Art & Soul Page 2

  Across the road I could see Simon’s porch light shining.

  Thank God.

  Simon was my best—and only—friend. We’d known each other since we were in diapers. Our moms were best friends, so Simon and I were destined to be united in friendship. I think both parents were a little disappointed when the two of us didn’t fall madly in love and live happily ever after. Simon was more into blonde hair than my auburn, and I was more into boys who called me cute and then pretended I didn’t exist, so our love story never came to fruition.

  The rain was freezing. I tried my best to cover up my soaking wet, see-through white tank top as I snuck into Simon’s backyard and tapped on his bedroom window, hoping to not wake his parents. Although I was close to his family, the idea of Mr. Landon finding me standing in a see-through shirt would be cause for a nice round of therapy.

  I shivered, standing in a puddle of water.

  It took a few minutes before Simon woke up and walked over to see me. He blinked a few times, rubbing the palms of his hands against his sleepy eyes. The window opened and I climbed inside, something I’d done for years.

  Simon went on to lock the window. He double-checked and triple-checked the lock, and then—for full certainty—he checked it once more.

  Most boys would’ve at least glanced at me in the state that I was in, my top clinging to my braless breasts, but Simon didn’t flinch. Plus, he didn’t have his glasses on, so he was pretty much blind as a bat. One time when we were younger, I was changing in his room when he walked in on me. That time he did have his glasses on and his eyes met my chest instantly. Pretty sure he blushed every time he saw me for two months straight.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, a hint of unease in his voice. If there was anyone who was more concerned about me than my parents, it was Simon. He was a natural worrier—for good reason, too. After a rough past, Simon was allowed to worry a little more than others.

  “Just cold,” I replied, not really wanting to alarm Simon more.

  “Did you randomly decide to take a walk at two in the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the pouring rain?”

  “It wasn’t pouring when I left,” I lied.

  “Pretty sure it was pouring when you left.”

  “Well, I thought it would slow down.”

  “You should’ve checked the weather.”

  “Next time.”

  “I’ll grab some towels so you can dry off, and I’ll get a wet rag for the muddy feet you’re dragging across my carpet.” He didn’t sound bothered with the muddy floor, but I knew he was.

  Simon headed for the bathroom, and I tried my best to keep my muddy feet in one place.

  When he brought me the towels, he opened the bottom dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of my pajamas that I always left at his place. As he handed them to me, he turned away to give me privacy. After removing all of my soaked clothing, I took my new top and slipped it over my head.

  “You’re going to need to bring more clothes to leave in the dresser if you’re planning on moving in with me,” Simon said sarcastically, yet extraordinarily sweetly. “Tell me when.”

  My new shorts moved up my ghost-white legs, and I smoothed them out with my fingers. “I’m good.”

  He walked over to his dresser where his glasses case was sitting. He opened it and placed his eyewear over his green eyes. His reddish orange hair was standing up in some places, yet completely flattened in others. He looked exactly how I always imagined any person named Simon to look: kind of slim, but very tall; kind of nerdy, but oddly handsome.

  “Did you shave the right side of your head?” he questioned, his eyes turning to my new hairdo.

  “I did indeed, do you like it?”

  His head tilted to the left and took in my new look. His head tilted to the right, still staring. “It’s…artsy. Very much you.”

  “You hate it.” He did. I wasn’t surprised.

  “No, no. I like it,” he promised, which was a lie. Simon liked things to be as normal as possible when it came to looks. He hated standing out, but he knew for a fact that he had become best friends with an artistic girl who was always going to stand out a bit when it came to my looks.

  I smiled at his lie, walked over to his computer chair, and sat. His room wasn’t drunk in colors like mine. It was all quite boring. Linen carpets with pearl white walls. The only color came from the few posters hanging up from his favorite video games.

  He lowered his body to the carpet and started rubbing the mud out. “Sorry about that, Si.”

  He chuckled, his shoulders rising and falling. “Well, ya know what they say, no better way to fix a slight case of OCD than muddy carpets.” He got on all fours and started scrubbing harder.

  I leaned forward, resting my elbows against my boney knees. Trying not to frown, I asked, “How is that going?” Simon had always been a little obsessive about things, but I never thought it was a real issue and really, most of the things just seemed like pet peeves.

  When we were younger all of his toys had to face a certain direction. The television volume always had to be placed at a number ending with four. The forks always had to be washed separate from the spoons. Little things, really, but then I started noticing the older we grew, the bigger deal he would make of things dealing with the number four. The dinner table always had to be set for four people, even if only two people were eating. All doors and window locks had to be checked and double-checked—and triple-checked, and quadruple-checked.

  Sitting back on his heels, he sighed and wiped his brow. “I’m never going to get laid, or a girlfriend, am I? I’m going to be a forty-year-old virgin.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I remarked. “You’ll be getting laid in no time.”

  “Right. And I’ll be like, ‘hey, sexy mama, if you could just allow me to put on and take off the condom four times before we start the dirty, that would be great.’ Yeah, no big deal.”

  I snickered. “You’re right. You’re never going to get laid.”

