The Art of Us

Chapter Seventeen

Ireland

Ireland stayed late at the café. Mara had driven her there, but she was going home with Jarrod. And though he’d intended to leave early, something had happened to one of the ovens, and he wanted to fix it before the morning baking needed to be done. It was okay. She had her homework with her and her sketch pad. But she didn’t sketch. Once she was done studying, she got up and began looking around at what needed doing. She wiped down baseboards, organized the walk-in fridge, and deep cleaned the bathroom.

“Mara could sure take a lesson from you,” Jarrod said.

He meant it to be a compliment, but hearing herself compared to Mara and having Mara come out on the short end made Ireland feel uncomfortable. Like her skin was too tight.

She didn’t know how to respond, so she stayed silent.

Jarrod obviously wanted a back-and-forth conversation, so he tried again. “You have good natural skills with people too. I’m glad you’ve come to work with us.”

With us. Not for us. The way he worded it shouldn’t have made a difference, but it did. It made her feel like they were on the same team, working toward the same cause.

“I’m glad too. I honestly didn’t know I liked people until recently.”

He laughed as if she had made a joke, which was probably better if he thought of it that way. She’d been dead serious.

He was behind the oven, removing a gas filter or something. She’d heard what he said he was doing but hadn’t actually understood it. The oven door was open and his muffled voice behind it made it seem like the oven was talking to her. “Tell me about school. How are things going there?

She told him about her classes and gave him a report on where she was at gradewise, figuring that was what he really wanted to know since he’d taken her in and likely felt a responsibility there. There were no lectures or even hints of disappointment when she reported several Cs.

“You thinking about college?” Jarrod asked with a grunt as he shifted position behind the oven.

She wasn’t about to mention that she couldn’t afford it. She already owed this man and his family enough. She didn’t want him thinking she was asking for more. “I don’t really have the grades for it.”

“Have you applied anywhere?” he asked.

“No.”

“You should apply. Your grades aren’t so bad you won’t get into a state university. College is a good choice while you figure out what you really want to do with your life. It’ll give you a path you might not have considered before.”

“Sure. I’ll think about it.” There was nothing to think about. Ireland couldn’t afford it, even if she was accepted somewhere. And she wouldn’t take a handout for something as expensive as school. She was not her father.

“What are some things you like about school?”

Wow. The poor guy had to be desperate for conversation if he was going to keep circling the same topic like a buzzard checking out roadkill. “I like my art class.”

“Oh yeah?” He strained, obviously trying to reach something in an awkward, unreachable place. “Mara likes her art classes too. Mr. Wasden has created something that looks like magic there. Mara got an art scholarship to Humboldt. It’s not full ride or anything, but it kicks in a couple of thousand dollars every year, and I’m not mad at that.”

“That’s cool.” Mara hadn’t mentioned getting a scholarship, though she wouldn’t have. How many times had she insisted they weren’t friends? Why would she tell Ireland anything about her life? “What about you?” Ireland said. “Did you go to college?”

“Yep. Believe it or not, I majored in finance.” Jarrod scooted out from behind the oven with some small object in his hands. “Had an accounting job at a major firm, a company car, a pension, and a whole lotta misery.”

“You hated it?”

“Oh yeah. So one day, after Grace and I had a weekend break when I spent the whole time baking because it relaxed me and I seemed happy for the first time in two years, she asked me why I wasn’t looking for other options. The restaurant that used to be right here in this very location was available for purchase, so we cashed in my retirement, handed in my two weeks’ notice, changed the name and the menu, and changed our lives. It’s been a good choice. And now, with four restaurants, that accounting degree has really come in handy. My books are cleaner than anyone’s.” He blew into the object he held, polished it on a rag a little more, and then went back behind the oven. “So what kind of art do you like?”

Buzzard-circling-roadkill conversation. Ireland smiled at her inside joke and shook her head, but then she told Jarrod about the mural and how it all worked and how connected she felt to people at school because of it and how there was this mystery writer she wished she knew how to help. She told him everything about it, including all the ways she worried.

“Sounds like trauma,” Jarrod said, scooting back out from behind the oven. “Let’s try this.” He turned on the oven and peered through the open door, putting his hand in to feel the air. “We’ve got heat!” he declared. “Tomorrow’s loaves are back on the menu!”

“What do I do to help this person?” Ireland asked.

