was just her and Grace and the get-to-know-you game. Since Grace was the new adult authority figure in her life, Ireland sat.

“So how was your date? It was with the Ellis boy, right?”

“Yes. His name is Kal. He plays in a band.” Of course, this was all information she had told Grace when she’d first shown up at her house with nothing but her insecurity and a duffel bag. Happily, Mara had been nowhere to be seen when Ireland first arrived to invade her home, and Grace assured Ireland that Mara knew about the move and was completely on board.

Grace’s tell was a tilt of her head. Not the curious kind of a tilt, but the kind where she looked off to the side as she tilted her head so she could avoid eye contact. The tilt felt like she was distancing herself from the lie she told.

Clearly, Mara was not on board with another teen moving in to her home. Plus, Mara hadn’t known it was actually Ireland. She would be less on board when she discovered the truth.

Grace closed the book and set it on the coffee table. “I think we’ve heard him play before. Is his band the only one at Geppetto’s?”

“I think so. I haven’t ever seen anyone else.”

“Well then, he was very good. So, tell me what sorts of things you like.” The whole scenario struck Ireland as weird. Getting to know an adult like this. Being taken into somebody else’s home like this. Ireland had once believed that if the devil had offered to trade her soul for a warm bed and a hot meal, she would take the deal with no hesitation. She never imagined that she would find herself wishing she was at her bathroom in the woods. But here she was, wishing she was alone in her bathroom instead of playing the twenty-questions game about her life. Not that she didn’t like Grace. Grace was a nice lady. But it was hard not to hold it against her that Mara was her daughter. After all, how nice could Grace really be when she’d raised such an elitist snob?

“I like art.”

At this, Grace lit up like a Christmas tree festival with all its lights turning on for the first time of the season. “Me too!” She hopped to her feet. “Let me take you on a tour of my gallery.” She laughed as if she had told a joke. And then she explained her joke: “Sometimes I call my house a gallery because I buy so much art. I know you’ve seen all the rooms, but it was all new at the time, and how much attention could you have paid to the art on the walls? My husband tells me I have to stop buying art because we’re running out of wall space, but I just can’t make myself do that. So sometimes I rotate pieces, keeping some in storage so I can display others.”

There were people starving in the streets of her very own city, and this lady had enough money to rotate through pieces of expensive art? This explained the slippery slope of how Mara became such an elitist snob. Ireland stood up too because Grace was already across the room and turning to explain the picture above the fireplace. The image wasn’t very big compared to the rather intimidating solid, dark-wood frame that surrounded it. It was a piece by John Bauer—apparently Scandinavian ... Swedish. The image was of a ghostly woman with long, white curly hair. A crown of some sort with tall leaf-looking things topped her head. She wore a long white dress that ended at her ankles to reveal her bare feet. She walked between two terrifying-looking trolls, big, gnarly, knobby-looking things. It seemed like she was their prisoner. Yet she glowed—a bright shaft of sunlight compared to the shadows that were the trolls.

Grace explained that this particular piece had been incredibly hard to find. But she’d loved it from the moment she saw it at some art auction. She said it made her feel peaceful.

That was the thing about Grace and her art. Nothing about her explanations was anything to do with the price or the value of the piece but of the way it spoke to her soul or made her feel or made her think. Ireland found herself warming to the tour of the art in the home—each piece spooning a soothing trickle of hot cocoa into her soul.

Grace’s art spanned continents. She had some from South America and North America, Africa, Europe, and Asia. There wasn’t any from Australia or Antarctica. At least not that Grace specifically mentioned as such. But who knew? Maybe there were pieces from those places as well.

“How did you get all of these?” Ireland asked once they had come full circle and were seated back on the couch.

“Travel is one of my favorite hobbies. I try to buy something every time I go somewhere new. You would not believe the things that you can find in old thrift stores in other countries. It’s incredible. Really. I know maybe this looks like I spent a lot on it, but not really. All things considered, this represents a pretty low output of resources for acquiring new art.”

“I got my sleeping bag at a thrift store.” Ireland offered this as an example of something they had in common.

“Brilliant. I’m a huge fan of thrift store shopping. I think everybody should do it. It’s so much better for the environment than buying new things. And people donate some unique and incredible things. I got these pants at our Goodwill here in town.” She rubbed her hands over the thighs of her beige, pleated cotton-twill pants. Ireland didn’t know a lot about fashion and clothing, but she knew what expensive looked like.

