Pure Red (3 page)

Focus, Cassia, focus.
You can’t stand still for a second. I move quickly up the court, following the orange circle to its destination. Dribble. Pass. Shoot.

I try to stay open, spreading my arms wide like a bird spreads its wings. Sophia passes the ball to me and I catch it. Thirty seconds on the clock. We’re up by one point, 41 to 40.
Don’t let the other team get the ball.
I sprint toward the basket. I want to make this final shot. Number 45 moves up beside me. She blocks me like a hat blocks the sun. I can’t see the basket. I glance around the court. Alex is open.
Throw the ball to her.
I take a deep breath and Number 45’s sweat fills my nostrils. Wish I hadn’t done that. I look to the left. Then right. I do the only thing I can think of. The monkey dance. I flail my arms and sway my hips, clutching the ball like a monkey clutches his banana. Then I pass to Alex. Six seconds left on the clock. People are shouting. Alex catches the ball and shoots. She scores!

Red team wins, 43 to 40.

Red stands for victory.

orange energy

It’s just after eight when I walk in the door from dinner. Gerry’s Pizza has the best slices—I don’t even bother with toppings. It’s a sin to add anything to their mozzarella. I invited Liz over, but she has plans with Harry, so her mom dropped me off.

Dad is finally dressed. Khaki pants and a navy blue Polo shirt. His hair has been tamed back with gel. He doesn’t look like an exclamation point anymore. More like a period. He’s at the kitchen counter sipping a Perrier. “Hi Cassia. Where have you been?”

Huh? I’m drenched in sweat, wearing a basketball uniform. Didn’t we have this conversation less than five hours ago? “Remember, Dad? My game. Then dinner.”

“That’s right.” He spins the bottle cap around on the counter. “So how was it?”

“We won and I scored a three-pointer.”

“Bravo!” He smiles.

“So what about you? Did you go out?” I bite my lip waiting for his response.

“Never left.”

Did she come here? I look around the room. The place is a mess. The kitchen floor needs to be mopped, and painting supplies are spread all over the living room. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“So when’s the next game?” Dad asks.

I place my water bottle into the dishwasher. Top rack only. “Monday.”

“Okay, remind me. I don’t think I have anything scheduled for Monday.”

“Really?” That would be totally cool, especially if I score a few baskets. “I’m taking a shower.”

“We’re having a wine-and-cheese thing at the gallery tonight. You want to come? I’ll wait for you here.”

“Sure. I’ll be out in ten.”

I like going to the gallery. It’s a great place to people-watch. It’s easy to tell the artists from the buyers. The artists are people-watchers too, reading the expressions of the buyers, approaching them carefully if an explanation or greeting is needed. The buyers are painting-gazers, soaking in the work, commenting to their companions. You know a piece has generated interest if a buyer doesn’t move from it, ignoring the world around them.

My favorite buyer is the crazy lady, Mrs. Murble, who once accused her husband of cheating on her with a pain
ting. She said that after they hung the picture in their bedroom, he stared
at the thing more than her. I don’t blame him one bit!

After my shower, I slip on a pair of white capris and a scarlet tank top. I’m sticking with the color of victory for the night. I leave my hair down (it’s wavy if I don’t brush it) and I join Dad in the kitchen.

“Shall we?” He reaches for my hand and escorts me out the door.

I stumble over a loose spot in the hallway runner, but I grip Dad’s hand tighter and don’t fall.

“You all right,
ma cherie
?”

“Yes.” I smile.

There’s a nice breeze outside now and we walk the five blocks to La Reverie Gallery. We’ve walked this route so many times, I could do it with my eyes closed. Straight past the cafes and clubs, swing a left at the farmer’s market, and the gallery’s on the corner. Dad’s been at the same gallery forever. The owner, Lucien Pierre, is like an uncle to me. We spend a lot of holidays over at his house.

An old weathered guy, with a green mesh tank top and tattered jeans and a paper cup, blocks our path. Dad pulls a bunch of change out of his pocket and drops it into the cup. “Have a good night, Jimbo.”

Jimbo shakes the cup and gives us a toothless grin. “Thanks, Jacques. You know, you’re the man.”

