The Art of Falling in Love Page 4

  "Hey." Foster's voice stops me cold. My hands tighten into fists at my sides as I turn.

  “So, what did that bucket do to you?” He nods in the direction of the hunk of plastic now swallowed up in sand.

  I shrug. “What do you mean?” Maybe if I pretend nothing happened, he will too.

  “I saw you launch it across the beach."

  Crap.

  “I was hoping no one else saw that.” But of course, he had. And he’d seen me run across the beach in a panic to find Livvy. Not to mention refusing to believe him about his art and Flagler. But he’s still talking to me, which is more suspicious than flattering.

  He smiles and holds up his hands. “I promise not to tell anyone else as long as you don’t start throwing things at me, too.”

  Great. Now I’m the girl with an anger problem. But anyone would look like they're mad next to him. He seems to always be around, always cool with whatever chaos is happening. My ears burn.

  “Fine. Then I promise not to tell anyone you collect trash." It's a stupid comeback, but I've got an inexplicable need to catch him in the act of something embarrassing like he has me.

  His expression doesn't change. “I told you I clean up the beach at night.”

  “It’s not nighttime now," I point out, gesturing to the fiery orange sun currently baking through multiple layers of my exposed skin.

  “And during the day, I sell my pieces. It's a good way to make some extra money." His voice softens and cracks a little on the word 'money' like he'd rather not say it out loud.

  News flash: I’m an idiot. A mortified idiot whose ears are so hot I wouldn't be surprised if they burst into flames and dissolved into a pile of black ash right on the spot.

  It’s his turn to stare me down, a well-deserved smirk lurking under his calm smile.

  “Sorry.” It’s a pitiful way to apologize for accusing someone of being a creep when they’re actually doing their job. I squint at him with a smile that comes nowhere close to reaching my eyes. “I guess I just wasn't expecting anyone to see me throw a fit out here."

  He shrugs. “I was just kind of thinking it's lucky we keep running into each other.”

  Lucky. The word slams into me. I need to escape—now. If I don’t get out of here, who knows what terrible thing I will say or do next. I don’t need any more awkward in my life.

  “Are you really out here every day?” I’ve always looked forward to the break from school during summers. It’s hard to imagine working full-time instead of sleeping in and wandering the beach whenever the urge hits me.

  Foster nods. “Yep. I work here seven mornings a week, and then I clean the beach seven nights a week.”

  "Where do you work?" Looking around us, there don't seem to be many employment opportunities. There aren't even lifeguards.

  "I sell my stuff out of a tent I set up."

  I’m not sure what the appropriate response should be, maybe somewhere between surprise and sympathy because it's never occurred to me to get rid of the things I create. I'm not sure I could do it. I settle for a frown. “Wow, that sounds so busy.”

  Foster shrugs. I'm trying to wrap my head around a summer without freedom, but he's smiling. “I take afternoons off, which is more free time than I have during the school year.”

  My cheeks grow warm again as I consider how busy I feel during the school year. None of my friends have jobs. We’re all too busy just going to high school.

  “Why do you work so much?” I ask. He’d better not be one of those guys who’s obsessed with expensive cars or something. Livvy had a huge crush on a guy in my grade all last year who was so busy waxing his Porsche that he wouldn’t have noticed her even if she wasn’t way too young. Does Foster even have a car? I haven’t seen one.

  He wrinkles his forehead. “College is expensive—or didn’t you know?”

  Right. I’m not an idiot. I know that college costs an insane amount of money. But, I’ve never given it too much thought. Maybe Opa did, though, considering the scholarship given to the winner of the sand contest.

  “Oh, college. Duh.” I hit my palm on my forehead like I just had a momentary lapse of memory. Like we totally understand each other. But suddenly Foster's art and his dedication to his beach clean-up project seem more important than anything I’m doing this summer. I shrink into my sand-encrusted shorts and T-shirt, my grip tightening on the expensive leather bag I got for my birthday just a few months ago.