Jarrod swiped a hand over the sweat that had beaded up on his forehead below the brim of his durag. “Sounds like you’re doing all the right things already. Trauma is complicated. We don’t know the nature of the trauma. Could be physical. Could be sexual. Could be mental or emotional. Could be anything. The biggest thing that somebody who has experienced trauma needs is to know that they’re not alone. The fact that you responded and continue to respond helps them to know that they’re not in it by themselves. That’s huge. Shows you’ve got a lot of heart. I’m proud of you.”

Ireland squirmed under the compliment. A father, even if it wasn’t her father exactly, had said he was proud of her. She felt warm and weird and happy and embarrassed all at the same time. “I just don’t know what advice to give,” she said, trying not to give off any vibe of embarrassment.

“I doubt the person on the other end of that mural is looking for advice. They’re looking for acknowledgment. They want to be heard, to know that their voice matters. You’re already doing everything you need to do. Just listen to them.”

“It’s good advice.”

“It’s all I’ve got, from one good listener to another. Let’s get home before Grace does something dramatic, like order takeout because she doesn’t like cooking.” He scrambled to his feet and she followed him.

When they got back to the house, Mara was sitting on the couch and flipping through channels on the TV. She wore sweats again. Not the cute activewear kind that showed off a nice figure, which she totally had, so she totally could do. But the frumpy, shapeless, baggy kind that almost hid the human inside them.

“How’s my smart girl?” Jarrod planted a kiss on the top of Mara’s head.

“Hi, Daddy. I’m good.” She didn’t look away from the TV.

“I thought that Cooper kid had some sort of shindig going on at his house tonight.” He put a hand on Mara’s forehead. “You not feeling good, baby?”

Mara finally looked up at him. “I’m fine. Just not feeling like hanging out with friends is all.”

“Hm. What’s this world coming to? You not wanting to hang out with friends is like Santa Claus going on a cookie-free diet. It’s like me hoping the Lakers will lose. It’s like ...” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s like your mom deciding she wanted to make dinner tonight.” He started laughing.

She joined in. “And you know that’s not happening.”

He held out his fist. “True that.”

She bumped her knuckles to his. “I’m just tired.”

“Too tired to help with dinner?”

She flipped off the TV. “Never too tired to cook with you.”

Ireland almost offered to help as well but then thought maybe Mara needed this time alone with her dad. She’d already accused Ireland of moving in on her territory with her family. Giving her some time to just be herself with her family was probably a good idea.

Later that night, after dinner, and after everybody had gone to bed, Ireland couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about the mystery lipstick writer. Of course, Jarrod was right. There really wasn’t anything more she could do than what she was already doing. But it didn’t stop her from worrying about it. And it didn’t stop her from worrying about her own problems.

Jarrod had talked about college. He wasn’t the first person to bring up college to her. He probably wouldn’t be the last either. But it was the first time she’d considered the idea as an option. She could probably get a student loan. She could also work. Lots of people did that, the student-loan and work option.

Jarrod had made an excellent point. She needed to do something until she figured out what it was that she actually wanted to do. School was a good way to discover whatever it was that she wanted to spend the rest of her life working on. And even though school hadn’t worked out for him exactly the way Jarrod had expected it to, he still felt like he benefited from it. On the way home from the restaurant, he talked about how grateful he was for the opportunity he had to go to school and figure himself out.

Ireland was absolutely certain she needed to figure herself out.

After staring at the ceiling above her bed for what felt like eternity, she realized she needed to go to the bathroom. Like desperately. There was no time for her to make it to the bathroom at the end of the hall. She got up and decided to brave Mara’s bathroom. She crept into the dark space, shoved a towel against the door to block the light, and then flipped the light on.

She cringed when she flushed, not realizing how loud that sound could be when everything else was quiet. As she washed her hands, she spied a piece of paper sticking out of the top drawer with writing on it, writing that was familiar, and words that were even more familiar because they were her own. She turned off the water and quickly dried her hands so she could pull out the paper to inspect it closer. “Keep howling until your voice can find a different melody.”

Sucker punch.

Ireland considered all the options. Mara worked on the mural too. Maybe she saw that written there and liked it so copied it. Except the handwriting was done with the same flourishes as those in lipstick. Ireland glanced at the door to Mara’s bedroom. Then she carefully opened the drawers in the bathroom and rifled through them, searching for further evidence. Nothing in the drawers.

