Stained Glass Summer
A Middle-Grade Novel
by
Mindy Hardwick
An Imprint of
Musa Publishing
Stained Glass Summer
By Mindy Hardwick
Copyright © Mindy Hardwick, 2011
Smashwords edition
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All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
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This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
Musa
Publishing
633 Edgewood Ave
Lancaster, OH 43130
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Published by Musa Publishing, December 2011
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This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-61937-909-1
Published in the United States of America
Editor: Jenn Loring
Cover Design: Lisa Dovichi
Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna
This story is dedicated to those who mentor the artist.
Prologue
Jasmine slipped off her silver ring. She slowly rubbed her chocolate spice-painted fingernails over the amethyst. Dad’s gift. A ring she had promised to take care of—no matter what. Jasmine dangled the ring over Puget Sound. She imagined tossing the ring. It would fly high in the air and send arcs of silver light across the faces of the people waiting in the ferry line. The ring would splash into black Puget Sound and drop under dark waters. But like her pain, the ring would not stay submerged. And just when Jasmine thought the ring was gone, the white foamy wake would hurl the ring back onto the rocky beach.
On the beach a five-year-old girl, dressed in an orange and blue flower bathing suit, would pick up the ring. “A treasure!” The girl would bury the ring inside a gray and black beach rock castle. She would never know the power that lay inside.
Chapter One
“Art Power,” Dad says.
I move my finger over the amethyst oval stone set inside a silver ring that looks very expensive. I’ve gotten used to Dad’s outrageous, impractical art presents, like the tall, pink glass vase he gave me last Christmas. It’s part of being an artist’s daughter, and I love it.
“Fabulous!” I’ve been waiting to use that word on something after I heard an art judge at one of Dad’s shows exclaim, “Fabulous!” when she handed him the first place ribbon. I wave my hand over Dad’s photography books on the coffee table and admire the carved leaves and swirls that don’t completely cover my tanned ring finger.
“It’s too expensive for a twelve-year-old,” Mom says as she enters the room. She carries a white cake with twelve candles. Her dark hair bounces with every step. It’s the same color as mine, only hers is curly and mine is straight. My eyes meet Mom’s, and I look away. I know she’s right. Dad’s gifts are too expensive. But I love Dad’s fabulous art gifts, and I’m not going to give them up.
“Wish for a win in that contest,” Dad says as Mom sets the cake on the coffee table. His eyes sparkle as he leans forward. I notice the small bit of gray in his hair that frames his narrow face.
I know not to say anything. Dad doesn’t believe in getting old. I think about the school art contest. The winner gets to take summer classes at the Chicago Art Institute, where Dad teaches. I’m already imagining what will happen when I win. I’ll spend the whole summer with Dad. We’ll ride together to the Institute, and I’ll take my classes while he teaches his. Afterward, we’ll ride home together and talk about our day. But even more importantly, I must win to prove that I’m an award-winning artist like Dad.
My stomach cramps as I think about trying to prove that I am an award-winning artist. I take a deep breath, and lean over to blow the candles. All of the candles blow out, but one remains. Its flickering flame is like a taunting tease.
“Oh no,” I moan. “It’s bad luck!”
Dad exhales, and in one whoosh he blows the last candle out. He turns to me, and his eyes are cold and unreadable. “I trust you to take good care of the ring. The Andes artist says it has power.”
“Seeing the future?” I run my hand over the purple stone. The stone warms under my touch, as if powers are seeping from the ring’s stone into my hand and back again. I’d love to see the future. I rub my finger over the smooth stone and wait for Dad to tell me about the ring. I love Dad’s travel stories. He entertains Mom and me with world adventures in different languages, new customs, and exotic foods.
“Power,” Dad says. “Power for your art.”
“Mmm…” I say, hoping I sound very serious. I know about art power. There can be nothing on the canvas, yet there are a million things waiting to be born. Art transfers me out of one time and into another. I love to look at the clock and, when I check again, five hours have passed. Some days the ideas come rushing forward while other days nothing comes at all. But I always like the surprise of never knowing when the ideas might pop up.
Mom clears her throat, and I look up to see her holding a piece of cake on a sunflower paper plate and a Happy Birthday napkin. As I take the plate, our fingers touch, and I grin. Mom stopped at the bakery down the street to pick out the most expensive cake in the store. Mom likes expensive presents just as much as Dad does.
