Zero (6 page)

I twist my fingers together again. “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”

He takes a quick sip. “What do you like to paint? What’re your … like, topics.”

“Subjects,” I correct automatically.

“Subjects,” he says with a gleam in his (incredible, mesmerizing) eyes.

“Um … I dunno … people. Things.”

“You’re not exactly your biggest fan, are you.”

I roll my eyes until they fall out of the sockets, while Mike just smiles.

“Okay,” I say, defeated. “No, I guess I’m not.”

“How come?”

“Well … I had this teacher in junior high. Mr. Hilmer?
He was really cool. He went to SAIC, which is why I wanted to go. And I mean,
he
said I was good, but that was like years ago, and I mean, I was like
twelve
.”

“I’m not entirely sure you answered the question there.”

Rats. “How come I don’t think I’m any good? I dunno. I’ve never sold anything, for one. I blew that scholarship, for two.”

“But you got accepted, right?”

“Well … yeah, but. Now I’m stuck just going to get my associate’s, then try to transfer to SAIC, hopefully. Someday. But probably not. I mean, that’s like two years from now. Minimum. If ever.”

Mike chuckles at me. I don’t know whether to be mad or what.

“You’re a very complicated personality,” he says.

And for some reason, that makes me smile. Maybe because he’s right.

“Got me all figured out, huh?”

“I think I’m getting the Cliffs Notes, yeah.” He smiles, and a feather duster teases my belly.

I try to shift the conversation: “Why do
you
care? I mean, if I try to hang something here or not.”

“I just think if you want something, you should go get it.”

What I
want
is to feel his hands, look into his eyes. And maybe more, because it beats dwelling on my SAIC failure. But I’m guessing now isn’t the time to mention it. I also want international acclaim and truckloads of money, but honestly, that’s a distant second—
third
, even
fourth
—to knowing, for sure, that I don’t suck. But I don’t mention that, either.

“Have you been doing it long? Painting and whatnot?”

“Junior high and high school, mainly. But my high school art teacher was an idiot. He sort of inherited the job; like, he was the only faculty who’d ever taken an art class. Didn’t learn much. And he wrote the world’s worst recommendation letter for me. But I did get an A all four years. Not that it was hard. Sadly, the grades didn’t give me what I needed, which was, oh yes,
technical excellence
. Whatever that means.”

Mike exaggerates being secretive as he slides the art class flyer toward me, hinting.

I actually—god help me—
giggle
. “Golly. That was sneaky there.”

“Thanks. I’m kind of a ninja.”

“Is that like a full-time thing or …?”

“Eh. Part-time right now.”

Mike looks into my eyes, and finds a direct line to my nervous system, which seizes up and freezes me in place. I wish I could know what it is he’s looking for in here.

Or what it is he’s found.

“So, you’re going to be around for a while, huh?” Mike asks.

“Looks that way.”

And only after I say it in that casual tone do I realize the implication of the question. Am I going to
be around
? Why would he care if I was?

I’m not quite stupid enough to ask for a clarification. “So, way, way, way enough about me,” I say, and I get a little grin from him. “What, um … what about you, what do you like to do? Besides drumming in an awesome band and carrying out part-time assassinations.”

“Skate. Read. Hang out.”

“With anyone in particular?”

Translation: Are you dating anyone? I am
such
a girl.

“The band, mostly, you know. Hob.”

“Who’s Hob?”

“Our singer. Hobbit.”

I fold my arms. “Wait. That seven-foot-nine behemoth is named
Hobbit
?”

Mike pulls on a guilty face. “Well, it’s not his
given
name.” He peers at me through the curtain of his bangs. “Nice use of
behemoth
, though. Kudos.”

I tuck my chin into my neck and try to disappear, even as my spine tingles. Okay, I know: I’m not supposed to get all gooey over something like a vocabulary test word. But I mean … he gets it. Maybe gets me. Just maybe.

“Thanks,” I say. Stupidly. You want fries with that?

Mike continues to gaze at me. Studying. For
what
, I couldn’t tell ya.

Then he goes, “So—well, screw it, why’d you talk to me last weekend?”

Hell-oh! Forward much? Slow down!

