Portrait of Us Read online

  Mom sighed and finally looked at me. She rubbed the back of her neck, a sudden weariness in her eyes. “Your father saw how hard it was for me growing up with a parent who was so heavily focused on the arts. Your grandma was the business-minded one in their relationship. She kept the bakery running for many years while your grandpa continued to travel a lot across the country, following his dreams and learning new baking techniques. Leaving me and Grandma alone for weeks at a time.”

  I didn’t know any of this. Mom didn’t speak about her childhood often. “So you worry about stability with me? But I’m not a grown-up yet. I just want to enjoy my life right now. Doesn’t mean I won’t buckle down when I get older.”

  She gave a small smile. “I know.” Then she patted the bed beside her.

  I sat down and crossed my legs.

  “It took a long time for your grandpa to get his head out of the clouds, Corinne. Well into my adulthood, maybe just a little before you were born. Yeah, he wanted the business and loved it. But he also wanted to still be an artist and live that free lifestyle. It wasn’t easy for him to find that balance. He did eventually, though. It just took a long time.”

  Was she saying that it would be the same for me? I sighed, trying not to feel dejected about her words.

  She rubbed my back, the way she used to when I was younger. “Corinne, you’re growing up so fast. Sometimes it’s easier for your dad and I to still pretend you’re a little kid. That we can simply tell you how to live your life and you’ll jump right to it. Doesn’t help that you were always so eager to please, you did everything we suggested.” She laughed. “But now I’m starting to see more of that Walters backbone in you. You’re finding your own voice. I might not like it, but I can’t exactly argue about it.”

  A smile crept across my face. “I think it’s always been there, Mom. I just didn’t know it yet.”

  Her voice softened. “Honey, I’ve always loved your art. Always. Even as a little kid, you used to draw me pictures. I’ve kept them all carefully preserved in an album in my closet.”

  Now the tears filled my eyes again, and my heart swelled in my chest. “Really?” I squeaked out.

  Maybe my mom wasn’t as vocal as Matthew’s mom about her praise, but she was still proud of me. That sting of jealousy faded completely away, and in its place came a peace I’d been longing for.

  “While you got your mother’s backbone, you also got your father’s competitive streak,” she suddenly said with a laugh. “Not sure how that happened, but I know you’ll figure out how to balance everything you want. Just give yourself time—life is meant to be savored.” Her hand stalled on my lower back, and she glanced back at the picture. “Does he know how you feel?”

  I swallowed. “Um, what?”

  She raised an eyebrow at me, and I laughed. Yeah, like I could get away with playing dumb. “I wasn’t born yesterday,” she said, mock affronted. “You’re in love with this boy. It shows in all of your careful details. And in that picture you took of him too. I’ve never seen you like this.”

  My pulse roared in my ears, and I pressed my suddenly clammy hands to my thighs. Was she right? Had I already jumped off that cliff?

  She laughed again and patted my back, standing up. “Don’t worry—that will work out too, the way it’s supposed to. But do me a favor and don’t mention it to your father yet. Poor guy is already struggling with realizing you’re growing up. This might push him into heart-attack zone.” Her eyes were twinkling, so I could tell she was joking. “Now, get back to work. You have a project due soon, and all this talking is just getting in the way.”

  She stroked the back of my head with a soft smile, then left me alone, thoughts swirling like a tornado.

  I took a moment to calm myself down and get my emotions under control. Mom’s words were a healing balm on my heart. Things weren’t perfect, but I knew she supported me. Loved my art and understood my need to keep going with it. And if she would, surely my dad would start to ease up too and stop pushing me so hard on academics. And if not . . . well, all I could do was try.

  I moved back to the drawing. A few more touches of shading to the sketch, and it was ready for me to start painting. I grabbed the clean sheet I’d be fusing with Matthew’s image of me and started transferring my lines to the paper. At this point, I only had to refer to my picture of him a few times. I’d basically memorized the lines of his face.

