In Sight of Stars(14)

“I don’t think you are. And, more than that, I think you’ll be feeling better again, soon.”

I give her a dubious look as if to say, Do you not see me sitting here in the Ape Can?

“What I mean is, it seems clear you had a break—a serious one, not to be messed with—so we need to get to the root of it, to get you on a path of being well. But, just the fact that you’re asking that question and worrying about it is a good sign, a promising one. That, with help, you’ll feel better … feel well. So, how about we go with that for now?”

I nod, wanting to believe her, to trust her. I stare down at the stress ball and squeeze.

“We can only solve our problems by solving them,” I read aloud. “But what if I don’t know how to solve them?”

“That’s why I’m here, Klee. That’s my job. I’ll help you. If you’ll give me the chance—”

I want to—I do—but the room is whirling again.

“I need a drink,” I choke out. “I’m going to get some water.”

“Here, I’ll come with you.” She stands and follows me through the waiting area.

Nice work, loser. Can’t even get a drink of water alone.

I look for the crow, but I don’t need him to tell me what I already know in my head.

At the end of the waiting area, Dr. Alvarez stops and says, “How about you go on ahead. I’ll wait here.”

I walk, dizzy but grateful for her little bit of faith in me, past that stupid, garish Finding Nemo scene, and toward the fountain. I want to take my own paints to the blasted thing and redo it, make it good. That would make me feel better, taking my paints to it.

At least I’m upright. At least I’m getting a drink on my own.

After the fish, but before the fountain, there’s the Asian girl again with the long black hair, sitting and waiting, her back to me, trying to trick me that she’s Sarah.

I know it’s a trick, but my heart ramps up anyway, and the blizzard beat rushes my ears. I grow clammy and the girl turns and stares.

Not Sarah, Klee. Not Sarah, I say, but she slides to the floor, comes crawling toward me.

“All your fears are foolish fancies, baby…”

Closer and closer …

“You know that I’m in love with you”

She isn’t. She’s lying.

Don’t believe her.

*

We’re in Tarantoli’s room and Sarah is working on her drawing, Girl in Repose.

She’s darkened in the lines I made yesterday, letting them flow off the paper like water. The girl’s shirt now blends and fades into the background, and flowers fall out of her hair.

I slide out a blank sheet from the paper cubbies in the back of the room and start fresh on something new. I hate the other piece I’ve been working on. I haven’t been able to concentrate since I got here, and it shows. But I need to focus. I need at least four worthy portfolio pieces to submit to SMFA by early spring.

We work across from one another, while the rest of the class comes in and settles. After several minutes Sarah finally looks up. Our eyes meet, and she pushes her paper over, spinning it so it faces me.

“Better, right?”

I nod. “Yeah. It’s looser, you see?”

“Yes. Freer. Not so safe anymore.” She smiles, satisfied.

Encouraged, I say, “It feels a little like an early Van Gogh.” She rolls her eyes. It’s not as good, of course, but it does remind me a little of one of his drawings. “Most people only know him as a painter, but he was an illustrator first. A lot of his early work was pen and ink. That’s all I meant.” Her eyes meet mine again. This time there’s something softer in them. “Go ahead, Google Van Gogh’s Seated Girl, or Sorrow, or Pine Trees. They’re some of my favorites of his.”

I should shut up. I’ve entered full-on art-geek mode, and Cleto, in his sarcastic drawl, is calling me out in my head: “Seriously, dude, you’re all kinds of lame, you know that, right?”

Cleto was always giving me shit about my art talk, especially when we were out trying to meet girls. “Keep all that big city, elitist shit to yourself,” he’d say, jokingly. “Talk about sports or something manly like that.”

“Van Gogh was manly,” I’d shoot back. “Toulouse-Lautrec, too. Matisse. Picasso. Monet. If you knew anything at all about culture, you’d know that all the great masters were manly, manly men.”

“Your funeral.” Cleto would laugh. “But, trust me, dude, save it for the second date.”

Yet here I am, hearing myself say, “I could take you to an exhibit, or something. There’s a Van Gogh exhibit at MoMA this weekend.” The minute I say it, I’m sorry. Cleto is right. I should ask her to a movie instead. “Or, we don’t have to do that. We can do something else … anything else…” Because, now that I’ve said it, it occurs to me that going to the Van Gogh exhibit will be totally brutal without my dad.

Her eyes dart to mine. “No, that sounds great. I’d really like that, Alden.” Then, without another word, she reaches across and draws a large charcoal smiley face right in the center of my paper. On top of the halfway decent drawing I had started. “See?” she says, laughing. “So much better unsafe.”