I’m not exactly sure when I notice I’m awake. I feel a faint sensation wash over me like I’m being drenched in the morning. Then the birds become more audible, and I hear Mrs. Maywinn’s kids grumbling and shuffling down their driveway toward the bus stop like sleepy, heavy-footed baby bears.
I’m not even tired, but I stay in bed, staring absentmindedly at my eyelids until they open accidentally, and I stare absentmindedly at the fake sunshine and real sunshine mingling on my ceiling.
I guess I have to get up now.
Once you’ve gotten your first shot of sunlight for the day it’s nearly impossible to go back to sleep. I guess I forgot to draw the curtains last night, but there’s nothing to do about it now.
It’s way early.
Like 6:37 a.m. early, and I don’t think I’ve ever been out of bed at this time of the morning, except maybe Christmas mornings back when I was in grade school.
What does Mrs. Moon do with all this time?
I know she and Kattar both tend to wake up well before Mother Earth does, but I suppose there’s no such thing as ‘extra’ time when you’re Mrs. Moon.
I might as well do something beneficial with my energy, so heading down the stairs, I decide to vacuum the lower level. I organize all my paint supplies and put them where they belong inside my storage cabinet. I clean all the kitchen counters and clear out the leftover junk I’ve left sitting there for who knows how long -
And make pancakes and bacon in my pajamas, just because I can.
I haven’t heard the chickadees in a long time, but one comes and lands on the kitchen windowsill today, tilting its head, like it’s trying to figure out whether it recognizes me.
It’s probably not the same one, but I give it a careless little wave. It tilts its head again and then flaps its wings without moving from its perch - its awkward attempt at waving back.
Close enough.
I should buy more birdseed. I’m sure the feeder’s been empty for ages.
Don’t worry cutie. I think to myself. I’ve got you covered.
I’m going to make sure we’re all eating.
All living.
I promise.
*
I pull out my phone to text Kat as I enter the office building. I’m a little early, but not too early today, thank goodness.
Still, my high heels feel loud in the almost silence.
I see a few shadows moving around behind drawn blinds and paint faces into the gray spaces, imagining-
Hey, can I come over later?
That woman there with the big mass of loose curly hair has a rosy face, covered in freckles, like a modern-day Merida.
Kattar’s text comes through quicker than usual…
“Yeah, sure. We can watch a movie or something. I have a whole bunch of them Ryan brought me that I have yet to get around to.”
The two people behind that odd, paisley print curtain are a brand-new artist like me - fidgeting with her ponytail - and an older agent. I can tell by his shadow that he has a big curly beard. He probably looks like a Jewish lumberjack in outdated formalwear.
“Okay, but could we watch something a little less gory this time? I’m fine with action movies or whatever, but I don’t want to watch a whole bunch of people getting killed.”
The last shadow has a large mane spread out all around her head like a storm cloud or an inky black dandelion-
“Si, si. Whatever you like.”
I know it before it even comes to the door.
“Ms. Palmero?” Emelia calls in an even tone that sounds loud, standing at the door to her office with an impatient edge to her posture.
Just breathe.
We’re going to have a good day.
I’m not about to let her ruin this for me.
*
“Well, we’ve got some great news,” she says it like it’s sarcasm, or an inside joke, as her navy blue sleeve rustles back and forth across stacks and stacks of printer paper.
“Another museum wants you to make an exhibit for them,” she oozes drily, looking up at me now.
It takes me a minute to register that that really is good news.
“Oh- y-you’re serious? What museum? Where?”
“The Arthur Rose Museum of Contemporary Art,” it’s almost a sigh or a yawn, but she stifles it, fixing her glasses as she examines her notes. “It’s not very popular but, you are just starting out, so I suppose we’ll have to take whatever offers you get.”
I just bite my tongue.
“We also have some messages here that Mrs. Xochitl forwarded at some unholy hour last night. There’s a Journal, “Still Life,” looking to do an interview with you and one of their weird photoshoots. They like recreating paintings as photographs and seem to be under the impression that all artists are conceited little hens who care more about having their faces on magazine covers than the art itself. But I can just let them know if modeling’s not your thing…”
It’s a trap.
But I don’t care. Before I can even stop my tongue I find myself saying-
“I’ve actually done modeling before, for quite a prestigious photographer.”
I don’t even like it but-
“I’m fine on camera. Which picture did they want to recreate, and when?”
That same look on her face -
But this time, there’s a hint of someone else.
Like she didn’t want me to say yes, but she was ‘so certain’ that I would.
I look off to the side smoothing my hair over one shoulder and pretend I can’t see her as she shakes her head at the stack of papers.
“They’ll suit their schedule to yours. They’re looking to recreate that one with the woman floating in the river. ‘Eve’ is it? You can swim, can't you?”
The shadow washes-
Like a chilling wave.
It takes me a minute before I can answer.
“Um, y-yeah. I can swim.”
“Good. I’ll contact the Journal tomorrow and see about arranging the schedules.”
“Thank you.”
At those words, she stops and looks at me sharply, like she thinks I’m being condescending. Her frown deepens but she says nothing, aggressively shutting her binder, and sliding another into its place.
“They want to do the interview and photoshoot on separate days, but the interview is just a brief thing. You should be able to get it done in just a few hours if you can avoid saying ‘um’ and stuttering so much.”