  He’s watching me closely. “You don’t have to feel bad for me,” he says.

  I blush because it’s true. All of my friends at school have the same background, same kind of home life, same stuff I do. We all got cars on our sixteenth birthdays, albeit junkers. In my small town back home in Texas, everyone is the same—or at least we pretend that we are for appearances’ sake.

  Still, I’d rather lie than confess I have no idea what it’s like to be financially independent. “I don’t feel bad. It's cool that you have your own money. And you get to share your art with other people.”

  And at the mention of his art, a lightning bolt of recognition jolts its way through my body. Foster practically lives at the beach, and I’ve already committed myself to a strict schedule of sculpting practice, so I’ll be here too.

  And he reminded me how badly I need this. The precious spot at Flagler. I need to do this contest for me and for Opa.

  “Actually, maybe you could help me with something? There's a scholarship involved, if that helps.” Contest rules state a team made up of partners can split the scholarship prize in the event of a win. Seeing as I don’t need the money, I don’t mind sharing if it will convince Foster to teach me.

  His eyes widen, probably anticipating the worst.

  We’re both competing for a spot in the art program next year, but Foster might be the only one capable of helping me. I square my shoulders. “My Opa wanted me to enter this sand-sculpting contest. He was always helping me with these kinds of things when I came for the summer, trying to inspire me, you know? But I seriously know nothing about this kind of art, and it seems like you do.” There. A good old compliment sandwich. Who doesn’t love those?

  Apparently, Foster doesn’t. He frowns at me and taps his fingers together while I give him my best puppy-dog eyes. “I could watch you and see if I have any tips,” he says, “but I'm no expert either.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I need all the help I can get. Even if we are rivals, we’ll be applying to Flagler with different mediums, so I swear I won’t take your spot. This contest would give us both a leg up.” I need more than Foster’s help if I want an actual shot at qualifying for the final round, but it will be a good place to start.

  “Okay,” he says. “I could probably show you a few things."

  My chest thump-thumps double time when I look up and see his ocean-blue eyes smiling into mine. If this were a different summer, a different set of circumstances, maybe I'd be looking for something more than art lessons.

  Six

  Livvy and Dad are in the middle of the world’s most intense staring contest during dinner when I interrupt and tell my family about my plans for the contest with Foster, clearing my throat and then rushing right into it.

  It’s better to tell them now before they start nagging me for spending the rest of the summer alone at the beach. They’d much rather I tagged after Livvy or helped at the gift shop. But Opa left me this contest. It was his last gift to me, his last art lesson. If nothing else, they should try to understand that.

  “And it's a really great way to branch out with my art. I might even use the experience as the topic of my application essay for Flagler. I even made a friend who agreed to help me out since he knows a lot more about this kind of thing.”

  “That’s fine, Claire. I’m glad it’s working out for you. I'm sure Opa would be happy for you too.” Mom drags her eyes to me and says the right things, but her real focus is still on Livvy.

  Dad nods. “Yes. We’re glad you're trying new things.” His e
yes cut back to Livvy. It’s like I’m a puppy begging for scraps under the table. Except it’s not food I’m after, just my parents’ attention, just this once.

  “Now, Livvy, like we were saying—that boy is no good for you. What can your Mom and I do to help you see that?” Dad narrows his eyes, his game face fully in play. He’s not bluffing about being willing to do anything to get rid of Evan.

  And then Livvy, even though I saved her from Dad’s wrath a few minutes ago, flashes me an evil smile: nostrils flared, teeth showing and ready to go in for the kill. Whatever she’s thinking, there’s no time to stop it before she butts in with a little too much fake excitement ringing across the table. She leans toward me, elbows digging into the tabletop.

  “Why don't we worry about Claire for a little bit? Right, sis? I just hope you’re being careful while spending all that time with the creepy guy who, like, lives at the beach.”

