painting, but it's not the right kind."
I frown, but keep my mouth shut, waiting for him to continue.
"I don't remember what I've told you about my parents, if I've even told you anything," he goes on. "But basically they sent me out here for the summer because they didn't like my choices."
Now I sit forward on the bench, wondering exactly where this is going, and if it's going to change something for me and Walker.
Suddenly, I regret bringing it up at all, sure he's about to tell me how he was messed up in high school, visions of him locked up behind bars floating in front of my eyes.
I'm already telling myself it doesn't matter who he was before he met me when he explains.
"I want to be a painter," he says. "No, screw that. I am a painter. It's just not what Mr. And Mrs. Heart Surgeon want for their firstborn."
"You...what?"
"Yeah," he says. "I like to paint. Not houses or schools or pizza joints on the beach. Art. Real stuff, like Pollock or Calder."
I'm not about to tell him I'm not sure who Calder is.
"So why don't you?" I ask as he kneels on the floor of the boat in front of the tarp.
A small smile crosses his face. "I do," he says. "In secret. Back home, Grandpa let me use his garage for my work. Out here, I've got to keep it somewhere." He pulls the cover away and I see it's hiding an easel and a big black toolbox.
He reaches into the bag he'd been carrying when we first got on the boat and slides out two large canvases and passes one to me.
"I finished this one a couple nights ago," he says, and I'm too busy staring at the bright colors in front of me to notice the blush filling his cheeks as I examine his work. "It's not the best thing I've ever done, but you asked and it's here, so --"
"This is so cool!" I exclaim, not caring that I've just interrupted him. "I wish I could make something like this."
He snaps his head up and looks at me. "You mean, you don't think a five-year-old could do it?"
"Maybe, but that'd be a crazy talented kindergartener. This is incredible."
Walker shakes his head. "I don't get it. Why doesn't everyone see it the way you do?"
"What do you mean?"
"That's what they always said anytime I talked about my paintings. My parents think it's baby crap. Whenever it comes up, they refer to it as my 'coloring.' If they're in a good mood, it's 'fingerpainting' instead." He takes a breath. "I don't know. It's just weird to hear someone say they like it."
I stare at him. "How could someone say anything bad about this?"
He shrugs. "Like I said, I'm not planning on going to med school or law school or, hell, I don't even wanna be an accountant. I want to paint. I'm goin' to college, just not for what they want."
"And so that's how you ended up here? So you could paint?"
"Something like that. My parents think I should be working so I understand how nice it is to actually have money when I'm a starving artist after graduation."
"Is it working?"
He snorts. "What, like I really need to figure out that I like money? If anything, the time it forces me away from doing what I want to be doing only makes me want to paint more."
"Then do it," I tell him. "If you don't want to work for your uncle and you're doing okay for money, why not quit? It's just summer."
He bites down on his lower lip before slipping a toothpick out of his bag. "I'm not a quitter."
"You quit smoking," I point out, even though his words slice through me.
He mentions quitting with such disgust that it makes me wonder what he really thinks about the decision I've made to stop surfing, but there isn't enough time for me to dwell on it now.
Walker gives me a small half-smile. "So I did."
"But this is different, I get that."
"Yeah." He gets to his feet and brushes his hands together. "So I paint. Thanks for listenin'."
I smile and pass him the canvas. "What's that one?" I ask, pointing to the one he hasn't shown me.
"Oh." He looks down, and quickly tucks it back into the bag, but not before
I frown, but keep my mouth shut, waiting for him to continue.
"I don't remember what I've told you about my parents, if I've even told you anything," he goes on. "But basically they sent me out here for the summer because they didn't like my choices."
Now I sit forward on the bench, wondering exactly where this is going, and if it's going to change something for me and Walker.
Suddenly, I regret bringing it up at all, sure he's about to tell me how he was messed up in high school, visions of him locked up behind bars floating in front of my eyes.
I'm already telling myself it doesn't matter who he was before he met me when he explains.
"I want to be a painter," he says. "No, screw that. I am a painter. It's just not what Mr. And Mrs. Heart Surgeon want for their firstborn."
"You...what?"
"Yeah," he says. "I like to paint. Not houses or schools or pizza joints on the beach. Art. Real stuff, like Pollock or Calder."
I'm not about to tell him I'm not sure who Calder is.
"So why don't you?" I ask as he kneels on the floor of the boat in front of the tarp.
A small smile crosses his face. "I do," he says. "In secret. Back home, Grandpa let me use his garage for my work. Out here, I've got to keep it somewhere." He pulls the cover away and I see it's hiding an easel and a big black toolbox.
He reaches into the bag he'd been carrying when we first got on the boat and slides out two large canvases and passes one to me.
"I finished this one a couple nights ago," he says, and I'm too busy staring at the bright colors in front of me to notice the blush filling his cheeks as I examine his work. "It's not the best thing I've ever done, but you asked and it's here, so --"
"This is so cool!" I exclaim, not caring that I've just interrupted him. "I wish I could make something like this."
He snaps his head up and looks at me. "You mean, you don't think a five-year-old could do it?"
"Maybe, but that'd be a crazy talented kindergartener. This is incredible."
Walker shakes his head. "I don't get it. Why doesn't everyone see it the way you do?"
"What do you mean?"
"That's what they always said anytime I talked about my paintings. My parents think it's baby crap. Whenever it comes up, they refer to it as my 'coloring.' If they're in a good mood, it's 'fingerpainting' instead." He takes a breath. "I don't know. It's just weird to hear someone say they like it."
I stare at him. "How could someone say anything bad about this?"
He shrugs. "Like I said, I'm not planning on going to med school or law school or, hell, I don't even wanna be an accountant. I want to paint. I'm goin' to college, just not for what they want."
"And so that's how you ended up here? So you could paint?"
"Something like that. My parents think I should be working so I understand how nice it is to actually have money when I'm a starving artist after graduation."
"Is it working?"
He snorts. "What, like I really need to figure out that I like money? If anything, the time it forces me away from doing what I want to be doing only makes me want to paint more."
"Then do it," I tell him. "If you don't want to work for your uncle and you're doing okay for money, why not quit? It's just summer."
He bites down on his lower lip before slipping a toothpick out of his bag. "I'm not a quitter."
"You quit smoking," I point out, even though his words slice through me.
He mentions quitting with such disgust that it makes me wonder what he really thinks about the decision I've made to stop surfing, but there isn't enough time for me to dwell on it now.
Walker gives me a small half-smile. "So I did."
"But this is different, I get that."
"Yeah." He gets to his feet and brushes his hands together. "So I paint. Thanks for listenin'."
I smile and pass him the canvas. "What's that one?" I ask, pointing to the one he hasn't shown me.
"Oh." He looks down, and quickly tucks it back into the bag, but not before
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In the City of Gold and Silver
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