Just ‘cause I know I won’t hear the end of it unless I do, I sidetrack with her, flipping through photos of a few of my paintings I’d snapped pictures of before whiting out the canvases to paint something new. And for once, okay, once when shedoesn’thave her nose buried in a book, she’s silent.
“Holy shit, Tristan,” she breathes when I click out of the photos. “Those are—” she shakes her head. “Shit.”
“You saying my paintings are shit?” I put on an injured pout.
“Shut up,” she swats my shoulder. “You know what I mean. Do you sell them, or are they in a gallery or something?”
“Okay, I get it. You don’t think they’re shit. But can we please move on now?”
“Tristan, I’m serious. Your paintings are amazing.Pleasetell me you’re doing something with them. And if you’re not, that one of the half dead tree out on that rock? You’re giving it to me for my birthday next month.”
Oh. Shit.
“I gave that one to someone back in Cali,” I quickly lie. Is it fucked up that that feels better than telling her the truth? “I’ll paint you a new one. But nah, I don’t sell them.”
“Text Mitchel. Right.Now.”
Mitchel is the owner of Upshot. The guy who hired me. I’d never really thought about it until now, but I guess he’s gotta be the one who the people who sell art on the back wall go to if they want to display their work.
Reagan’s hand is in my back pocket, snagging my phone and shoving it under my nose before I know what’s hit me.
“Send him pictures of a couple of those you just showed me. Ask him if you can sell them here. He’ll gocrazyover them.Trust me.”
My stomach flips and knots as I stare down at my phone.
Painting has always just been forme. Something I couldn’t help doing, just like I couldn’t help playing my music once Mindy started teaching me.
I’ve got a few memories of when I was super little, before things got fucked up by Fucking Bruce, back when my mom was happy and it was just the two of us. We’d lived in a clean, bright little apartment in the outskirts of Reno, and after Mom would pick me up from daycare on her way home from work, we’d sit at the kitchen table and paint together.
She sold her paintings at a farmers’ market on Saturdays. One day, she’d tell me, maybe she’d sell so many that I wouldn’t have to go to daycare anymore while she worked.
I liked daycare just fine, but I liked that idea even better.
I don’t really remember what her paintings looked like. I just remember thinking they were the best things I’d ever seen. All I’d wanted was to be able to paint like that.
Then Fucking Bruce showed up and everything went to hell.
Mom would be late to get me from daycare, which didn’t make any sense, ‘cause she’d quit her job. Sometimes, she and Bruce would stay up all night for days at a time, keeping me awake banging around or screaming at each other or fucking so loudly I couldn’t sleep.
Not that I knew they were fucking back then at least.
Then other times, she’d pass out on the couch and sleep so long I’d have to feed myself, if there was any food around, and get back and forth from the school bus on my own. By then, no one took me to daycare anymore.
She didn’t laugh or play with me like she used to, and we didn’t paint together.
And after that, that story she’d fed me when we’d run away to Dallas that night on the bus? That everything would be better once we got there? Nothing but bullshit.
A few days before the lady from social services came for me, Mom had woken up from one of her passed-out-sessions and found me painting by myself in the kitchen. The counter was all piled up with shit, just like everywhere in the trailer we were renting, so I’d just stacked my paper and water cup and paints on top of a flattish looking spot and gone to work.
I was so focused on what I’d been doing that I didn’t pay any attention to her crashing around until she was right behind me.
And then it was because I could smell her that I’d turned around.
Some kids at school had said I smelled bad. I didn’t think I did, but they wouldn’t stop saying it, so there had to be something wrong with my nose. So if I could smell her? Like that much? That had to mean she smelledextrabad.
“Can I show you what I painted?”
I don’t know what I was thinking. She was always pissed off when she’d wake up. I knew better. I knew to stay the fuck out of her way and let her have a smoke and some coffee. Then, after she’d disappear into the bathroom for what felt like hours and come back out again, it sometimes might be safe to talk to her. Maybe.