I lift my fork to take a bite and watch as Mom tries to hand Dad a piece of cake. He frowns and shakes his head at her. For a minute, a hurt look darkens Mom’s face. It’s the same one I feel when he has something else to do and I’m annoying him. Something that happens a lot and I try not to think about.
Dad doesn’t notice Mom’s look. He never does. In Dad’s world, there is one person—Dad. Mom and I say that is what makes him such a good photographer. But sometimes I wish that he weren’t such a good photographer, and a better dad instead.
Dad stretches. His six-foot frame reaches toward the high ceilings, and I swear that if he stands on tiptoes, he can reach the ceiling beams with his long, tapered fingers. “I’m headed upstairs.”
“Can I come with you?” I ask softly, and stare at the floor. I can’t look at Dad. There’s too much hope inside me. Hope that too often goes unfulfilled.
“Just for a little bit. I want you to finish up that collage for the contest. I’ll make sure everything looks perfect.”
“Everything looks great!” I pop off the couch and leave my untouched piece of cake on the coffee table next to Dad’s photography books.
“Jasmine.” Mom touches my arm briefly, and I want to shake her away. I know what she’s trying to tell me. Don’t get too excited. You know how he is. This moment isn’t really about you; it never is. It’s about Dad. But I don’t want to hear her, not now. Not on my birthday. Instead, I want to believe that this moment is about me. I want to believe that this time will be different.
“The contest,” I say, while hoping Mom understands my unspoken words. It’s okay this time. “Dad has to help me finish my collage.”
Mom shakes her head and turns away from me. She reaches to the coffee table beside her. “I have something for you too.” Mom turns around, holding a thick catalogue between her fingers. “I wanted to surprise you.” She pauses and then says, “I bought you special summer school lessons.”
“Art classes?” Mom bought me art classes! I am so excited I can barely breathe. My birthday is turning out to be fabulous.
“Not exactly.” Mom shakes her head, and her dark brown hair moves from side to side across her shoulders. “These classes are at the private high school. It’s the school where I attended.” There is a bit of hesitancy in her voice, as if she’s worried I won’t remember all the times she has told me about her high school. “I thought you’d like to get a head start for when you’re ready for high school. If you start now in summer classes with a foreign language, then in a few years you’ll be very prepared for the high school classes.”
“Oh,” I say, trying not to hurt Mom, but it doesn’t take much to hear the deflation in my voice, as if I am a balloon that has just lost all its air. I twist my fingers together. I do appreciate her gift. But I am an artist. I need summer art classes with Dad, not classes at Fishers.
“Fishers is a good school,” Mom says quietly.
“Please, Mom,” I beg. The words tumble out before I can stop them. It’s a conversation Mom and I have had a zillion times. No one ever wins.
Mom slowly sets down the catalogue. She lifts her plate and takes a bite of her cake. Her red painted lips close over her fork as the cake slides into her mouth. I’ve disappointed her, and I feel bad. Most of the time, Mom and I are a team. We have to be. It takes two of us to live with Dad, and even then, I’m not sure we ever really win.
I try to explain to Mom. “You’ll see. I’m going to win the contest. It will all be okay.” I reach out and give Mom a small pat, as if she is the child and I’m the adult. “I promise. It will all work out.”
Mom smiles sadly at me. “Okay, Jasmine,” she says.
I twirl around and head toward the loft spiral stairs. I know that, this time, things will work out.
* * * *
As I climb the spiral staircase into the studio loft, I hear Dad walking above me. I can’t help but hum. I love nighttime in Dad’s studio. It’s taken me a long time to earn Dad’s trust. On my first visit to the studio, I tried to color on one of Dad’s paintings. I thought the white box outline in the middle of the white canvas needed some color. Dad caught me as I was busy scribbling away. He grabbed my hand, and the crayon dropped to the floor. He didn’t say anything for what seemed like forever. And then, with his voice of steel, said, “If you’re going to do art, I will teach you.”
Now, I watch as Dad pours hot water from a small silver pot that rests on a warming plate in the far right corner of the loft. “Hot chocolate?”
