Portrait of Us Read online

  “Got your phone?” she yelled back. I could hear her chopping something. “Make sure you’re back in an hour. Dinner will be ready then.”

  “Yes, I have my phone. I’ll see you in a bit!” I ran out the door before she could suggest I take my brother with me.

  The late afternoon air was warm, cocooning me as breezes swirled the hem of my T-shirt and caressed my bare legs. My sandals smacked the concrete sidewalk. I had no idea where I was going. Just that I needed to find . . . something. I wasn’t sure what that something was yet, but intuition was pulling me in this direction.

  I turned right and headed west, toward the sun. It was warm but not unbearable. I adored summer—the freedom to spend my days as I wanted, not just studying, studying, studying. I loved school, of course. But sometimes . . . I wanted something else.

  Independence, like this.

  I walked a good mile until I hit an area of Lakewood where there was a stretch of tagged walls, boasting graffiti by various artists. I saw dirty, scuffed neon spray paint with peoples’ names. Then I stopped.

  Along the bottom of the wall, where brick met sidewalk concrete, there was a running motif. Someone had painted small vines and flowers, the partially fading colors stretching on and on. How had I never noticed that before?

  I tugged my phone out of my pocket and snapped a shot. Then another. I played with lighting, zooming away, cropping. Then I pulled back and looked at the whole wall—really looked at it. Not just as destruction of property, the way I usually saw graffiti. But as someone expressing art. What did the piece say to me?

  I studied the flowing lines, the cursive of the bright graphics. These weren’t just slapped on in haste. The words were carefully rendered, no sloppy marks marring the image. The colors were red and black and green. I took more pictures—portrait, landscape. I angled myself so the sun washed the image in a rich haze and the letters were barely discernible.

  When I flipped back through my pictures, I blinked. Some of them were actually quite good. I couldn’t believe I’d taken them.

  And suddenly, I wanted to find more. Things I would have dismissed as junk that could be re-envisioned as art. Walking another block, I saw an old glass bottle with a wilted daisy in it, resting on its side in the grass border on the curb. I took some shots of it.

  An old scruffy dog with matted hair, lying on its side, who eyed me suspiciously as I neared.

  A row of ants dragging pieces of cracker.

  An abandoned apartment building with gaping teeth for windows and a boarded-up front door.

  There was a strange bubble of excitement in my chest. Like I was seeing the world in a different way than I ever had before. I’d always found beauty in what was considered typically beautiful—attractive people, attractive buildings, attractive locales. Safe, steady.

  Boring.

  There was an artistry in the lines when I zoomed close and focused more on texture and shape instead of on capturing a lovely image.

  Before I knew it, it was time for me to head back home. I peeked through my photo roll to my favorite shot, a pair of navy blue flip-flops that had been carefully placed on the edge of the sidewalk. Something about the image looked like the shoes’ owner would walk by any second and slip her feet into them. Where were those shoes supposed to go? Why had someone left them here?

  On impulse, I composed a text message to Matthew: Are these yours? ;-) Then I attached the picture and sent it before I could talk myself out of it. The instant it went, I wanted to take it back.

  Maybe that was dumb. He might think it wasn’t that interesting, might not see that moment of artistry I’d seen in the shot.

  I tucked my phone into my pocket and, with the sun warming my back, headed back home.

  When I turned onto my street, my phone buzzed, and I jumped a little in nervousness. My fingers shook as I tugged it out of my pocket.

  Will check in when I get to Scotland! WHOO!

  A text from Ava. I swallowed down the disappointment and felt a surge of shame. This was my best friend here. And I was getting hung up on some guy. I couldn’t believe myself.

  Can’t wait! I texted her back. When I put my phone back in my pocket, I resolved to stop thinking about Matthew. It was a dumb, impulsive idea to send him the picture.

  The cold air-conditioning smacked me in the face, and I sighed in bliss as I headed right to the fridge for a water bottle. As I helped Mom set the table, my thoughts were torn between wanting to look at my pictures again and wondering if Matthew was going to respond.

