The Swap(26)

To remove myself from the noise and chaos, I spent more and more time at the pottery studio. I had nowhere else to go. The tourist trade had dwindled with the summer and so had my employment. Jamie had apologized profusely, but she couldn’t afford to keep me on full-time. I only worked weekends now, or the occasional midweek shift if she had plans or was away. It was virtually impossible to find off-season employment on the island, but I had a plan.

I had been working in the studio several days a week for seven months. My wheel work was passable, but I didn’t have Freya’s delicate touch, I couldn’t replicate her unique creations. But I’d discovered a talent for handwork, pinch pots to be precise. I had made a perfect little cup and then decided to add an oversize lid that made it look like a toadstool. It was a decorative, whimsical piece, but when you removed the cap, it was a perfect container for earrings, pills, or paper clips.

“That is so adorable,” Freya had gushed. “If you make a few of these, I bet Jamie would sell them.”

“Really?”

“I’ll talk to her,” she said, with a wink. “I got you the job, didn’t I?”

I let myself imagine a lucrative toadstool pinch-pot business. Jamie would sell them at her store, and eventually, I’d take a trip to the mainland and find some retailers there. Photography had been my favorite class at school, and I’d excelled at it. With those skills and Freya’s social media expertise, we would build the brand online. They would take off, become a trend. I’d continue to make them by hand, each one unique, expensive, a collector’s item. I’d taken to adding intricate embellishments—a butterfly, a bumblebee, a caterpillar—so each piece was one-of-a-kind. I envisioned toadstool pinch-pot world domination.

No one would work harder or longer than I would—24-7 if necessary. The studio was already my favorite place to be, and now, it had become my refuge. Unbeknownst to my hosts, I had been sleeping in the unfinished attic space. It was accessible through a trapdoor in the ceiling that had a drop-down ladder. The room was only about five feet high at its center, and I had to share it with a few dusty cardboard boxes, some bits of lumber, and a length of ductwork. But they made better roommates than Eckhart. (Since I no longer had to get up for school in the morning, my parents had decided I should share a room with my constantly wailing brother. They probably hoped it was the kick I needed to leave the nest.)

I didn’t tell Freya and Max that I was spending most of my nights on their property. On some level, I must have known that setting up my sleeping bag and pillow in her studio space without permission was crossing boundaries. They might resent the lack of privacy, might think that spending my entire day at the studio and then the entire night in the attic justified them asking for some sort of rent. Part of me thought they’d be fine with it, might even offer me a piece of foam to sleep on or a bedside lamp. But I couldn’t risk it. So, around seven o’clock each evening, I went home for dinner and a shower. And then, at around eleven, when Eckhart’s nightly screamfest was well underway, I parked my truck on the side of the main road and slipped silently into my newfound attic bedroom. In the mornings, I rose early, ate a bagel or a doughnut or a croissant from a stash of breakfast food I’d left there, and cleaned up in the studio bathroom. Then I went straight to work building my pinch-pot empire.

Freya usually joined me around ten, after her yoga class or power walk with Jamie. We puttered around the studio, throwing, firing, glazing, trimming . . . Now that she was so comfortable with me, Freya didn’t keep up her constant stream of chatter. In fact, some days, she barely said a word, seeming morose, or introspective. On others, she was crabby, stomping around, slamming down pieces, then cursing aloud when they chipped or broke. Seeing her vulnerability, her anger, her realness, didn’t make me adore her any less.

One morning, her disposition seemed darker than usual. There were circles under her eyes and her shiny hair was dull and lank. She muttered hey and then disappeared into the kiln room. I was getting used to her moods by now. It was best to stay quiet, keep my head down, and let her work through her emotions. Eventually, my lovely, charming Freya would return. But that day, as I was staining the veins on a butterfly’s wings, she stormed toward me.

“You got glaze all over the kiln shelves, you moron! Your stupid fucking pots are fused to them!”

Freya had been cranky and snappish toward me, but she had never verbally assaulted me before. I was shocked by the intensity of her anger. Setting down my brush, I managed to croak out a response. “They can’t be. I waxed the bottoms.”

“Oh, okay . . .” Sarcasm dripped off her words. “I guess I just imagined the fucking mess in there.”

“I-I’ll take care of it,” I stammered. “I’ll buy you a new shelf.”

“This is a specialized gas kiln! Where are you going to buy a shelf for it on this godforsaken island?” She was falling apart, and it wasn’t over a kiln shelf. Something else was wrong. Very wrong.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“No! No, I’m fucking not.” She turned away and dropped her head into her hands.

I stayed frozen on my stool, unsure whether I should go to her or give her space. My heart was pounding, and my throat was thick with dread.

“I’m sorry, Low,” she said through her hands. “This isn’t about you.” Then she lifted her beautiful face. “Can I tell you something?”