“Yes.” I head for the rack of mugs perched on a shelf below a window overlooking Lake Michigan. There are mugs with scenes of Australian beaches and oceans, and other mugs with African lions, giraffes, and elephants. I pick up one of these mugs and hope the power of the animal will jump off the cup and I’ll roar.
I pour hot water from the pot and eye the row of Dad’s pictures hanging on the white wall. A small light highlights each. I know each photo by heart. Each framed picture has a blue or silver award tacked to the frame: Best New Photographer for the State of Illinois, First Place in the Mid-West Photography Winter Exhibit, First Place in the Chicago Photography and Design Show. The rows stretch twelve across. This spring, Dad has started hanging a second row under the first.
“Yours will be right next to mine,” Dad says when he sees me looking at the pictures. He points to a blank space. There is a hook already attached to the wall.
I bite the inside of my cheek and taste a small amount of blood. I have to win the contest. If I want to be an artist like Dad, I have to start my own wall of awards. And, even more importantly, I have to prove that he has the best daughter in the world, and the only way to do that is by winning art contests.
I turn around and look at my contest entry, which is laid out on a long easel. Dad has been helping me and adding touches while I haven’t been in the studio, but something doesn’t seem right. He’s added a bit of texture for a three-dimensional appearance. But I’m not quite sure that the colors blend in the far right hand corner. I want to say something to Dad, but I know what he’ll say. “In order to compete, you must stand out. Yours must be different than everyone else’s.”
I rub my fingers over my new ring’s purple stone and hear a whisper. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but I think I hear the stone say, “You will win the contest.” Dad said it had magic powers.
“Are you going to get started?” Dad asks. He perches on a metal stool with a brown cushion in front of his computer. He waves his hand toward the canvas.
“Just thinking.” I smile at Dad. “Preparing.” Dad always says that half of art is preparing—thinking about what you want to accomplish before you sit down and start to draw.
“Well, don’t prepare all night.” Dad checks his watch. “I need to sleep.”
I’m suddenly nervous again. I know the rules. In the art studio, we follow Dad’s rules.
I dip a large paintbrush into green paint and wipe the edges against a water jar. For a minute, doubts crowd my mind as I study my painting. Dad chose an extra-large canvas from the art shop. I’m not sure how I’ll get the canvas to school without a ride, and getting a dependable ride from Dad is not always easy.
“I just got busy,” he’ll say as I open the car door, after forty minutes of waiting outside the Art Palace Community Hall on Saturday mornings. It’s always embarrassing, waiting for Dad. The last Art Palace teacher to leave always asks if I’m sure that I didn’t need a ride home. And they always give me that look. It’s the one that is half-pity and half-worry, while I try to make up excuses for where Dad is and why he forgets his daughter.
I once tried to be mad at Dad about his lateness, but as soon as I got in the car, he turned to me and said, “Don’t give me attitude or I won’t pick you up at all.” The last thing I want is for Dad not to pick me up at all.
I love my time with Dad—even if he is a little late.
I study my painting and say softly, “Dad?”
“Mmm…”
“You’re taking me to the school contest tomorrow, right?”
Dad stops and raises his eyebrows.
I know this look and it frightens me.
“Why are you asking?” Dad snaps. “I told you I’d take you. Don’t ask again.”
“Right,” I say as my stomach churns. I don’t know why I asked. I knew Dad would take me. Sometimes I just do stupid things. This time, I have broken Art Studio Rule Number 2: No disturbing the artist at work.
I shift on my stool and turn my attention back to the painting. There is something about the colors that doesn’t sit right with me. In my mind, I picture them alive and vibrant. But on the page they seem dull and flat. I stare out the window and into the tall dark trees surrounding the studio. If only I could capture the green, or even the amber, orange and yellow when the oak tree leaves turn in the fall.
And then, as if a genie has hopped off the tree and said, “Your wish is my command,” light green, dark green and leafy textures swirl around me. It is as if I have left my body and I am flying in the trees. It reminds me of when Dad takes me to the amusement park and I ride the roller coasters. When my heart beats a million miles an hour, as the small carts careen close to the edges and around loops but always, held by a small chain, holding me above the hard ground.
In my art trance, I am flying up and down the tree limbs. I reach toward the sky and then, sensing that I can’t crash into the ground, dive back toward the roots of the tree. Everything buzzes, hums, and vibrates around me in a symphony of sound as I dance on one limb and then the other. I am flying in tune to my own harmonized orchestra.