  Chapter Eleven

  This book is soooo boring,” Charlie whined, rolling his eyes. He flopped the paperback in his lap and arched back against the arm of the couch. “All these dwarves and little people stomping around, always singing, too.”

  I picked it up. The Hobbit. One of Charlie’s summer reading books. “Oh, this one’s great,” I said. “Give it time. It will pick up. You’ll want to read the rest of the books, I promise.” I flopped on the opposite end of the couch from him, still full from dinner. Mom had made fried chicken, Brussels sprouts—which Charlie had adamantly refused to eat—and mac and cheese. I, on the other hand, had eaten everything, plus seconds.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. Ava must be bored. I tugged it out. Two texts, but not from her.

  My missing shoes! LOL

  U busy? Sorry I didn’t reply earlier. Phone died.

  I was pretty sure my heart literally stopped in my chest. He’d replied back—and had a legit reason for not writing me earlier. I managed to type out a casual, Just chillin. U?

  “Who are you talking to?” Charlie leaned up against me, peering over my shoulder at my phone.

  I jerked it out of view and scowled. “No one. Go back to reading your book.”

  He sulked and tossed the book on the coffee table.

  “You’d better finish your reading for the day, bud,” Mom hollered as she was coming down the stairs. “Or else you’re gonna be grounded from video games tomorrow.”

  Charlie mumbled under his breath, then grabbed the book and tucked back into the corner. My brother was definitely not a reader. He liked action, not just sitting around.

  My phone vibrated again. I looked down and it was Matthew, calling me this time. Oh God! Mom was coming into the living room any second now. I jumped off the couch and ran for the backyard, closing the door behind me. “Um, hello?”

  “I really liked that picture,” he said. His voice was warm and low, and it rolled over me.

  I forced myself to play it cool, looking off into the setting sun past the houses behind ours. “Thanks. I was working on our project but it . . . just wasn’t flowing for me.” I was surprised I’d even admitted that to him.

  He sighed. “Me neither. I keep trying to figure out what I’m doing wrong, but it isn’t feeling right. Have any ideas?”

  I sat down on a still-warm patio chair and kicked my feet up on the ottoman. “No clue. Maybe Teni can help.” Though I was hesitant to admit to her that maybe she was right—whatever we were doing, it wasn’t working.

  “Maybe we need to regroup and try again. There’s still time.” He cleared his throat. “Um, so, maybe you could hang out with me for a while? You know, to discuss the project, of course.”

  A slow flush crawled up my throat and across my cheeks. His words sounded casual, but there was a thread of emotion there I’d have to be deaf not to pick up on. He was nervous. Which made me even more nervous . . . but also a little intrigued. Maybe I wasn’t the only one suffering from this strange emotion? “Yeah, sure.”

  We ironed out a day and time—I’d meet him at a park by his house and we’d proceed from there. Then there was a lull in the conversation.

  “So, what are you up to?” I asked, realizing I didn’t know much about him. How he spent his free time. Surely it wasn’t all art and basketball, right?

  “Just hanging at home with my sisters.”

  “More than one?” I couldn’t imagine having another Charli
e running around the house. He was enough to handle, thank you.

  “I have twin sisters who are getting ready to enter sixth grade in the fall. They’re fun, but they can be a handful sometimes.”

  I smiled. “My brother will be in eighth grade. I feel your pain.”

  A breeze danced across my skin, and I settled into the cushion. The sun streaked purples and pinks across the sky as it descended. Sunset had to be one of the most beautiful times of the day.

  “Where are you right now?” he asked.

  “My back patio.”

  “I’m in mine, too, watching the sun set.” His voice was quiet, slightly reverent. “I like how no sunset is ever the same.”

  Huh. It was true—there were always slight variations in the clouds, the way the light dispersed in the sky. “I never thought about it before,” I admitted. There was something nice and intimate about sharing this moment with him.

  “I liked your picture,” he said again. “It was different from your usual art.”

