from Lark’s house to a moving van parked in her driveway. They trundle out pictures and furniture wrapped in packing blankets. It makes me sick to think about someone else living there. Van Gogh wouldn’t want the Austins to sell their house. And if they did, he’d draw it at least a dozen times before they left. And then again after they left. But never once after the other people moved in.
Ian is in his nerdy glasses and a red thrift-shop wool sweater. He lies on my bed while I crosshatch the shutters. I’m scribbling, building up texture, defining boundaries of stucco and wood, trying to capture what I know before the new owners completely destroy it with some ghastly remodel. I’ve given Ian a reading assignment—Van Gogh’s letters to Theo, the ones where he writes about the colors of the soil, wheat, and sky, and how he has to buy more canvas right away so he can capture it all before the season changes.
Ian crosses an ankle over a knee. His mouth is slightly open because he’s concentrating. He is completely, utterly adorable.
“I love them,” he says. “But why do you? They’re all about color and you don’t paint. You only draw in black.”
I think about the paints in my father’s studio. Paints made of pigments and oils, egg yolk and minerals. Paints from England in little lead tubes. I remember squeezing out pearls of paint. The colors were so bright, they made my eyes vibrate.
“Color’s hard to manage.” I can’t say what scares me about the loss of clear lines, the blur of edges.
“But you love it,” Ian insists, holding up the book. It’s open to a detail of sunflowers against a bright yellow background. Petals spiral with brushstrokes of vermilion and orange. The stone I buried deep in my chest begins to cut its way to the surface.
My mom knocks on the door while I’m formulating a response. She carries an armload of whites.
“I’m feeling generous,” she says. “I’ll do yours, but only if you give them to me right now.”
It’s her third interruption since Ian arrived. She’s brought us a tray of sandwiches and grapes. She’s hovering, trying to help us make good decisions. I look through my hamper and hand her some clothes.
“By the way, “ she says on her way out, “the Austins are having a little gathering for Lark’s friends next week. They want her friends to choose something to remember her.”
“I’m not going,” I say. “I don’t want anything.”
“You might later,” she says.
“Mom, in case you didn’t notice, Lark and I weren’t friends anymore. We’ve barely talked since middle school.”
“Think of it as a gift,” she says. “Something her parents are offering you and something you can give them. Simply by being there.”
“You should go,” says Ian.
I glare at him.
“I’ll take you,” he offers.
My mom beams. “Thanks, Ian,” she says, and leaves without closing the door. A sock falls to the floor.
If it were another book he was reading, I’d pull it from Ian’s hands and hit him with it. But it’s Volume II of my Bulfinch edition of The Complete Letters of Vincent van Gogh , the one with the dark blue cover and the gold cypress tree on the spine. “Give me that,” I say. “Now.”
He complies. I place it gently on the floor. Then I sucker punch him in the upper arm, but he’s too fast for me. He flexes his biceps so it almost hurts me as much as it does him.
“OWWW!” he says.
“Traitor.”
“What do you mean, traitor? That’s a bit extreme.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“It’s polite,” he says. “It’s what you do when someone dies.”
He holds me tight, and I bury my face in his neck. He smells like frost and leaves and cold air. I can feel all types of bad choices coming on. Ian throws a leg over mine, then rolls me over in some kind of ninja move so that now he’s on top looking down at me. I see his rumpled black hair and white skin, his sapphire blue eyes. I keep staring, waiting, then
Ian is in his nerdy glasses and a red thrift-shop wool sweater. He lies on my bed while I crosshatch the shutters. I’m scribbling, building up texture, defining boundaries of stucco and wood, trying to capture what I know before the new owners completely destroy it with some ghastly remodel. I’ve given Ian a reading assignment—Van Gogh’s letters to Theo, the ones where he writes about the colors of the soil, wheat, and sky, and how he has to buy more canvas right away so he can capture it all before the season changes.
Ian crosses an ankle over a knee. His mouth is slightly open because he’s concentrating. He is completely, utterly adorable.
“I love them,” he says. “But why do you? They’re all about color and you don’t paint. You only draw in black.”
I think about the paints in my father’s studio. Paints made of pigments and oils, egg yolk and minerals. Paints from England in little lead tubes. I remember squeezing out pearls of paint. The colors were so bright, they made my eyes vibrate.
“Color’s hard to manage.” I can’t say what scares me about the loss of clear lines, the blur of edges.
“But you love it,” Ian insists, holding up the book. It’s open to a detail of sunflowers against a bright yellow background. Petals spiral with brushstrokes of vermilion and orange. The stone I buried deep in my chest begins to cut its way to the surface.
My mom knocks on the door while I’m formulating a response. She carries an armload of whites.
“I’m feeling generous,” she says. “I’ll do yours, but only if you give them to me right now.”
It’s her third interruption since Ian arrived. She’s brought us a tray of sandwiches and grapes. She’s hovering, trying to help us make good decisions. I look through my hamper and hand her some clothes.
“By the way, “ she says on her way out, “the Austins are having a little gathering for Lark’s friends next week. They want her friends to choose something to remember her.”
“I’m not going,” I say. “I don’t want anything.”
“You might later,” she says.
“Mom, in case you didn’t notice, Lark and I weren’t friends anymore. We’ve barely talked since middle school.”
“Think of it as a gift,” she says. “Something her parents are offering you and something you can give them. Simply by being there.”
“You should go,” says Ian.
I glare at him.
“I’ll take you,” he offers.
My mom beams. “Thanks, Ian,” she says, and leaves without closing the door. A sock falls to the floor.
If it were another book he was reading, I’d pull it from Ian’s hands and hit him with it. But it’s Volume II of my Bulfinch edition of The Complete Letters of Vincent van Gogh , the one with the dark blue cover and the gold cypress tree on the spine. “Give me that,” I say. “Now.”
He complies. I place it gently on the floor. Then I sucker punch him in the upper arm, but he’s too fast for me. He flexes his biceps so it almost hurts me as much as it does him.
“OWWW!” he says.
“Traitor.”
“What do you mean, traitor? That’s a bit extreme.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“It’s polite,” he says. “It’s what you do when someone dies.”
He holds me tight, and I bury my face in his neck. He smells like frost and leaves and cold air. I can feel all types of bad choices coming on. Ian throws a leg over mine, then rolls me over in some kind of ninja move so that now he’s on top looking down at me. I see his rumpled black hair and white skin, his sapphire blue eyes. I keep staring, waiting, then
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