The studio casts light into the tree and I fly over to the window. Dad shifts and moves images on his computer. My mind whirls. Am I really in the tree? How has it happened? I feel so free. It’s as if possibilities are all around me and nothing can stop me. Every artist must know this feeling! The green fades, and my hands grasp my paintbrush. The paint smell of the studio engulfs me.
“Dad!”
“Yes?” Dad doesn’t take his eyes off the computer screen.
I stop. What will Dad think when I tell him about this world? But I can’t keep it in. I have to tell him.
“Yes?” Dad repeats and peers at me over his thin-wire rimmed glasses.
“I danced in the tree limbs. Everything was so green! Can you do that?” I hop off my stool.
“Maybe it’s the muse,” Dad says. “Or maybe it’s part of that magic ring. You know I always choose great gifts for you.”
“Yes,” I say. “You always choose great gifts.” I twirl my ring as I think about where I have just been. The world is my own private art world. I can go there anytime I need ideas or inspiration. It’s a bit like magic, and now I must give the world a name. When I was younger, I lined up all the stuffed animals on my bed and gave them each a name. Not just a first name, but a last name too. I chose names that sounded exotic to me, names like Hamish and Rhianna.
The name for my magical art world has to be something special. Something unique. Something like…Lucianna. The name pops into my head and I remember Lucy Ann, my best friend in elementary school, who arrived in second grade with a new pink pencil case, sharpened colored pencils and fresh watercolor paints. She was my best friend until she moved at the end of fourth grade, and I haven’t had another friend like her.
“Jasmine,” Dad says, his voice suddenly sharp. “Get back to work. I’ve got some other things to do.”
I nod as the familiar feeling of not wanting to bother Dad washes over me. I don’t want to annoy Dad. I’m not always important to him, but I want to be.
I drop a splotch of green onto my canvas. The paint spreads out, leaving thin spider legs behind like cracks in a sheet of glass. I can’t help but think that I am like a sheet of glass, cracking under the pressure of Dad.
Chapter Two
Mom parks the Toyota in front of Lakeview Middle School. The morning sun has already moved across the tops of the gymnasium, and I know I’m very late.
I waited too long for Dad.
At breakfast, he said that he just had to run out for a little bit. The morning light was perfect. But as the stove clock ticked past the first bell, I knew Dad had forgotten his promise. He had forgotten this was the morning he had to take me to school for the contest. I try very hard not to start bawling. There is some simple explanation, I keep telling myself. There must be. He told me he would take me.
“Jasmine,” Mom says.
I look at her, and our eyes lock.
“I’m okay,” I mumble. Once again, Mom and I are a team. As our eyes meet, I feel tears floating too close to the surface. I swallow hard and push them away. I turn around and try to lift the collage out of the backseat. The sides jam against the seats. I hold my breath and hope that the canvas won’t tear. If Dad were here, he’d park the car and very carefully ease the collage out of it. But Dad isn’t here.
I push and tug, and the collage breaks free. I hold it in front of me like a shield and head toward the gymnasium. I hate being late for anything, so I walk quickly.
“Art projects over here!” Mrs. Hanson, the school principal, calls as I step through the gymnasium doors. Her nasal voice carries across the slick floor and bounces off the concrete walls. “Jasmine! You’re late,” she barks.
“I’m sorry.” I peek around my collage and spy an empty easel near the front. Dad always says, “Get there early and set up in the front. By the time the judges get to the back, everything looks the same to them. They’ll remember the first one they see.” The wave of disappointment that Dad is not here to help washes over me. My throat closes and I push away Dad’s face, sending the sad feelings deeper and deeper into a dark hole inside of me that I imagine burying with a big shovel under a lot of dirt.
I hoist my collage onto the easel. The easel tilts and sways under the weight of the heavy canvas. I keep my hand on the collage and try to find a balancing point.
“That yours?”
“Yes.” I don’t need to turn around to know the voice.
“Kinda strange. Don’t you think?” Julie Ann, my worst enemy, steps so close to me I can smell her peach-scented lotion. She scrunches her nose and crosses her arms. I want to do the same about the lotion she is wearing. Julie Ann sticks her face close to the collage.
