believe it when I see it.”
“Weren’t you the one telling me patience is a virtue?”
“I hate when my own wisdom bites me in the ass.”
I laughed and gathered up the scraps of paper I wasn’t using, then dumped them into
a plastic bag for later, in this collage or another. Nothing ever goes to waste with
collaging. It was the perfect medium for a broke-ass person like myself. Besides,
if it was good enough for Picasso, it was good enough for me. It was his collages
that had made me want to work with paper in the first place. In my essay for San Fran,
I’d written about how I’d always felt like there was something magical about taking
bits and pieces of the world around me and creating something whole. It gave me hope:
if you could make a beautiful piece of art from discarded newspapers and old matchbooks,
then it meant that everything had potential. And maybe people were like collages—no
matter how broken or useless we felt, we were an essential part of the whole. We mattered.
I gave my collage one last, loving glance, then put it in the large portfolio folder
I’d bought for myself when I got into San Fran. Marge still stood near the window,
frowning. I glanced at the clock. It wasn’t like Josh to blow off a shift like this.
“The electrician’s here, and Josh has my keys,” Marge said. “The guy needs to get
into that back room where the generator and electrical panels are. Would you mind
running over to Josh’s house and seeing if he’s there? If he’s not home, you can check
the garage.”
I got that fluttery feeling that seemed to attack me every time Josh was around: in
my chest and the pit of my stomach and in a place it’s not polite to mention in mixed
company. What was I supposed to tell her? No, Marge, I’m sorry, but I can’t go to Josh’s house. You see, I’m experiencing a
fluttering sensation.
I leaned over the counter and grabbed my keys and wallet. “I think I’m gonna need
a raise for this.”
She handed me twenty bucks from her pocket. “Subway. You fly, I’ll buy.”
I pushed her hand away. “Kidding, Marge. Of course I’ll go over there.”
She stuffed the bill into the front pocket of my jean shorts. “Get out of here, and
don’t come back without a six-inch roast beef, no—”
“—mayo and extra pickles. I know, I know.”
It only took me six minutes to drive to Josh’s house. I hadn’t been there since the
night of the party. It seemed different in the daylight—smaller. Josh’s truck was
in the driveway, but the house seemed deserted. Maybe it was just the malaise of Creek
View at noon, when the sun was at its most sadistic.
I got out of my car and headed up the concrete front walkway. The grass was brown,
and the house sort of sagged in on itself, like a toothless old man. I knocked on
the screen door, the sound echoing in the silence that had wrapped around me. I shaded
my eyes and looked around the neighborhood, eerie in its emptiness. I half expected
a tumbleweed to roll by. I pictured Afghanistan like this, but scarier and with mosques
sounding out the call to prayer five times a day. Moon dust. A film over everything.
Desolate.
I knocked again, and this time the door opened into a darkened living room. The girl
standing in the doorway looked at me without saying anything, and I tried to smile,
but she didn’t smile back. Her dirty blond hair hung in limp strands around her shoulders,
and her skin was pale, like she never went outside. But there was a certain Mitchellness
about her—those Van Gogh eyes and thin lips twisted into a smirk.
“Hey, Tara.”
She looked back at the living room for a second, probably checking the TV, bored with
me already. It was annoying that a thirteen-year-old had the power to make me feel
like an intruder. You’d think I was one of those people from the Evangelical church
fifty miles away that came to Creek View a couple of times a year
“Weren’t you the one telling me patience is a virtue?”
“I hate when my own wisdom bites me in the ass.”
I laughed and gathered up the scraps of paper I wasn’t using, then dumped them into
a plastic bag for later, in this collage or another. Nothing ever goes to waste with
collaging. It was the perfect medium for a broke-ass person like myself. Besides,
if it was good enough for Picasso, it was good enough for me. It was his collages
that had made me want to work with paper in the first place. In my essay for San Fran,
I’d written about how I’d always felt like there was something magical about taking
bits and pieces of the world around me and creating something whole. It gave me hope:
if you could make a beautiful piece of art from discarded newspapers and old matchbooks,
then it meant that everything had potential. And maybe people were like collages—no
matter how broken or useless we felt, we were an essential part of the whole. We mattered.
I gave my collage one last, loving glance, then put it in the large portfolio folder
I’d bought for myself when I got into San Fran. Marge still stood near the window,
frowning. I glanced at the clock. It wasn’t like Josh to blow off a shift like this.
“The electrician’s here, and Josh has my keys,” Marge said. “The guy needs to get
into that back room where the generator and electrical panels are. Would you mind
running over to Josh’s house and seeing if he’s there? If he’s not home, you can check
the garage.”
I got that fluttery feeling that seemed to attack me every time Josh was around: in
my chest and the pit of my stomach and in a place it’s not polite to mention in mixed
company. What was I supposed to tell her? No, Marge, I’m sorry, but I can’t go to Josh’s house. You see, I’m experiencing a
fluttering sensation.
I leaned over the counter and grabbed my keys and wallet. “I think I’m gonna need
a raise for this.”
She handed me twenty bucks from her pocket. “Subway. You fly, I’ll buy.”
I pushed her hand away. “Kidding, Marge. Of course I’ll go over there.”
She stuffed the bill into the front pocket of my jean shorts. “Get out of here, and
don’t come back without a six-inch roast beef, no—”
“—mayo and extra pickles. I know, I know.”
It only took me six minutes to drive to Josh’s house. I hadn’t been there since the
night of the party. It seemed different in the daylight—smaller. Josh’s truck was
in the driveway, but the house seemed deserted. Maybe it was just the malaise of Creek
View at noon, when the sun was at its most sadistic.
I got out of my car and headed up the concrete front walkway. The grass was brown,
and the house sort of sagged in on itself, like a toothless old man. I knocked on
the screen door, the sound echoing in the silence that had wrapped around me. I shaded
my eyes and looked around the neighborhood, eerie in its emptiness. I half expected
a tumbleweed to roll by. I pictured Afghanistan like this, but scarier and with mosques
sounding out the call to prayer five times a day. Moon dust. A film over everything.
Desolate.
I knocked again, and this time the door opened into a darkened living room. The girl
standing in the doorway looked at me without saying anything, and I tried to smile,
but she didn’t smile back. Her dirty blond hair hung in limp strands around her shoulders,
and her skin was pale, like she never went outside. But there was a certain Mitchellness
about her—those Van Gogh eyes and thin lips twisted into a smirk.
“Hey, Tara.”
She looked back at the living room for a second, probably checking the TV, bored with
me already. It was annoying that a thirteen-year-old had the power to make me feel
like an intruder. You’d think I was one of those people from the Evangelical church
fifty miles away that came to Creek View a couple of times a year
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