Portrait of Us Page 6

  Maxine gasped and gave him a high five, the sun glinting off the light brown highlights in her hair. “Yes! I knew it would.”

  I laughed and shook my head, shifting on the warm wooden bench. Apparently the scandal of the stolen kiss at the pool was water under the bridge. There was no lingering awkwardness between them right now, so Charlie must have decided to let it go. Which was good, because they’d been friends for so long. I hated to see things awkward with them.

  Just before I was leaving to meet Matthew at the park, Charlie and Maxine had come into the living room, begging me to let them go too. They claimed they needed the vast open space offered in the park, as opposed to the busy residential street where our house was. I’d reluctantly agreed.

  Truthfully, watching them run around gave me something to focus on while my stomach fluttered with masses of butterflies. My palms hadn’t stopped sweating, and it wasn’t just because of the warm weather.

  “Are you watching?” Charlie called out to me with a wave. He and Maxine were probably fifty feet away now. “Did you see how far the car went? It just shot down the sidewalk!”

  “Good job,” I called out in response.

  My gaze skittered away from them and moved across the park, searching out Matthew. I whipped out my notebook and stared down at it, looking at my list. I’d tried to let it go and let inspiration come to me, as Grandpa had suggested, but after spending a half hour staring at the ceiling, listening to classical music, I had to admit it wasn’t working.

  So I went online and looked at my favorite art websites, plus checked out events happening around town. My list now included the pier in downtown Cleveland, a few local festivals—sure to be rich with people watching—the cultural gardens on the east side, and the Metroparks. Surely we could find something among those we agree on. And if not, there was always his list.

  I glanced up to see the object of my thoughts striding toward me with a slow, confident walk. When our eyes connected, his smile deepened and a dimple flared. The wind teased his hair, fluttered it in the breeze, and I itched to touch it.

  My heart squeezed in response, and I swallowed.

  Oh boy, I had a suspicion that I was so in over my head.

  Chapter Eight

  You made it,” Matthew said, giving me a wide smile. His teeth sparkled, and I found my own smile growing in response.

  “Well, we have work to get done,” I said, trying to regain my businesslike persona. I wasn’t here to flirt or to admire how his shorts and T-shirt made his lean body look even taller. Nope, I was keeping my focus.

  He nodded and slipped onto the bench beside me. Heat radiated from his body, only a few inches from mine. He grabbed a small notebook and tugged it out of his pocket, flipping a few pages in. “So, I have a list of ideas,” he said.

  I handed him mine, then looked his over. Even his penmanship was confident—solid letters. Not hurriedly scrawled, but purposeful. I blinked and made myself read the actual words.

  My brow furrowed as I moved down the list. He’d put down stuff like city hall, an abandoned set of train tracks, a homeless shelter, a large hospital on the east side. The twist in my stomach grew a little tighter. Where was the beauty, the art in those things? There was nothing on this list that appealed to me.

  I drew in a few steady breaths and dared a glance at him. His face was unreadable, eyes fixed on my list. He looked up, and I noticed a few small freckles on the bridge of his nose.

  “Hmm. Our lists are . . . very different,” he offered.

  “We have nothing even close to being in common.” I almost wanted to laugh because of how absurdly different our thoughts were. It would be hilarious, if there wasn’t a lot on the line. “Ideas?”

  “Okay.” He tilted his head, thinking. “Is there anything on my list that you don’t absolutely hate?”

  I was unable to hide the small sigh as I looked back down at it. “Um . . . I guess the train tracks isn’t too bad. But the rest of it isn’t quite . . .” My words stalled. How did I put it without sounding like an art snob? What would Ava say? “The rest isn’t what I would enjoy working on. It’s not my personal style.”

  Matthew’s lips thinned, and he quietly took the list from my hand. “Have you ever considered working outside of your style? I know you’re not a modern art fan, but there’s a lot of it out there that will change you, make you see the world differently. If you give it a try.”

