Contessa (56 page)

Opening my window, I carefully step outside. My parent
’
s bedroom is on the floor below, but it
’
s way across the house, so I know they won
’
t hear me. They retired to their room hours ago, as soon as Trey went to bed.

Lying down against the rough shingles, I pull my hood over my head not for warmth, but to keep my hair from being pulled against the material. Bundled in the blankets, I almost don
’
t feel the night
’
s chill. I lay the flowers on my chest, tucked under the top blanket so I can still see them by the moonlight. When I was learning to paint, I did a lot of still-life paintings. I challenged myself with different types of flowers, forcing myself to see subtle differences in their petals and leaves. I was a perfectionist, and would often paint the same flower over and over again until I got it right.

The camellias were my favorite. They weren
’
t the prettiest flowers, but I was fascinated how different each flower looked from bud to blossom. I had done one series of paintings over a few days that showed their progression of bloom. It was only about a foot wide, and maybe four inches tall, and I was so proud of it, I used to carry it with me in my backpack every day. The canvas began to wear after a month or so of being shuffled around with my books and supplies, so I eventually had to take it out and find a permanent home for it. I kept it in my locker in the Art Room, and every week, just during class, I
’
d set it on a small easel on the corner of my desk.

It also touched the corner of Jon
’
s desk, but he always said it was fine there. He
’
d told me he thought it was good. After a few months, I stopped taking it out of the locker, having moved on to other projects by then. I
’
d forgotten that Jon asked if he could have that painting when he left. Even though it was still one of my favorites, years later, the idea that this boy I thought was cute wanted to keep a memento of mine made me happy, and I gave it to him, no questions asked.

I remember that day, I
’
d hoped I
’
d hear from him, and that he
’
d come back to the school and see me, but he rarely did. When he would come, I never felt singled out, like he had come to see me. He
’
d mingle with everyone at the end of class, shyly say hello to me, and then he was gone.

He always kept his distance until that night a few months ago when he walked me home, marched up to my dad, and asked if he could take me on my first date.
Was that really only three and a half months ago?
It feels like so much longer now.

I study the petals. He loves me. I can
’
t stop the smile from spreading.

He loves me not.

I think about the silly game Clara used to play at the park when we
’
d stumble across a flower. There was always some boy on her mind, and she
’
d pluck each petal off, assi
gning each one to a
“
loves me
”
or
“
loves me not
”
status.

I get an idea for a painting, and it grips me tightly and moves me to go back into my room. I close the window, but keep my coat on, still warming up. I put up a small canvas on the easel over the drop cloth I keep out permanently and grab my tote full of paints. I set the flowers down gingerly on the windowsill, arranging them neatly until I
’
m ready for them.

With palette in hand, I start to knead the red tube of paint. It
’
s stiffer than it should be, and not only does the lid fly off, but paint splatters out of it, onto my coat.

“
Crap,
”
I mutter.
“
Red, too.
”
I
’
d left both of my smocks at home in the rush to get out this morning, but normally I don
’
t make such a mess before the brushes even come out. And it
’
s my good winter coat. I go downstairs quickly to the laundry room, looking for some sort of stain remover. I find a small stick, but I
’
m not sure it
’
s the best way to go about it. I notice the light from underneath my parent
’
s bedroom door. I decide to ask my mother how I should treat the paint stain.

Just before I knock, I hear them talking. I lean closer to the door to hear them better.

“
I
’
m glad you told her,
”
Mom says.