  I worked late into the night on blocking out the base colors, caught up in the moment, unable to sleep a wink. Unable to tear myself away from rendering Matthew’s image as full of life as the original.

  I was giving this piece my all. I just prayed it was enough.

  “Class, your color studies came out amazing.” Teni waved her hand at the pieces hanging around the room. “I want you to take a few minutes and wander around, really examining your fellow students’ works. I am so proud of your progress.”

  The class moved from piece to piece, murmuring discussions to each other as they pointed out various elements in each artwork. I kept a little apart from the group, not wanting my opinion to be influenced by the masses. It really was cool to see how far we’d progressed in such a short time.

  And there was only one more week left after this.

  A sigh slipped from my lips. It was going to be hard to go back to summer now that our classes were almost over. Maybe I could still keep up the regimen even at home. All I knew was that I couldn’t give this up.

  “Yours came out great,” Matthew said as he inched beside me. “I like the use of red for the sunset-on-a-lake scene.”

  I shot him a wide smile. “Thanks. I wanted to try something unexpected.”

  “Ready to work on our project tomorrow?”

  I nodded, stomach flaring up in a nervous flutter. “I think so, yes.” I’d been spending most of my free time over the last couple of days painting. Tomorrow would be our final meeting, where we would blend the project together and do all the last touches. Then Friday, we’d present it to Teni and hope she liked it.

  He smiled, leaning closer. The irises of his eyes seemed a little darker today, like a stormy ocean. I couldn’t stop staring at him. “It’ll be fine. I’m excited to see your half . . . and to show you mine. I hope you like it.”

  His breath smelled like fresh mint, and I fought the urge to breathe in deeply. Did he feel the chemistry between us too? Surely it wasn’t just me. My skin was tingling, a sensation that made my stomach flutter even more.

  We followed just behind the crowd and kept looking at the other art pieces. Matthew made a few running comments about theme and other elements. I tried to give what I hoped were halfway intelligent answers. But the truth was, I was doing my best not to stand too close to him, afraid he’d be able to read my mind and see all of my jumbled thoughts about him.

  Tomorrow was our last day working together, and next week our last class session . . . and then what?

  His arm brushed against mine. Was it on purpose? An accident? Argh, my mind was overanalyzing everything now.

  Finally we all filtered back to our tables. Teni told us that for our last project, we were open to doing whatever we wanted, using any media we saw fit. But she wanted us to incorporate lessons we’d learned in class so far about color, theme, tone, and media to make our final piece.

  I studied my blank paper, just letting my mind wander. I really wanted to make a piece that resonated. But what about?

  “Hey,” Henry whispered. His eyes twinkled behind his thick glasses. “So, what are you doing your project on? I’m fresh outta ideas.”

  I laughed. “I was just thinking the same thing. I don’t have a clue.” I turned to Janice. “What about you? Do you have your subject picked out yet?”

  She grinned and tucked a strand of red hair that had come out of her ponytail behind her ear. “Nope. I’ll just let inspiration come to me as I start drawing out something.” Her eyebrow darted up as she looked at me. “So . . . you and Matthew, huh?”

  My
face instantly flamed. “Um, what?”

  Her grin grew wider. “Come on, everyone can see it. The air practically crackles between the two of you. And you’ve been spending a lot of time together lately.”

  My first instinct was to flush more and ask if she thought Matthew might feel the same way I did. But then her words kicked in. Everyone could tell how I felt? Really? I frowned. “We’re project partners,” I said. “Of course we’re together.”

  “Uh-huh.” She chuckled. “Hey, nothing bad. I’m just surprised because you guys seem so different.”

  Henry shoved his glasses up his nose. “That’s true. He has that jock vibe going, and you seem very . . .”

  “Nerdy?” I filled in lightly, though my heart wasn’t feeling that way. It was easy to get caught up in my own bubble and think we had potential, think we had chemistry. But when push came to shove, even almost complete strangers noticed how different we are. And I wasn’t just talking about skin color.