  Simon narrowed his eyes at me and placed the dirty rags into his laundry hamper. He moved to his nightstand and squeezed four squirts of hand sanitizer into his palm. “You’re such a bitch.”

  “I love you too,” I grinned. My hair was still dripping wet from the rain, and I began braiding it. “Listen, if you’re still a virgin on the eve of your thirty-ninth birthday, I will show up and we’ll have sex together. I’ll even let you touch my boobs four times.”

  Simon’s eyes traveled to my chest and his lips turned up. His cheeks flushed crimson. “Well, I might have to touch them six times. Or ten. Who knows how bad this issue of mine will be by then.”

  “You’re such a guy sometimes.”

  “And don’t you forget it.” He hopped on his bed and pushed his glasses up his nose. “So, do you want to keep playing nonchalant about your late night visit or do we want to discuss what’s bothering you?”

  “What makes you think something is bothering me?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. My heart pounded in my throat as I grabbed my purse and climbed onto his bed. My legs crossed, my lips hardened, and I slipped my hand into the purse.

  First, I pulled out a paper towel and laid it on his comforter.

  I reached back into the purse.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  I laid the four plastic sticks on the paper towel, and I watched the air evaporate from Simon’s lungs. He was silent, which made me sick to my stomach.

  “Are those…?”

  I nodded.

  “And they are…?”

  I nodded again.

  I’d made sure to get four tests in honor of my best friend. Well that, and for my own wellbeing.

  “How did you afford all of those?” he asked, knowing that I was pretty good at never having enough money for ice cream or chocolate.

  “I saved up the money from babysitting Grace and KitKat these past few weeks. And trust me
, the irony of me getting the money for these from babysitting wasn’t overlooked.”

  Four different tests. Four different brands. Four different days. Four matching results.

  Simon was emptied of thought as he fell backward, running his hand over his mouth. “Aria…for the simple fact that it seems false until one of us verbally speaks the words, I’m going to ask you to say it.”

  “I’m pregnant.” The words burned the back of my throat, and I felt ridiculously alone once they left my mouth.

  “How? Who?”

  “Over the summer. There was a guy.”

  “You never mentioned a guy.” Simon’s curiosity was at an all time high, but I didn’t want to go into any more details of how I’d humiliated myself and fallen for the wrong guy.

  “I didn’t think he was worth mentioning.”

  He didn’t know what to say after that. Neither did I.

  We sat quietly until 5:56 A.M. The rainstorm had passed, and I knew I should head back home before my parents left for work. I’d told them I would watch my little sisters during the day for twenty bucks.

  I climbed back out of Simon’s window and thanked him for sitting up with me and not once looking at me with a judgmental stare.

  “Are you going to keep it?” Simon whispered.

  I shrugged. I hadn’t really put any thought into the fact that I was actually pregnant after I’d peed on four different sticks, and told him the news. “My parents are going to flip out.”

  Simon frowned. He knew they were going to freak out about this. Especially Dad. “Well, whatever you need just let me know.”

  A sad, small grin took over my lips. There was something so remarkable about best friends. They were always a solid reminder that you were never truly alone.

  * * *

  I headed back through Mr. Myers’ woods and at the halfway mark I paused and glanced up at the sky. The sun was waking with a yawn, slowly stretching its light across the trees with the burnt leaves that would soon enough fall to the ground.

  I wasn’t ready for it to be morning. I wasn’t ready to go home. I wasn’t ready to face the fact that tomorrow was the first day of school and I would be that girl. The girl who was going to start wearing baggy clothes to try to hide a growing stomach. The girl who was going to be noticed not because of her artistic ways, but because of her bad decisions. The girl who was knocked up in high school.

  My back leaned against a tree, and I allowed the tang of the morning air to kiss my cheeks.

  “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

  A quiet voice made me swiftly turn around. My eyes darted around the woods, searching for the sound. The voice continued speaking, but it was clear that the words weren’t being directed toward me.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  Those words definitely weren’t created for me. Most of the time when people talked about me they said, “Oh. Aria. You’re so…unique,” or, “You’re too skinny, eat a burger,” or, “What the hell did you do to your hair this time?!”

  A few feet away a guy was kneeling in front of a deer. The deer’s eyes were wide, alarmed, but he wasn’t terrified enough to run. I’d never seen the guy before, but he appeared about my age. I knew everyone in Mayfair Heights by first and last name—even if they never noticed me—so it was strange that his face was unfamiliar to me. He had chocolate-colored hair that was hidden under a baseball cap, and a slight shadow of a beard. He wore a sapphire T-shirt with faded jeans, and loosely tied blue Chucks.

  In his hand were berries, which he held out toward the deer.

  “You’re gonna love these,” he promised. Each time he spoke I noticed the accent attached to the words. He wasn’t from around here—that was for certain. There was this southern drawl that showed up at the end of each of his sentences; it was soothing.

  The deer stepped forward, moving in closer to him. Anticipation overtook me, hoping the deer would connect with the stranger.

  Do people feed deer? Is that a thing?

  A part of me wanted to look away from him, but another part really wanted to keep staring. My left foot moved backward, snapping a branch, and my right foot hit another, causing me to fall backward onto my butt. The deer became startled and ran off in the opposite direction.

