Brush Strokes Read online

  < Pretty good. I’m doing nothing right now except for trying to digest dinner

  > Same. Basically just waiting for it to get late enough so I can sleep. How’s your work and school schedule next week?

  < Only working the closing shift on thurs.

  > How’s Friday?

  < Free

  > How does coffee sound?

  < Sounds great :)

  Todd smiles stupidly. Friday. That’s less than a week away.

  * * *

  Work is slow the following day. Mrs. Floral is fidgety but doesn’t want to tell him why. Todd concentrates on trying to come up with any way he can help with getting new artists to exhibit. If they need a younger crowd, maybe a younger artist is the way to go?

  There are people in his school who are scarily good. He knows this. The problem is that he doesn’t know them. Studying usually takes up so much of his time that he doesn’t have much left to be social, what with working and all. He’s got a small group of people he hangs out with between classes, but he mostly befriended them by accident the first weeks of college and then stuck with it.

  It’s possible that some of them can introduce him, however, and he starts trying to figure out which one of his friends would be the best to start with.

  His phone buzzes in his pocket as he welcomes a stray patron. It’s one of the few regulars, who sometimes likes to sit on the second floor and look at the pieces for hours. He checks his phone as soon as she has disappeared out of sight.

  It’s Daniel.

  > I’m in your hood!

  Just as Todd is about to reply asking what the hell has possessed Daniel to make him leave Manhattan, the bell over the door chimes, and Todd’s brain short-circuits.

  There, stepping inside, is Daniel with three other people.

  Daniel notices him almost immediately, looking confused to see Todd. He opens his mouth, but is interrupted when Mrs. Floral appears, ushering them toward the office.

  Still too shocked to be able to grasp that Daniel is here, Todd doesn’t reflect over the other people until he notices the man in the dark suit trailing behind them.

  That’s Stanley, the gallery’s landlord.

  Todd can’t piece it together, but then suspicion dawns on him: They’re here for the gallery, the space. They must be. There’s no other logical explanation for why Stanley would be here, and it would explain how out of character Mrs. Floral has been behaving today.

  Todd has no clue how Daniel plays a part in all of this, but he’s in there with the rest of them. With his stomach in knots, Todd does his best to concentrate on something else, despite the fact that he would rather press his ear against the door. Truth be told, he probably would do just that if the door wasn’t mostly glass. He’s going to have to wait until Mrs. Floral is done and then ask her about it.

  He sends a semi-desperate text to Mela, belatedly realizing that she’s on Coney Island with her cousin and most definitely isn’t checking her phone. She’s impressive like that.

  The meeting takes almost two hours. Todd doesn’t understand what could possibly take this long. Even selling the place should go quicker.

  After Todd’s dusted the front desk twice and gone through the stack of papers next to the register, as well as giving another stray patron a tour, the group finally emerges, and Todd instantly wishes that the meeting would have taken longer.

  His gaze keeps switching between Stanley, Daniel, and Mrs. Floral, not really noticing the other two. Daniel looks almost bored, while both Mrs. Floral and Stanley seem annoyed. Daniel’s face brightens when their eyes lock, and Todd is too confused by this entire situation to not get a tumble behind his ribs as Daniel approaches him.

  “I was really in your hood it seems,” he says, leaning against the counter.

  Todd tries not to stare at the way his arms look, stretching the shirt fabric over his biceps and shoulders. Swimming has its perks, apparently.

  “Yeah, I’m still really confused,” Todd admits. “I wasn’t prepared to see you until Friday.”

  Daniel grins. “I’m considering this an extra treat.”

  Snorting, Todd glances at the rest of the group. They seem too caught in wrapping up their meeting to pay attention to them.

  “So, it’s a good thing that our friends are dating,” he blurts. It’s his turn to keep the conversation going. “With the phone number mishap, I mean.”