  “Opposites do attract,” Janice declared.

  I wasn’t ready to hear their thoughts on why we wouldn’t work. I already had my own concerns about it and had been torn over the last few days between focusing on those issues and ignoring them.

  Regardless, I was going to talk to Matthew first before I dished my feelings to anyone, especially fellow art students. I needed to see how he felt . . . and then we could take it from there. No sense starting the rumor mill buzzing—I knew how fast gossip could spread around here.

  “Matthew and I are just friends,” I said in a firm tone. Maybe that would stop them from talking about us. “The only thing we have going on right now is our art project.”

  Janice’s face froze for a second, and she and Henry paused. I saw Matthew walk by, his back stiff as a board, shoulders tight. He moved to the back of the room and flipped through some magazines. His posture appeared casual; I couldn’t tell what he was thinking or feeling.

  Had he overheard me? My heart sank.

  Then another guy in class came over and started talking to him. They both laughed. No tension in Matthew’s eyes whatsoever.

  If he had overheard, he didn’t seem upset by what I’d said. Maybe I’d been imagining his pain at my words . . . maybe even imagining he cared about me like that at all.

  Ugh, I was driving myself crazy!

  I turned back to my project, staring at my blank canvas for what felt like forever. I drew a line, then erased it. Drew another. Erased that too. Nothing was flowing.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

  Finally, thankfully, class ended. I gathered my stuff up as fast as I could. Perhaps I could talk to Matthew and see how he felt about everything. Ask what he’d overheard. Maybe I could explain my words somehow without giving away my ever-growing feelings for him.

  But when I finished packing up and looked toward his station, he was already gone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I could barely hear anything because my pulse was roaring so loudly in my ears. My hands shook so hard I was afraid the painting would fly right out of them and into the thick green grass.

  Relax, I told myself. It would be fine.

  But I couldn’t help but be nervous as I walked into Teni’s studio the next afternoon. The air-conditioning was a refreshing blast in my face and across my bare arms and legs, but it didn’t ease my nervousness.

  I was nervous to see Matthew’s painting.

  I was nervous about him seeing mine.

  But mostly, I was nervous about just seeing him. He hadn’t texted me yesterday or today. Maybe he really was mad at me.

  Or maybe I’d blown everything out of proportion and read into something that wasn’t there—the guy could have been busy, for all I knew. He did have two sisters to watch. I knew how hard it could be to juggle everything.

  I grabbed a chair and sat, waiting for him. I was a few minutes early, hoping to give myself a chance to chill out before he arrived. No way did I want to seem so nervous.

  I pressed my hands to my thighs and drew slow, deep breaths. In, out. In, out. It was all going to be fine. I simply had to relax.

  The door opened, and my heart stuttered. I looked over to see Matthew stroll in, his painting covered by a large piece of paper. He gave me a small smile and headed toward me.

  My lungs squeezed to the size of grapes, and I could hardly draw in a breath. His eyes locked me in and wouldn’t let me go.

  This was just crazy! I blinked and dragged my gaze away from his. “You all ready?” I asked.

  We took our respective pieces, still covered, over to a large expanse of table, where we would do our splicing together and the final touches. We both paused, looking at each other. A light blush rode high on his tanned cheekbones, and my fingers itched to touch his skin.

  I fisted them at my sides.

  “You go first,” I said.

  “No, you,” he countered with an eyebrow raised in challenge.

  We both laughed. The tension seemed to crack apart, and our shoulders relaxed at the same time.

  “Okay, we’ll reveal them together,” I offered. “One . . . two . . . three.”

  We uncovered our images and fixed our attention on each other’s paintings.

  My breath locked in my lungs. I couldn’t stop staring. Matthew had used bold, abstract lines to capture my face—his typical postmodern style, with a bit of flair. But somehow, you could still easily see it was me. There was a little more realism in my eyes, in the crook of my mouth, which turned up in the corners.

