The Weight of Rain (43 page)

“A field trip?”

“Yeah.” I take a long breath, glancing at the clouds heavy with rain. “Mercedes is having a really rough time with a couple of kids, and I am hoping we can share a little sense with them.”

“We’re twenty-two. Are you sure we have sense to share?”

My lips curve into a smile. I’ve missed her. “Hopefully we do collectively.”

I
STEP
in front of the class and ponder if I should have told Kash or at least King that I was planning this. I shake my head and remember I should have told Kash since he’s her dad. But the teacher is introducing me and moving to the side of the room, queuing that it’s my turn to attempt to resolve this issue that is not only breaking Mercedes’ heart and spirit, but all of ours as we watch her endure it.

I press my palms together. They feel sticky and too big like they often do when I stand in front of a group, especially one consisting of small and obviously judgmental girls, ready to make fun of me for any slip. I remind myself three times that I don’t care what they think of me when one whispers to a friend, eliciting a snicker. I take a deep breath. “My name’s Lauren Crosby, and while none of you have ever heard of me and may never again, it doesn’t matter because others will. I’m an artist.” I look to the far right of the classroom where there’s nothing but empty desks because the students are all gathered around the large blue area rug, facing me as a small laugh gets caught in my throat. “I’m a really good artist, and it’s taken me a very long time to admit that to anyone, including myself.” I press my lips together and feel a confidence carry my gaze back to the group. “You see, all my life I grew up thinking I was going to work with my dad and brother on our family farm.” I swallow, keeping my gaze on no one. “I never thought I’d leave Montana because so many of my friends and their families never did. I thought I was Lauren, dairy farmer, tall, skinny, too young to do most things I wanted, and too old to do the others. But then I took a chance. I decided I wanted to see what other potentials were out there, and have learned that those things that I thought defined me, these arbitrary numbers that so many of us allow ourselves to be described as, are nothing but a bunch of numbers that mean absolutely nothing, unless you allow them to.

“Height, weight, age, they’re all just numbers. Numbers that make you feel inadequate because they’re always either too high or too low. You will never be the perfect weight. People will either find you too thin or too heavy. You’ll be too young to understand or too old to relate. You are too tall or too short because everyone always bases the height of others upon their own. You can’t let a bunch of bullshit numbers define you. All they do is tell you what size of clothing you need and your shoe size. That’s it. The rest of them mean nothing.”

I hear a giggle followed by a whisper that clearly contains the word bullshit, and guiltily look toward the teacher and mumble an apology.

“We need to forget about numbers and where we come from because we have the ability to change perceptions. To mold ideas. Challenge society. You guys can be anything you want to be if you have the right drive and focus. The thing is, breaking others down is never going to make you feel better. It might for a few minutes, maybe even through your years at school, I don’t know, but I can guarantee that while you may think it’s making you stronger, better, and smarter than the person you’re putting down, it’s not. It’s distracting you from what you need to be focused on. There are a hundred people waiting to show they’re better than you, and chances are, many of them will be, but you have the choice to focus on what you want to accomplish, or on them.

“But here’s the real kicker. You guys have it tough. There’s a ton of responsibility on your generation and mine. We’re supposed to clean up the planet, find alternative fuel sources, control knowledge that continues to grow for both good and evil,
and
differentiate the two. Women are supposed to be more independent, gorgeous, and powerful, yet we tear each other down as soon as we see another as a threat. We want them to be good, just not as good as us, certainly not better. Men do it too. You have to walk a fine line between being affectionate and masculine, so you never know if it’s appropriate to share or discuss feelings. It’s confusing! And it’s ridiculous. We have to stop listening to these absurd notions and just live for ourselves with the objective of making the world a better place by being a better person.

“Being nice isn’t hard. Life isn’t a competition against another person. It’s a competition against yourself. You are working to be the best version of yourself possible. And I’m not talking about being the thinnest, fastest, smartest—those are numbers, and again, they mean nothing compared to sincerity, genuineness, compassion, and humanity. That’s what we
all
need to be pushing ourselves to be the best at.”

I can’t tell if my words are making sense to them, or if they’re working to digest them, or are still stuck on the fact that I clumsily said the word bullshit at the beginning of my speech, but I pray that a few of my words will get lodged to the inside of their brains and one day they’ll make some sense. Or maybe one or more of the others will be able to speak to them on a level they can connect with. That’s why I invited several people. I wanted them to see people of all shapes, sizes, and professions so they could recognize that although we’re all different, we’re still the same.

I take a few steps back as Allie moves into place. She is comfortable, confident as she introduces herself, and then blows me into next week when she clearly states her continued struggle with an eating disorder I’ve never known about, all because of the years she was teased and tormented creating an internal fight she still has to bear.