  My mom gasps so loudly we collectively flinch because we’re afraid of the yelling to follow. Livvy’s officially bought herself the distraction she was after. And, for once, Mom is speechless. She opens her mouth and closes it twice before settling into a deep frown, lines marring both sides of her downturned mouth. No doubt she's picturing me with a more degenerate version of Evan, thanks to my sister.

  Dad clears his throat and bobs his head in my direction. “What’s she talking about, Claire?”

  I shake my head at Dad and then at Livvy. “He’s just this boy—who isn’t creepy—who works on the beach. Like I just told you—he’s helping me with the contest because he's also into art.”

  Dad shrugs and glances over at Mom, a little less shell-shocked after my explanation, though her mouth still hangs open slightly.

  But Livvy has it in for me. She throws her head back and tries out a legit villainous laugh. “Into art?” She’s practically sneering at us. “Your sand thing barely counts as art, but at least it comes close. This guy collects trash.” She waits for my parents to air their disgust. Which of course they do. How does she even know that about Foster? I’m starting to get the sense Livvy has been paying more attention this summer than she lets on.

  “Trash, Claire?” Mom is holding both her hands in the air near her face, just in case she needs to use them to start yelling at me. Dad was ignoring Liv up until she threw out the word “trash.” Now he’s eyeing all of us in turn with his fork paused in mid-air.

  I sigh loudly. Am I the only one aware of just how ridiculous this conversation is? “It’s not dirty diapers or anything, guys. It’s recyclables, like bottles and newspaper.” There’s no easy way to describe Foster’s modernist art, but I have to try. “He takes all of the plastic bags and water bottles people leave behind and turns them into sculptures. Add some spray paint and detailing with a brush, and they look good as new. Then he fits them all together with copper wire and when he’s done, it’s not trash anymore—they’re colorful abstracts.”

  To my surprise, Dad is the first to nod. He waves his fork at me. “I actually know exactly what you’re describing.”

  I open my mouth but come up with nothing. Instead, I point back to him and turn wide eyes on the rest of the family. They could take a cue from him for once.

  “I’ve seen that kind of project on the news, actually. Very interesting. Good for the environment too.” He winks at me while Mom and Liv both stare in my direction with shocked expressions. Dad is usually the last one among us to stick up for the arts, but he's the first to stick up for me when it's me against Mom. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Dad and I are alike, and Mom and I are as opposite as two people can get.

  “Thank you,” I mouth to him as silently as possible.

  Mom nods too, but her forehead wrinkles and unwrinkles at an impressive pace. She's probably still trying to decide whether or not art made with recyclables—dirty recyclables—is okay. Liv is glaring into her dinner, poking the food on her plate with random stabbing motions. A muscle in my jaw twitches with the need to kick her under the table and rub her face in the fact her tattling failed. The only thing stopping me is the too-sharp eyes of my parents on me.

  But I can’t help myself so I smile sweetly at my parents. “Anyway, Liv is just trying to distract you guys from the fact that some random guy is trying to turn her into a runaway bride—”

  “He’s my boyfriend!” Livvy leans across the table, shaking, as her voice rises.

  My parents’ eyes widen. They’ve completely forgotten about Foster, refreshed in their concern for my sister. The rest of the dinner is silent as my parents communicate via parental telepathy as they plot how to save Liv. I smile into my food while Livvy watches from across the table, burning me with a glare so fierce that my face flushes like I've gotten a real sunburn. It’s a momentary victory—one she’ll make me pay for later.

  Like Christmas three years ago when she peeled the tape from her stack of waiting presents under the tree and then tried to re-tape them so no one would notice. I told Mom in exchange for a lighter punishment for failing two calculus tests, so Livvy unwrapped some of my presents too. Our parents made us donate all the unwrapped ones to a children’s shelter. Then there was the time Livvy tattled on me when I tried to sneak out of my bedroom window last fall to see a concert with my friends from school. She didn’t even do it to get out of her own trouble; she just enjoys being a brat.

