The Art of Falling in Love Page 3

  “Hello? What the heck!”

  Her voice is all cold indifference. “Hello? You can stop spinning out of control. I’m fine.”

  I stop where I am and swivel. I’m hoping to see her standing behind me like the crafty villain in a Bond movie, but there’s no sign of her. “Liv, where are you?”

  Instead of answering, she giggles away from the phone and whispers something unintelligible and not meant for me.

  “Liv!” She needs to snap back to reality before she gets us both in trouble. “We need to go back before Mom and Dad drive down to the beach to drag you home.”

  I can practically hear her eyes rolling over the phone. “I’m not at the beach, so they can’t drag me home, okay?”

  Oh no. Is she seriously doing this to me? “Where are you?” I copy the voice Dad used when Livvy stole his credit card a few months ago and charged five hundred dollars worth of clothes from the mall. Cool, steady, and so quiet it’s chill-inducing. Unfortunately, it didn't scare her then, so it does nothing now.

  “Evan and I went for a drive to get away from all the negativity. But don’t worry; I’ll be back by tonight. Oh—gotta go! See you.” She hangs up on me before I can cuss her out like I’m dying to.

  I glance behind me to where Foster's still leaning against the railing of the pier. I walk to him and sigh. “Sorry I kind of freaked out. My sister is…” I point to my phone and exhale again. I’m so done with Livvy and the whole situation that there aren't even words to explain.

  Foster frowns, his eyes wide. “It’s okay,” he says. “I get it.”

  I look past him. “Thanks.”

  He shifts his feet and frowns again. “I’m not trying to, like, stalk you or anything. You just seemed upset, so I wanted to come make sure you were okay. But it seems like you’ve got everything under control.”

  His cheeks are pink as he rubs the back of his neck. “You seemed upset,” he says again.

  I open my mouth to joke that I'm sure we'll run into each other again, maybe somewhere other than the beach this time. But nothing comes out before my parents jog toward me, worry lining their faces.

  Crap.

  “What are you guys doing here?”

  I bite down on the words as soon as they slip out of my mouth. My parents are so worked up they don’t even notice Foster leaning against the pier. He shrugs his hands at me while he backs away down the beach. I eye him, but I don’t dare move.

  “What are we doing here? I think you and Livvy better answer that first. You, we don't worry about, but your sister needs to tell us where she's going as long as we're within one hundred miles of that boy.”

  She spits the word out like she's talking about a poisonous snake. Never mind the fact that I'm pretty sure it takes two to decide on a teen engagement. Or promise ring. Whichever.

  “I brought Livvy to the beach, so we didn’t have to hear you guys freaking out all morning.” I shrug. “I left a note.”

  I don’t mention the fact that I’ve already lost my flighty sister, but my parents are already scanning the beach for her, their heads swiveling.

  “She’s gone,” I say. I rub a hand over my eyes as their mouths hang open. After the way Livvy’s acted lately, I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming. This summer is looking worse by the day.

  Loud giggles sound from the front door, jolting me from sleep. Blindly, I reach toward my nightstand and click on my phone. 3:24 A.M. Open palm rubbing over my eyes, I groan into my pillow. Burglars don't giggle, and neither do my parents. I'm halfway relieved to recognize one of the voices as Livvy's. At least she made it home. But the other half of me—the part that's awake hours before I want to be—makes me wish I was close enough to throw something at her. Stomping to the door, I hiss through a tiny crack.

  "Shut. Up. Mom and Dad are going to kill you if they hear you, and some of us are trying to sleep."

  I don't stay awake long enough to determine whether or not she stays here or goes out again once the giggling stops. But in the morning, Dad pokes his head into my room to let me know she's back, sleeping soundly. How nice for her.