I make my smile a little sweeter in an attempt to overcompensate for all the ‘spiced’ things I’m thinking. I like to imagine-
I’m a lot more professional than she is.
And I let the bitterness force this elegant facade.
I can do so much better than her - hate her just as much - and never let it show-
“Have you worked out a plan for your workshop yet?” she asks abrasively as she lays her pen down.
“I’ve drafted a concept, but it’s not finished yet,” I reply evenly, maybe a little too impressed with myself at that achievement. “There are still a few details I’m working to perfect-”
“-You can waste all the time you want when it comes to finishing your own projects,” Emelia interjects, a little heatedly, “But The Center is waiting for you, and even if they are outrageously set on working with this ‘new and up and coming genius’ the business doesn’t revolve around you. They can’t be waiting around forever for finicky ‘artists’ to finally decide on something.”
Just…
Hold your tongue.
I stare at her for so long without responding that she simply sits back in her chair. My expression is the same after her outburst as it was beforehand. I don’t smile. I don’t frown.
I blink once.
“Concerning ‘Still Life Journal,’ they’ll be needing my measurements right?”
*
The second I get out of the meeting I feel like a kettle ready to boil over. That feeling doesn’t dissipate the whole way to Kattar’s apartment, up all the flights of stairs or down the hallway. Before I can knock on the door, I stop and sigh.
“Is the door unlocked-?”
“It’s open.”
Slipping my shoes off with as little aggression as I can manage, I flop onto Kattar’s couch, as he watches me with curious confusion, his head tilted slightly to one side, like a house cat watching a goldfish swimming in circles.
“You seem chipper.”
“Do I? Great,” I say sarcastically, running my hands through my hair and messing up the curls.
“Gentle,” he smiles, wheeling over, and removing my hands gently from my head, “Whatever you're angry about, I’m sure your hair isn’t to blame.”
“Sorry, I’m just done today. I’m hungry. I’m exhausted. My head hurts. I have to meet up with my landlord tomorrow about buying the apartments. I have to finish crafting my workshop and now I have a new museum exhibit and a photoshoot to be working on too. I’m just wiped. What’s in that bag?”
Kattar looks down at the bag he’s holding vaguely like he forgot it was there, before handing it to me without a sort of smile-shrug.
“Well, I was planning to give this to you on one of our dates, but I guess I got a little ahead of myself.”
I raise one eyebrow, but as he doesn’t look like he’s planning to explain anything more, I reach into the bag and draw out a little crocheted lion hugging a red heart that says “be mine” in bold letters.
“Ohhh, this is so adorable,” I coo involuntarily as Kattar blushes just slightly, smiling at my obvious enjoyment. I smile up at him holding the toy next to his face, “It’s almost as cute as you, but not quite.”
He turns a shade redder at that as I kiss the little kitty on its nose and laugh. “I think I’ll let him keep me company tonight. At least he’s not likely to complain about how often I wash my linen.”
“Ha ha,” Kattar rolls his eyes, and I can’t help but blush a little myself - too happy for my own good, as I toss him back the scarlet gift bag.
“My aunt can’t stand the color red, so you can reuse the gift bag. Gosh,” this smile is starting to get embarrassing, but I can barely even cover it with my hands “I can’t wait to start ‘my boyfriend’ing people. My boyfriend bought me this dress. My boyfriend was in this movie.”
Kattar says nothing but seems to be drinking in my glow like he’s a flower and I’m the sun - my sheer, beaming joy providing him with sustenance.
But then I notice, the slight discomfort behind his grin - just a twinge of-
“You haven’t told her yet.”
It’s not a question. I know it’s true as soon as I say it.
He raises his eyebrows for one moment, like he’s the one surprised before stammering quickly -
“N-no, but she’s the only one I wanted to tell myself. You can tell anyone else that you want to.”
“No…” I shake my head, and as I say it I know… “That’s not fair, Kat.”
He may have some issues with his mom, but I can’t deny what she’s done for me. What I know she gave up for our sake-
“If we’re not going to tell her, then we shouldn’t tell anyone.”
He frowns a little at those words, like a sullen child, set on being defiant.
I know.
You have some strong feelings about that.
But I have some strong feelings too, and I know this…
I sigh audibly, and he looks up, as I rest the little lion against the arm of the sofa opposite the one where I sit, half reclined. He glances at the toy but doesn’t look back over at me. Contemplating the carpet like it’s prettier than I am.
“Should we set up the movie?” He asks flatly, but there’s just the ghost of something that feels like a sigh-
Frustration? Disappointment? Exhaustion? All three - or a combination of deeper emotions I can’t even guess at.
Now’s not the time to ask, no matter how badly I want to. I go to the kitchen for the snacks as he helps himself out of his chair and onto the couch, displacing the stuffed lion and putting it back in the corner where I was sitting, as he settles himself on the polar opposite side of the cushions.
My brain is exploding with a thousand things I want to say but -
No-
My mouth forms a dozen words. Meaningless questions - meaningful questions that could break through this-
No-
I don’t even want potato chips. I don’t even want to watch a movie. I feel like a bratty baby.
I just want to kiss him, and I want to make him tell me why on earth he won’t tell his mom. I’m not sure in which order, so I don’t do either as I leave the kitchen and stare down at the couch, where he sits blackly staring into space.
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