Pure Red (5 page)

“Okay.” She stops for a minute like her brain’s working overtime. “Well, he called you, didn’t he? He could’ve just called your dad straight up.”

True.

Right?

notice me yellow

I hardly eat anything at dinner with Liz and Harry. My nerves have gotten the best of me. Graham is coming over in less than an hour!

When I get home, I take a quick shower and spend the rest of the time in my closet. Nothing seems to work and anything I’d usually go for is lying limp at the bottom
of my clothes hamper.

It’s times like this that it would be great to have a mom to help me with my outfit. If I call Dad in he’ll probably tell me to throw on a pair of overalls and a bandana—perfect clothes for painting, not for trying to reel in the guy you’re crushing on. I settle on a pair of black short shorts (not short enough to be considered slutty) and a buttercup-yellow T-shirt. The perfect combination of mystery and confidence. It’s my
notice me
, not NOTICE ME, outfit.

I walk out into the living room, all freshened up, only to see Dad watching
Animal Planet
in gym shorts and a cruddy old wine-festival T-shirt. I stand in front of him, blocking his view of the sea lions. “Graham, the guy we met at the gallery last night, is going to be here any minute.”

“Oh, great. I picked up a couple of things at the market today. There’s ice cream in the freezer. I bought those little Hoodsie cups you like.”

“Thanks, Dad. I was hoping maybe you could … ”

“You want me to stay out of your way. I get it.” He winks at
me.

“No, I was hoping you might change. Graham wants to see some of your work.”

He points to the TV. “Isn’t it amazing how those polar bears stay so white?”

“Dad, I’m serious,” I say, arms spread out, now totally blocking his view of the wide screen. “And besides, their fur looks kind of yellowish to me.”

He flips off the TV. “Okay, I get the hint. I’ll throw on a tux.”

“You’re the best!” I let out a sigh of relief. “And no smoking, please.”

He frowns.

“It’s gross and stinks up the place.”

“I gotcha,” he says, and leaves the room.

I launch into super prep mode. First, I fluff the pillows on the couch, then use the Dustbuster on the coffee table. I light a mango candle in the room to make sure
all smells good. Next stop, Dad’s studio, because it’s supposed to be the highlight of Graham’s visit. Just like his official studio, a big open space above La Reverie that he shares with Lucien and another guy named Tony, Dad’s mini-studio looks like a typical artist’s workshop—paints and brushes strewn everywhere and half-finished canvases stacked against the wall. I dump out the ashtray and open the window for some fresh air.

The phone rings a few minutes after eight. It’s security from downstairs. “Cassia, I have Graham Hadley here to see you.”

“Thanks, Mitch. Send him up.” I love saying that. It makes me feel like I’m sitting in a huge leather chair with my Manolo Blahniks up on the mahogany desk.

I check the foyer mirror. No unidentified objects on my face. No mysterious stains on my clothes. Cleavage. Check. I’m good to go.

A minute later, there’s a tap tap on the door. I look through the peephole like I don’t know who it is. Graham is even cute in this distorted, magnified, all-about-the-nose view. He’s wearing a black T-shirt. So he’s game for a little mystery, too.

I unlock the deadbolt. “Hey, Graham. Come in.”

“Thanks.” He closes the door behind him and slides off his backpack.

We’re both standing there in the middle of my foyer. Me with my hands on my hips and Graham with his hands in his pockets.

“So.” He looks past me into the living room.

“So.” I look into his eyes.

We’re both standing here like duh and duh. Then I hear Dad’s bedroom door close and his leather sandals inching closer. I can feel him behind me. He rests his hands on my shoulders. “Welcome, Graham.” I’m surprised Dad remembered his name.

“Thanks for having me over, sir.” Graham holds out his hand.

“Call me Jacques,” Dad says, and he and Graham shake. “Let me give you a tour,” he adds, like we live in Elvis’s mansion instead of a three-bedroom, two-bath condo. We bypass our bedrooms and head straight to Dad’s
studio.

It’s the only room in the house painted white. Dad has a few framed pictures on the walls and a photo of me, him, and Mom from when I was about three. It’s a really cute snapshot of us at Disney World. I’m holding this huge blob of cotton candy and Mom and Dad are munching on candy apples. I instinctively park myself in front of the photo so Graham can’t see it. I’m not ready to share.