The conversation was not one Ireland had expected to have with a woman who lived in a home that could only be described as palatial, especially when they only had four kids.

Ireland smirked inwardly at that thought. Only four kids? Four kids were a lot by today’s standards. Still, the house occupied a huge chunk of land for not very many people.

Regardless of how ostentatious the sprawling household was, Ireland found herself warming up to Grace. She wasn’t anything like Mara. Ireland had a hard time imagining people who shopped at thrift stores to be elitist snobs. Ireland was almost certain that Mara didn’t wear anything that didn’t come from designer boutiques.

Ireland, on the other hand, only had things that came from thrift finds. She was fine with that. That’s what she told herself, anyway. Sure, it might be a nice change to have something that was brand new and never worn by anybody else before, but Grace made a great point. Thrifting was doing her part to commit to an eco-friendly lifestyle. Instead of being sad about the whole thing, she could understand herself to be an environmental crusader. Thanks, Grace , she thought.

Mara came in and stopped short when she saw Ireland sitting next to her mom on the couch. Her mouth tightened into a slash and her arms crossed over her chest.

“Hey, honey.” Grace checked her watch. “Right on time tonight. Good.”

The way Grace emphasized “tonight” made it seem like Mara wasn’t always home on time.

“Is Daddy already in bed?” Mara asked her mom.

Wow. Daddy ? As if Mara were a four-year-old. Ireland didn’t think she’d ever called her dad “daddy” even when she was four. She smirked. She was sure she didn’t scoff out loud, but Mara still shot her a sharp look of disapproval.

Maybe she had scoffed out loud.

“Yeah,” Grace said. “He’s got to be up at three. Which means you’ve got to be up at four, so you should go to bed too.”

Mara’s lips tightened again.

“Why do you have to be up early?” Ireland asked.

“We own bakeries,” Mara said with a tone that implied Ireland was an idiot. Ireland must have looked confused by the answer because Mara added, “Bread doesn’t bake itself. Family business. Family responsibility.” That last part sounded like a parroted mantra. Ireland wondered if it was on a plaque somewhere in the kitchen.

“I could help,” Ireland said.

Mara narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“To say thanks for giving me a place to stay.”

Mara’s mouth was obviously in the middle of forming the word “no” when Grace interrupted. “That’s a great idea. We actually pay Mara to work, and we’d do the same for you if you want a job.”

“I would love a job. I want to pay my own way. Thanks, Grace.”

“Great.” Grace beamed sunshining happiness at the idea of the two girls working together for the family bakery. Mara made a grunt of evident disapproval and said, “I gotta get to bed. I guess I’ll see you in the morning.” She cut a glare in Ireland’s direction. “Be up on time. I won’t wait for you.”

Grace’s face twisted in discomfort at her daughter’s snark. “Mara, that is not how we treat our guests.”

Mara’s shoulders slumped and her eyes dropped to the ground as she mumbled an apology. She clearly didn’t love that she was humbled in front of Ireland. An apology hadn’t been necessary since Mara’s acid didn’t bother Ireland as much as it probably should have. She didn’t expect anything different from Mara.

She excused herself to go to bed as well. Once safely behind her closed bedroom door, she allowed herself to shake her head at the insanity of ... well, everything . From the moment Mr. Wasden had accused her of being “unhoused” to this moment as she leaned against her door, there was nothing except insanity. Ireland shook with rage and fury at Janice for ratting her out and getting her into this situation. The old custodian had to have followed her. There was no other explanation. Ireland regretted ever helping to clean the bathroom with the woman. She could hear her dad’s voice say, “See? That’s what helping people out gets you. A fat lot of nothing. You can only be in it for yourself.”

She frowned and swatted out her hand as if she could swipe his memory from her mind. In jail. Idiot. “See, Dad? That’s what being a self-centered Smeagol gets you. A fat lot of jail time.” She cringed when she realized she’d spoken louder than a whisper. In the house tour they gave her when she’d showed up, Ireland had discovered she was room-adjacent to Mara. Absolutely not convenient. Their rooms were connected by a Jack and Jill bathroom. At least, that was what Grace had called it. That meant Ireland was expected to share a bathroom with Mara Washington.

She straightened at the thought of the bathroom because it reminded her of something truly magical. She could take a real shower with real hot water. No more chattering teeth while she rinsed her hair in the glacial water coming out of the sink tap. There would be a towel to dry herself off with. And if her short time in the house told her anything, it told her that the towels would be big, fluffy cotton cuddles.