  Something about his words made embarrassment burn in my chest. Was it my fault that I didn’t like his style? I jutted out my jaw and crossed my arms. “It might be easier to connect with work if it wasn’t a bunch of random splatters on a piece of paper, or a canvas with colored blocks. How is that supposed to ‘change’ me? What worldview will that give me, huh?”

  He narrowed his eyes and offered me back my notebook. “Corinne, have you ever been to a contemporary art gallery?”

  I shook my head. “No offense to you and your style, but nothing about that appeals to me. I stare at those pieces and see nothing, feel nothing. Some of them look like they were painted by a baby.” Okay, that was a bit of a low blow, but how could he deny the truth in my words? Blunt, but honest.

  Matthew stared at me so long I started to squirm. The sun beat down on the top of my head, and a line of sweat dribbled down my face. I resisted wiping it away, not wanting in that moment to look weak.

  Then he startled me. A rich, warm laugh poured from his mouth. “You don’t hold anything back, do you?” he said, mirth dancing in his blue eyes.

  My jaw loosened a bit, and I gave a small smile, the tightness in my chest easing up as well. “I have a lot of strong opinions. But I think most artists do.”

  Matthew watched a small drop of sweat slide down my neck. I swallowed, frozen in place. There was a curiosity in his eyes as he raked his gaze over my face, really looking at me like it was the first time he’d ever seen me. I’d never felt so thoroughly . . . studied. “I think the problem is you’ve not been exposed to a lot of contemporary art. Yes, there is some like the stuff you’re talking about. I admit it—I don’t understand it all. Nor do I think I’m supposed to,” he continued in a rush when I opened my mouth to reply.

  “Then what’s the purpose?” I asked, this time out of genuine curiosity, not hostility.

  Charlie and Maxine ran through the grass in front of us, breaking the strange thread of connection building. Good. I needed a moment to pull back from this intensity. Regain myself.

  “Sometimes the purpose is for us to interpret the work as we see fit. From our own perspective. We’re not always supposed to ‘like’ it. But it makes us think.” Matthew’s words were quiet but powerful, and he turned his attention to stare off at the park. There were a group of teen guys playing on a basketball court now, laughing and shoving each other. Was he wishing he was out there instead of with me?

  “I challenge you,” I suddenly said, surprising even myself.

  His head whipped around, and a fresh openmouthed smile broke out on his face. He raised an eyebrow. “A challenge?”

  I thrust my chin in the air and gave him my most intense, serious look. “You show me anything that can compare to the classics, anything that really moves me the way the old artists’ works do, and I’ll eat my words.” I didn’t know why I said it. Did I really want to be changed? Possibly. But something about the passion with which he spoke about art moved me. I wanted to feel that.

  Or at least try.

  I loved art. But my love was safe, comforting. Classical art was like a warm blanket on a stormy day. It soothed my soul.

  Matthew spoke of art like it was a forest fire.

  “Fine.” He crooked a smirk at me. “I accept that challenge. I hope you’re ready to eat your words.”

  I swallowed, and my heart began its irregular thump-thump. Oh boy, was I ready for this? Too late to back out now. Pride made me give a shaky nod.

  “There’s a gallery right here in Lakewood that we’ll go to on Thursday instead of meet
ing about our project,” he continued. Excitement filled his voice, and he grabbed his phone and opened his notes program to jot something down. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Corinne!” Maxine hollered as she ran toward us. She was breathless and panting, her hands thunked on her knees as she bent over and drew in sharp breaths. “I think . . . Charlie lost . . . the car. It rolled . . . into a creek.”

  I sighed and stood. “I’d better go help him or he’ll whine for a week about it.”

  Matthew nodded, and an emotion crossed his face that I couldn’t quite pin down. He scrawled down an address on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. “Thursday. Eleven a.m. Meet me here.”

  I was proud of how steady my hand was when I grabbed the paper, even as his thumb brushed against mine. Small tremors zinged through my skin, but I don’t think he noticed.