I mean, I was going to ask him the same question, when it felt like the right time, but I was going to be super-smooth about it. (She said, knowing it was unlikely at best.) I make the dumb decision to tell him the truth, because I am
that
socially retarded. Wait, that’s rude—I mean
colossally
retarded.

Mike’s still watching me. My mouth goes dry again, and I curl my fingers together into an abandoned church, broken steeple, wrecked doors, no people.

I stall with a sip of my drink. Mint coaxes words at last. “Your eyes,” I say at a volume of a quarter decibel.

Mike blinks. “Say again?”

“You have incredible eyes,” I say into my lap.

“And hair,” I add.

“And I liked your music,” I mutter.

Ladies and gentlemen, Amanda “Grace Under Pressure” Walsh! Yaaaaay!

I can feel him staring at me. “Which came first?”

I glance up. “Huh?”

“Was it the band or—you know. Me. I guess.”

It should sound like an arrogant question, but Mike’s tone isn’t that. He looks mildly uncomfortable, in fact. Like he gave the wrong answer in trig class.

My fingers pop, and I pull them apart. They stay curled in my lap.

“Well,” I say, “I mean, I’m serious about the band. I really liked your music. But … no. It was, you know. You. Does that happen a lot? People coming up to you like that?”

Not people. Girls. Chicks.
Young ladies
.

Mike looks at some art. “Not much.”

But I’m not the first one. I know it, like intuition or something. Didn’t know I had that.

“I don’t usually talk to people like that,” I say quickly. “I mean, just walk up and start talking. That was kinda the first time. Ever, actually.”

He turns back to me. “Yeah? You don’t seem all that shy to me.”

“Oh, well, that’s because I’m trying to hide how terrified
and vaguely nauseous I feel right now.” I am
so
not kidding about this. My heart hasn’t stopped ricocheting around my ribs since I got here. It’s beating faster than his drums could ever hope to. But honestly, I kinda like it. This is the best night I’ve had this summer so far.

“Really?” Mike says. “That’s good. Me too.”

“Oh, whatever.”

“I don’t make a habit of meeting up with people like this,” he says, and there’s no trace of a laugh or smile in his voice at all. Which should be a bad thing, but somehow it feels … safe.

Feeling brave, I say, “Okay, so then why’d
you
talk to
me
?”

I assume it’ll be the D.I. thing. Feels like no one around here knows who they are, so probably he only came tonight to talk about music. Which is
fine
with me. Mostly.

Mike clamps his mouth shut and looks at the tabletop. I can see him choosing his words. Not sure whether that’s good or bad.

“I wanted to see if you were for real,” he says.

Um …

“Could you unpack that a little more for me here?”

“You … I dunno. Got something going on.”

I
do
? I can’t resist a smile.

Mike shakes his head. “And that was a truly lame thing to say.”

And I think:
Like hell it was!

He glances into my eyes. His intensity melts me. “Can we come back to that?”

“Well, I mean, I know I’m not your standard supermodel
groupie,” I say, trying to laugh, but it comes out like a sick bark.

Mike sort of winces. “What’s that mean?”

I stutter until Christmas trying to come up with an answer. “Well, I just, you know.” I stall, rubbing my (enormous, freakishly high) forehead as if trying to stimulate something coherent in my brain. “I’m not … like,
hot
or anything….”

Mike squints at me. I squirm under the scrutiny.

“So you’re not an anatomically impossible Barbie doll?” he says. “Gotta tell ya, that’s not all it’s cracked up to be. You got style.”

Something unravels in my belly and tickles up my back. Now
that
felt good.

But before I can say anything, Mike’s suddenly on his feet, his skateboard popped into one hand, and he’s patting his pockets down like to make sure he’s got everything.

“Listen, I need to get going,” he says, all fast, and I’m like,
Huh?

Then he pauses and looks at me again.

“Could I call you?”

I lean back. Shields up. “Will you?” Because I don’t think I can handle being strung along, and—as much as it will throw me into a deep black well of soulless undeath—I’d still rather know now and get it over with. I mean, I wouldn’t have even talked to him if Jenn hadn’t surprised me at The Graveyard like she did. I know this is just a meaningless crush. Speaking of which, you ever wonder why it’s called a crush? Could it be because that’s what it
does to your soul
? Discuss.

