The Art of Running Away, page 10
The woman raises a skeptical eyebrow, but doesn’t tell me to turn off my phone.
“I’m an artist.” Benji nods at his sketchpad, which is tucked between his arm and his side. “I wanted to ask if there’s anything you would like painted.”
“No thank you,” the woman says stiffly, turning away from us. “I don’t much enjoy being solicited for money on the street—”
Benji steps in front of her. “It’s free. I ask people what they would like painted—”
The woman crosses her arms. “Because you are lacking in your own ideas?”
My eyebrows rise. This lady has sass.
“I don’t paint for me,” Benji backtracks, “I do art for the people who can’t—”
“So you have a savior complex?”
I consider stopping my recording. This conversation isn’t helping my case for Glenna’s. But Benji isn’t budging, which means he must be used to this sort of backlash. He opens his sketchbook and holds it out for the woman to see. “I painted this for a man who finalized his divorce last week.” He points at a pencil drawing of half a heart plunging toward the ocean floor. Then he nods at an image of a girl flying on a dragon. “She failed her pilot test for the third time.” He flips the page, revealing a bundle of puppies. “This little boy just really liked dogs.”
The old woman doesn’t soften. If anything, she hardens more: her lips pursing and her eyes piercing through the sketchbook. She considers Benji for a long moment. Finally, she says, “You’re passionate about this.”
He flinches, like he was expecting a jab instead of a pat on the back. “Yes.”
The woman glances back at the sketchbook. “Passion is the devil’s gift. Once it runs out—and believe me, it will run out—your life will lose meaning. Best not to have passion at all, in my opinion.”
“Are you . . . were you an artist?” Benji asks.
“A writer. But one day you’re packing up your typewriter to marry a lawyer, and the next you have six children and not even the energy to close your eyes at night. I’m dried up now. An empty vase.” She taps the sketchbook with a manicured nail. “There’s your inspiration. I won’t even charge you for it.”
The woman walks away, over the bridge in front of us, but Benji is already sketching. There are a million things I want to say, but this doesn’t seem like a moment I should interrupt.
Benji finishes his drawing in under a minute and shoves his pencil into his pocket, gesturing me forward. “We can still catch her.” He sprints across the bridge. I follow on his heels, panting as we dodge tourists and dogs. We catch up to the woman just as she crosses the river. Benji taps her on the shoulder, and when she spins around, she looks shocked to see us.
“How’s this?” Benji asks, holding out his sketchbook once again.
The woman narrows her eyes at him, but she leans over his elbow. I inch around his other arm to see the drawing.
It’s a rough sketch of a vase. A crack runs down the side, and the handle is splintered, like someone clipped it on a wall. But the vase isn’t empty. A rose grows from the center, and it’s not suspended in water like flowers normally are. It has roots sprouting from the bottom that dig into the cracks and crevices of the glass. This flower isn’t going to wilt after a few days and get thrown in the trash.
“It’s beautiful,” I say before I can stop myself.
Benji writes an address on the edge of the paper and rips it off, holding it out to the woman. “I’ll have it up by the end of the week.”
She takes the address, slipping it into her purse. She doesn’t say thank you, but the fire in her eyes has dimmed to an ember.
I stop recording and shove my phone into my pocket. I’m not sure if this video will be enough to convince Knightley Corporations to reinvest in Glenna’s, but as we head back to the tube, Benji mentions he’ll be collecting more stories tomorrow and I can join if I want. Hopefully, if we keep this up for a week, I’ll have enough evidence to build a solid case.
Chapter 16
Museums Don't Always Suck (Then Again, Sometimes They Do)
June 28, 3:05 p.m.
Alicia: Are you around?
Alicia: I’ll show you a tennis pic over FaceTime.
Alicia: It’s super embarrassing so there’s no way I’m texting it to you.
Alicia: But trust me when I say you’ll be laughing about it for days.
6:45 p.m.