We
keep on walking, past the laundromat, several coffee shops, and the Bubble Club. When I was
sm
all, I
thought th
e Bubble Club was a place for kids to blow bubbles. But judging by all the gigantic boobs that go in and out of the place, I now have a very different picture of what goes on inside.

La Reverie sits on the corner of Collins and 57
th
Avenue. There’s Jordana’s hair salon on the right and All-Fed Mini Mart across the street—my favorite place to stock up on cheesy magazines that make me glad no one is chasing me, trying to snap a photo of me in a bikini. Now if I had time to glam up, that’d be another story, but it always seems like the celebs are caught picking a wedgie in their sweats or throwing a major tantrum.

From outside the gallery, it looks like they have a good-sized crowd inside. Maybe Dad will sell a painting. Hopefully not
Lady in Red
, one of my favorites. It shows a fair-skinned, bikini-clad tourist sunning on the beach, who obviously forgot to use sunblock. I see this all the time. Don’t leave home without your SPF 50.

“Good evening, Jacques. Good evening, Cassia,” Monica says, holding the door open for us. What seems like a dozen silver bracelets dangle from her arm. She’s Lucien’s on-again, off-again, now apparently on-again assistant.

She gives Dad a kiss on the cheek, then me. I walk through the gallery, imagining I’m some super singing sensation just flown in from London on my private jet. Wave. Greet. Smile. Kiss. Exhausted when I make it to my final destination; in my case, the wooden chair behind Lucien’s desk. Dad only makes it halfway across the room. He’s stuck talking to Mrs. Murble. She has on a long flowered skirt that sweeps the floor and her hair is piled high like a sno-cone. Hopefully someone will catch his distress signal (tugging on his left earlobe) and rescue him. Not me. I like to witness her insanity from afar.

I look up.
Lady in Red.
Still here, in her yellow-wood frame. Not my first choice in frames—it doesn’t do justice to the beauty of the painting. It’s like a really hot guy wearing suspenders and a bow tie. I’d never tell my dad this, though.

I can’t exactly explain the feeling, but the first time I saw
Lady in Red
, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her. She looks like a movie star in her cherry-red bikini and over-sized sunglasses, relaxing on her pale blue beach chair. She’s surrounded by powder-white sand, and at her feet sits the ocean. But it’s more than that. Everything in the painting is in perfect proportion. It’s one of Dad’s finest pieces. Next to it is Lucien’s
Masquerade
, two couples seated on jumbo-sized wicker couches overlooking a gigantic swimming pool. If you look closely into the clear, aquamarine water, you see a crushed rose at the bottom. Lucien never talks about his love life.

A waiter approaches with a platter of cheese. He hands me a napkin and I spear a few squares with a toothpick. I leave the fancy crackers for the guests because I know Lucien keeps a box of Saltines in his desk. There’s an open packet sitting in the drawer; I turn it upside down and watch as the four remaining crackers slide out, along with a multitude of crumbs. I lay two down, top them with cheese, then add another cracker.

I munch on the little snacks and soak in the crowd. Much more interesting than the families at the basketball game. Dad’s talking to some lady with short blond hair. She’s very pretty. She keeps on grazing his arm and smiling. I wonder if she’s the one he’s dating.

I feel a strong grip on my shoulder. “I see you found my secret stash,” Lucien says. He laughs and crumples up the empty packet.

“Yup. Every time.” I laugh too, but my gaze doesn’t move from the lioness pawing my dad.

“How’s basketball going?” he asks.

“Good.” I nod. “B-ball might just be my thing.”

Lucien stares at me and strokes his chin. “I can hear th
e WNBA announcer now: ‘Cassia Bernard scores another three-pointer!’ ”

“Lucien, Lucien,” Monica yells, mid-crowd.

“See you later, kiddo.” He pats me on the back and rushes over to speak to a man with a really wide straw hat.

I wonder if he was serious. Nah.

My focus is quickly back on the blond lady until she moves on to talk to someone else, giving my eyes a rest. Why hasn’t Dad introduced us? How long have they known each other?

