“Want some paper?” Charleigh reaches forward as she asks, gripping my bag before I can reply. She hands me a pad and a handful of charcoal pieces that I select two from before depositing the remaining pieces back to the bottom. She gives me a smile and then turns, gifting me with the attention to move forth and draw.
I sketch expressions of hopefulness, failure, excitement, anger, blissfulness, and camaraderie before I delve into the bikes and pedals, the irregular angles of their bodies, and gravity-defying stunts. Eventually, I stop drawing faces and simply draw figures, shades, and movements that equal each of the expressions I started with.
Summer’s foot knocks against my chair, breaking me from my trance, and I hear the rustling of seats and greetings and turn to see Mercedes, accompanied by an older man who I recognize from his acknowledgments and waves that are directed my way a few times a week now: the man from the green house.
“Hey, Lo!” Mercedes’ greeting doesn’t divert my attention from staring at the man, wondering who he is, and how he fits into this picture.
His face warms with a smile that doesn’t hide his amusement. “Nice to see you here, Lo,” he says with a nod.
I blink several times, biting my tongue to tell him how strange it is to see him here of all places, since he obviously knows everyone, making a statement like that borderline rude. My eyes widen several times as different questions and things to respond with cross my mind.
“Lo, you know Robert?” I’m thankful to turn my attention away from the man and look to Summer.
“Sort of.” I sound less sure of my words than the time I got caught sneaking out of my room in the middle of the night by Alan, Nell’s husband and my father’s right-hand man. That time I had been dressed, makeup done, shoes carefully gripped in my fingers so I could make as little noise as possible, and still I smiled at him without a trace of guilt or fear. At least initially I had.
“She walks by the house on her way to the bus stop,” Robert explains. “The first day she passed by my house a dozen times before I finally asked the poor thing where she was headed and what do you know, she was lookin’ for the Knight residence.” His eyes are bright and smiling as though he’s sharing a joke. “I knew as soon as I saw her that my granddaughter would like her. She’s got spunk.”
Granddaughter? She’s Mercedes’ grandfather? King and Kash’s dad?
“I had no idea you were…”
“Of course you didn’t. How would you?” I can’t tell if Robert is teasing me or eluding to the fact that if I had taken the time to ask a few questions, I would have. “That’s what made me like you even more. You’re a smart girl.”
“Wait until you see her draw. How are you, Robert?” I take a step back, angling my body so I can see both King and Robert. “It’s been a few weeks. Every time I try to track you down, you’re out. Up to some new shenanigans?” King draws out the word.
Robert’s head falls back as he laughs. The gesture is familiar; he’s done this a few times when I’ve spoken to him. It makes me wonder if this is his genuine laugh, or if it’s a façade for both of us. “I just keep ignoring you, waiting until I see your bike turn up.”
King’s eyes tighten. I’m not the only one who notices, because Robert’s eyebrows rise and he nods, confirming something that the two seem aware of while the rest of the group remains oblivious.
An introduction for Kash has us all sitting back in our seats, our attention shifting to the center of the concrete stadium. I have no idea who Kash is talking to as I catch sight of him before walking his bike forward. I’m curious to know why King, Parker, and Summer aren’t down there but fear my question is rudimentary and ignore it. The movement of Kash shaking out his left hand catches my eye. I’ve seen him do this before but don’t realize it until now. He wraps it around his handlebars and then does the same with his right hand before he glides onto his bike and kicks off. Many of the contestants seem to have a pattern, one which involves searching the crowds until they find their support group, as if reliant upon their encouragement. Kash never does.
My heart is in my throat as I watch his routine, transfixed by each of his movements. The more I continue to watch this sport, the more beauty I find in it. The connection, respect, and love between a rider and their bike nearly make me forget that it’s an inanimate object.
We’re all screaming and clapping as he rounds the edge of the jump with a finish. It’s then that his eyes find us, and his smile goes from bliss—to elation.
“YOU HOLD a brush a lot different from your pencils.”
People have been in and out of the shop all day, each stopping to chat with me and take in my work. I loathe people looking at the initial sketch. It’s a shell, an idea that I can’t fully translate until I’m able to add color and design, something I can’t do on this large of a scale with a pencil. I just started adding color, and there isn’t enough for attention to be welcomed. This is, however, the first time in two weeks since I’ve seen King. I accepted Kash’s offer to take last week off after he said he would appreciate having a reason to stay away from work and hang out with Mercedes, and the last three days of this week, King has been absent. I’ve been working to convince myself it isn’t suspicious. I was tempted to text him, debating on a joke or sarcastic remark that I knew would make him laugh, but all of them seemed like I was checking in, which is exactly what any of them would have been.
I look back at him as I dip my brush back into the black paint. I want to play this cool. I want to show him that if he has decided to regret his previous drunken admission, I am willing to let it pass as well. At least, I will try really hard to pretend that I have.
“I hold charcoals with all of my fingers because it allows more movement. I can use my shoulder and elbow, not just my wrist. I can do the same with paints on certain surfaces, but not on a wall like this. The texture makes it difficult. You have to be a lot more forgiving and try not to focus on adding too many details.”
“Who taught you to do this?”
“I’ve always loved art. I’ve been told I used to paint with my food.” I smile, and my shoulder lifts. “But I think every kid does that.” King’s lips turn up into an unexpected smile, and his eyes are steady as they gaze at me as though he’s not looking for a reason to leave. “When I was eight, my dad hired a farmhand that liked to sketch. He’d sit out in the fields and draw different scenery. I swear, by the time he left five years later, he’d drawn nearly every single angle of the farm. He didn’t talk a lot. He was older, and I think he had a lot of secrets he shared with his art, drawing darker shadows than what were present and clouds when the skies were clear.” Explaining this brings me back to sitting beside him, the scent of hay as potent as the Oregon rain is today as I braved approaching for the first time while he was in the middle of creating the field of mares. “One day I couldn’t stop myself. I knew he was out there drawing, and I sat right next to him and just watched. It was so different than what I had been doing. It was the first time I saw anyone use charcoal, and I fell in love instantly. “We rarely ever spoke. I just enjoyed watching him, learning techniques and his methods.”
“I think if others took the time to listen and watch rather than speak, we’d all be a lot smarter.”
“I think if people took the time to discuss things, there would be far less confusion.”
King tilts his head. “But the problem is, the same people that always want to talk are rarely ready to listen.”
“Are you insinuating something?” I’ve never been great at keeping my thoughts to myself, but with King I feel like my gloves are completely off, my base paint exposed. “I’m pretty sure you’re the one that’s been gone all week.”