Pure Red (18 page)

“Do you think she wanted me to paint her hands all stretched out?” Dad laughs.

I pull the cloth wrap tight around my shoulders again. I have to ask. “Dad, where is the dress?”

He sighs. “I know you want me to work on the balcony painting, and like I said, I will. Soon. I promise.” His eyes are full again.

This time I reach out to him. “Dad, I know you will, but really, I was only asking about the dress. I was looking for it tonight.”

The muscles in his face tense. “Ah, she took it with her.”

“Huh?”

Dad looks down at the table. “I buried her in that dress. It was her favorite. Bianca’s dream was to be a clothing designer. She wanted to design clothes for mothers and daughters. Had she lived … ” He breathes deep. “I know she would’ve been very successful.”

That’s when we both totally lose it. Dad throws his arms around me and I cling to him, tight. I know she would’ve been successful, too, if only she had been given the chance. If only the doctors had detected the tiny hole in her heart before it was too late.

pumping red

Graham calls me right when he gets back from his mini getaway,
yahoo!
He says he thought about me a lot,
double yahoo!
I tell him about
Lady in Red
, how I’ve chosen to hang it in the family room for all to see, rather than hogging the whole thing up in my bedroom. I even tell him about my dinner with Helga, but I leave out a thing or two. We talk late into the night, after most of the hardcore clubbers in my building have stumbled home, me snuggled under my comforter.

“Called my guidance counselor today. She let me add ceramics to my schedule.” I swing my stuffed elephant around by the trunk.

“That’s great. I could use a new mug.” Graham laughs.

I look up at my ceiling. There are still a few glow-in-the-
dark stars left from when I was going throu
gh m
y astron
omy stage in middle school. “Don’t laugh, you might get what you wish for.”

“Yeah, then I can say I knew you when.”

“Before
you
get famous is more like it. Your artwork is really amazing.” I lick my lips and savor the heavenly taste of his kiss again.

“Thanks. It’s so cool that your dad’s letting me hang a couple of pieces at the gallery for the fall show.” I can feel the excitement in Graham’s voice. It’s cute.

“I’m just happy you’re going to cover the spot where
Lady in Red
was.”

“Tough act to follow.”

“Yes, she is.” I sit up and look in the mirror on my dresser. My roots jump out at me. School starts in a few weeks. I have to decide soon if I want to go back as Licorice Chick or let the whole thing grow out.

“And I know something you’re going to try on Saturday,” Graham says.

“You do?”

“Yeah, I’m taking you surfing at my favorite spot down by Third Stree
t.”

“Cool, I’m up for making a fool of myself.” I laugh.

“I’ll bring my video camera for that.” Graham laughs too.

I hear Dad’s keys rustle in the front door. He’s back from an art benefit. He calls my name from the kitchen. “My dad’s home. I better go.” I get up from my bed.

“Good night,” Graham says with a yawn.

It is.

–––––

Liz and I meet at the beach early, before it gets overrun by tourists. Something we usually don’t do. By two o’clock we’re both fried and ready to go home. Coach did say to take it easy before tomorrow’s game, but she didn’t say deep-fry yourself.

On my way home from the beach, I pass a florist and something pulls me inside. I know Mom loved flowers and every time Dad visits her grave, he brings a bouquet, but I have never bought one for her.

I open the glass door and the bell chimes. Immediately at least twenty different scents call out to me. I’m looking for something pure, something white, just like her name. Bianca.

A tall guy with a kelly-green apron is pulling new arrivals out of a bucket. “Can I help you?”

I inch closer to the middle of the room where the smell of fresh flowers is most intense. I breathe in deep. “It’s my mother’s birthday tomorrow.”

He’s probably heard people say that a million times, but this is the first time I ever remember saying it.

“Does she have a favorite?” The man gets up from his perch. His face is partially masked by a thick beard, but I know by the sound of his voice and the way he struts that he’s still pretty young.

The truth is, I don’t know. I only know she liked flowers. I point to the top shelf of the refrigerator. “These are pretty.”

“Gar
denias. Great choice.” He grabs a bunch and walks over to the cellophane-wrapping station on the counter.

“Can you use the clear wrap?” In case she’s watching, I want her to be able to see them easily through the wrapping.

I hold the flowers up to my nose and sneak whiffs all the way home. I hope I haven’t extracted all the smell before they get to Mom tomorrow. As usual, I’m dripping with sweat once I get inside. I place the gardenias in a vase with some water, then grab some orange juice from the fridge.

There’s a package sitting on the counter. It has a little yellow sticky on it with my name. It definitely looks like a painting. I can’t believe Dad already finished the one of me and Mom on the balcony. I thought it would take him months to feel ready.

It’s wrapped very carefully and I have to use a knife to get off some of the masking tape. I unravel the layers of brown paper and pull out a canvas. It’s not me and Mom. Just me. I was not expecting this.

I hold it up to the light. It doesn’t look like Dad’s usual style. It has an Andy Warhol–like quality to it. The painting is vivid and really pops out at you. It’s clearly me, though. The long nose, dark hair, round eyes like Dad’s. I look older, more sophisticated than I do in the end-of-the-school-year portrait. It’s true I’ve aged this summer, and I’m not talking about all the time I’ve spent in the sun. Maybe I do look a bit like Mom. Bianca Bernard, Lady in Red.

I’m wearing a light-pink tank top in the painting, and on the outside of my shirt is a red heart. The heart is 3D, mixed media. It looks like hard plastic on top of glittery sponge. I run my fingers over it. It’s so shiny that it seems like the paint is still wet. My heart. How sweet.

I turn the painting over to check for an inscription, an explanation. The black print is tiny and neat. Not like Dad’s usual scrawl.
Pure Red
. Then, underneath,
Graham Hadley
.

Oh my God! No he didn’t?
I nearly drop the painting onto the floor. I grip the sides tight and flip it back to the front. This time I notice the silhouette of a guy’s face in the background. It’s him. Graham, in black and white. And me in color. I stare closely at my heart. There’s no hole. It’s pumping red. The color of courage. The color of passion. The color of victory.

The End

Shanna Nye Photography

About the Author

Danielle Joseph was born in Cape Town, South Africa, and now lives in Miami, Florida. She is a lover of contemporary art, indie music, and anything purple. Check out her other YA novels,
Shrinking Violet
and
Indigo Blues
, and visit her online at www.daniellejoseph.com.