I take a small piece of note paper, fashion it into a mini broom, and sweep the crumbs on the desk into
a pile. I’m about to throw them away when I realize the garbage can has been moved.

There’s one near the door and another in front of a painting of a homeless woman searching through the trash for newspaper. How fitting.

The garbage can near the door looks like my safest b
et;
no need to upset the homeless lady. I clutch the crumbs in my hand and weave through the crowd. I avoid eye contact with Mrs. Murble and nod at Dad’s accountant, Hank. Somebody is staring at
Lady in Red
. Somebody new. Somebody with a very cute butt! I feel compelled to catch a glimpse of the butt’s owner, so I inch closer. Then closer.

We’re almost standing side by side now. Without turning my head, I check out the rest of the goods. He has spiky blond hair and is wearing cargo pants and an orange (energy, power, and strength) Ron Jon T-shirt. Orange, the color of basketballs, Mars, and jack-o’-lanterns, cannot survive without red. He looks about my age. I hope. And he’s tall, too, over six feet. Bonus! Kids never come here alone, though. With my luck, he’s the son of Mrs. Murble.

He’s not moving. I wonder if he’s interested in the painting in general or just the lady in the bikini. But who am I to talk? I’m staring at his butt.

“What do you think of this painting?” Cute Butt asks. He speaks! Sexy voice, too.

I can’t praise Dad’s work. Isn’t that bragging? I return the question. “What do you think?”

He cocks his head to the side like he’s thinking. Really thinking. “I love the realism and use of shading. They bring out the lady’s emotions.”

Interesting viewpoint. I would’ve commented on Dad’s brilli
ant use of colors; all the reviewers usually do.

“Yeah, this is my favorite of Dad’s paintings.” Oops, did I say that aloud?

“Jacques Bernard is your dad?” Cute Butt’s emerald-green eyes double in size. He stares at me with the same amount of intensity that he stared at the painting. I feel the heat rise to my face like a 100-watt light bulb overpowering a small room. If you look closely, the lamp has a caution sticker on the top of the base—
Bulb not to exceed 60 watts
. I hope I don’t explode.

“Um, yeah.” I back up a bit.

“Graham Hadley. Nice to me you.” He holds out his hand. Phew, he didn’t say Murble.

I extend my hand, uncurl my fingers, and watch as a handful of crumbs fall to the ground like confetti. Most of them land on Graham’s black-and-white-checked Vans.

“Happy Birthday?” I laugh, nervously.

Graham grins. “Are those cracker crumbs?”

“Yup.” I squat down to try and scoop up as much as I can.

“Working on some kind of multimedia project?” he asks.

He can’t be serious. But he kneels down to help me save the poor old crumbs. He’s collecting the few that still cling to his shoes. I look at his face. It’s unchanged. He
is
serious. Oh, now I feel bad.

“Not exactly.” I bite my lip.

“Oh, it’s more secretive than that.” He winks.

“Right. I’m Cassia, by the way.” We both stand up and I hold out my hand. Graham combines his crumbs with mine. I really don’t know what to do with them, so I shove them into my pocket.

“Cassia. Cool name. So original.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you go to Dolphin High? I think I’ve seen you before,” Graham says.

He’s seen little old me before? “Yeah. I’m going to be a junior.”

“Me too.”

I can’t believe I’ve never noticed a guy this cute at school, one who actually knows a thing or two about art. Sure, my school social events are limited, but I’m still surprised that I haven’t even gawked at him before.

“Thanks for you help,” I say.

Graham arches his back. He’s broad and muscular, making my knees quiver. “My pleasure, Lady in Red.”

Me in my red tank top and now flushed-red face? Or the painting?

I cannot move. I cannot speak. I reach out my hand to grab a chair, anything for support, but there’s nothing there so I clutch the air that stands between us.

“Can you introduce me to your dad?” Graham asks.

Figures. I finally meet a hot guy, and he wants to meet my dad.

fertile green

I walk Graham over to Dad. He stands there, mouth hanging open, like Dad’s a superhero. We’re talking about the guy who sticks his finger in the tub of hummus and sings sappy French love songs in the shower. But Graham shakes Dad’s hand, stares at him, and tells him how he’s always admired his work. So while I was watching
Scooby Doo
and playing with my Polly Pockets, Graham was soaking in Dad’s paintings at various Miami hot spots.