With a shiver of excitement at the prospect, Ireland opened her door to the bathroom. It was empty and there wasn’t any light coming from under the door into Mara’s room, which meant she might already be in bed. Ireland considered locking the door on Mara’s side to avoid getting an unwanted guest during her shower but couldn’t make herself take the steps in the dark over to that side of the bathroom. She certainly didn’t want to turn on a light that could be visible from Mara’s side of the door.

There had been another bathroom at the end of the hall. Grace had called it the boys’ bathroom, but the Washington boys were away at college. It’s not like they were going to be using it anytime soon. Ireland backed up and shut the door with a quiet click. Quiet or not, she still cringed at the noise. She waited to hear any sound of irritation coming from Mara’s room.

Nothing.

Good.

She opened her duffel bag and pulled out what passed as her toiletry kit. She had several tubes of travel toothpaste she’d stolen from the sample bowl when the school had career day and one of the booths had belonged to a dentist. Her dad had formed a habit several years ago of finding motels where maid carts were sometimes left unattended. He pilfered them for soaps, shampoos, toilet paper, and, every now and again, towels. He’d left a meager supply of those necessities when he’d jumped ship. She still had two soaps, one shampoo, and two toothpastes. She gathered the little bit that was there and peered out into the hallway before deciding the coast was clear. Once inside the bathroom at the end of the hall, Ireland flipped on the light and got down to pampering. Maybe Mara wouldn’t consider a steamy, hot shower pampering, but Ireland certainly did.

She stepped into the warm embrace and sighed in relief as the water washed away the homeless girl she’d been. Not that she was a girl who had a home exactly. This place didn’t feel like home.

“Unhoused,” Mr. Wasden had said. She was now a girl who was “housed.”

She stayed under the spray of the shower a long time, letting the buildup of that bathroom in the woods swirl down into the drain.

No. Not just the bathroom.

Ireland rinsed away everything from before.

She might not have wanted to live with Mara, but she could appreciate the opportunity to leave her previous life and settle her feet on solid ground.

Ireland didn’t end up using the shampoo bottles she’d stolen from the motel. Grace had this bathroom stocked with bottles that looked like they cost more than Ireland’s sleeping bag and smelled like citrus and vanilla. She luxuriated in the opulence of the experience, certain she would regret it since four in the morning was only a few hours away.

She stepped out of the shower only after the water had grown tepid, rinsed herself off, and went to bed. She didn’t have to imagine wide-open, warm fields as she snuggled into cool, clean bedding. She fell asleep immediately.

When her birdsong alarm went off the next morning, Ireland groaned. No way could it be healthy to be up at such an hour. She got up because Mara would absolutely leave her behind if given the chance. As if to prove Ireland right, Mara was on her way to her car parked on the side of the garage when Ireland caught up with her.

“Oh goody. You’re coming after all,” Mara muttered, clicking the fob on her key ring to unlock the Fiat.

“I just want to do my part.”

“How sweet. Remind me to get you a participation trophy.”

“Is there something you want to say to me?” Ireland had no intention of letting Mara pick on her without clapping back.

“I’m just not loving you moving into my house and taking over my life.”

“Awesome. I’m not loving it either.” Top-five lie. Ireland could not remember ever sleeping so comfortably in her life. Being under that comforter had felt like being swaddled in pillowy angel clouds. And the shower was magical in a way that only glittering pixie dust could compare to. They both got in the car. Mara slammed her door shut. Ireland closed hers normally because the Fiat still had those cute little eyelashes, and Ireland didn’t want to make the car sad.

“Then leave.” Mara started her car and shoved the stick into drive with more force than was strictly necessary.

“Would if I could. But apparently, it’s not legal for me to be living on my own until after I graduate. This wasn’t my idea. Mr. Wasden found out I was on my own, and he basically strong-armed me into this arrangement. As soon as we graduate and those caps fly in the air, I promise, I’m gone.”

Mara scowled and growled and ran a red light. “Fine. If you’re not leaving, then you better just stay out of my way. I have no idea how to explain any of this to my friends.”

“By friends, you mean the hag and the harpy?”

“Cut the dramatics. Just because you now have to sleep at my house doesn’t mean you can hang out with me at school.”