“It’s art,” I say as the easel tilts to the right. I lurch after it in a stretch that was never taught in gym class. I will not fight with Julie Ann. Last year, after arguing with her about space on an art table, I spent three days in the counseling office, sitting in a green plastic chair with a rip in the side, while Mr. McIntosh talked about the importance of conflict resolution. I pretended to be interested.
“Hmm…” Julie Ann places her pink-painted fingernail alongside the collage and moves it slowly. At any minute her long nail will tear a gaping hole in the canvas.
“Don’t!” I knock Julie Ann’s finger away and bite the inside of my lip as the canvas tips and the easel crashes to the floor.
My collage lands facedown on the hard gymnasium floor.
“Jasmine!” Mrs. Hansen bustles toward us and leaves two parents standing, mouths open and pencils poised above clipboards.
“See you later.” Julie Ann smirks and ducks around the corner of a watercolor print with sunflowers.
Wanting to slug Julie Ann, I pick up my collage. If Dad were here, Julie Ann never would have dreamed of talking to me. I push down the lump in my throat and ball my fingers into a tight clutch around my collage. For a minute, I want to scream. How can the morning light be more important than me? How can he have forgotten about the art contest? And just as quickly, I stuff the words deep inside.
It’s something I learned to do a long time ago.
“Set your collage over there,” Mrs. Hansen says and waves to a back corner of the gymnasium. She pushes red curls away from her forehead. The curls spring and then bound back onto her shiny forehead.
“What about the judges?” The parent judges cluster in the corner. They are all staring at us, and I want to stick out my tongue. But I know that would really disqualify me.
“They’ll find it,” Mrs. Hansen mutters and walks away.
A spot way in the back is not a good idea, but the alternative of arguing with Mrs. Hansen seems worse. I pick up the collage and carry it to the back corner. Once I reach the corner, I see there is no easel. Only a small doorway leading to what I assume must be the janitor’s closet. I lean the collage against the closed door and step back to take one last look. I hope it doesn’t slip and crash to the floor. In the shadows, the colors blend together into one dark mass. The brilliant green from the tree and my vision of the night before is non-existent. My insides feel just like those colors—blended in one dark mass, tucked away in the corner.
* * * *
The morning drags, and I can barely concentrate. I’m thinking of nothing but the contest. After a lunch that I don’t eat, I join a slow-moving line of people heading toward the auditorium and the contest awards. The chatter rises and falls in a big bunch of noise around me. Seeing the line snake toward the back of the auditorium, I jump out and head toward the front. I can’t sit in the back. I need to be up front. Winners sit up front. Up front is closer to where I will jump up on the stage and claim my award.
“Jasmine!” Mr. McIntosh steps forward and places his large hand on my shoulder. “Your class is in row 12.” He gently turns me toward the middle of the auditorium.
“I’m in the contest,” I remind him. “I sit in the front.” I give him my best smile. I hope he will not say anything about my rebellious behavior with Julie Ann.
He mumbles something about forgetting, and I dodge around him, plop into a front row seat and take a deep breath. Just because I have been in his office for that one fight with Julie Ann, it seems like I can’t do anything without having him right behind me and checking every move. I cross my legs and twirl my ring. In only a matter of minutes, my name will be called and I’ll be up on that stage. I will prove to Mr. McIntosh and everyone else that I am not a failure.
Jasmine Baast, Artist. I hum as I imagine hanging my collage next to Dad’s award winning photography.
On stage, Mrs. Hansen begins talking. The seats around me remain empty. I try not to think about how I am sitting in the front.
Alone.
Everyone else sits with friends.
For a minute, I pretend I have a very important phone call and dig in my bag for my cell phone. Maybe Dad will have remembered to text me a message. A good luck message. I will smile and not feel so alone. I flip open the top and stare hard at the screen.
There is no message.
“And now,” Mrs. Hansen says, “The contest winners.”
I twirl my ring hard and fast. My heart feels like it might pound right out of my chest.
“Third place…” Mrs. Hansen says. “Goes to…”
I hold my breath.
“Vicky Parkinson for her watercolor drawing, Flowers in the Garden.”