  My cheeks burned. I couldn’t dare to admit that he’d inspired me to look at the world differently. “Just trying to break free of my usual zone.”

  We talked for another minute or two until he said he had to go and break up a fight between his sisters. I laughed, and we hung up. I stayed on the patio for another few minutes, staring at the ever-darkening sky, my stomach twisted with nerves. I was simply anxious about having to rethink our project, I told myself. That was all.

  It had nothing to do with the fact that I was also eager to see him again.

  I was so early. I fidgeted on the bench and checked the time again. Still another twenty minutes before Matthew was going to arrive. The sky was a little overcast, so the sun wasn’t beating down heavily on me. Which was good, because I was already sweating from nervousness. And my stomach wouldn’t stop pinching.

  So dumb. I’d been meeting with him regularly, so it wasn’t like this was anything new. What had changed?

  Me. Somehow, little by little, there was a shift happening in me. It was like my eyes were seeing everything for the first time. And I knew he was the reason why.

  I stood, wiping my palms on my jeans. Maybe I could just meet him at his house instead of sitting here and psyching myself out. The walk would give me something to focus on. He’d mentioned on the phone that his house was at the back corner of the park, so I began strolling in that direction, looking for one with the backyard facing west.

  I reached the edge of the park and crossed the street. In front of a small brick bungalow, two brown-haired, blue-eyed girls were whispering furiously from their spot on the front step. I could hear them hissing heated words at each other, pointer fingers waggling in each other’s faces. One was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and the other in a pale purple dress. Had to be his sisters. Matthew had said they were named Jennifer and Carmen.

  I smiled and walked up to them. “Hi, is this Matthew’s house?”

  The two girls were almost identical—I could barely discern a difference in their faces, except that one had more freckles on her nose. They both looked just like their brother, but with lighter, feminine features.

  The girl on the left paused and eyed me. Then she smiled widely, showing a cute gap between her teeth. “You must be Corinne.”

  He’d talked about me? I swallowed and tried to maintain a calm facade. “Yup, that’s me. I was supposed to meet him at the park but—”

  “Matthew!” the freckle-faced girl stood and bellowed. “Your date’s here!”

  “Oh, no,” I rushed to say. “Um, it’s not a date. We’re—”

  “Hey, brother!” the first girl hollered. “Your girlfriend’s waiting for you!” They turned to each other and tittered.

  Nice. Luckily, I had a lot of training with annoying younger siblings. I just shot them a serene smile and ignored their teasing. They’d eventually get bored.

  The front door whipped open, and Matthew barged outside, tugging it closed behind him. He stopped and blinked. “Oh, you’re here.” His cheeks flushed a tinge of light pink. “I thought we were meeting at the park.”

  Suddenly I felt self-conscious. It was evident by the tension in his body language that he didn’t want to meet me here. But why? “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I figured I’d just . . .” I shrugged my shoulders.

  Shoving back my awkwardness, I scanned my gaze over the house. It was smaller than ours. The yard was tidy. The shutters were bright red, freshly painted. It was a cute place. Was he insecure about it?

  Matthew came down the steps, long legs clad in faded jeans, wearing a soft gray shirt that I wanted to touch. I kept my hands firmly at my sides as he strolled up to me. The smile around his face didn’t feel as warm as usual. “Sorry.” He was just inches away from me, and I saw flickers of something in his eyes. “I’m just a little . . . self-conscious about our place. I’ve ridden my bike in your neighborhood before, and it’s really nice.”

  My heart tightened a bit, and I suddenly wanted to assuage his concern. He was worried about the differences in our families’ money. “Hey, it’s fine. I’m sorry I put you on the spot. I was just a little . . . anxious waiting for you, so I decided to come here.”

  “Anxious about what?”

  I swallowed, shrugged. “Um, just—”

  “Matthew,” a woman said from just inside the doorway, a dish towel slung over her shoulder. She was tall and brunette with a friendly smile. Apparently the hair color was passed on to everyone in the family. She eyed me with interest. “Who’s your friend?”