Me: I want to see!!!
Me: I promise I’ll let you knowas soon as I’m free to chat.
It’s been a week, and Calum still hasn’t admitted to me that he likes art. But on Friday, when I suggest going to a museum for our nightly activity, he agrees.
Museums can be super boring. You’re supposed to stare at a bunch of stuff you aren’t allowed to touch and read tiny captions about dead people. Even art, my one true love, can feel dry when you’re looking at it from the confines of a spotless, air-conditioned building. However, there is also something really cool about getting up close and personal with a painting that was created four hundred years ago. It’s probably as close as I’ll ever get to traveling in time.
Calum takes me to a museum called the V&A, where we stare at paintings for a solid hour. Fun fact: Unlike in New York, a lot of museums in London are free. You can pop in, marvel at a few paintings, and leave without feeling like you lost money. Which is exactly what we do.
I focus mainly on the art, but occasionally I look over at Calum. When he catches my gaze, he rolls his eyes like he’s just here for my benefit. But when I watch him from the corners of my vision, his eyes travel from the detail work of each piece to the layout to the background. I know he’s analyzing the painting like I do, filing the imagery and techniques away for future inspiration. I may have only seen one of his street art designs and thoroughly failed to find his web comic, but Calum’s an artist. It’s obvious he loves it, which is why I finally decide to bring up Glenna’s again.
Calum is staring at a framed picture of a stained glass window. It’s beautiful: colored with a kaleidoscope of blues and greens, the brushstrokes fading into each other until they all but disappear. I can almost see the sun shining through the panes, even though they’re made of paint, not glass. I step beside him, watching him cautiously. There’s no way to ease into this, so I don’t try to. “You know how Benji approaches random people and asks them what they want painted on the streets? I’ve been going with him and filming those random people for a project.”
Calum snaps his head toward me, the peaceful spell woven by the museum broken by a sentence. “You’ve been doing what?”
“I’m making a video that I think will save Glenna’s.” I hope this information will distract him from the whole approaching-potentially-hostile-strangers-on-the-street thing.
Apparently I judged right, because instead of yelling some more, he slowly says, “What do you mean?”
“Benji’s art is similar to what we do at Glenna’s. Helping people express themselves is really important. But hard to show on paper. So, I had this thing. I mean, there’s this idea . . .” I’ve thought this conversation through a thousand times in my head, but for some reason, the one time it counts, I’m struggling to explain myself. I draw in a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. “If I show my videos of Benji’s art to the investment department at Knightley’s, they’ll see how impactful art can be. It’s a long shot, I know. But it might be enough to get them to reinvest in us.”
Calum’s face flickers. I expect him to either agree and offer to help or yell at me for bringing up Glenna’s again. Instead, he glances at his phone and says, “I’ve got a ton of work to do before tomorrow. We should head back.”
“I—okay.” I wait for him to pick up our conversation as I follow him out of the museum and towards the tube, but his face is buried in his phone, and when I peek over his shoulder, he’s vigorously typing out an email.
My stomach sinks. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely busy or if he just doesn’t want to talk about Glenna’s, but I can almost see all the bonding we did this week disappearing in the space of a few tube stops. When we get home, he vanishes into his room without saying good night, shutting his door with a hard click.
I don’t see him again until Friday.
Chapter 17
Let's Pretend This Chapter Is About Train Station Bagels
July 1, 4:34 a.m.
Alicia: I found the Twitter you made for Glenna’s.
Alicia: Why didn’t you ask for my help with it?
Me: Calum’s flatmate helped me set it up! She’s really nice.
Alicia: I can help too if you want.
Me: That’s okay, we’ve got it covered.
Me: But thanks for offering!!
1:18 p.m.
Alicia: Do you think you’ll be around to talk soon?
Me: I’m sorry I’m really trying to find time.
Me: There’s been so much going on and things aren’t going well with Calum so I’m kind of stressed.