A tiny girl with long dark hair sprints toward the podium from the left side of the auditorium, and a group of girls scream. Vicky Parkinson is a sixth grader. I clap and smile one of Mom’s “everything is just wonderful” smiles. She uses those smiles a lot after Dad has said something that is not so wonderful.
“Second place,” Mrs. Hansen says, and turns toward the seventh grade bleachers. “Alex Cooper for his Day at the Baseball Park photograph.”
A blonde boy, who I think might be cute in a few years, jogs forward to the podium. I clap while smiling at him. Scooting to the edge of the chair, I hold my breath.
“And now,” Mrs. Hansen says as Alex steps to the side of the stage next to Vicky. “The moment you’ve been waiting for. The first place winner.”
I let out a big whoosh of air.
“We’ve had many fine entries, and the judges had a hard time deciding.”
Why do they always say that? I shift closer to the edge of my chair.
“The winner…” Mrs. Hansen pauses. “Is Julie Ann Wilson.”
I freeze.
Julie Ann.
Julie Ann with her flimsy watercolor. Sunflowers in a meadow. That’s not art. Art is my collage.
Bold.
Big.
And fabulous.
I jump up and instead of cheering, I scream. “Didn’t you see the collage in the corner?”
No one pays attention to me as Julie Ann steps on to the stage. She takes her award and ribbon from Mrs. Hansen and turns to give a victory wave.
I push out of my seat and rush toward the front podium. I don’t care if I get in trouble and have to spend days and days in the ripped chair in the counseling office.
Julie Ann smirks. “Are you here to congratulate me?” She waves her blue ribbon and white envelope in front of her. “Or give me suggestions for what to buy with my gift certificate?”
I shove past Julie Ann and toward Mrs. Hanson. “My collage. Did you judge my collage?”
Mrs. Hanson frowns at me. “Only winners on the stage.”
“My collage! No one saw my collage!” I can barely keep the tears from spilling over as I cross my hands across my chest and try to stop myself from shaking. Why is this happening? I should be the winner.
“No.” Mrs. Hanson shakes her head. “You are disqualified. Your canvas is too big.”
I hold very still, like I do when Mom and Dad fight. I lie in the dark as I listen to their voices rise, thinking that, somehow, I can make the fighting stop with my stillness.
I remember showing the contest directions to Dad, the ones that said the size of canvas we could enter. Dad pushed the paper aside and said, “The size of your canvas is not going to matter, Jasmine. They don’t really care about things like that.”
“No.” I barely whisper the word. No. The shaking feeling is back, only it’s much worse than it was last night. I have failed. Mom will make me attend summer classes at Fishers. Dad will go to his art institute classes without me, and I will be nothing.
Nothing.
I shove my way off the stage and head toward the exit doors. Who cares if it’s the emergency exit and the alarm will ring? This is an emergency, and there has to be something I can do to stop the train wreck that is about to become my summer.
I reach out for the exit doors as Mr. McIntosh drops his heavy hand on my right shoulder. “Can I see you in my office please?”
I whirl around in time to see Julie Ann shake her head and smirk. I want to sink into the floor. I have lost the art contest. I’ve disappointed Dad, and I’m going to spend days in after-school detention. Everything is more than a train wreck. It is a tsunami.
Chapter Three
“A little to the left,” I hear Mom say as I push open the door to the apartment. I drop the yellow flyer on the front hall table and head toward her voice. On the way home, I had stopped by the Art Palace. Jennifer, the Art Palace Director, was just posting the art contest flyer on the bulletin board inside the double doors. “Good luck, Jasmine,” she told me. “The theme is ‘celebration’.”
I don’t feel like celebrating right now, but I’m sure I can come up with something by the contest deadline at the end of July. And this time I will win.
“Mom?” I holler.
“In here!”
I round the corner and find myself standing next to a tall ladder. “What are you doing?”
Mom touches a spot on the wall that has been missed. A man wearing paint-stained overalls holds a roller brush covered in bright yellow paint.
“I’m just making a few changes.” Mom says, and laughs in a high-pitched voice. It doesn’t sound at all like a laugh, more like a shriek. She brushes a strand of dark hair away from her face. “I always wanted more color in this room.”
“Does Dad know?” Dad hates change. He is not going to like this yellow wall.
“Your dad left,” Mom says abruptly.