  Four

  Now that's it's officially June, the qualifying round for the contest is only a month away, and the most I’ve ever done with sand is shovel it into a bucket to make an embarrassing excuse of a sandcastle. And that’s when I was seven. I try not to think about my lack of experience when I go ultra-early in the morning to practice at the beach. The cool humidity of the early morning is better than the sticky afternoon, especially when sand is involved. I’ve done some online research, watched a few YouTube videos, and gone over the rules listed on the back of the flyer. I’m as prepared as I can be, considering I have no real experience. I refuse to do anything halfway, so if I’m going to participate, I have to start taking this thing seriously. It's what Opa wanted.

  Another perk of practicing in the morning is that there are fewer people around to see me epically fail. My shovel sinks into the damp sand, and I try to lift another scoop of the stuff. A muscle in my arm that I didn’t even know I had screams at me. Heaps of sand line each side of me, sitting in lumpy white piles. And in front of me, deep enough to cover my legs to my kneecaps, is a cavernous hole––the result of all my digging. That's just the pre-work.

  As I’m working, Opa's right here, dominating my thoughts. He was the first person I confided in about how much I wanted to go to a college like Flagler after high school. He loved to watch me sketch every summer evening from the back porch of the beach house. Would he have enjoyed watching me struggle to pack this sand together?

  With aching hands and what I'm guessing is going to turn into a blister by the end of the day, I scoop from my sand stash, squeezing the grains in my fingers until they're molded firmly. Two hours later, I have a not-so-terrible sculpture of a cat. It’s dry and starting to crumble on all of its sides. The cat looks more like it has a flower coming out of its butt than a tail, but it will do for now. The trench I’ve dug is way too wide, and it hides my sculpture from view of anyone standing more than a foot away. Sculpting isn’t as satisfying as watercolors or sketching in ink because I suck at it. My hands ache from beating them against wet sand, and my forehead is hot to the touch from an epic sunburn, but still, my lips curve into a smile at the pathetic sculpture. I made something out of nothing, and that's always a win.

  The beach is starting to fill up, so I dump the rest of my bucket of water on top of the cat rendering and head to my car before my pale skin burns any more.

  This is the first time I've been to the beach this summer that I haven't happened to run into Foster. Yet, anyway. If I can just make it to the parking lot, I’ll be home free. Definitely do not look toward the pier. He’s probably not even there. But out of the corner of my eye, his shaggy golden hair is unmistakable, his torso leaning against the railing on the pier.

  Crap.

  My feet make the decision for me and propel me forward until I'm too many steps in to change directions. I pick my way through the crowded beach-towel jungle to the pier, eyes trained on the bag slung across my shoulder like it's just so dang interesting I can't possibly look away. I stop a few feet in front of him and drag my gaze to his face. His eyes flit over me like he's been expecting me. Given our track record, maybe he has.

  “I’m about to leave,” I say, “but I saw you and wanted to say hi.”

  He nods and one eyebrow shoots up, but his expression doesn’t change otherwise.

  I stand there, mute and grinning like a clueless little kid while he takes his time responding. I squirm in the silence. Both of my hands are in front of me, dancing with each other, and I can’t seem to decide whether or not my tiny tufts of hair should be behind my ears.

  "Hi," he says.

  I bite my lip. "About the other day with my parents...”

  He winces. One eye closes as his mouth stretches in a red line against his tanned skin. "Yeah. What was that about?"

  "I should have warned you about how intense they ar
e." I blow out an unsteady breath. "They're just trying to help my sister. I don't think they realize how crazy they're acting, to be honest. But I blame it on Livvy."

  He nods. "Yeah."

  "Yeah," I echo.

  He's smart enough not to keep the awkward conversation going any longer. “So the other day you were working on an application essay. Where are you applying?” He straightens against the worn wood at his back.

  “Flagler.” Opa took me on a tour the summer I was twelve, since he had a friend who was a professor there. The tall orange- and sand-colored architecture, the original stained-glass windows, and the old Spanish heritage swept me away. I knew I loved it even before I got to sit in the back of one of the beginner painting classes.

  Foster raises his eyebrows. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but apparently, it’s amusing because his lips curve into a smile. Finally, I sigh. “What?”

