AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Thankfully, I’m only required to say a handful of other words while Mom and Leslie Bearden’s conversation envelops me, buffeting me from all sides.
I retreat into my safe space in my head, my biker, Merch, floating through my otherwise blank mind. That was a fun night. I can’t believe it was almost three weeks ago. I wonder where Lana is going to take us next. Maybe I should text her?
I wonder what Merch is doing now? Probably hanging around their clubhouse playing pool or working on cars or something. Whatever it is, it’s got to be better than this. He waswaymore interesting than any of these preppy bitches and their asshole sons, who Ineverwant to marry. Sorry, Mom.
Chapter 7
SHELLEY
Today is my favorite day of the year. Hands down. Seriously, I have it marked in my calendar on my phone, and I. Count. Down. To. It. I am not even kidding.
Stepping out of my car, I inhale deeply. It’s the first week of Fall, and the turpentine broom out in the desert is flowering, the scent floating across the valley.
Pinedale doesn’t reallydocommunity days. I mean, there are events and stuff. The country club is always throwingevents, but not like San Remo. Every year they throw a massive community day.
It used to be held in the large green area in the middle of the city, separating their Downtown and Historic Downtown to the east, with the wealthy suburbs to the west. It outgrew that pretty quickly, and I think it was hard for security to keep an eye on everything with the forest trails. Plus, the streams were probably a drowning hazard with so many kids running around.
These days it’s held in the same place San Remo has its weekly open-air farmer’s markets. A large grassy field at the base of Mt. Morton, to the north of the city. Bakersfield is on the other side of the mountain range that Mt. Morton is part of.
Weaving my way through the multitude of cars parked in the makeshift parking field, I duck through the colorful stalls, looking for the one I’m volunteering at.
It’s not too hard to find, being a riot of color. Colleen Billings beams at me as I duck my head and step through the crepe-curtained arch into the arts and crafts stall.
“Shelley! I’m so glad you’re here. I’m going to need you to mind the painting area.”
She points to a small table with pots of paint spread with large butcher paper swathes.
“But first, why don’t you pop over to the face-painting stall?” Colleen gestures to her own face, which is painted as a tiger.
Grinning, I stow my bag and turn on my heel. I want butterflies down the side of my face. Last year, I was a cat. While I wait for my face to be painted, I run through all the painting-related activities I can do with the kids who come to our stall, mapping them out in my mind.
I would have loved to be a Pre-K teacher in another life. There is no way in this one my parents would have let me. They would have locked me in an ivory tower and thrown away the key first.
“Butterflies, love?” the smiling woman with a ninja turtle face asks.
“Yes, please. All down this side.” I gesture, and she nods, getting to work. The paint is cold, and her strokes feather-light. I’ve always loved getting my face painted. There’s something so fun andinnocentabout it. Ha. If only Lana and my party buddies could see me now.
When I return, Colleen has finished setting up the painting area and shows me the schedule she has set up for breaks. I signed up for seven hours, so I get two breaks, coffee and lunch. That’s all I need. I want to sit and paint.
Because I volunteered for an arts and crafts stall, I didn’t bother wearing anything I wouldn’t be okay with being ruined. Denim shorts, an old, slightly baggy T-shirt, and dark tennis shoes are the perfect outfit for today.
Colleen offers me a smock, which I’ll totally wear when painting. My clothes might be okay getting paint-splattered, but the cream leather interior of my BMW sure as shit isn’t.
“Brace yourselves, ladies,” Colleen tells me and Alice, the other volunteer. She’s in charge of glitter, glue, and crayons. “The gates of hell have been opened.”
Alice giggles as children’s screams float through the tent with the scent of the turpentine broom. Nine AM. The community day has officially started.
It doesn’t take long for our stall to be overwhelmed. Colleen quickly implements a signup sheet with fifteen-minute intervals to calm things down.
“I like your butterflies,” a cute little redheaded boy whispers. His face is also painted like a lion.
“Thanks, I like your lion.”
He beams up at me, waving a paintbrush. I narrowly avoid a swipe of bright yellow paint on the nose. Guiding his hand down until the paintbrush's tip touches the paper, I grin at him.
“Let’s paint the paper, not faces.”
“Okay,” he giggles, frowning in concentration as he carefully paints a huge yellow sun. Using his finger, he adds black squiggles all over it. My eyebrows shoot up.