Dad stops the waiter and grabs a cube of cheddar off the tray. “Is this your first time visiting the gallery?”

“I’ve been here a couple of times before with my aunt. But I’ve seen your
La Fleur
collection at the SOBE museum a million times,” Graham says, eyes bugged out like he’s hoping he got the pop-quiz answer right.

I’m standing next to them, smushing the crac
ker crumbs inside my pocket into pixie dust. My face is hooked on Graham’s, which is hooked on Dad’s.

“A museum regular. That’s great.” Dad’s eyes don’t leave Graham’s face. Everyone is a potential subject. He studies each feature carefully, even though he doesn’t paint people he knows—except lucky me!

A woman bellows over the crowd, “Bye, Jacques.” I turn toward the door.

It’s her. The blond lady.

Dad just smiles and gives her a fluttery wave. He is
so
dating her. Excuse me while I go puke. I squint my eyes and curl my upper lip in her direction, but she’s already flickered away. I’ll catch her next time.

Graham and Dad launch into a discussion about mixing colors, Dad doing most of the talking and Graham the nodding. I, on the other hand, am trying to get the blond lady out of my head and focus all my brain power on Graham.

“When I was younger I used to be careless with the tubes of paints.” Dad runs his fingers through his hair and knocks a gelled clump loose from the rest of the bunch.

“That’s totally me,” Graham says, laughing. “But I’m learning to be more conservative.”

“I used to be like that with food,” I say, biting the inside of my lip. “Order way too much, eyes bigger than my stomach.”

Nobody says anything. The celebrity and the fanatic both stare at me with sympathy in their eyes.

Dad snatches a glass of red wine off another tray and Graham shifts his weight back and forth. Then they smile at each other in some sort of secret artist code. I take a deep breath to calm my inner stupidity.
Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Thirsty.” I point to myself and swiftly move toward the mini-fridge in the back. Anything to get away from all that starry-eyed,
oh, how I’ve always worshiped
you
stuff. So here I am, standing in the corner after I’ve chugged almost the whole bottle of Aquafina, wondering why the hell I’m pissed off. I should be happy that this really hot guy is gaga over my dad. That makes my dad young, hip, and cool. Except what about me? Did they even notice that I walked away? Okay, so you don’t have to get an A in psychology (I did get an A, though) to realize that I’m more pissed about the lady pawing Dad than I am about Graham. But why does my dad need a girlfriend now? We were managing fine without her. When he said he was going to try dating again, I thought it meant catching an occasional movie or grabbing a bite to eat now and then. More like finding hang-out buddies, not one specific, potentially desperate woman.

I try to calm down, like I didn’t just have a major internal hissy fit, and shake loose all my negative energy. Then I screw the cap back on the water bottle, walk over to the recycle bin, and shoot. Score! A three-pointer.

Dad and Graham are now in front of
Moonlight Bisque
, talking about technique. Dad spent forever trying to get the moon right in that picture. While
he
was mixing the creamy-colored paint, my stomach had growled, and I told him it looked like the soup Lucien serves every Christmas. Not even ten minutes later, while I was watching
Gilmore Girls
reruns, he yelled out, “You’re right! That’s it! Moon Bisque”—which later became
Moonlight Bisque
.

“Hey, Cassie.” I feel a jab in my side.

“Hi, Thomas,” I say, even before confirming it’s him. No matter how many times I correct this kid, he still calls me Cassie.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Not much. Just taking in the beauty.” I point to the abstract with no name in front of me, but my eyes quickly flit over to Graham to make sure he’s still talking to Dad and hasn’t left yet.

“Nice.” Thomas runs his hand over his shaved head. “Well, I’ve looked around. Wanna grab something to eat?”

As nice as Monica’s nephew is, he’s pretty clueless. I’m not sure why he comes to the gallery shows in the first place.

“Sorry, I promised my Dad I would stay and I haven’t even made it around the room yet.”