  He shrugs and smirks. “I’m applying to Flagler, too."

  My mouth hangs open as I try to think of something to say.

  “I didn’t really think you were interested in the arts,” I finally spit out. I don't mean anything bad by it, but he’s more of the surfing type, not the modelling-clay-and-paints type. And I know artists because I’ve idolized them my whole life. Fellow artists are easy to pick out. We’re easily distracted—always dreaming up a new project or concept. Most of the time we have paint plastered across our shoes and glued under our fingernails. Foster is Adonis, not whoever sculpted his statue.

  He frowns, his dimples disappearing entirely as his whole face pulls downward. “Well, I am.” He turns away from me to stare out over the railing again, frown lines still etched across his mouth. Apparently, running away from him pales in comparison to insulting his artistic abilities.

  “Okay,” I say, with a shrug that's just a bit too forced. Should I apologize or keep the conversation going? I swallow the pool of spit forming in my mouth, turning my taste buds watery and sour.

  “So, what are you into, um—artistically speaking?”

  He licks his lips and holds up a hand. I wait with my hands clasped together in front of me. No way am I going to say anything else. Then he steps to the other side of the walkway to grab a bulging bag of trash in each hand.

  At the risk of offending him again, I opt for just a nod. It seems like we have pretty different interpretations of what art is, if that's what's happening here. That, or I've been right all along and he's a serial killer who stores his unused body parts in bags. I mean, it's unlikely, but the art thing is just as iffy.

  He exhales loudly—a big sound like an exasperated elephant about to lose its cool—when I don’t say anything and sets the trash bags on the ground in between us. I wrinkle my nose as the smell of mold and wet dog fills the space between us. If he thinks I'm diving elbows-deep into trash, he's got another thing coming. Or maybe this is part of his Save the Beach shtick.

  “Is this your art?” I finally ask. My lips pucker like I've been sucking on a whole lemon.

  He narrows his eyes and pulls open the red drawstrings on either side of the bags. I step closer to see that it's just as I suspected: trash. I put one hand on my hip and throw the other in the air. “I give up,” I say. “There’s no art here. Just garbage.”

  Now I’ve really made him mad. His eyes grow twice their usual size as he watches me with growing frustration. “I’m an outdoor artist,” he says. Like it’s obvious. Like everyone’s mind connects art and garbage. Like I’m the weird one.

  “Oh, right.” We’re not on the same page about art at all, because there is no way he can turn these black plastic bags full of stuff he found on the beach into anything that makes me feel the same way as “Starry Night” or “Mona Lisa”. I cried when Dad and I saw “Water Lilies” at the Met in New York City. Whatever Foster’s doing is so drastically different from those pieces it’s not even funny.

  He must sense my skepticism because he pulls out a clunky black flip phone, one of those pay-as-you-go ones, and slides next to me. Handing me the phone, he tells me to click through his camera roll.

  "Look at that and tell me it's not art," he says.

  Giving someone control over your phone pictures—even on a device this primitive—is a level of raw trust I’m not sure we’re ready for, but I take it anyway and start scrolling. Every single picture, minus an admittedly adorable one of him nuzzling noses with a tiny grey kitten, is of his outdoor trash art. And after about the fourth picture, I have to admit I’ve been a total snob.

  It's like when sunrise-colored waves crash across white-and-cream sand and the sun catches it all just right so the miniscule pieces of broken shells dotting the beach dazzle like tiny chandeliers. Except replace the waves with seashells, sea glass, and old bottles and trade the shells for copper wire, twine, and sticks. I'm not sure how it all works together so well, but it does.

  And it's art.

  “Okay,” I say. “I was wrong. This is actually amazing. It’s just not what I’m used to.”

  Here I am hauling around half-filled notebooks and expensive pens while I play pretend at fancy art-school applicant, and he's making things that move me, all with trash. My shoulders tighten at the sad truth.

