She smirks. “I had a shit day, too.”
I flare my eyes at her. “Okay, don’t do as Ido, little bird.”
Eyes rolling, she lets her head fall to the side and continues her scroll on the glowing TV.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nope.” Still, the click of a television show carousel, the beat steady. I can tell she’s not even really looking for anything.
I nod, lips pursed as I scramble for something to do or say, thinking back to the shenanigans Clemmie and I would get into on the hard days. We were only a little older than Carmen is now, I realize, and the thought of us painting ceramics at her mom’s kitchen table pulls a smile to my face. I leap up and she startles, watching me as I rifle through her cabinets until I find some plain mugs.
“These special?” I ask, holding them up for her to see. She squints, studying them for a long moment.
“No. Dollar tree,” is all she gives me. “We don’t have a normal coffee maker, so?—”
“Come here,” I call to her, layering paper towels on the table before setting them down. The random set of acrylics I found in the donate box yesterday just so happen to be the perfect palette for some fall themed mugs, so they join the impromptu craft station I’m designing, filling a few glasses with an inch of water. I feel deep into the recesses of my bag,hoping I accidentally left some cheap brushes in there and find nothing but my reliable, expensive Windsor & Newtons.
“These,” I start, leveling my most serious gaze at Carmen as she sits back on her heels in the chair next to me, “are usually for watercolors, but they’re all I have right now. If you can promise to rinse your brush well between colors, we can use them.”
“Oh,” she says, her voice smaller than it usually is. “Yeah. I can do that.” Her eyes sparkle as she looks between the hues, opting for a soft, sage like blue for her base. “Can I play music?”
“Girl, your house, your rules,” I tell her, pulling out my phone. “Here. Go crazy.”
She quirks a brow and leaves the phone on the table. “Hey Google? Play my Broadway hits.” She grins back at me just as a song I’ve never heard starts playing.
Mumbling some sad song about no one being alone, she continues layering on the misty blue color and I challenge myself to make something interesting. Maybe this could be the spark that leads to a fire, could be the thing that reignites the artist side of my brain.
Like I thought, I can’t even choose which orange to go with. I lay my brushes down and listen closely to the song now playing, the melody vaguely familiar.
“What’s this one?” I ask the wispy girl leaning forward in her chair, brows drawn close together in concentration.
“...Defying Gravity?” she says, like I’m an idiot, and I guess I am.
“It’s been a while,” I try to excuse, laughing through my embarrassment. “What’s your favorite show?”
She thinks for a long moment, pulling her gaze away from the mug.
“Tick, Tick, Boom.” She dips her head back down, divingback into her work with shocking dedication. I can’t help but smile at the little artist.
“Like the movie?” I ask, warily.
“Close enough. But there’s this really good boot leg on Youtube I used to watch with my dad and Andy.”
I saw the film. Concern lances through me at the idea thatthis—a story about living a life not wasted that ultimately ends in tragedy—is her favorite show. Like she senses my worry, she continues.
“It’s just, like, nostalgic, I guess. We still watch it, just me and Andy. Mom can’t. She doesn’t watch anything with death.” She says it so bluntly, I almost laugh and sheactuallydoes.
“That was morbid, little bird,” I tell her, falling into a muscle cramping bout of laughter.
“Little bird,” she mocks me, shimmying her shoulders. “My second favorite show is Beetlejuice.” Her brows flare and I gasp for air at her delivery.
I can just imagine her on the stage.
“Stop. Who is lettin’ you see these?” I take a deep breath, calming myself.
She shrugs. “My brother.”
“I think I need to have a word.”