I lean back and pick up a kneaded rubber eraser from Dad’s drawing table and stretch it back and forth in my hands. Dad told me I was always swiping them when I first learned to walk; he said it took a lot of convincing and some taste testing to assure me they weren’t edible. He always had a bunch in his pocket and whenever I got really bored, one would magically appear.

“That’s a great painting.” Graham points to the recent portrait of me. “Everything about it is so lifelike.”

Yes, I’m right here. Any comments about the owner of the body?

“Yes,
ma cherie
is a great subject,” Dad says. “Even if she isn’t happy sitting still for so long.”

“Dad does a portrait of me every year,” I tell Graham.

“That’s a great tradition.” Graham scrutinizes my face—the one on the canvas, not the living, breathing one. “Even your expression is so realistic, like everyone knows what’s on your mind.”

I hope not. I glance at the little mirror on Dad’s desk. Can Graham tell I’m totally lusting after him, that pools of drool are forming at my feet?

Suddenly the room feels very cramped. The three of us in this packed workspace. “Let’s go sit down.” I lead the way from the studio to the living room.

Dad sits on the love seat and Graham and I plop down on the big couch. Graham immediately focuses on the huge painting of irises on the wall. “That’s one of my favorites. I loved it at the exhibit,” he says. Oh no, here we go again. Hottie or not, I don’t know if I can stand a whole night of this admiration thing.

I pull my feet up under me on the couch. Graham has his elbows on his knees and is listening to Dad talk about his quest for the perfect flower.

“I’ve spent more money than I care to remember on flowers,” Dad says, “but the best flowers are the ones you pick yourself. Just look around when you’re taking a walk and you’ll find that beauty surrounds you.”

That statement is pretty fitting, especially since we live on Miami Beach where tanned bodies and fashion firsts strut by our doorway every day. It’s funny when I see the purple top of my condo building panned over on the E channel or blockbuster movies.

“Yeah, I’ve been really into landscapes lately. Actually, I’m working on the view of the ocean from my grandparents’ condo. They live in Boca.”

“Nothing beats an ocean view.” Dad fiddles with a stack of plastic drink coasters. “Cassia draws, too.”

“Not that much,” I interject, eraser still in my hand. That passion is clearly marked
Dad
. Besides, my sketchbook is starting to grow cobwebs. I haven’t drawn anything in at least a month. Even then, most stuff never sees the light of day. I mostly draw when I’m bored. I used to draw whole pictures just so I could erase everything on the page. I’d try to get the page as clean as possible without ripping the paper. It was kind of like a game.

“She’s spending her time on the court this summer,” Dad says, like I’m not even here.

“Yeah, I’m having a lot of fun, too. We won our first game.” I fashion the eraser into a circle.

Dad throws an air ball. “Watch out Michael Jordan.”

“Dad, he doesn’t even play anymore.” I frown.

“I love watching old footage of him, though,” Graham butts in. “He’s a master on the court.”

“You play ball?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah. I like watching more, though. I’ll watch pretty much any sport on TV, except for bowling.” He laughs. “Surfing is my thing. Well, besides art,” he adds.

“Surfing looks like a lot of fun. Is it hard to get up on the board?” I stretch my legs out. They’re beginning to get numb.

“It takes a few tries, but once you get the hang of it, it’s pretty easy. I’ll teach you sometime if you like.”

“Really?” That would involve me gawking at Cute Butt shirtless in a bathing suit. “Okay, cool.”

You hear that, Ms. Cable? That would be two new activities in less than two weeks!

Dad leaps up from the couch with a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Oh, no! Anything but the
Time
magazine collection. If he pulls that out, I’m doomed. He inherited it from his Great Aunt Celine. She left his brother and sister cool things like furniture and antiques, but all Dad got was the magazine collection because she said he’d know what to do with it. He stuck it in a crate in the linen closet, that’s what he did with it, and pulls it out whenever someone new comes over. No one ever looks at the collection more than once. By the second visit they focus on Dad’s works or venture out onto the balcony.

Every few seconds I peek around the corner to make sure he’s not dragging that old musty crate across the tile floor. Graham must think I’m a paranoid freak.

Dad comes back a couple minutes later with two Hoodsie cups and spoons. “Ice cream, anyone?”

