The Girl Who Cries Colors, page 8
“Maybe that’s why you’re such a good friend to me,” she said quietly. “You’re good with colors.”
He smirked. “And you’re full of them.”
Willow nodded thoughtfully. “The Girl Who Cries Colors and The Boy Who Can Paint Them.”
“That’s a mouthful. Maybe I’ll stick with Paint Boy.”
She laughed and turned to leave. As she walked to her father’s car, her long-sleeved dress glowed under the moon and her hips swung side to side like a dance. Her slender neck revealed itself as the wind threw her hair around.
With a sickening pang, it suddenly sunk in. He loved her. And she was leaving.
Chapter Thirteen
David had to force himself to go to Professor Vanderbilt’s memorial and he stuck to Mr. Collins’ side the whole time. A few of the teachers spoke and said some nice words, and then some students said a few more. When it was over, the young crowd was left mulling around a table with coffee and cookies, looking at a printed flyer of Vanderbilt in his younger years. It all felt strangely lacking. Where was the truth? This wasn’t him, David thought, as he looked through the paper-thin accounts of Vanderbilt’s life. It didn’t say anything about his favorite artists, or how he carried caramels in his pocket, or how he liked to watch Walter Cronkite on the television. There was none of his passion or his humor, no indication of his vigor for life. It was like the watered-down book jacket summary of a novel. It told the premise, but not the story. It left David feeling more depressed than ever.
There were a handful of students crying, and David overheard them talking about what an inspiration Vanderbilt had been. They swapped stories about him helping them with their grades, or throwing a book clear across the room to wake up someone who’d fallen asleep. David couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy that they’d gotten to learn from him in person.
Ever since the memorial, David had put off the last guide that the Professor had made for him. Mr. Collins had found it in Professor Vanderbilt’s office and brought it for David. It was like a gift from a ghost. It took more than a few days and an ounce of courage to even open it. Plus, he didn’t want to finish it, because then he really would have nothing left. So he’d stuffed it under his mattress in stubborn refusal instead. A silly way to rebel against death, but it was all he had.
David was deep in thought about the guide under his mattress and what he should do about it when he was walking home from school one day. He didn’t even notice Peter Murron stalking him. Peter hadn’t gotten any nicer with another couple of years under his belt. Actually, his belt size had just gotten larger, like his meanness had nowhere to go but out.
“Well, well, well.”
David jumped at Peter’s sudden voice. Angry with himself for being oblivious, David snapped, “What do you want, Peter?”
“I didn’t like the way you looked at Joanna today,” he said, matching his footsteps with David so that they walked side-by-side.
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Baker Boy. I saw you looking at her.”
David shrugged, because there was never any use arguing with him, even though David had no idea what he was talking about. Joanna was a shy blonde in their grade, but he was fairly certain he’d never spoken a word to her.
David kept walking and tried to ignore him.
“You a coward or somethin’?”
David sighed and stopped. That was a big misconception that loud people had about quiet people. The people who talked too much were always trying to bait the quiet ones. They often mistook the quietness for cowardice or complacency. But it wasn’t true. The loud are loud because they always want to be heard. The quiet are quiet because they prefer to think.
“I’m not a coward.”
Peter smiled, victorious. “Joanna would never go for a coward like you anyway. Besides, dirt-poor isn’t her taste.”
David felt the heat rise into his cheeks. “At least I’m not an ass who can barely fit behind his desk.”
Peter’s fist slammed into David’s stomach with amazing speed considering his heft. David’s breath and his lunch went lurching out of him in one foul heave. Unfortunately, David’s vomit landed right on Peter’s shoes. He didn’t seem too pleased.
“I’m going to kill you, Beck!”
Peter started pounding his fist into David’s face. David tried to punch back, but none of his throws landed on anything substantial, and he retreated to solely defensive moves. Peter knocked him down with a kick to the knee, and David’s head cracked painfully against the pavement.
As Peter railed on him, all David could think was, “This feels about right.” It was like Peter’s punches were the physical incarnation of pain from Professor Vanderbilt dying and of Willow moving. Life was punishing him.
He should’ve expected it. After all, someone like him surely couldn’t have a gift and not get some retribution, too. All three bad things were owed to him. Because he would forever be in life’s debt for the spark in his hands.