  “Jesse giving me your number?” Daniel checks, and when Todd nods, he continues, “tell me about it. I almost had a heart attack when I came home and realized that I didn’t have your number, or even your last name. It was a painful fifteen minutes, before I remembered Jesse having Mela’s contact info.”

  “Yeah, same. She sent him my number right away.”

  Daniel rolls his eyes. “That guy sleeps like the dead after a few drinks. He sent it to me the next day, and I didn’t notice until late because I was studying.”

  “I’m impressed that you can keep away from your phone for that long.”

  “I can’t,” Daniel admits. “I have my sister hide it for me.”

  “Ambitious.” Todd doubts that he has the self-control to ask someone to do the same for him. He checks his phone every time he isn’t busy doing something else. Mom tells him it’s a problem. He isn’t sure he agrees.

  “Well, I don’t have much of a choice.”

  At that, the man who arrived with Daniel clasps his shoulder. Something about him is familiar. He can’t pinpoint what it is, but then he notices that Daniel looks a lot like him: the same hair color and similar sharp features. It must be his dad.

  “I’ll see you Friday,” Todd offers as a goodbye when Daniel straightens and pushes away from the desk.

  Daniel grins and waves before he disappears out the door.

  “What was that about?” Todd asks, turning toward Mrs. Floral as soon as the door closes.

  She sighs and sinks into the nearest chair. She’s aged five years in the past week and tripled her daily quota of cigarettes. He should talk to her about that, but there never seems to be a good time. “They’re interested in the space. Apparently, the son wants to use it for some kind of club.”

  Todd’s stomach drops to the soles of his feet. “That guy?”

  “The one you were speaking to, yes. Daniel,” Mrs. Floral says. “Do you know him?”

  “No,” Todd decides, his chest empty. He doesn’t.

  * * *

  Todd’s head is still spinning when he gets off an hour later. Daniel wants to use the gallery space for a freaking club? It hurts between his ribs at the idea of Mrs. Floral’s life work being torn down, packed away in boxes, and replaced with strobe lights and pounding basses. Todd knows every crack in the sidewalk from his own front door to the gallery. He knows where he has to be extra careful during winter, because the ground always gets slippery there and where he can pick up a good coffee on his way to work. Above all, he’s been there, watching Mrs. Floral pour her heart and soul into this place. He’s kept her company late at night, when she’s wanted to finish putting up new works before the weekend, even though he should’ve been studying. Every corner of that place is something she’s created, and now she’s so close to losing it. It aches to breathe.

  Things aren’t exactly better, considering that his classes start tomorrow. Before today, he had one thing to worry about: the gallery closing. Now, he has that, plus the fact that the guy he has been all starry-eyed over is the one who’s trying to take it from him. Mrs. Floral’s life work. His safe space.

  Todd decides to take a longer way home. It’s hot, despite the sun starting to set, and the humidity ruins his hair in a few blocks. However, the strain in his legs as he walks is clearing his head. It makes him focus on something other than what just happened.

  Everything smells heavenly when he gets home. Right, Dad is making chilaqu
iles. That is a positive thing at least.

  “Hey,” he says, sinking down at the kitchen table.

  “Hungry?” Dad asks, with a quick glance at him before returning his attention to the cooking.

  Not really, but he can’t say that. “Starving.”

  Dad’s entire face lights up.

  Todd ends up eating so much that he’s nauseous, but it’s worth it because Dad doesn’t stop smiling and he doesn’t ask about school even once. All things considered, it’s a pretty terrific dinner.

  He checks his phone once he’s in bed. Mela has replied with a row of question marks. There’s no text from Daniel.

  Heaving a sigh, Todd presses CALL on Mela’s name.

  “You send me the most cryptic text and then don’t call me until now?” she greets.

  “Dinner. Sorry.” Picking at a loose thread in his shirt, Todd chooses his words carefully. “I don’t know what it’s all about yet, but it’s already bad enough.”

  Mela hums on the other end.