  Foster slips his cell phone out of my fingers, pockets it again, and raises an eyebrow. "Thanks. Maybe you can come with me next time I go scouting for materials."

  My lips twitch. "Maybe I will."

  If he can confidently swing around bags of garbage without living in constant fear of someone calling him out as a complete fraud, maybe someday I can too.

  He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, pulling his fingers through his golden hair. “So, I guess this makes us rivals.”

  I blink. “What?”

  Foster nods. “Yeah. You know, since every year Flager only has so many spots for new artists in each medium.”

  Something cold trickles its way through my chest. There’s only a few spots. And I’m up against this?

  Swallowing, I smack my tongue.

  “I guess so,” I say.

  Five

  “Pleeease?”

  Livvy is standing in the middle of the living room, eyes wide and fake-watering, while the rest of us look on from the couch. She’s been begging all week for someone to take her to the beach, ever since she got herself grounded and is forced to spend her days trailing Mom and Dad or sitting at home.

  Mom and Dad watch the news, their attention glued to some story about a local election they’ve been following. I try to tune out all three of them as I open my phone to an album of pictures from last summer. Using my fingers, I pinch the screen and zoom in on my face in the first picture. My cheeks are cracked with a smile so wide that a flash of my pink tongue is visible between both rows of teeth.

  "I've only been once so far this summer." Livvy's voice hovers one octave away from whiny.

  The next picture is of Opa sitting in his chair, both of his hands steadying a dark green watermelon on his lap. One hand rests on the uneven yellow spot he taught me guarantees juicy pink fruit once cut open. I inhale and half expect to smell the grassy, soft floral scent of the rind.

  Mom's voice carries over the TV, carefully, like she's trying hard to explain something difficult. "It was a pretty memorable beach trip, though, Liv. There's a reason you haven't been back."

  There's a picture of Livvy and I with our arms slung around each other, her smiling so hard her cheeks take up most of her face and me angling my head toward her and laughing. Opa insisted on taking it last Fourth of July; we were wearing matching American flag T-shirts and a kaleidoscope of red, white, and blue fireworks sang above our heads against a sky of midnight black.

  When he took the picture, he said we'd thank him later.

  "Let's make a family trip of it. We can get something for lunch afterward. Sound good, Claire?"

  Dad's voice is distant, like I'm underwater and the rest of my family's half a mile away on the shore without me. They could be screaming my name, and all
I'd hear is a soft mumbling if I strain hard enough.

  I shake my head until I surface enough to think clearly.

  Dad repeats himself. "Claire? The beach and lunch after. What do you think?"

  I look around, and everyone eyes me like I'm really the deciding factor here.

  "Sure. Sounds good." I force a smile for my parents' sake and bite my tongue when Livvy squeals and wraps her arms around Mom and then Dad.

  We're out the door within fifteen minutes—a family record. Obviously, Livvy's not leaving our parents any room to change their minds.

  The beach is cloudy enough to scare away most of the tourists, so Livvy and I lie on beach towels while Mom and Dad take a walk down the shoreline, hand in hand. I close my eyes and inhale the coconut scent of the thick layer of sunscreen I've just applied. Livvy does what she does best lately and makes everything about her.

  "Where are my sunglasses?" Her voice is so loud you'd think sun in her eyes was a national emergency.

  My eyes still shut, I shrug one shoulder.

  Her voice gets shriller a few inches from my ear. "Ugh. Mom still has them in her purse. Can you go get them from her?"

  Blood boils in my ears as I prop myself up on an elbow and stare at her. "No way, Liv. I'm not your servant. You go get them."

  She grumbles into her towel and rolls her eyes. When she gets up to chase after our parents, I walk down the beach in the opposite direction, grinding my teeth.

  An abandoned pink sand bucket with a crack down the middle juts out of the sand. I bend to pick it up and hurl it across the sand. I'm so not in the mood for sculpting today. It lands further out than I meant for it to, and all that's left as evidence is a tiny pink speck. Good riddance.