  When it comes to subtle forms of revenge, I’ll take what I can get. I stab my fork into my meatballs and savor the warm, salty bite.

  Seven

  The very worst part about sculpting with sand is the digging. It’s not like scooping up little bucketfuls of sand to make a cute sandcastle. No. This is intense digging like I’ve never experienced, or seen really, except for in that movie where Shia LaBeouf steals someone’s shoes. I’m sweating before I even start digging, which is impressive for 6 A.M. By the time a small sand mountain accumulates behind me, the sweat drenches me, running down in rivers and puddling in my armpits and the waist of my shorts. The dark, wet smudges across the back of my shirt have to be super attractive. The lapping lukewarm waves call to me, but I’m determined to keep going until I’ve gotten at least half of my sculpture completed. If I meet my goal, I’ll let myself take a break and cool my feet off in the water.

  I’ve got something a little more complicated than a cat planned this time. If I complete all of the steps correctly, it should turn out to be pretty cool—at least for an amateur. I crouch near the edge of my rapidly expanding hole and scoop out more sand with my metal shovel. Just as I’m about to fling the sand onto the second pile behind me, a bucketful of warm, salty water crashes over my head and runs down my body. My mouth flies open, letting more of the overpowering saltiness wash over my tongue, and I spring to my feet. Foster stands behind me with a grin as wide as the Cheshire cat’s. I want to yell at him, but the water feels so good as it drips down my body that I can’t hold onto any anger. I pick up the bucket and toss the remaining drops back at him with a breathy laugh. He rewards me with a smile as he crouches next to me, still holding the shovel he brought. He leans it against his shoulder, smirking.

  “The only reason I’m not killing you is because I was about to pass out from the heat.” I flick more water from my fingers onto his nose.

  “Your neck was bright red. I was just trying to help cool you off.” His eyes crinkle at the edges, though his mouth remains solemn. His mouth—specifically his lips—captures my attention for a second too long. If he notices how pink my face is, he doesn’t say anything. He turns and shoulders his shovel to start digging. I copy him.

  We stick our shovels deep into the hole and work silently for several minutes. I don't hate working with Foster, because he knows when to talk and when to keep to himself. And he’s actually an impressive artist. But even if he wasn’t growing on me, I need him to help me prepare for the first round of the contest, because it’s much more intense than I thought it would be. I push the shovel in for one final push before I allow myself another bre
ak.

  Thunk! My forward motion comes to an abrupt halt as my shovel slams into something solid beneath the sand. Foster drops his shovel, stepping up beside me, eyes trained on the packed sand.

  I nudge the spot with the point of my shovel. “There’s something hard down here." The ten-year-old part of my brain entertains daydreams of a treasure chest full of gold doubloons and strung pearls, but my more rational side douses the hope in favor of the more likely scenario of an enormous rock or hunk of trash.

  Foster picks up his shovel, and we both scoop sand from around the object until it’s cleared. I crouch into the shallow hole until I’m close enough I might inhale sand if I’m not careful. At first glance it seems like my guess of large rock was correct. Foster comes closer to inspect while I pour a little water over it and rub it with the corner of my beach towel. Under the grime, a pattern emerges. Once it’s cleaner, I can see that it’s more of a dark green than the black I’d originally guessed.

  “A turtle shell?” I arch an eyebrow and look to Foster. I’ve unearthed awesome things at the beach before, but this might be the best.

  Foster frowns at the shell, his mouth crooked. “Weird.” By the time we’ve finished digging it out, my breath comes in shallow wisps of air. I lean back and tuck my legs crisscross under my body while Foster lifts it up and places it in between us.

  “You don’t think this was, like, a sinister turtle murder? Maybe someone buried him alive?” I’m mostly joking, but part of me worries about handling the literal skeleton of such a beautiful creature. I trace a light fingertip across the shell’s pattern.

  Foster squats across from me. “I don’t know. I think we should cover him back up. Maybe this was supposed to be his final resting place.”