  Matthew walked away, and I turned my attention to trying to save the solar car. But in the back of my mind, all I could think about was how my stomach would probably never be normal around him again.

  The exterior was nothing like I expected. Thursday morning, I stood outside of the nondescript building on Detroit, a few cars flying by. There was a large picture window, a thick purple curtain hiding most of the interior from the outside world. The red front door had SANDS ART GALLERY written in a bold black script above it.

  I glanced at the time on my phone. I was a few minutes early, so I leaned back against the brick wall, crossing my arms. I had on a flowing white shirt with slitted sleeves—dressy but cute. I paired it with a pair of fitted black jeans and sparkly flats. Thankfully there had been a bit of a break in the temperature, and it was only in the upper seventies, so the cool breeze slipped down the road and caressed my bare skin.

  I had no idea what to expect from today’s gallery visit, but I hoped it would go okay. I’d told myself a hundred times that I was not going to make today awkward. I wouldn’t be stubborn, would open myself up to the experience, even if I ended up not liking it. I’d presented the challenge, so I had to give him a fair chance.

  It didn’t help things, though, that I kinda sorta felt like this was a date. As dumb as it sounded, my stomach had been a tangled mess ever since I’d gotten up this morning. I was nervous and excited about seeing Matthew. Sharing with him something that was so important to me—art.

  It would be good for our project, I told myself, to get my head out of that zone. We were tentative friends. Partners. We needed to learn how to appreciate each other’s styles. Maybe he’d even be open to exploring classical art at the Cleveland Museum of Art with me sometime. All in the name of research, of course.

  “You look great,” Matthew said, popping up beside me out of nowhere.

  I jumped and pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. “You scared me to death!” I chastised.

  “Sorry.” The wicked twinkle in his eye wasn’t the least bit sorry.

  I rolled my eyes. “Let’s just go inside.” My traitorous brain kept looping on his compliment, though.

  When we walked in, the gust of air-conditioning was so strong I actually shivered in delight. Matthew held the door open to let me enter first. The room was dim but not overly dark. There was soft instrumental music playing in the background, and the whole building looked like one big open floor plan with small exhibits thrusting out in various spots on top of the hardwood floor. The brick walls were painted a soft beige, covered in paintings of all sizes.

  Matthew touched my lower back, and I swallowed. “Um, wait right here,” he said, nodding toward the attendant in the corner. “I’ll be back in a second.” He headed to the older man and gave him two tickets.

  The guy nodded and smiled, peeking over Matthew’s shoulder to look at me.

  I waved.

  Matthew headed back, smiling. “Okay, let’s make our way around.”

  “You didn’t have to buy my ticket,” I said.

  “I didn’t—they were a gift for us.”

  “But—”

  “Let’s get going before the gallery closes,” he said in a teasing but firm tone. “There are some pieces I want to show you.”

  We walked to the left. There was a metal sculpture near the corner, pieces and curves thrusting out everywhere.

  “Okay,” I said, pointing at it. “What’s up with this?”

  Matthew studied it for a moment. He walked around it, taking it in fully. His eyes were fixed on the brushed metal as he did a couple of loops. He peered down at the little plate on the floor beside it. “This piece is called Tragedy. The artist created it after she lost her father in the Vietnam War. Keeping that in mind, what do you see in here?”

  My heart tweaked in sadness for her. I couldn’t imagine how it was to lose a parent, especially in a war. My grandfather didn’t speak much about that time period except to say it was difficult—someone he knew had gone into that war and come back a changed man.

  I followed Matthew’s earlier path and circled the piece a couple of times. I studied all the juts and lines. Forced myself to really look at it and see how it made me feel. There was a cluster of spikes in one corner with a small teardrop-shaped curve coming off a particularly vicious-looking spike.

  The piece made me feel . . . lots of emotions. The spikes were a little scary, to be honest.

  “It makes me uncomfortable,” I admitted. “All these sharp points at the bottom. Someone could get hurt on those.”