  “So, the gallery has been doing badly financially for a while. I only found out last week. Today I get this text from Daniel saying that he’s in my hood, and, the next thing I know, he’s walking into the gallery for a meeting with Mrs. Floral and the landlord and people I think are his parents.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, it’s too weird. Then I find out that he’s the one wanting the space for a club.”

  “Uncultured swine,” Mela mutters.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Todd confesses and sighs. “Before I knew that he was involved in this, I said yes to coffee on Friday.”

  “You go, of course.”

  “He’s trying to close the gallery.”

  “He probably had no idea that you work there until today.”

  Thinking back on Daniel’s surprised expression when he saw Todd, Mela is probably right, but he’s so freaking stupid.

  “I don’t know. That place means a lot to me and everything to Mrs. Floral.”

  “Well, if you give Daniel a shot, maybe he can mean a lot to you, too.”

  She says it as if it’s easy, as though Todd is supposed to overlook the fact that he might be out of his safe space and Mrs. Floral might lose everything she has because there’s a possibility for him to be with Daniel.

  “He wants to make it into a club.”

  “Would you have cared if it was Cruella’s gallery?”

  Todd resists the urge to hang up. “Of course I would.”

  “Liar.”

  “I’m not lying. Art is important.”

  “I’m not disagreeing with you on that. I’m just saying that you would have gladly sacrificed art just to finally see Cruella go.”

  “It’s not entirely true,” Todd mutters. Not entirely false, either.

  “Coffee with Daniel is a good thing. You should go. It also gives you a chance to talk to him about this.”

  “Maybe.”

  He looks at Sandwich, who’s already sleeping in her cage, stretched out to look twice as long and half as fat compared to what she usually does. Maybe he should try to get some sleep, too.

  * * *

  For once, the first-week-of-classes-confusion is something Todd is grateful for. He’s forced to keep his mind busy while trying to get a grasp of the curriculum and figuring out what classes will take more effort.

  On top of that, he’s making a list of people he would like to showcase at the gallery. Several seniors are already starting to make a name for themselves, despite not being finished with school.

  There isn’t much room to think about Daniel and everything surrounding him until Thursday, when Todd can no longer avoid answering his texts.

  He’s sitting at the table on a pink stool way too low for his height and watching as the kids have a go at a cubist portrait. There are six of them, of varying age but similar background. The program is free, and anyone can apply online when the spots are released before every semester. Some travel quite far with their parents to get here, just because they can’t afford to go somewhere else. Some live closer by, and their parents took an opportunity for them to learn more about art. They’re not from well-off families, and some parents have a strain in their voices and around their eyes when they ask Todd if the program is free next semester as well.

  Farthest down the table, Najwa is doing pretty well on her own, but she’s also the oldest in the bunch, turning ten next week, and she’s been around since the program started. Clara, she’s six and the youngest, has long since decided that she’d rather draw scary spiders than weird faces, Todd, because spiders are the coolest, and that’s fine. She explains three times over the course of an hour that since spiders have eight legs, they’re not actual insects. Jamal went to the bathroom twenty minutes ago, and Todd should go look for him. He’s probably stuck in front of one of the pieces in the gallery. It’s more rule than exception that he gets distracted on his way back from the bathroom. He’s already finished with his piece, and it’s a beautiful creation of primary colors on one half, and their complementary colors on the other. They talked about that last semester, and Jamal has a thing for making colors pop.

  He slides his phone out of his pocket and chews on his bottom lip. If he replies to Daniel’s text now canceling their coffee date tomorrow, he’ll still have about thirty minutes with the kids and thirty minutes of cleaning up after them to distract himself.

  “No phones, Todd!” Raina shouts across the table.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he says, holding his free hand up. “I have a really important text to reply to and then I’ll put it away, I promise.”

  “Only if you bring cookies next time,” Clara says without looking up from where she’s drawing tiny, tiny hairs on her spider’s legs.