  He groaned and gave a good-natured eye roll. “She’s my art partner. Corinne, this is my mom. She’s very nosy.”

  I laughed. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

  She waved at both of us. “Before you go out, why don’t you have dinner here with us?”

  “Oh, I don’t want to get in the way,” I said quickly. “I’m sure you guys already had plans.” Obviously I’d interrupted them eating before he was going to meet me. The awkwardness came back full force, and I spun to head back to the park. “I’ll just go back to our meeting spot and see you when you’re done.”

  “That’s okay,” he said, stepping in front of me and waving me toward the door. The tension was still there in his body, but I could tell he was trying to be polite, which made me feel even more like a jerk. “Please, come on in. Did you eat already?”

  I was tempted to lie and say I had, but I just made a noncommittal sound.

  His mom smiled and practically shoved me in the door. “No one leaves my house hungry.”

  The twins laughed behind me. “That’s true,” one of them offered. “Mom feeds pretty much everyone in the neighborhood.”

  The house was nice and cool on the inside, with lots of light and color. Throw pillows covered a small tan couch, and the walls were bright blue in the living room. There was a small TV tucked into the corner with a pile of DVDs beside it. The place was clean; it was obvious his family took care of what they had.

  “I can go,” I whispered to him. “Seriously, it’s okay.” Yes, my parents made a decent income, but I didn’t want him to feel like I was comparing our houses or anything.

  A look crossed his face, and the tension leaked out of his body. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just . . . we don’t have a lot of money, and I never have guests over here.” He gave a genuine smile this time. “My mom’s gonna make you look at pictures of me.”

  “Little kid pictures? Sounds like blackmail time.” I laughed.

  “Corinne, come over here!” his mom said, waving at a shelf bearing dozens of framed photos. “Look at these shots of Matthew as a kid.”

  He groaned. “Told you.”

  One of the twins thrust a picture in front of my face. “Check this one out. Matthew in the bathtub!”

  He tried to grab it, but she giggled and waved it away from him.

  His mom plucked it out of the air. “Girls, don’t embarrass your brother. Anyway, it’s time for dinner. We can look at pictures later.
” She smiled at me. “I hope you brought your appetite. I made extra.”

  I shot a glance at Matthew. His eyes were slightly hooded but he was staring at me with real interest.

  “I’d like you to stay. If you want to, that is,” he said softly.

  There was no way I could resist those gentle words. “Okay.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Mom, Jennifer won’t hand the bread basket over,” Carmen said in a tone that sounded exactly like my brother’s. Her freckled face was twisted in an angry pout.

  I smothered a laugh.

  Matthew, who was sitting beside me, leaned over slightly to whisper in my ear. “They’ve always had a love-hate relationship with each other. Right now it’s in the ‘hate’ phase. They’re refusing to dress alike, despite most of their wardrobe matching until the last month or so. Jennifer’s even talking about cutting her hair and making it darker.”

  Goose bumps erupted across my skin from the soft puffs of his breath on my ear and neck. I tried not to shiver and give anything away. We’d only been sitting at the table for a few minutes, but I was so tuned in to everything about him that it was ridiculous. I could feel the heat pouring from his thigh, just an inch or two from mine.

  It was hard, trying to focus on the polite conversation his mother was making. But I’d learned that Matthew spent a lot of his free time at home, taking care of his twin sisters while his mom was teaching at a local community college. His parents were divorced, and he and his sisters stayed with their father every other weekend. Though no one else said it out loud, it was apparent that money was tight for them.

  My heart squeezed. Our family never worried about money. We weren’t crazy rich or anything, but my parents had put us in after-school care when we were younger without a second thought.

  I nibbled at my lasagna and stole peeks around his house. Small knickknacks scattered across the windowsill, which was open to let in the early evening sun. The table and chairs were solid wood and a little scuffed, but clean and polished. I liked the house a lot—it was inviting, friendly. It made me want to sit down and make myself comfortable.