Alicia: Okay.
Alicia: But maybe soon?
2:03 p.m.
Alicia: ?
It’s been four days since I brought up Glenna’s to Calum, and he’s completely disappeared on me. Instead of coming home from work at around five or six, he’s been getting in after I’m asleep. I try to wait up for him, but my days in London have been tiring. As hard as I try, I haven’t been able to keep my eyes open past eleven.
Rose tells me Calum had a work emergency and isn’t avoiding me. But one night when I’m half-asleep, I hear her on the phone telling him off for taking on an extra project.
That’s the last straw. Even though I’m exhausted, I force myself awake at four-freaking a.m. on Friday to catch him before he leaves for work. But when I stumble into the living room, he’s already slipping out the door.
“Wait!” I yell. “When will you be home tonight?”
“Sorry,” he calls, not even bothering to face me. “I’m heading to a conference in Glasgow. I won’t be back until tomorrow.”
“What?” I shove my foot between the door and the wall, stopping it from closing. “You’re leaving London? Without me?”
Calum finally turns around, and he at least has the decency to look ashamed. “I’m sorry. My boss asked me last minute, and I can’t say no. I know this isn’t ideal, but Rose and Benji will be home. I’ll be back before you notice I’m—”
“How will I not notice you’re gone? You’ve been avoiding me all week!”
Calum winces. “I’m not avoiding you. I’ve been busy. Once this conference is over I promise I’ll be around—”
“I know you’ve been taking on more work to avoid me because you don’t want to talk about Glenna’s. You keep lying. How am I supposed to ever believe anything you say?” I yank my foot back into the apartment, letting the door slam in his face.
It’s less satisfying than I expect it to be.
…
Friday is fine. I go with Benji to collect more recordings, and on Saturday morning, he even lets me take the lead in approaching a few people. It’s intimidating, asking strangers who are minding their own business for their personal stories, but I love it. It makes me feel like a part of something in a way I never really felt like a part of Glenna’s. Not that I don’t feel connected to Glenna’s, but at home, Mom and Dad have the last word on every portrait. When I approach people with Benji, he doesn’t butt in. He sometimes makes suggestions to improve my sketches, but he leaves the hearts of my drawings alive. I don’t want to admit it, but it’s nice being totally in charge of my art for once.
In the afternoon, Rose takes me to her mom’s bookshop. I spend an hour or so walking through the aisles and comparing British words to American ones. Then I curl between the stacks and pull out my phone to check the still-unsuccessful Glenna’s Twitter.
It’s while I’m trying to come up with something clever to post that I get a text from my brother.
July 3, 2:35 p.m.
Calum: My train just got in. Want to meet me at King’s Cross? We can grab food if you want.
Well, this is unexpected. I’m still annoyed, but I’m glad he’s not avoiding me anymore. My heart jumps. I scowl at it.
I thought I was better at holding a grudge.
…
Rose drops me at King’s Cross and hands me off to Calum, who sits on a bench near a large train schedule. “Hi,” he says when I approach.
“Hi.” Now that we’re face-to-face, I don’t know what to do. I want to yell at him some more, but he invited me here, presumably to apologize. I bite my tongue.
Calum looks tired. He’s in the immaculate work clothes he never seems to take off, and he still has his shiny briefcase. But his hair is messed up on one side like he slept against the train window, and he keeps stifling yawns with his hand. I wonder how intense his conferences are. It seems pretty unfair his boss would make him work on the weekend when he also works more than twelve hours a day during the week.
“I’m sorry I freaked out when you brought up Glenna’s,” he says, foregoing any attempt at small talk. “I shouldn’t have avoided you this week. I was . . . I still hadn’t decided if I wanted to tell you why I left home, and I knew I’d have to tell you in order to explain why I won’t help with the shop. Anyway, I’ve decided to tell you.”