“It’s good stuff, but how long can you stare at a painting?” Thomas swipes a clump of cheese squares off a tray as the waiter goes by. “I’m starving.” He confirms my suspicions—he comes here for the food.

“Well, I have to get back to Dad.” And Graham. Geez, I wonder if they know each other. Doubt it, though. Thomas is a year ahead of us in school and plays baseball. He’s one of the star players, too. I went with Lucien and Monica to a game last year, and ever since then he’s been really friendly to me.

“Okay, I’ll probably head out. Some guys are hanging at the Bristol.” He downs the rest of the cheese.

“Cool. Catch you later.” I start to walk away.

Thomas is in mid-chew and thankfully does not open his mouth to answer. He nods and throws me a wave. He’s not a bad-looking guy or anything, but we have nothing to talk about. I think Monica knows this, so thankfully she doesn’t push him on me.

I walk back over to Dad. He reaches for me and gives my arm a squeeze. “Here you are, my love.”

“Had to get some water.” I move closer to him.

Dad puts his arm around my shoulder. “Graham was telling me he goes to school with you.”

“Yeah, we just figured that out.”

“But I only transferred to Dolphin last fall. Went to Palm Pointe before that,” Graham says.

That makes a little more sense, Your Cuteness, because it means I’ve had one less year to run into you.

Monica taps Dad on the shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt, but the man in the straw hat has a question about your flower exhibit.”

Dad holds out his hand. “Good to meet you, Graham. You’ll have to excuse me for a moment.”

Ah, alone again. Well, not really alone, but as alone as you can be in a room of more than thirty people chattering about the beauty of art.

I look at Graham. At his yummy, full lips and gorgeous green eyes. And I’m not talking green like Thunder’s envy; I’m talking green like life, nature, and fertility. Fertility, oh yeah, now we’re talking, baby!

I think he senses me staring at him and smiles. My insides get all fuzzy. I hope that smile is for me, Cassia, not Cassia, daughter of Jacques the Great.

“Thanks for introducing me to your pops.” Graham slides his hands into his pockets. “I’ve been following his work since I did a book report on local artists in the fourth grade. He’s a big inspiration to me.”

Okay, so the smile wasn’t for me, but it still gives me a warm feeling for Dad. To think that some guy my age is sitting home drooling over my dad’s art work. I know it’s kind of quirky, but I’m proud of him.

“What kind of stuff do you paint?” I ask Graham.

“I started out doing goofy kid stuff like dragons and dinosaurs, but now I’m more into people and places. And abstracts, too.”

“Cool. Are you in the art magnet at school?” I notice he has a two-inch scar on his left arm. It’s not a clean scar,
because p
art of it is bubbly. I wonder how he got it. Dragon slaying? Scaling Mt. Everest? Bear wrestling?

“Yeah. Just finished advanced painting with Mrs. Sweeney. She’s a really cool teacher. What about you?”

“I draw mostly, but I’m not in the magnet. I didn’t take any art classes this year. I’m thinking about cha
nging my fall schedule, though; maybe I’ll add ceramics or photo. I’ll see.”

“If you take photo, stay away from Mr. Kim. I think he downs too many chemicals.”

I’m not sure about photo anyway. I don’t love the idea of going around town snapping people’s pics. Pottery might be more my thing. There’s something intriguing about molding the clay into a product that you can actu
ally use. “Maybe ceramics then.”

Graham pulls his hands out of his pocket and grazes the scar on his arm. Does he know I was staring at it? Am still staring at it?

“Well, you have a built-in art teacher. Actually better than a teacher.” He smiles big. Not a tooth out of line.

I shrug. “I guess.”

“Sorry, I’m probably boring you. You must hear this stuff all the time.”

“No, it’s fine.” I couldn’t ask for better boy candy. Cute butt. Chiseled features. Those fertile eyes again. Who’s to complain? “You can come over my place sometime. To see my
dad’s home studio if you want.”

Wait, what am I thinking? If I’m serious about finding my passion, Graham is a total distraction. I need to keep my focus.

He stretches his arms wide. “Really? Your dad wouldn’t mind?”

