AllFreeNovel
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I’m lost in the movement of the piece, a spiral curl falls onto my cheek, and I push it back, leaving a smudge of paint across my skin. I don’t care. My spirit is free, running wild, eating up the miles, chasing the sunset. I’ve shaken off the scars of my past. My fear is gone, and I can do anything I want. I’m invincible.
“Angelica!” Professor Roshay stops behind me, holding out her arms. “I feel the energy radiating from this piece. Tell me what you’ve done here.”
My breath catches. We have two classes left before graduation, and every piece, every class feeds into consideration for the award. Every interview is a judgement, every answer a step closer or a strike back.
Swallowing my nerves, I ignore the smear of paint on my face, the messiness of my hair, and I speak from my heart. “I’m calling it Spirit. The horse is the spirit of the west, but he can also be the spirit of the viewer. He’s a mustang, free to run the grasslands, swept up in the fire of the desert, the glow of the setting sun.”
“I see it. Now tell me about your technique.”
My heart is beating so hard—deep breaths… “I knew the colors and the movement of the sketch would dominate the canvas. For the highlights, I wanted to do something special. I dipped my fingers in the paint and made these smudges, these glows around the nose and jaw with my hands.”
“Finger painting?” Her eyebrow arches, and my stomach drops. “A primitive and unexpected choice.”
“It felt right.”
She nods, taking a few steps, tapping her finger against her lips. “Inventive. I like it.”
I swallow the squeal bubbling in my throat, and answer calmly. “Thank you.”
She continues down the row, and I close my eyes, fighting tears. Spirit is one of my favorite pieces. I can’t wait to show it to Deacon. I can’t wait for Uncle Antonio to see it. I’ll include it in my portfolio when I apply for the award.
“Our time is at an end.” Professor Roshay claps, and it’s the signal to clean up. “Our last meeting is next week, then the Arthaus application opens online. Good luck.”
I float through cleaning and wrapping my brushes, stowing my palette, wiping the paint off my face, and head out the door with a smile on my lips, visions of winning that coveted award in my head. Not even my scowling brother in his truck can dampen my mood. He’s on the phone the entire drive to Valeria’s small house, so it doesn’t matter.
“Beto!” Valeria’s happy cry echoes through the tiny house as we enter. “You’re here!”
She’s in the kitchen holding out her arms for a hug. Valeria is five years older than my brother, ten years older than me, and she’s always treated us like her children.
“Hi, Beto.” Lola is her oldest daughter. She’s at the bar arranging tortillas in baking dishes. “Hey, Carmie.”
“Hey.” I go to where she’s standing. “Need some help?”
“Sure.”
“Damn, I’m hungry.” Beto steps over and steals a pinch of shredded cheese.
The kitchen smells like sizzling chicken and steak and tomatoes and peppers. The whole place is mouthwatering.
“Get a drink out of the cooler and go see your uncle.” Valeria is beside me, pulling down plates. “We’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
An hour later, we’re all on the side patio of my cousin’s house, bellies full of enchiladas and guacamole and pico de gallo and so much good food. I’m leaning against the wall of her brick patio under a stream of white twinkle lights. It’s beautiful, and I’ve got to go inside and pack my things and call Deacon. The men sit at the table finishing their drinks, and it’s so familiar, a life that brushed past me like an e
cho.
“At some point, Beto, you have to make peace with the world.” Uncle Antonio pulls on his cigar.
Uncle Antonio owns a used car dealership and makes a good living. Valeria owns this house off what her father earns, and she doesn’t have to work as a nurse. She just wants to.
Her husband was a Marine who died in Afghanistan. She keeps his American flag in a glass case on her mantle.
“Don’t be like your father, driving everyone away.”
My uncle’s words catch my attention. I barely remember my father. Mamá left him when I was so little, and while they never divorced, they never lived together again. All Mamá ever said was she couldn’t be like him, vengeful, bitter.
“I can make peace with a world where justice has been served.” My brother’s hand is on a tumbler of Mezcal.
“That’s not how the world works, my son.” My uncle tilts his tumbler of whiskey back and forth. It’s the same glass he’s had all night. “At least not the real world.”