  He’s such a pushover. “I might.”

  “Okay, I don’t see any phones,” Raina sing-songs.

  “No phones at all,” Logan agrees, giggling under his breath. He’s paying a lot of attention to one side of the portrait, but he always works slowly and meticulously.

  Todd’s chest grows heavy from wondering where the kids will spend their Thursday nights if the gallery closes. He won’t be able to see them again, and they’re the highlight of his week. Their open, unashamed fascination with art and whatever he shares with them is so refreshing compared to the critical eyes of himself and his classmates. They’re not afraid to share their opinions and never worried that they might have one that’s considered less.

  He opens his phone and the text conversation with Daniel. There’s a new one waiting for him.

  > Hey, where did you want to grab that coffee tomorrow?

  Raina is now showing her work to Logan, asking for his suggestions. Sourness spreads in his stomach. Some of them claim that this is their best part of the week too.

  < I think I’m getting sick, sorry. Rain check?

  Then, he types a second text to Mela. It’s easier if he isn’t the only one who knows that he lied.

  < Said no to grabbing coffee tomorrow. Can’t do it

  She replies in an instant.

  > Are you serious?

  < The gallery is too important

  > Oh for fuck’s sake Todd!

  He doesn’t reply. There’s no use when she’s already decided that he did the wrong thing. She might be right, but his heart screams betrayal every time he thinks about going on a date with Daniel, when he wants to take over the space after the gallery closes. This place is everything to him and even more to Mrs. Floral. It means a lot to these kids.

  “I think I’m starting to see phones at the table,” Raina sing-songs after a while, and Todd hurries to put his phone back in his pocket.

  Daniel replies twenty minutes after Todd has come home.

  > Sure, let me know when you are back on track. Feel better!

  He do
esn’t feel guilty. He doesn’t. Sinking down on the floor in his room, Todd ignores the sudden hit of nausea and pets Sandwich’s smooth ears. Her nose twitches, but she stays still.

  “I think you need some exercise.”

  After building an obstacle with an empty DVD case and erasers to keep it steady, Todd pushes Sandwich toward it.

  “You need to jump it.” He ignores the skeptical look she gives him. “Bunnies like that.”

  She refuses to go near the case, and when Todd lifts her over it to show how she’s supposed to go about it, she hops back into her cage as soon as she’s back on the floor. At least she’s faster on her way there than she usually is.

  “Well, I guess that’s better than nothing,” he mutters.

  On Saturday, he agrees to go to a bar with a few people from one of his classes. Sitting at home makes him want to message Daniel and apologize. Maybe he should.

  The small place is in a basement, where the air is already running out of oxygen, and the owner might’ve spent more time and money on unknown beer brands than on interior décor and comfort. Pushing away his thoughts, he focuses on Giselle, who’s friends with the guy who invited him. Todd has seen her work. She’s on his list.

  “So this is your last year?” he asks her while nursing his coffee. The band playing isn’t that great, but he’s comfortable in this crowd. As long as he can focus on what’s important—the gallery—he’ll be fine.

  “Yep! It’s so scary.” She pushes a stray, strawberry blond corkscrew from her face. It has escaped the messy braid hanging over her shoulder. She’s very short, only reaching Todd’s shoulder, and chubby. He’s never seen her wear anything but skirts and dresses. She smiles, creating dimples in her rosy cheeks. Nothing in her innocent look correlates with the dark anguish in her art. He once spent over an hour staring at a portrait of a man whose face is decaying until it seemed to come alive. “What about you?”

  “Two left, including this one. Thank god.”

  “Do you have plans already?” she asks him.

  “Nah, can’t say I do. I’m still hoping that I will have figured it out when it’s time.” Shrugging, Todd looks at the other people around them. He hasn’t talked to them much until this week. Does this mean that he’s exploiting them, even though he likes their company? But they’re getting something out of this too. At least Giselle will, if she says yes.