“
I don
’
t know,
”
my dad hedges.
“
Did I just tell her it
’
s okay to do it so young?
”

“
I don
’
t think so, Jacks. I mean, the whole point was to tell her how it made you feel. That it just wasn
’
t anything special because you hadn
’
t really developed true feelings for your girlfriend yet. You told her that much, right?
”

“
I don
’
t remember what I told her. I think I told her it was all about sex.
”

“
Well, that wasn
’
t quite the message we were going for. And I know that wasn
’
t true for you.
”

“
I know. I think I told her I just didn
’
t know anything at her age. It probably pissed her off more.
”

“
She seemed much better this afternoon. You must have said something right.
”

“
Or maybe we
’
re making too much of a big deal out of this. You know, maybe we
’
re overreacting, Em. Maybe we should just let it play out, I don
’
t know.
”

“
Maybe it
’
s just young love,
”
my mother suggests.
“
He
’
s her first love. It
’
s new and exciting, but she
’
s probably scared, too.
”

“
Puppy love, huh?
”

“
Maybe.
”
They
’
re quiet for a few minutes. I start to walk away, but return to the door when I hear them talking again.
“
Did your parents ever talk to you about it?
”
Mom asks.

“
My parents?
”
He laughs.
“
I was the one they didn
’
t have to worry about, remember? They never said one word to me.
”

“
Well. Maybe that
’
s what we did right. Maybe we
’
ve talked so much about it that it
’
s lost its taboo quality,
”
my mom says with a chuckle.
“
Or maybe we
’
ve given them both enough to think about that they
’
ll make the right decision.
”

“
She told me she
’
s not ready,
”
my dad says.

“
Well, Jacks, that should be enough for us, for now. She
’
s an independent thinker. She does what she wants. And if she doesn
’
t want to do something, she won
’
t.
”

“
But she can be impulsive, and you remember what it
’
s like... the feelings, the hormones.
”

“
Remember?
”
she asks.
“
What
’
s to remember? I still get that way.
”

“
I know you do,
”
my dad says. As soon as I hear them kissing, I take my coat and stain removal stick and head upstairs as fast as I humanly can.

Puppy love? Do they still call it that?

I soak the sleeve of my coat in cold water before putting the chemical on it. It
’
s on the inner seam of the sleeve, so it wouldn
’
t show too much if I can
’
t get it out. Leaving the coat on the bathroom counter, I head back to my room and pick the flowers up off the sill.

They
’
re still too pretty to pick them apart tonight. I decide to delay the art project until tomorrow, even though I know that the insane amount of family we
’
ll have here will keep me from doing anything like that. I think about texting Jon before bed, but I decide to curl into the blankets and try to get a good night
’
s sleep. It
’
ll likely be the last one I can get over this holiday weekend.

“
Livvy, Aunt Kelly
’
s here!
”
my brother says as he starts to jump on my bed, waking me up.

“
Trey, come on,
”
I plead with him groggily.

“
Dad says you need to get up and get ready.
”

“
What time is it?
”

“
I don
’
t know,
”
he says.

I reach for my phone on the
nightstand
, but it
’
s not there.
“
Trey, did you take my phone?
”

“
No.
”

“
Really?
”

“
Really.
”
I always keep it on my nightstand. I sit up and scan the room, but it
’
s such a mess I can
’
t really see anything on the surface.

“
I
’
m up,
”
I tell Trey.
“
Now get out so I can get ready.
”
He hops off of my bed and runs out the door.
“
Shut the door, Trey!
”
He doesn
’
t come back though, so I get up and stomp over to the door.

“
Good morning, my Olivia,
”
a guy
’
s voice says from just outside my room. I pull on my robe quickly and peek my head out.

“
Idiot,
”
I tell my cousin, Andrew, playfully.

“
Don
’
t we look pretty this morning?
”
he asks.

“
Shut up.
”

“
Who calls you
‘
my Olivia?
’”
he asks.

“
Huh? Didn
’
t you?
”

“
I was reading this.
”
He stares down at my phone and reads it aloud again.
“
Good morning, my Olivia.
”

“
Give me that!
”
I grab for it just as a text alert goes off.

“
Another message,
”
Andrew says as he towers over me, holding the phone high above my head. He reads it to me.
“
I miss you.
Wow, Livvy, do you have a boyfriend?
”

“
Shut up!
”
I repeat.
“
Please give me that.
”

“
Andrew
,
give her the phone.
”
His older sister, Madeleine, appears at the top of the stairs.
“
Hey, Livvy! I was just coming to see if you were up.
”

“
You guys are really early.
”