Read Online Another Kind of Hurricane by Tamara Ellis Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tamara Ellis Smith
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folding them. By the time she looked up, maybe the woman would be gone.
chapter 19
ZAVION
Zavion knew it was wishful thinking, thinking if he could just pay back the money for the chocolate bars he could make the whole hurricane mess go away. But he still felt like he had to try.
Zavion found Papa in the living room hunched over a tiny canvas.
A tiny square slate roof shingle, actually.
The kind Zavion had given as an IOU at Luna Market. More shingles were scattered all over the table.
Zavion had overheard Tavius and Enzo offering them to Skeet and Papa.
“We figured Skeet could use them for some art project, so we collected them as we walked,” said Tavius.
“You should have seen us. Waterlogged and weighed down with these shingles in our pockets,” said Enzo.
“It gave us something to focus on,” said Tavius.
“You should use them too,” said Enzo to Papa. “Make lemonade out of lemons.”
“Make slate-ade out of slate,” said Tavius.
Zavion had watched as Papa picked up a piece of slate and turned it slowly in his hands.
Now he was painting on one.
“What’s up, Zav?”
Zavion knew for a fact that if mothers had eyes in the back of their heads, fathers had them on top of theirs. How many times had Papa been bent over a mural sketch working but still knew that he had entered the room?
It wasn’t Mama’s soft-eyed stare and bear-hug combination, but it was still comforting. Most of the time. Not today, though. But that wasn’t Papa’s fault. Zavion was on a specific, scary mission today.
Zavion sat down across from Papa. His short hair was grayer than Zavion could remember seeing before. Papa’s hair was often all different colors—he had a habit of rubbing his fingers into his scalp while he was painting—but this gray was not paint.
Zavion breathed in the familiar smell of acrylic mixed with hair relaxer and cedar deodorant. It was the only familiar thing his body had experienced since they left their house to slog through the water, and it made him suddenly and forcefully sad.
“What are you painting, Papa?” he asked.
He was stalling for time before he asked his question. The question that could only have one answer.
“Tiny landscapes.”
“You never paint tiny.”
“True.”
“You’ve only ever painted one landscape.”
“True too.”
Papa’s paintings were of Mardi Gras and musicians and fishing for shrimp and oysters and catfish. They were huge too. He usually painted right across a whole wall.
“Sometimes the world tells you to do something new.” Hearing that made Zavion’s sadness break apart like fireworks. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard. Maybe Papa was ready for something different. “I woke up with this mighty strong urge to paint some very small landscapes,” continued Papa. He picked up a slate shingle that was drying next to him. “The slate makes the colors pop,” he said. “And it feels good to hold this tree in my hands.” He opened his fingers so the shingle balanced in the middle of his palm. “It’s in one piece. I can see the whole thing.”
The tree was from the Appalachian spruce-fir forest.
“A red spruce?” Zavion asked, but he was sure he was right. Its green needle-tipped branches reached to the very edges of the shingle, and the sky around it was a tropical blue, almostlike the sea, but quieter and flat, no brushstrokes to indicate waves. “Mama’s tree?”
Papa nodded.
It was the tree at the top of the mural that Papa had painted in Zavion’s room. The tree that stood on top of Grandmother Mountain, where Mama had grown up. It wasn’t actually there—the University of North Carolina Public Television broadcasting tower was on top of the real Grandmother Mountain—but Papa had given Mama a red spruce on theirs.
Zavion wanted to climb the tree, jump from the ground to its lowest branch and climb all the way to the top, all the way to the still, silent sky.
“I like it,” he said.
He had to do it.
He had to ask
chapter 19
ZAVION
Zavion knew it was wishful thinking, thinking if he could just pay back the money for the chocolate bars he could make the whole hurricane mess go away. But he still felt like he had to try.
Zavion found Papa in the living room hunched over a tiny canvas.
A tiny square slate roof shingle, actually.
The kind Zavion had given as an IOU at Luna Market. More shingles were scattered all over the table.
Zavion had overheard Tavius and Enzo offering them to Skeet and Papa.
“We figured Skeet could use them for some art project, so we collected them as we walked,” said Tavius.
“You should have seen us. Waterlogged and weighed down with these shingles in our pockets,” said Enzo.
“It gave us something to focus on,” said Tavius.
“You should use them too,” said Enzo to Papa. “Make lemonade out of lemons.”
“Make slate-ade out of slate,” said Tavius.
Zavion had watched as Papa picked up a piece of slate and turned it slowly in his hands.
Now he was painting on one.
“What’s up, Zav?”
Zavion knew for a fact that if mothers had eyes in the back of their heads, fathers had them on top of theirs. How many times had Papa been bent over a mural sketch working but still knew that he had entered the room?
It wasn’t Mama’s soft-eyed stare and bear-hug combination, but it was still comforting. Most of the time. Not today, though. But that wasn’t Papa’s fault. Zavion was on a specific, scary mission today.
Zavion sat down across from Papa. His short hair was grayer than Zavion could remember seeing before. Papa’s hair was often all different colors—he had a habit of rubbing his fingers into his scalp while he was painting—but this gray was not paint.
Zavion breathed in the familiar smell of acrylic mixed with hair relaxer and cedar deodorant. It was the only familiar thing his body had experienced since they left their house to slog through the water, and it made him suddenly and forcefully sad.
“What are you painting, Papa?” he asked.
He was stalling for time before he asked his question. The question that could only have one answer.
“Tiny landscapes.”
“You never paint tiny.”
“True.”
“You’ve only ever painted one landscape.”
“True too.”
Papa’s paintings were of Mardi Gras and musicians and fishing for shrimp and oysters and catfish. They were huge too. He usually painted right across a whole wall.
“Sometimes the world tells you to do something new.” Hearing that made Zavion’s sadness break apart like fireworks. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard. Maybe Papa was ready for something different. “I woke up with this mighty strong urge to paint some very small landscapes,” continued Papa. He picked up a slate shingle that was drying next to him. “The slate makes the colors pop,” he said. “And it feels good to hold this tree in my hands.” He opened his fingers so the shingle balanced in the middle of his palm. “It’s in one piece. I can see the whole thing.”
The tree was from the Appalachian spruce-fir forest.
“A red spruce?” Zavion asked, but he was sure he was right. Its green needle-tipped branches reached to the very edges of the shingle, and the sky around it was a tropical blue, almostlike the sea, but quieter and flat, no brushstrokes to indicate waves. “Mama’s tree?”
Papa nodded.
It was the tree at the top of the mural that Papa had painted in Zavion’s room. The tree that stood on top of Grandmother Mountain, where Mama had grown up. It wasn’t actually there—the University of North Carolina Public Television broadcasting tower was on top of the real Grandmother Mountain—but Papa had given Mama a red spruce on theirs.
Zavion wanted to climb the tree, jump from the ground to its lowest branch and climb all the way to the top, all the way to the still, silent sky.
“I like it,” he said.
He had to do it.
He had to ask
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