Whether the stories truly become more emotional and gripping or my heart just feels heavier with each one is debatable. But by the end of our hour, the faces of the students in Mercedes’ class makes me feel hopeful that we’ve been able to curtail some of the damage that has been spreading.

“That was one hell of a defense,” Allie whispers as the teacher leads the class in applause.

“That was my offense,” I reply, gritting my teeth because my emotions are still torn between smiling and crying.

M
Y PHONE
rings as I get off the bus at my stop, and while I consider ignoring it because I know King’s busy tonight, for some reason I dig through my bag to find it.

I shuffle and apologize as I nearly make a man behind me stumble from stopping so suddenly, and answer the call, hating that I become so discombobulated from seeing her name.

“How are you, sweetheart?”

I haven’t been sweetheart in years, not since I was too young to appreciate the term of endearment. “I’m well. How are you?”

“I’m great! I just spoke with your brother and he said you’re doing some modeling. I’m so proud of you! I always told you you should use that height for something. You’ll likely have to go on a juicing diet, make sure you shed any extra fat, but I bet you have the potential.” The way her tone changes, her voice quieter, it makes me wonder if she’s questioning herself.

“It’s nothing serious. Not like for an agency or a company or anything like that. I’m just helping out a friend that’s going to school for design.”

“But you realize who goes to these shows, right.” There isn’t enough inflection in her tone to make it a question. “This is a big deal, Lauren. This could change your entire future.”

“I’m not looking for it to change anything. I’m going to Italy this summer for art, and then I plan to come back to Portland and—”

“Do you understand the opportunity here?”

“I got accepted to go to
Florence
.”

“Lauren, you’re old to begin modeling now. If you’re scouted, you must accept. This could do huge things for our future!”
Our future
. The words are a dagger. A million broken promises.

“I’ve got to go.” I do. Otherwise, I might change all my future plans because of that one stupid word that has never been shared between us: our. I know she won’t stick around, but the small promise of it is so alluring. It shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t have to be a model or successful for her to consider me her daughter and make time for me, and I know that, which is the only reason I’m able to hang up.

My mood dampens further when I see Kenzie’s car in the parking lot. I haven’t seen her in weeks. I have no idea where she’s been staying, and while I’ve been a bit concerned, I know she’s been in our studio apartment because clothes and bags have come and gone.

As soon as I unlock the door, I feel her eyes watching me. I refuse to look her way, something that is more difficult than I thought it would be when I came to this conclusion on the stairs. Our apartment is so small I can’t help but look at her a few times as I change and get things set up to draw.

“Y
OUR PHONE
keeps flashing.” I keep my attention on my work as Kenzie grumbles her acknowledgment. “Are you going to answer it?”

My hand pauses and I look over to her. “You can flip it over if it’s bothering you.”

“What if it’s something important?”

“It’s just my brother.”

“No it’s not.”

Her reply makes me furrow my brow in question. I muted my phone after his third call, knowing he wouldn’t be deterred until he had successfully filled my voicemail. I reach toward my bed to lift my phone, and see three missed calls from King, two from Mercedes, and one from both Summer and Kash. Without giving Kenzie a thank-you or explanation, I call King back and press the phone to my ear, trying to block out the sound of my blood pumping harder with concern.

“Lo?” His answer takes me by surprise because it’s filled with relief. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?”

“What are you doing?”

“Drawing, why? Is everything okay?” I repeat.

“I’m coming over.”

“Now?” The shock in my voice is evident.

“I’m already in my truck.” I don’t reply, waiting to see if I can hear anything to confirm that he is. “Pack a bag.”

“For what?”

“Do you want to wear the same clothes to class tomorrow?”

Other than the night of the storm, we haven’t done sleepovers. Spending the night there still feels like I’m doing something naughty, like even though Kash knows we’re dating, this just confirms we’re sleeping together, and while it’s ridiculous that I find myself embarrassed to make it so blatant, I am.

A banging on the door stops my thoughts and causes me to drop the charcoal I’m still holding.

“I already know you’re home.” King’s voice is quiet because he isn’t yelling through the door. He’s still on the phone.

I’m fairly certain Kenzie is more uncomfortable by having King here than I am. The two barely acknowledge each other, their greetings barely cordial, but I don’t focus on it long because King is radiating with an energy that I feel through his hand that has been firmly on the small of my back since I opened the door. He’s glowing with it, and it makes me feel anxious and happy for the first time today.

Without delay, I pack some clean clothes in a bag and then slide away from King so I can retrieve things from the bathroom. I’m only gone a few moments, not long enough for a lengthy conversation, but there isn’t even a single word shared between the two.

“Ready?” he asks as I place a couple of sketchbooks into my bag.