She opened the cupboard under the sink and saw a small, black, rectangular-shaped case. In gold metal on the outside were the words Kate Spade. Ireland unzipped it and found what she was looking for. A tube of lipstick. The tube was quite beautiful, covered with swirled colors. It was as if some artists had done an impressionist painting and shrunk it to fit on the tube. Ireland pulled off the cap. Bright pink.

In shock, Ireland dropped the lipstick tube as if it had bitten her and then made shushing sounds at the tube clattering on the floor as if she could somehow call back the noise.

Mara. Mara was the mystery lipstick writer.

“Did not see that coming,” Ireland muttered before wincing because Mara’s room was right next door. She really had to stop talking to herself.

She stared at Mara’s door. Mara? How could it be Mara who was broken? Mara who was howling at the uncaring moon? How could it be when Mara was also a shrew? The leader of the hag and harpy?

And what could Ireland do about the information she now had? She put the lipstick back in the case and tucked it back under the sink. She flipped off the light, hung the towel back on the rod, and eased the door on her side closed again.

Then Ireland paced. And paced. And paced.

Mara. The mystery writer was Mara. What could be so out of place in Mara’s perfect life that she could call herself broken? Mara was the girl everyone wanted to be. Even Ireland wanted to be Mara—a little bit, anyway. “This is ten degrees of the worst ever thing to happen.” She allowed the muttering since there were now two doors and a bathroom between her and Mara. She needed to mutter. Needed to process out loud. Honestly, the household was lucky she hadn’t resorted to shouting yet. “What to do? What to do? What to do?” She couldn’t help Mara with anything. Mara wouldn’t even want her help if she knew it was Ireland on the other end of these messages. What to do?

“Get a snack. Yeah. Get a snack.” Ireland always thought better when she had a full stomach. And maybe she’d watch something on the Washington family’s many streaming services so she could calm the erratic beating of her heart. Then she would be calm and know what to do.

The house was quiet as Ireland crept to the kitchen, her feet making soft taps against the stone-tiled floor.

Grace and Jarrod had insisted that the kitchen was open to her anytime she needed it, as long as she cleaned up after herself and didn’t take something that somebody else had made for a specific purpose. Even so, guilt gnawed at Ireland’s insides. When she turned the corner to pass through the living room and into the kitchen, she was surprised to find the light from the gas fireplace on and a shadowed silhouette sitting on the couch. Probably Grace, reading again. Ireland would have turned around to go back, but there was no way to hide the fact that she had been there. She hadn’t been that quiet.

Rather than look as guilty as she felt, Ireland decided to face the situation directly, so she rounded the couch to greet Grace and maybe chat for a few moments before getting her snack. Granted, there would be no watching TV, but the snack was still a good idea. Ireland stopped short when she found Mara sitting there instead.

“Hey,” Ireland said since she didn’t know what else she could say.

Howling at the uncaring moon.

“Hey.” Mara stared into the flickering flames. Her tone flat. Her body curled into itself as she hugged her knees to her chest.

Ireland considered leaving her alone so that she could do whatever it was she was doing.

Someone broke my mirror.

Ireland stopped midway into turning and swiveled back. “You okay?”

“Sure. Okay like Santa Clause on a cookie-free diet or my mom cooking dinner.”

“So not okay?”

Mara’s dark eyes were suddenly glassy. Holy brick to the head. Was Mara going to cry?

“What’s going on?” Ireland sat on the recliner next to the couch. She waited for Mara to say “Boundaries” in her snotty elitist voice while also declaring them not friends. But Mara didn’t say boundaries. She didn’t declare them not friends.

“Am I okay?” Mara repeated. “I’m perfect. Everyone says so. There goes Mara Washington. Isn’t she perfect? Perfect clothes. Perfect hair. Perfect car. Perfect grades. Perfect family. Just perfect.”

Ireland wanted to snort in derision while declaring, “I get the point.” Except Mara was the mystery lipstick writer. Except tears were now slipping down Mara’s face.

She sniffed. “Please ignore the perfect monster boyfriend, everyone.”

Wait. What? Ireland straightened. “Wait. Rowan?”

Mara laughed, though the sound was more alarming than humorous. She finally tilted her head to look at Ireland. “Even you don’t believe it, and I’m pretty sure you’re the only girl in the school who doesn’t wish I would walk into traffic so they could have a shot at him. I mean, you might want me to walk into traffic, but not because of him.”