“He never came back from this morning’s photography shoot?” I try to process what Mom is telling me.
“No.” Mom looks hard at me before she reaches in her pocket and pulls out a note. “Here.”
Slowly I take the note. My hands are shaking and my heart is pounding. I don’t need a magic ring or any other type of sixth sense to tell me that my world is about to crash in on me.
Dear Jasmine,
I know this will be a disappointment to you, but I have been hired for a photography shoot in Africa. I have to leave. Your Mother and I need some space apart. This will be good for both of us.
Love,
Dad
P.S. I called the school to find out about the contest. Next time, you must spend more time on your project. And follow the directions!
My eyes blur, but it doesn’t matter. The facts are there, on the paper. In his handwriting.
Dad is gone. The words replay over and over in my mind, and I can’t help but think if I had won the contest, this might have been different. Dad might have had a reason to stay. But I lost, and he is gone.
I raise my eyes and look anywhere but at Mom. I have been at school only seven hours, but already the loft looks like an interior decorator swept through the place. An interior decorator in love with the color yellow, who splashed bright sunshine yellow everywhere. Even the rugs are now yellow.
“Did you change the studio, too?”
“No.” Mom reaches over to turn on the living room lamp. Her arm brushes against a vase, which topples to the ground. A long thin crack splinters along the side, and a jagged crack forms as it hits the floor. It looks like at any moment, the vase will crack in two.
“Be careful!” A small silver of blood appears on Mom’s thumb. I grab a tissue out of the box on the table and hand it to her.
“Uncle Jasper,” she mutters as she wraps her thumb with the Kleenex.
“Uncle Jasper?” I wonder if Mom has lost part of her mind. Uncle Jasper is Mom’s older brother, who lives on a tiny island in the Pacific Northwest. Once a year he makes a surprise visit. Mom always says, “Can’t you call first?” and then pulls him into the apartment with a big hug. I know Mom enjoys Uncle Jasper’s unexpected visits as much as I do. But why does she say his name when the vase tips over?
“The vase is from his island,” Mom murmurs. “A gift.”
She sets the broken vase pieces on the coffee table and says brightly, “I bought something for you today, too.” Mom tries to smile at me, but it doesn’t even come close to meeting her eyes. “It’s in the bathroom.”
“Why?” I cross my hands in front of my chest. A gift at this point means one thing—pity. I don’t want a pity gift. I’ll probably walk into the bathroom and find a box of fake flowers that she thought looked so lively and colorful she just had to have them. Or, maybe she has bought one of those baskets of fake seashells soaps—the kind of soaps you can’t use because they are for display only.
“Jasmine,” Mom says softly. “He left me too.”
My insides twist and tears clump in my throat. I know Mom is right. Dad left both of us, and both of us hurt. It’s no good to be angry with her.
“I’m sorry.” I give her a quick hug. “I’m sure I’ll like my gift.”
Mom wraps her arms around me and pulls me close. I breathe in the smell of her perfume, and something else. Something that smells like a deep sadness that can never be washed out of her clothes or mine. When she releases me, I feel as if something has been sucked out of me. I take a deep breath, turn, and head toward the bathroom.
I haven’t gone three steps before I stop in front of one of Dad’s pictures. There are no awards on the pictures in the hallway. Dad said the pictures didn’t fit in the studio. They weren’t award winners. I rub my fingers over the glass. I remember the shoot, and even though I never told Dad, I like this picture better than Dad’s award pictures. The afternoon of the shoot, Dad and I had driven an hour north to a cornfield. Dad spent hours working and adjusting his shutters and flashes to get just the right light. I spent the time drawing tall stalks of corn and trying to capture every tassel on the page. I rub my fingers over the glass.
Why did you leave? Why?
I swallow the lump in my throat and turn away from the picture to pull open the bathroom door. Inside the bathroom, baskets of lilac bath soaps, gels, salon shampoo and conditioner sit on the sink, on the tub, and in the shower. Mom must have spent a fortune and bought out the store. I pick up one of the lilac bath gels, open the lid, and inhale. The lilac rushes around me. It’s much better than Julie Ann’s peach lotion that made me want to gag.
“Do you like it?” Mom steps up behind me and places her arms around me.
“Yes,” I say, and swallow. “Why does it have to be so hard?”
“What?”