Okay, I guess I can handle the little kids’ birthday party food. Anything is good after the thought of the dreaded magazine collection.

“I love these things.” Graham reaches for the small cup. Maybe he’s just being polite, but he downs his before I can even get a second bite in. Dad immediately brings him another one, then says, “Will you two excuse me for a while? I’ve got some paperwork to do.” Which translates to, he better send some invoices out or he’ll never get paid, then the bills won’t get paid either. He’s gotten better ever since our electricity was shut off a few summers ago. It was such a pain in the butt. We had no a/c and had to stay at Lucien’s for the night.

Now I always open the bills and put them in order for him. There are some amenities I can’t live without: a/c, water, and food. At the top of Dad’s list would be canvases, paint, and cigarettes. After college he and a friend once lived in a tent in Key Largo for almost four months. Not my idea of fun.

I throw away our Hoodsie containers and bring Graham a glass of water. It’s just the two of us sitting on the couch in my condo. It’s nice.

The only other guy I’ve ever had at my place is Zach, my ninth grade science partner and apparently another fan of my dad’s. Zach overheard Dad singing “Yellow Submarine” one night when we were on the phone. Turns out Zach was a Beatles fanatic and actually thought my dad had a decent signing voice. Lucky me, Zach called the next afternoon when I was out and Dad invited him to dinner. Talk about invasion of privacy. By the time I got home, Zach had already toured my house, including my bedroom, and was eating chips and salsa at the kitchen table with Dad. Graham’s definitely a step up. He doesn’t suck on his retainer or carry a magnifying glass in his back pocket. No offense to Zach, of course.

“Thanks for having me over.” Graham pulls a fish-shaped coaster from the stack, slaps it down on the coffee table, and settles his glass on top of it.

“It’s nothing.” I shrug.

“You’re really laid back, not like most girls,” Graham says. “I like that.”

If he only knew how I fell asleep dreaming about him, had Liz play sleuth and look him up in the yearbook, and spent thirty minutes rummaging through my closet searching for the perfect outfit.

“Thanks.” I smile. “I try.” This is the point where Liz would say,
Jump his bones, move in for the kiss
. The very same point where I’d say,
For one thing, my dad is in the next room, and for another thing, Graham never said anything about being even remotely attracted to me.
So I do the only passive-aggressive thing I can think of and let down my ravishing light-brown hair (at least the new conditioner I used said it would look ravishing). It’s damp and wavy, so it looks extra thick. For all I know, he’s not a hair man, but I’ll give it a try. I flip it back with my hand and move slightly closer to him. “So what classes are you taking in the fall?”

“Besides the required stuff? Graphic Design and Intensive Art.”

“What’s that?”

“Kind of something I designed myself and had to get approved by the department head, Mr. Rogan. It’s like being an artist’s apprentice. Learn from a master and produce a series of pieces by the end of the semester. I figure it’s best to get started this summer while I have more time.”

I glance at his legs hoping he’ll move in closer to me, but he doesn’t budge. “Sounds interesting,” I say, a second before I realize what’s coming next.

“Yeah, I’m really lucky they approved it. I had to write a five-page paper on my goals and what I expect to achieve from doing the study. Mr. Rogan is no joke.”

I would have so failed that assignment. I’m having trouble finding just one personal goal.

“Wow, I wish I was doing something cool like that.”

Oops, I shouldn’t have said that aloud. Now I sound more boring than ever. If he ever finds out that my resume is almost blank, he’ll probably stop talking to me.

“You could. You can.” He sits up straight. “They approv
e a lot of things as long as you can show it has
educat
ional merit
.” He makes imaginary quotation marks in the air and laughs. “A friend of mine is really into astron
omy and is doing this whole project with some famous astronomer guy. Kale, I think his name is.”

“So, you want me to ask my dad if he can be your mentor?” I say. I should add some requirements to the mentorship … You have to sleep over every weekend, date the mentor’s daughter, and carry a photo of her around in your wallet. Hee hee.

“Well, ah …” Graham shuffles in his seat. “That would be awesome,
but I don’t want to impose.”

Something about him being all nervous turns me on even more. I wonder if Graham has any clue how cute he really is. He must. I’m sure girls are all over him. He probably travels with a posse that rushes him to and from classes.