“No, not at all.” If it were up to me, the first stop on the tour would be my bedroom. Got a double bed, you
know. Grin. Okay, so who am I kidding? But I can’t say no to the owner of such a cute butt.

“That’s awesome. You’re so sweet.” Graham gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. This is so wrong. A hot tamale is giving me a kiss because he gets to see my dad’s digs. I don’t care; I’m living this up anyway.

“It’s totally fine.” I walk over to the desk and scribble my phone number on a piece of paper. “Call me.”

“Cool,” Graham says, nice and slow, like he’s trying not to freak out but his insides are shouting for joy. I guess I’d feel the same way if I was invited into the humble abode of, say, an underwear model or blockbuster movie star. But my dad, puhleese!

As we make our way to the door, Graham stops in front of
Uncharted Waters,
a tiny fishing boat navigating the ocean. “What a view!” He breathes in. “I feel like I can smell the fresh salt air.”

Our condo balcony boasts this same amazing view of the ocean. It’s by far the best thing about our place. Dad’s painted our view many times, and every time it looks different. Blue-black skies and water when a hurricane is threatening or pale blues and greens when it’s bright and sunny outside.

Being out there on the balcony is one of my clearest memories of Mom. It was just a few months before my sixth birthday. I was so excited about having a Little Mermaid cake, and Mom was outside on the balcony in her apricot Chinese bathrobe. Some days it seemed like
she spent all day staring at the ocean, breathing in the salty sea air. She’d be out there when I left for kindergarten, and when I got back she was still leaning on the railing, he
r black, black hair blowing loose in the wind. She’d call for me to come join her after she heard the front door shut. One day I asked her why she always stood in the same spot. “The sound of the ocean soothes me,” she said. I didn’t know exac
tly what she meant by that, nor did I know she was dying. That she had a tiny hole in her heart. That even with all the medical tests she went through, it went undetected. It was a stroke that finally killed her. She was only twenty-nine.

It was an unusually cold day for Miami, so she drew me close and said, “The ocean allows you to see whatever you want to see.” I looked up at the swollen black clouds and said, “I see a storm coming.” That was the last time we stood there together.

–––––

As soon as I get home, I dial Liz’s cell.
Please, pick up, please, pick up.
She answers on the third ring. “Hey, Cass, what’s up?”

I’m sitting on my bedroom floor, against the wall between my bed and my desk. I’m propped up against two huge cushions that used to belong to our old burnt-orange couch.

It’s a strong contrast to the rest of the décor.
My room is decorated in pink coral and littered with floral designs—white curtains with lilies, four silver frames of Dad’s daisy series above my desk, and even a sunflower-shaped wastebasket. You could say I was definitely going through a phase, but Dad was the one who actually surprised me with a total room makeover for my tenth birthday. Instead of updating it, I’ve just added more things to the room. Most recently, I salvaged the couch pillows on their way to the dumpster. And now that I’ve met a hot guy wearing an orange shirt, I’m never going to throw them out.

“You bought the yearbook, right?” I ask Liz.

“Yeah, why?”

“Look up Graham Hadley. He’s in our class.”

I hear her walking, then opening doors, shifting boxes. She had her bedroom painted last week, so she still has a lot of stuff to put away. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Liz asks.

I pull my knees close to my chest. “I met him at the gallery tonight. He’s really yummy.” I hear a shuffle, shuffle, bam, bam on the other line. “Liz, you okay?”

“Yeah. I knocked down a couple of boxes. Yay, found it,” she says.

“See him?”

“Still checking.” I hear her flipping through the pages. Then she cracks up.

“What’s so funny?”

“He has really thick glasses and greasy hair that goes past his shoulders. With some kind of wart thing growing on his nose.”

I meet the guy of my dreams and he’s really a frog in disguise?

“No way! You must be looking at the wrong guy.”

“No, it’s him.”

What am I getting myself into? He probably went on one of those makeover shows. No wonder I’ve never noticed him before. “Maybe I need glasses.”

“Or maybe you should look up gullible in the dictionary!” Liz laughs, or m
ore like snorts.

“Bitch.” I stand up. “That joke is so second grade.”

“Yeah, and who fell for it?” She laugh/snorts even more.