Take the Fall(79)

His shoulders droop. “He made it pretty clear what he’d like to see happen to you.”

I pull my hoodie closer. I can’t deny that.

Marcus turns, leaning toward me on the seat. “Sonia, there’s something I’ve wanted to—I mean—” He hesitates, tripping over his words. “Can I show you something?”

I search his eyes, wondering what he has in mind, and nod.

Marcus makes a beeline around his grandmother’s house and I follow, straight toward the studio out back. He hesitates, looking at me with his key in the door. He takes a single deep breath, then opens it wide and invites me inside.

I have never seen so much color.

There are paintings all along the walls, some in frames, some just sheets of paper held up with tacks. Thin ropes crisscross the air above our heads, dangling landscapes and portraits, and bright, beautiful abstracts. There’s an easel in one corner by the window and a table next to it covered in an array of tubes and jars and trays of different paints. The air has that clean smell that comes incongruously with an artist’s mess.

“I like to work fast, so I mostly use acrylics . . . but sometimes oils.” He mumbles, hesitant, like he’s talking just to fill the air.

I’m drawn immediately to a pair of framed portraits—or at least that’s what I think they are. Each of them is of a girl striking the same pose. Her head is thrown back, her hand splayed over her stomach, her wild orange hair floating around her head in a way that makes me think of laughter, though she has no actual facial features to complete the suggestion. The portraits are identical, but the colors are what make a distinctive contrast. One of them is done in bright tones—yellows, greens, purples, and reds. The other is all browns and blacks and grays. Except for the hair. That’s the same in both of them, bright orange-red. Individually, they’re smart, thought provoking. Side by side, they’re jarring, like you’re expecting to see a photograph and realize you’re looking at a negative.

“I just sold those. It’s a diptych—they go together.”

I nod. They would have to. They’re not at all what I imagined Marcus would do with Gretchen in paint—they’re better. She almost seems alive. I find Marcus’s signature at the bottom of each frame, but nothing else. “What are they called?”

“It’s untitled. They’re kind of a mash-up. . . .” He moves between the canvases and me and there’s a distance in his eyes, like he can’t wait to get them out of his sight. “For a while I was calling them Good & Evil, but that didn’t seem right.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“If you like that sort of thing.” When I glance up, his back is to the paintings. He’s looking right at me.

My skin heats up. I turn in circles, unsure where to look next, overwhelmed by the idea that I’m seeing everything Marcus sees and feels. There are faces and rivers and trees, and abstract explosions of color that seem like an expression of what thought might look like if you had to put it on paper. Finally, curiosity draws me toward the easel.

He clears his throat. “That one’s not finished . . .”

I stop.

He runs his hand through his hair and now I notice traces of paint dried on his skin. “I don’t mean you can’t look . . . it just isn’t very good.”

I raise my eyebrows. “If you don’t want me to—”

“You can.” He frowns. “It’s just not like the original.”

I come around the side of the canvas.

This girl has a face, but only just. There’s an arch of an eyebrow, a line of a nose, and just a hint of one side of her mouth. Her eyes are closed, and she seems closed. At first it looks like she’s simply sleeping, so deeply perhaps she wouldn’t hear if you yelled. But the look on her face is so remote, it makes me wonder. For a split second I think I must be looking at a dead girl—until I notice the colors. They’re streaming from her body in tones I could only describe as fear, hope, despair, beauty . . . wrapping around her, emanating from her. And that’s when I’m sure she couldn’t be more alive.

I notice the shape of her face now, a little like Dina’s, but without the freckles. Her hair is curly and dark. I gasp. Heat radiates off me just the way it seems to on the canvas, but what I’m looking at is so intimate, I feel like I should close my eyes. I never compared myself to Gretchen when it came to appearance. In some ways it’s easier having a best friend who looked the way she did. There’s no competition. You get used to not being seen. So I don’t know how to explain this. If this is how Marcus sees me.

“I don’t know what to say.”

He comes up behind me, so close if he wrapped his arms around my waist his body would shape to mine. He runs his hand down my arm and my skin ignites. I close my fingers over his, hold them in place, and forget anything else exists.

He sighs into my hair. “I guess I didn’t either.”

I turn to look at him and a flash of panic crosses his face, like he’s been caught with something he shouldn’t have. I hold his hand fast and he closes his eyes, his chest rises, and finally, his shoulders relax.

“I thought I could re-create it,” he murmurs. “It’s not the greatest copy.”

“Re-create what?” I stare at the portrait. “It’s stunning.”