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“I don’t mind.” I wanted her to think of this as her home. I wanted her to stay. So if storing a kiln in the garage would make her feel more at home, I was all for it. Besides, when she talked about her art, she practically glowed.
Maybe giving her an outlet and space for her art was the way to see the real her—the one she’d been hiding.
“It’s time for a bath,” I said to Maggie as I went back inside.
Maggie and Alice followed. “I was hoping we’d have time to start on your starfish tonight, but I guess we’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
“That book we got from the library says it’s a sea star not a starfish.”
“I think I’ve heard that before.”
“Come on,” I said to Maggie when she stopped at Alice’s door.
I got Maggie set up in her bath, wondering if I’d see Alice tonight or if she’d hide away in her room.
When Maggie was dressed and in bed, I read her a couple of books before kissing her good night and walking out. Alice’s door was open when I walked past.
Walking downstairs, I saw there was a covering on the kitchen table. “I’m sorry. I should have asked if this was okay. The desk was too small.”
“I don’t mind as long as you clean up.”
She nodded her assent before turning her attention back to the placement of the shards on the outline of the turtle. “While you were doing her bath, I put the adhesive down. It has to be enough that they stick and don’t pop off later.”
I observed her for a few seconds before I asked, “How do you know where to place the pieces?”
“I plan the colors before I start, so I can gather them ahead of time. If I’m using ceramic tile I bought, I use a tile cutter to make them smaller.” She was quiet for a few seconds, seemingly lost in thought.
I grabbed a glass of water and wandered over to the table to watch.
“The pieces have to be flush with the edge. I place them an eighth of an inch apart. The tip of a popsicle stick has to fit between them.” She demonstrated by picking up a popsicle stick and placing it between the blue and green pieces.
I sat across from her, watching while she carefully placed each piece. I imagined she could envision the end result she wanted and worked to create that. It was probably something she sensed intuitively. Or maybe it was truly a creative process, and she was surprised by the end result.
“How did you get started with this?” I finally asked her.
She glanced up at me. “In my high school art class. At first, I was annoyed that the only available class was in clay, and my parents had to pay for it. I’m sure you can imagine that didn’t go over well.”
Turning her attention back to the placement of the tiles, she continued. “But I fell in love. The teacher knew I needed something more challenging, so she let me start the mosaics section early. I’d roll out the clay, shape it, bake it in the kiln, and then glaze it. I started small, creating unique pieces on extra plywood I’d found around the classroom during my free time. That year, I made pieces for my family members. Elle loved it.”
As she talked, her voice practically vibrated with excitement, but when she mentioned her parents, her shoulders fell, and her expression faltered.
I let out a breath, thinking I probably could guess the answer to my question, but asked anyway. “Did your parents like it?”
Alice’s resulting laugh was hollow. “They said something like,we give you a credit card. There’s no excuse for a handmade gift.”
“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t imagine a young teenager creating something, being so excited to gift them to her family, only to have that same item ridiculed.
Alice shrugged. “They thought it was a waste of my time. What would I do with art? I couldn’t make any money, and they looked down on teaching. They thought there were better ways to make money.”
“Is that what it’s about?” I asked before I could think about the question. I sensed it was easier for her to share while she was preoccupied doing the thing she loved.
“To them it was. It wasn’t worth doing unless there was a guarantee of money coming in, whether that was a TV show, an endorsement, or a career path.”
“You didn’t fit into their mold.” That much was obvious.
Alice sighed. “I tried to be what they wanted, but the producers wanted Elle because she already had a following on the show. They wanted to do a spin-off show with her opening a barbershop in LA.” Alice waved her hand. “The producers loved the concept of a female-owned barbershop—something about men wanting their hair cut by model-beautiful women. The space would be masculine and the women gorgeous. They said I could be the receptionist if I convinced her to come back.”
Elle had created a masculine space in her shop, Smoke & Mirrors. It was a good business concept. “Did you?”