  “Shoot!” he hissed, tossing the berries to the ground before brushing his hands against his jeans. A short chuckle left him. “Almost.”

  I bit my lip and moved around, making more noise on the branches. He turned my way, looking as startled as the deer. First he was confused by my entire existence, and then pleased.

  His brown eyes smiled before his lips followed in the kindness.

  Clearing my throat, I gave him an apologetic frown.

  Taking a few steps my way, his gaze searched my face. He waited for me to say something, but I didn’t know what to say, so I remained silent. His hand reached out toward me, but I refused it, pushing myself up from the ground. He kept smiling as I brushed away the wet leaves and branches from the bottom of my bum.

  “You all right?” he questioned.

  I nodded mutely.

  His smile didn’t falter. I wondered if he knew how to not smile. “All right then,” he said. “See ya later.” He headed toward the tree house and started climbing the steps. Once he reached the top, the mystery guy disappeared inside, out of my viewpoint. I looked left, right, up, and down, glancing around at the quiet trees, wondering if he had even really existed. Yet I knew he had to be real, because the pile of berries still lay against the dampened grass.

  3 Aria

  There wasn’t a Sunday dinner when my family didn’t all eat together. Most of the time during the week Mom and Dad worked different shifts, so everyone eating together wasn’t all that common. Except for Sundays; Sundays we always ate together at our dining table because my parents thought it was important to catch up on life over a homemade meal at least once a week.

  Mom passed the bowl of crescent rolls around. “Oh! There’s news! Aria, Mr. Harper called about the art show you signed up for a few months ago. He said your work is going to be highlighted as the featured piece in the art museum. It all sounds like a very big deal.” Mom’s voice was soaked in pride and wrapped in golden approval. She never minded that I was more into the creative world than the medical world she lived in. She was one of those parents who believed their children should be their own people.

  The crescent roll bowl landed in my hands and I passed it on to Mike, not replying to Mom’s excitement.

  “I thought you would be excited.” A slight frown hit her. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

  Nothing from me.

  “Aria, your mother’s talking to you,” Dad said with command in his tone, even though his eyes were looking past the dining room table to the television in the living room playing Sports Center. Dad had a way of backing Mom up when he was hardly paying attention. He always came into the conversations at precisely the right time, like a spousal sixth sense.

  “I’m pregnant,” I stated nonchalantly, stuffing a spoonful of peas into my mouth. The words rolled off of my tongue as if it was a normal thing for me to be saying. As if I’d been trying for months to become impregnated by the love of my life. As if it was the next logical step in my life.

  Mike held his crescent roll in midair, his eyes darting back and forth between our parents. My younger sister Grace’s eyes were bugged out. My baby sister KitKat threw a few peas at Dad, but that was normal because she was a one-year-old and always threw peas at Dad.

  I supposed their reactions were the precise way to look based on what I’d told them twenty seconds before.

  I wished I was invisible.

  My eyes shut. “Just kidding.” I laughed, becoming wary of the strange silence that filled the dining room. I poked Mom’s special meatloaf with my fork. Everyone’s faces softened, the shock subsiding.

  “You’re kidding?” Mom choked out.

  “She’s kidding.” Mike sighed.

  “Kidding?” Dad
sang.

  Grace nodded with understanding. “Totally kidding.”

  KitKat giggled, but then again she was always either giggling, howling in tears, or throwing peas.

  “Yeah,” I muttered, my voice wanting to shake. I wouldn’t allow it to. “Not kidding.”

  Dad tilted his head and was alarmingly calm. “Mike, Grace, take KitKat upstairs.”

  “But!” Mike began to argue. He wanted to be front row center to watch our parents verbally assault me and my bad decisions. He was normally the one to get in trouble for drinking and partying with a few of the other football players, so it must’ve been nice to not have the parents eyeballing him with stern looks for a change. I was always the well-behaved kid who promised and delivered straight A report cards each semester. My acts of rebellion were small in comparison: a shaved head and too much eyeliner had been the extent of my wild and crazy—until now.

  Dad turned his deceivingly calm stare to Mike. That shut him up quick. He lifted KitKat out of her chair and left the room.

  The dinner table conversation took a turn for the worse, and I knew I should’ve told Mom alone first. She was a pediatrician and worked closely with kids and their issues, so maybe she would have understood. But instead, I’d tried to be all nonchalant about the issue and decided to drop my big news in front of my father.

  He wasn’t a pediatrician.

  He didn’t “get” kids.

  He was a plumber.

  He dealt with people’s crap for forty plus hours a week. Clogged toilets, sinks, nasty tub drains—you name it, he fixed it.

  Which meant by dinnertime, he was pretty annoyed by other people’s shit. Including mine.

  “Pregnant, Aria?” Dad hissed, his face turning redder and redder by the second. The bald spot on the top of his head was bright and steaming with anger. Dad was a heavyset man of very few words. He never had much reason to raise his voice at us. We were, on the whole, decent kids. Even with Mike’s drinking and partying, Dad would scold him quietly. He’d had it pretty easy raising us until about three minutes ago.