  My half-portrait held a hint of mischievousness. Even without being classically rendered, without all the careful lines and perspective, it was strongly apparent it was me. He’d nailed it.

  My hand fluttered to my chest, and I kept staring at it. Wow. No wonder Teni had insisted he be in the competition. The piece was good. Sophisticated. Edgy yet appealing, accessible.

  “It’s amazing,” I finally said. “I can’t believe . . . I just don’t know what to say.”

  Then I realized he hadn’t looked up at me yet. He was still staring hard at my image, a slight frown on his face. My stomach pinched. Was he unhappy with the way I’d painted him? I’d tried to let myself fall into the painting, to feel it and not worry so hard about rigid, perfect linework. I’d poured all of my emotion into his eyes, wanting those to ring true. But maybe I’d failed.

  He finally turned his eyes to me, fixing me in that rich blue stare. “No one’s ever . . .” He paused. “No one has ever done a piece like this of me before.”

  Suddenly shy, I found myself asking, “Do you like it?”

  “I love it,” he said simply.

  I fought to keep a stupid grin off my face as we looked back down at our paintings. My heart was racing, but this time out of excitement. “I think we have a real chance of winning.”

  “I do too. Let’s splice these together and finish this up.”

  We spent the next half hour carefully trimming our images, pasting them onto a fresh piece of paper so our faces melded into each other, each of us one half of a larger face. It was amazing once I saw how they worked together, how the lines of our jaws, our brows touched. All our careful planning beforehand had worked out.

  The center seams of our lips kissed each other right in the middle of the painting. My skin grew hot and a little itchy as I stared, transfixed, at our mouths.

  What would it be like to really kiss Matthew? Would his mouth taste as minty as it smells? How would it feel to have his hands on my upper arms, sliding to my back? To tangle my fingers in his thick hair and have our mouths draw closer—

  “Corinne,” he whispered right beside me.

  I jumped, blinked, heart racing. I knew guilt was written all over my face. My thoughts had been wandering down to a place I shouldn’t be going. Not with my art partner. Pull yourself together! “Um, sorry. I got distracted. What’s up?”

  He gave me a weird look. “Are you ready to finish the background?”

  We’d decided we would
do the background of the painting together, using random colors to highlight and stretch across both halves of the image’s background. The unifying piece that would tie everything in together.

  I gave a mechanical nod and grabbed the paints. My hands only trembled a little bit as I squirted paint onto our palettes.

  We worked in silence for another twenty minutes or so on the background. Our paint lines blended and blurred over each other. He went right over a fresh red line I’d done with a dark blue, so I crossed over it with red again.

  He laughed. “So it’s gonna be like that, huh?”

  That started it. Our laughter built louder as we dabbed and painted and plopped colors onto the page. It was goofy. Fun. I’d never done art like this before. But somehow, it worked. It was a chaotic, bright background that interconnected our styles.

  “That color looks awful,” I said, nodding my head at the top right color. All our layering in that spot had made a dumpy shade of brown.

  “Huh. Well, I blame you,” he retorted with a straight face.

  Before I realized what I was doing, I raised my brush and put a glop of purple paint on his cheek.

  His eyes slitted in playful menace. He lifted his brush and took a step toward me.

  I squealed and jumped back. “Sorry, sorry!” I said with a laugh. I grabbed a paper towel and wet it, then came toward him with a hands-in-the-air symbol of truce. My hands shook a little as I wiped the paint off his cheek.

  Matthew froze and quickly inhaled. I darted my eyes to his. His pupils were large, filled with an intensity I’d never seen before. It shocked the air out of my lungs.

  “Corinne,” he whispered. His voice was gravelly.

  A bubble of excitement swelled in my chest. There was something there, crackling between us. No way was it just in my head. I could see that now with full certainty.