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I’d never been able to explain it. Not then, at least. Where she was, quite simply, was where I wanted to be. I’ve spent the last twelve years in denial so deep I didn’t recognize it. Not until the moment I saw her again.
The line outside the face painting booth is long. Kids leave the booth with wide grins and the visages of various animals and magical creatures, parents trailing behind them looking impressed.
I think of my bedroom at home in Seattle, of the giant canvas over my bed, and a pang of sadness follows.
Do you still paint, Peapod?
No.
She’d wanted more than anything to go to art school, had dreams that ranged from graphic and set design to giant city murals. No one who saw her art, even her scribbles in old notebooks, would question whether she had a shot at living those dreams. The thought of her not painting anymore, even for the joy of it, is physically painful to me, a burn that cradles my heart.
Slowly but surely, I make it to the front of the line.
“Come on over, take a seat,” she says, head down as she cleans various brushes and resets her small tray.
The plastic chair creaks as my weight hits it. Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “Really?” she snaps.
I shrug. “I’m at your mercy. Paint whatever you want.”
Her eyes flare with skepticism, swallowed almost immediately by mischief. She bites her lower lip, white teeth pressing into the full, rose-toned flesh. I shift in my seat, using every ounce of willpower I have to prevent a tent in my jeans. As I knew it would be, the lure to paint my face is too much for her to resist.
When she reaches for the yellow and blue paints, I smirk. “You can do better than a Minion.”
Her eyelid twitches. “Shut up.”
I mime locking my lips. She grabs different paints and works fast, covering my face in white before applying lines and shading with smaller brushes. Within a few minutes, she lifts a hand mirror and all but tosses it at me.
I stare at my transformed face and shudder, my skin flashing cold.
“Good one, Peapod,” I say, my voice faint. “Ten out of ten.”
I fucking hate clowns.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry.” She scrambles for a clean rag. “I’ll take it off.”
“Nah, it’s fine,” I force out. “But you owe me for this. Big time.”
Wide eyes turn my way. “What? No way.”
“Yes way.” I grin, momentarily forgetting that my face is something out of my childhood nightmares. “I’m cooking you dinner tomorrow night. Can Damien hang with your parents?”
“Absolutely not.”
Behind me, Celeste’s dad says, “We can watch him, no problem.”
Celeste stares over my shoulder, shooting eyeball daggers at her father. Personally, I want to hug him.
“But it’s his last day of school! We always go out to dinner.”
Mr. M. isn’t having it. “Better yet, I’ll call Jane Duncan and see if maybe Caleb and a few of Damien’s other friends want to come to our place for a sleepover to celebrate.”
Celeste grinds her teeth, knowing as well as I do that Damien would rather hang with friends than spend a Friday night with his mom.
“Fine,” she grunts.
“Thanks, Mr. M.” I stand, grinning down at an angry Celeste. “Then it’s settled. I rented a house just outside town. I’ll text you the address.”
“Wait—what? You’re not staying with your mom anymore?” As soon as she asks, comprehension sweeps across her face and the fight goes out of her, confirming that my mom’s status as a drunk since my dad’s death isn’t a secret. “Oh. Okay.”