It’s an awful apology. I cross my arms, but I don’t say anything in case it scares him off. I want to know why he left home more than I want to know anything else. Well, not anything else. If someone could tell me how to save Glenna’s, that would be pretty nice, too.
Calum goes quiet. Opens his mouth. Closes it. “The thing is,” he says finally, “I assumed you knew. It’s partially why I didn’t reach out earlier. But in the car, you asked why I left like it was some big mystery.”
“Just say whatever you’re trying to say.” I pull my feet onto the bench and rest my chin on my knees.
“Yeah. Okay.” He looks down at his hands, which are clenched in his lap. “You know how I ran away when I was sixteen?”
“Obviously.”
“Well, that’s the thing. I didn’t run away.”
Oh my God, I could punch him. I roll my eyes so hard, they hurt. “I guess I imagined your room has been empty for the past six years. Sorry about that. Clearly I need to get my vision checked.”
Calum gives me a look that is basically its own form of eye roll. “I left home. Obviously. But I didn’t run away. That makes it sound like it was my choice, but I didn’t want to leave.”
He swings his heels against the back of the bench. “I . . . when I was sixteen, I was dating someone from school. A guy from school. I wasn’t ready to tell Mom and Dad, but we were a bit reckless on social media. Mom found my Instagram, and . . .” He shakes his head. “It was fine. At first. She and Dad said it didn’t bother them and they still loved me and all that. But they started doing these little things. Like when Mrs. Thompson came over for dinner one night and asked if I was dating anyone, Mom said I wasn’t before I could even open my mouth. Or if I was holding hands with my boyfriend in public, Mom would tell me to stop.
“I confronted her eventually, and she admitted she didn’t want me to be open about being gay. She said it wasn’t because she was uncomfortable—she was scared for me, and she didn’t want me to be in danger. At first, I kind of appreciated the concern. But it really messed with my head to keep being told ‘I love you, but you need to hide yourself. I love you, but not everyone does.’ It . . . made me anxious. Paranoid. I didn’t feel comfortable hanging out with my boyfriend anymore, even in private.”
Calum runs his fingers through his hair, then shoves them into his pockets like he’s trying to stop fidgeting. “Dad didn’t police me like Mom did, but he also never stopped her. Every time I explained how much it was messing with my head, they said I was being dramatic. I couldn’t live like that. I couldn’t keep screaming into empty space. So I . . . left.”
He trails off. I frown, trying to process what he said. Calum left home because . . . Mom cared a lot about him? Like, okay. I’m sure it was frustrating when he told Mom she was being overprotective and she didn’t listen, but she doesn’t listen to anyone. I’m literally in another country right now because Mom didn’t listen to me! Heat flares in my stomach. This is the reason I didn’t grow up with my brother? “They were right,” I snap. “You were being dramatic. What parents don’t try to control their kids? It’s a normal thing. It’s not a reason to run away!”
Calum’s eyes flash. “Maisie, I’m ten years older than you. Crescent Valley might be different now, but I didn’t grow up with people telling me it was okay to be gay. I never even heard the word until I was eleven and someone yelled it at me during recess. My friends used it as an insult. Adults used it to make fun of people they didn’t want to be associated with. When I realized I maybe was that word—” He breaks off and glares at his hands, which are clenched in his lap. After a moment, he continues.
“When I was in middle school and teachers asked where we pictured ourselves in twenty years, I . . . couldn’t. It felt like there wasn’t any space in the world for me, like I wasn’t allowed to exist. So when Mom and Dad’s reaction to finding out I was gay was to act like the only future I had was one where I needed to hide—” Calum breaks off. “It wasn’t some little thing, Maisie. It was my life.”
Oh. A few years ago, when Alicia told me she had a crush on Erica, she said it in the same tone of voice she might use to announce the weather. Neither of us blinked. It wasn’t a big deal, and yeah, a few chaperones looked twice when she and Erica went to the fifth-grade dance together. But even then, the glances weren’t mean—they were just curious.