“I legitimately don’t want a shot at him. The guy is hair-in-the-drain gross—no offense, and yes, I say that fully knowing that I was being offensive. And I don’t want you to walk into traffic either.”

“Rowan attacked me.” Mara whispered it as if trying the words out loud for the first time and frowned at the unexpected nature of the way it sounded.

Ireland’s extremities went cold with this revelation. “He ra—”

“No!” Mara hurried to interrupt. “Not that. Not for lack of trying though. I fought him off. I don’t know how it happened. We were just kissing, and then ... it was something else. When I shoved him away and got out of the car, he shouted some really terrible things at me. He left me. In the woods. Alone. What kind of slithering snake does that?”

Ireland had gone from what to do to what to say . Her head spun with the nightmare Mara had lived through. If she hadn’t fought him off ... Trauma. Jarrod had called the messages from the lipstick writer trauma. He hadn’t known he was talking about his own daughter. He hadn’t known how right he was. “Where were you?”

“Redwood Park. I left a perfectly good clambake for that.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

Mara’s typical look of shrewery briefly returned to her face as she rolled her head and eyed Ireland like she was stupid. “Who would believe me? You know who his family is.”

Ireland did know. Rowan’s dad had made a lot of money in the stock market. He’d bought some land and built a house of obscene proportions and then thrown his money around everywhere so people remembered how important he was. Ireland’s dad had complained that the guy owned practically everything. He’d complained that Rowan’s dad was as obscene as the house he’d built.

“I think people would believe you. I believe you.”

“Maybe they would, but they wouldn’t want to. Rowan is the school’s ticket to the track team’s fame. He’s faster than anyone else.” It was weird to hear Mara compliment Rowan after what she’d just revealed to Ireland. “If I told, even if anyone believed me, it would be a fight. I don’t need that kind of attention. My family doesn’t need that kind of attention. My dad’s business doesn’t need that kind of attention. So it’s not gonna happen.”

“You could tell your mom and dad. They would believe you.”

Mara sniffed and nodded. “They would. They really would. But I shouldn’t have even been there. I shouldn’t have let it go so far. It’s partly my fau—”

“Oh no you don’t. You do not get to victim shame yourself.” Ireland thought about kissing Kal and considered how she knew he never would take anything further than she wanted. Poor Mara. What she had to be going through all on her own.

“So why tell me?” Ireland asked softly.

Mara’s gaze turned back to the fire. “I don’t know.”

Ireland thought about the messages on the wall. Mara didn’t know that Ireland was already her friend, and yet she still trusted her on this side of the paint with her secret.

Ireland stood up and sat on the couch next to Mara. “Is it okay if I give you a hug?” Ireland held out her arms. She didn’t have a lot of experience giving hugs, but she figured if anyone ever needed one, Mara did. Mara hesitated a moment before she reached out and let Ireland embrace her. And then she cried in earnest. Ireland thought about what Mara’s dad had said regarding how she should handle the situation with the mystery lipstick writer. He had told her to listen. To make sure they knew they were not alone.

She could do that.

She could do that for Mara.

They didn’t stay like that for very long because Mara pulled away while mopping at her eyes with her sweatshirt sleeve. “Thanks, Ireland. Sorry to dump all of this on you, but it’s been tough to keep to myself. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Ireland hesitated. She wanted to tell. She wanted to go pound on Jarrod and Grace’s bedroom door and tell everything. They would know how to help their daughter.

“Promise me, Ireland.”

Ireland nodded. “I promise.”

Mara and Ireland both went to bed after that, but Ireland didn’t really sleep, maybe a few mangled minutes at a time here and there. Mara apparently hadn’t slept either. Not that Ireland asked her. She could tell from the bloodshot eyes. Mara was quiet, but not the quiet that came from boycotting conversation with Ireland. It was the quiet of someone who was sifting through the thoughts in her head. Like Mara’s dad sifted the flour to make it lighter and easier to mix with the other ingredients, Mara was sifting thoughts to make herself lighter so she could make something out of the ingredients of her life.

Ireland didn’t interrupt the sifting process. Her job in this was to listen, not to talk. She didn’t know what else to do. The thing was that Mara had stopped talking. There was no new message on the mural, and throughout the whole day, Mara never said anything of any significance. But by the next morning, after enduring another drive to school with nothing but the music from the Eras Tour between them, Ireland had an idea.