“Right. Of course you’d think I want to be your new bestie. I forgot you believe the world revolves around you. Don’t worry. I’d rather swallow slugs than spend any time with the hag and harpy.”

“Don’t call them that.”

“If the dark soul fits ...” The argument came to an end. Not because they were done arguing, but because Mara turned on the radio and blasted Taylor Swift at her. And then they’d arrived at the On the Rise, and, apparently, neither one of them wanted to be bickering when they got out of the car since Jarrod was unlocking the door to the restaurant. He grinned widely for them both and said, “There they are! Glad you could join us, Ireland. Grace left me a note saying you’d be here too.” He let them in and then locked the door behind them so no one would try coming in while they worked.

Jarrod’s white durag covered the tight fade haircut that Ireland remembered seeing in the family pictures as she toured the Washington’s house. He wiped his hands on his white apron that already had spots of flour on it before he reached out and shook Ireland’s hand. A spot of flour dusted his brown cheek on the left. He looked every bit like a baker. “Sorry I didn’t get to meet you properly yesterday. Work was crazy,” he said. He’d arrived only an hour before them, but judging by the floured apron and the floured counter in the back kitchen, he had made good use of that hour.

Mara cut several glares in Ireland’s direction. Her dad caught one of those glares and whispered something in her ear. “Sorry, Ireland,” Mara said in response to what was obviously a scolding by her father. “I’m not trying to be rude. I’m just really tired.” She went to work and didn’t say another word to her, not while her dad explained the processes of making the breads, not while they worked, and not for the ride back to the house. Mara had apparently decided to ice Ireland out. Ireland couldn’t blame her since she’d been chewed out now by both parents and it was all because Ireland was in her life.

Ireland decided it might be best to stay in her room for the rest of the day and not get in anyone’s way, but Grace knocked on Ireland’s door. “How was it making bread?” she asked when Ireland opened it.

“Good. I had no idea how fun bread could be. It was like a science project that you get to eat afterward.”

Grace laughed. “Well, I’m off to our Trinidad location. I already asked Mara, but I was hoping you’d help out in keeping an eye on Jade.”

“Sure. Be glad to help.” Ireland had no idea what keeping an eye on someone meant but figured it didn’t mean she could stay holed up in her room.

She went downstairs to the living room where Jade was watching TV. When Jade saw Ireland, her plump little seven-year-old cheeks rounded out in a wide grin. “Want to play a hidden-objects game with me?”

“Sure.” Was Ireland going to say “sure” to every question someone asked her that day when she had no idea what the asker really wanted from her? Probably.

Jade switched to a different app on the TV, and the screen showed an animated scene with a mansion swathed in moonlight. The words Mansion Mystery floated onto the screen. The plotline was that the lady of the mansion had disappeared, and her brother was trying to find her. There were puzzles and clues and hidden object boards. Ireland had never heard of such a game before but was having fun playing it with Jade. Until, that is, the room temperature dropped by fifty degrees when Mara entered.

“I’m going to Emily’s house. Don’t go anywhere, Jade.”

“Mom said you were supposed to watch me,” Jade said.

“Yeah, well, Ireland seems to be taking over that job. Like everything else.” Mara muttered the last part, narrowed her eyes at Ireland, and was gone.

“I don’t really like Emily,” Jade confessed with a shake of her head, making her beaded braids click together.

“I don’t like her either,” Ireland agreed.

“She treats people mean.”

“Right?” Even as Ireland agreed with Jade, it occurred to her that she had been guilty of treating people meanly as well. She hadn’t exactly been nice to Kal the night before. She had been cold and distant and ... well, mean.

She sent him a text while Jade solved a puzzle that was completely beyond Ireland’s ability to help with. “Sorry about yesterday. It was a pretty confusing day.”

Her phone chirped, indicating he’d responded immediately. “Tell me about it.”

Wait. Was he saying tell me about it as in “yeah, me too,” or as in he wanted her to elaborate? “Too much to put in a text,” she wrote.

“I’ll be right over.”

Ireland blinked at her phone. He’d be right over? As in he was coming to Mara’s house to see her?

But then, it wasn’t only Mara’s house anymore. It was hers too. “Hey, Jade?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Am I allowed to have friends over while we hang out together?”

“’Course.”

“Even if it’s a boy?”

Jade giggled. “As long as you’re not slobbering all over each other.”

Fair enough. Ireland texted back. “Okay. Come over.”