Still—gotta say, so far, I’m really liking this.

Mike goes, “If you say yes, I will.”

“Then yes.”

He gives me the small grin again. “Okay,” he says. “Cool. Um … probably not tomorrow night because we’re jamming, but … got plans for Friday?”

“I rather doubt it.”

He smiles. A real one, not just the grin. “Nightrage is playing over at Damage Control, we were all going to go see them. You want to meet up there?”

Hm … Let. Me. Think.

“Yeah, sure.” I somehow manage not to use exclamation points. “Sounds good.”

“Cool. Eight o’clock Friday night.” Mike smiles and tips his head backward, a reverse nod. “Take care.”

“You too. Later, skater.”

Mike chuckles; very nice of him. I watch him walk toward the exit, board in hand. Then, as he’s about to turn the corner that will take him to the front door, he stops and looks over his shoulder at me.

“Like your shirt,” he says, and disappears.

I look down at my (sad, boyish) chest. I went with a classic black Misfits logo tee, but not one where skeleton hands would be cupping my boobs. Clearly the right choice. (
Let’s test your threshold of pain, let’s see how long you last
, indeed.)

I go for a refill, staring at this circular painting—a.k.a. a “tondo”—I’ve studied for the past couple years that’s hanging near the counter. I’m glad no one’s bought it yet, because then I wouldn’t be able to savor it. And I
so
don’t have the money to buy it myself. The tondo is encircled by a simple ebony frame, but the painting itself always makes my heart
race. It’s oil on canvas, a shadowy figure in a top hat, cravat, tuxedo, the works, but rendered entirely in a crimson to black spectrum. Elegant and mysterious. When the barista brings my cup back, I almost ask what I need to do to get a piece hung in here.

Instead, I take my refill back to the table, sit down, and call myself a few thousand names, all prefaced with
stupid
. I do this
every time
. I should stop coming here. It just depresses me.

But I’ve got Friday night to look forward to, so that’s something.

I let out a big sigh and take another look at the art class flyer. Maybe Mike’s right; maybe I should go ahead and take a class this summer. But at my college, not the Hole; at least there I can get credit for it. What’s the worst that could happen?

I spend another hour carefully detailing every possible answer to that question before going home. I decide on the drive to sign up for my first official art class since graduating, hoping I’ll get a teacher at least half as cool as Mr. Hilmer. Maybe start over on my portfolio. Just in case. I thought I’d learned a lot since freaking eighth grade. But that’s the problem: obviously I had a lot to learn, and no one’s taught me anything new since I was twelve, thirteen. Maybe that’ll change if I get a good teacher again.

Hey, I can dream.

About a lot of things. One of which, it turns out, is Mike.

I mean, if I’m going to be around for a while
anyway
 …

“Got a date?”
Dad asks Friday night as I walk past his bedroom door.

I stop in the hallway. He’s pulling on a black sports coat. Must be party time.

“Uh … not … I mean, sort of.” I’m not convinced my
rendezvous
with Mike at Hole in the Wall was a date, so I’m not sure tonight’s meeting at Damage Control is, either. Plus, the rest of the band is going to be there. What’re they, chaperoning?

“Why?” I ask Dad.

Dad shrugs. “Haven’t seen your hair in a while.”

I touch my hair. Dad’s right; it’s been a while since I tried styling it. Probably should’ve gotten my hair cut before attempting such a feat, but that would make
sense
, you see, and so is clearly beyond my capacity. I’ve clipped my bangs
back with little black barrettes so they’re out of my face; a new look, to be sure. Where am I supposed to hide?

“Oh,” I say. “Um—do you like it?”

“Hm?” Dad goes, and riffles through his wallet. He doesn’t look up. “Yeah, sure.”

“Gosh. That’s a ringing endorsement.”

Now he looks up and smiles guiltily. “Sorry, kid. Got a lot on my mind, I suppose. Work’s been a little crazy.”

“What’s going on?”

“Oh, just”—Dad sighs, turning to the mirror over their bureau—“thought I had a promotion all locked up, but it, ah … didn’t quite materialize.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Would it have meant a raise?” Sue me for being selfish, but maybe a nice raise could negate the need for a stupid scholarship.