  “It makes me wonder how her dad died,” he said. “Look at this section. It’s almost the opposite of the spiky part.”

  I peeked on the other side. There was a sweep of curved lines here, hunched around each other. When I kept staring at it, I swore I could almost see the arched back of a person, legs folded under.

  Grieving.

  “The spikes are her anger, right?” he said. “Her dad died in such a violent way. At war. And here she’s crying for him.”

  I swallowed. “How do you know?” I asked him. It sounded plausible, and looking at the art, I could see how that would be an interpretation. But who was to say it was the right one?

  “Well, that’s the way I see it,” he replied. There was no embarrassment, no wavering in his voice. “But someone else in a different place might see it another way. What do you see?”

  I had to admit, after he pointed all of that out to me, the artwork started to come to life. The teardrops on top of the spike. The rubble on the ground, like artillery shells. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced before.

  I licked my lips and stared at him over the top of the sculpture. “I never would have seen that if you hadn’t pointed it out.”

  He shrugged, giving a shy smile. “Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t have seen something. And next time you see this piece, it might look different to you.” He stepped around and grabbed my fingers, and I almost stumbled from the feel of our skin, from holding hands. “There’s more I want you to see.”

  Matthew stayed close to me and took me to several of his favorite pieces. I could tell he’d been here a few times by the way he gushed about them. His enthusiasm was infectious. Though some of the stuff went right over my head, especially the one with doll heads glued to plastic cups.

  “My brother could make that in five minutes,” I said with a snort, staring down at the “art” resting on a low table. “What could this possibly be saying?”

  “Look closer. What do you notice about these doll heads?”

  I furrowed my brow and scanned down the row. There had to be a hundred blond heads stuck in the cups. Then I saw one in the very back corner. It was a black doll—the only one in the whole group of white dolls.

  “This piece makes me angry,” he said quietly. I heard the thread of strength in his voice. “There’s a lot I see here. Race, of course—how monochromatic almost everything on here is. But also how fake and plastic we as a society have become.” He glanced at me. “What does this make you think about?”

  I blinked and rubbed a hand on my upper chest, right under my t
hroat. Once he pointed it out, a bunch of contrasting emotions fluttered in my stomach. I picked a memory that flew right to the front of my mind. “My mom gave me both black and white baby dolls as a little kid.” I paused. “I’ve always been aware of race, of course. As a black girl, that’s inevitable in our society. But the color of my friends has never mattered to my family.”

  He crooked a grin. “I bet you were a cute kid.”

  I shrugged. “I had a bit of a mouth. Always stubborn.”

  “I believe that.”

  I nudged him in the side, and he chuckled. Sometime over the last hour, the walls had slowly dropped between us. I could feel a difference already. Less hesitation when we spoke to each other. More honesty.

  Matthew was smarter than I’d given him credit for. Way smarter. I’d seriously misjudged him, had assumed he was just a flake who didn’t care about anything but sports. But he had lots of passion, and the skill to rouse that feeling in others. Even just walking around with him, I could feel his intensity about art.

  Had I ever been that strongly vocal about anything I believed in?

  Something about him sparked a feeling deep in my heart that I wasn’t about to label yet. It made me uncomfortable, aware of myself, of him. All I knew was that despite my discomfort, I wanted to feel it more.

  Chapter Nine

  He and I walked a little more around the gallery wall in silence, taking in a series of similar paintings hanging on the far wall. They were a theme of colors. I stood there and just absorbed. Turned off my inner judgmental side and made myself stare at the image, let it present itself to me.

  Then I noticed the pattern. The one square of red that made its way marching across the paintings. What did it mean?

  I turned to him, expectant.

  He laughed and held up his hands. “Hey, I don’t have all the answers. This is a new installation since I’ve been here.”

  “How often do you come to this gallery?” I suddenly found myself wanting to know more about him. Who his family was, where he lived, what he did when he wasn’t playing basketball or taking our class.