it with one of her own.
When we get off the bus in Ballard, Nick mumbles something about homework and heads toward his house.
I wander over to the skate park to sit.
From my bench, I watch the skater-guys doing tricks. One catches my eye. He wears a wool beanie even though it’s getting warm out. He’s got on long shorts, skate shoes,and a beat-up T-shirt. It crosses my mind that he should have pads, a helmet.
The guy is so into what he’s doing. He’s working in the big concrete bowl, gliding from one side to the other. He must have so much focus, to be able to just do that. He’s totally in this moment. His board is part of his body.
As he approaches the lip of the bowl, I see a shift in his body right before he tries to do a three-sixty turn. He doesn’t quite catch the board right as he lands. Sliding down to the bottom of the bowl must burn.
He falls out of my view. I feel like a cord connecting us has broken.
Then he runs back up to the top of the bowl and starts over. I’m mesmerized as he goes down, up, out of view, into view. He gets up a crazy momentum, and then he does it. He does the three-sixty perfectly.
On his next rise, he hops out of the bowl and someone else drops in. The guy goes to sit in the grass, just like that.
What I’ve just seen is art. No doubt about it. Beanie skater-guy is an artist.
I pull my sketchbook from my messenger bag and a charcoal from my box. I try to make something.
I start playing with shade, making swoops and swirls.
Ever since Holly got mad at me, I’ve felt full up of this energy that I couldn’t get out because I didn’t know how to make it right. It subsided, but now it’s back. Nick has goodreason to be pissed off, and I’m still on shaky ground with Holly.
This is even worse than before. As I work, I feel like I will burst. I really will.
I want art to take me away.
But charcoal on paper isn’t doing anything. I flip to a new page and stare at it. This feels wrong. I want the squeeze of the spray paint can. The way you can’t quite control the flow. The way the color is so alive, and so free.
I just look at the paper, thinking about blankness and choices. I could do anything. So why can’t I do something?
Nick and I talk about coloring in the lines, filling them in. But who needs lines? I want to break completely free. I want to be out of bounds, out where it’s all color and everything’s beautiful, even when it’s a mess.
If I sit still for one more minute, I think I really will burst.
I walk over to Palette, where it’s slow. Oscar must be in back. Maye’s at the main register.
“Hot chocolate craving?” she asks.
“In the worst way.” We walk over to the espresso stand.
She pours the milk and starts to steam it. I want to talk to her about stuff, but I don’t know where to start, exactly. Tell her I’ve ruined everything with my two best friends?Tell her that school drives me nuts? Tell her that I’m afraid of messing up my life? That I want to be exactly like her, and can she tell me the steps to take to get there?
Just being quiet is all I have to do, because she asks, “Are you okay?”
“I’m stressed out is all,” I say. But I do want to talk. I can’t dismiss this energy. “Are you ever just sick of being yourself?”
She turns off the steamer and stirs my drink. I reconsider the question. “Duh, of course you’re not sick of yourself. You’re awesome.”
She lets out a breath, hands me my drink. “You think I’m awesome? That’s so sweet, Vanessa.”
“It’s just true. You’re kind of a role model for me, I guess.”
“Well, I’m glad we met too. You’re so much cooler than I was at your age,” she says. “You’re so far ahead with your art. I can tell just by the way you talk about it.”
“I doubt that.”
“You’re right on track,” she says. “You’re really gonna be something. By the time you’re my age, I have a feeling you’ll be doing way better than little shows at the
When we get off the bus in Ballard, Nick mumbles something about homework and heads toward his house.
I wander over to the skate park to sit.
From my bench, I watch the skater-guys doing tricks. One catches my eye. He wears a wool beanie even though it’s getting warm out. He’s got on long shorts, skate shoes,and a beat-up T-shirt. It crosses my mind that he should have pads, a helmet.
The guy is so into what he’s doing. He’s working in the big concrete bowl, gliding from one side to the other. He must have so much focus, to be able to just do that. He’s totally in this moment. His board is part of his body.
As he approaches the lip of the bowl, I see a shift in his body right before he tries to do a three-sixty turn. He doesn’t quite catch the board right as he lands. Sliding down to the bottom of the bowl must burn.
He falls out of my view. I feel like a cord connecting us has broken.
Then he runs back up to the top of the bowl and starts over. I’m mesmerized as he goes down, up, out of view, into view. He gets up a crazy momentum, and then he does it. He does the three-sixty perfectly.
On his next rise, he hops out of the bowl and someone else drops in. The guy goes to sit in the grass, just like that.
What I’ve just seen is art. No doubt about it. Beanie skater-guy is an artist.
I pull my sketchbook from my messenger bag and a charcoal from my box. I try to make something.
I start playing with shade, making swoops and swirls.
Ever since Holly got mad at me, I’ve felt full up of this energy that I couldn’t get out because I didn’t know how to make it right. It subsided, but now it’s back. Nick has goodreason to be pissed off, and I’m still on shaky ground with Holly.
This is even worse than before. As I work, I feel like I will burst. I really will.
I want art to take me away.
But charcoal on paper isn’t doing anything. I flip to a new page and stare at it. This feels wrong. I want the squeeze of the spray paint can. The way you can’t quite control the flow. The way the color is so alive, and so free.
I just look at the paper, thinking about blankness and choices. I could do anything. So why can’t I do something?
Nick and I talk about coloring in the lines, filling them in. But who needs lines? I want to break completely free. I want to be out of bounds, out where it’s all color and everything’s beautiful, even when it’s a mess.
If I sit still for one more minute, I think I really will burst.
I walk over to Palette, where it’s slow. Oscar must be in back. Maye’s at the main register.
“Hot chocolate craving?” she asks.
“In the worst way.” We walk over to the espresso stand.
She pours the milk and starts to steam it. I want to talk to her about stuff, but I don’t know where to start, exactly. Tell her I’ve ruined everything with my two best friends?Tell her that school drives me nuts? Tell her that I’m afraid of messing up my life? That I want to be exactly like her, and can she tell me the steps to take to get there?
Just being quiet is all I have to do, because she asks, “Are you okay?”
“I’m stressed out is all,” I say. But I do want to talk. I can’t dismiss this energy. “Are you ever just sick of being yourself?”
She turns off the steamer and stirs my drink. I reconsider the question. “Duh, of course you’re not sick of yourself. You’re awesome.”
She lets out a breath, hands me my drink. “You think I’m awesome? That’s so sweet, Vanessa.”
“It’s just true. You’re kind of a role model for me, I guess.”
“Well, I’m glad we met too. You’re so much cooler than I was at your age,” she says. “You’re so far ahead with your art. I can tell just by the way you talk about it.”
“I doubt that.”
“You’re right on track,” she says. “You’re really gonna be something. By the time you’re my age, I have a feeling you’ll be doing way better than little shows at the
Similar Books