David had been beaten into the fetal position, and his cheek scraped against rocks on the pavement. He felt pain everywhere, like Peter had somehow sprouted extra limbs to pummel him.
But then Peter’s fists were suddenly gone. It took David several seconds to pick up his head enough to look over, although his head felt like it was filled with cotton. He saw, with some slow realization, that it was Peter’s turn to get beaten.
“Balls!” David tried to say, but it came out more like “Bawzzz.”
Balls had hold of Peter by the collar like he was nothing. All of Balls’ work lifting heavy parts at the mechanic shop had built up his muscles. He was at least a foot taller, not to mention six years older. Peter’s bulk was nothing in comparison to Balls’ strength.
When Peter was bloodied and whimpering, Balls dropped his fist and yanked Peter in by the neck. “If you ever touch my brother again, hell, if you ever even speak to him, I’ll come for you, Murron. You got that?”
Peter nodded with equal fury and fear, his nose running red.
Balls pushed him away, and Peter scurried down the street like a rat loosed from a trap. Balls hurried to David and took in his bloodied appearance. “Can you stand?”
“Dunno.”
“Here,” Balls said, putting his arm around David and pulling him up.
“Ugh,” David said, his head spinning.
“Want to sit?”
“No, just get me home.”
Balls supported David’s weight and led them home. Luckily, they weren’t far off.
When they got to the bakery, Coen saw them and his eyes widened. “Pop!”
Mr. Beck came out from the kitchens and rushed over to them. With Balls on one side and his pop on the other, David was heaved upstairs and deposited on his bed.
Everyone cluttered around him.
“What happened?” Mrs. Beck cried.
“Ssssfine, Ma,” David tried to assure her, but she only grew more upset.
“Elsie, go get me some water and clean rags. Coen, get the first aid kit.”
David tried to interrupt, but one look from his ma silenced him. He watched her out of the slits of his swollen eyes.
“What happened?” she demanded.
“That Murron kid,” Balls said.
“Harriet Murron’s son?”
“That’s the one.”
Mrs. Beck made a clicking noise with her tongue. “Well you can bet she’ll be hearing from me tonight!”
“Ma...”
“You hush, David Beck. I don’t want to hear any of your excuses. He could have killed you! You look awful!”
“Murron won’t look much better,” Balls muttered.
“Ballard!” Mrs. Beck turned on him. “You didn’t.”
“What? I wasn’t just going to let him get away with it.”
“But you’re a legal adult. You can’t get into trouble. What if they press charges!”
“Let them try,” he said darkly.
Mrs. Beck shook her head at him and turned back to David.
“I’m going to ring the doctor,” Mr. Beck said quietly.
“No, Pop, really—“ David said.
“What did I say?” his ma cut him off. “You could have something broken. At the very least you’ll probably need stitches for the cut on your head. Lay back.”
Elsie came in with rags and warm water and his ma started to work on his face. Every swipe was painful as she cleaned the blood off him.
“You okay, Davie?” Elsie asked.
David tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it turned into a grimace. Everyone watched him nervously, but he was in too much pain to feel ashamed.
“Still got all your teeth?” Balls asked.
David probed his mouth with his tongue. “Yeah.”
“Good. You don’t want to be uglier than you already are.”
David didn’t have the strength to try to laugh.
“Now isn’t the time for jokes, Ballard!” Mrs. Beck snapped.
“Well at least we finally know who’s been the one giving you shiners all this time. Archie thought...” Balls stopped himself. “Well, anyway. That Murron kid is fatter than Joe Harrow’s hogs. Guys like him, they just hit because they’re bigger and because they can. You tell me if he gives you any more trouble. And that’s not a request, Davie, that’s an order.”
David ceded. “Mmmkay.”
That was how it was with brothers. You grew up fighting each other, but you also fought for each other.
Chapter Fourteen
Willow left when summer arrived and his stitches came out.
The day baked the ground and made the air thick with heat. Sweat trickled down between David’s shoulder blades as he walked to Willow’s house for the very last time. When he arrived, there was a moving truck on the street. Moe’s Movers. The same company that had brought her there was now taking her away.
She sat waiting for him on the porch. He remembered how she used to wait for him in the driveway skipping rope. The memory hurt. Without a word, they walked past the yard and through the gate together, and went into the old shed that was once their playhouse. There was nothing inside anymore. Everything had been packed away or thrown out. They sat opposite each other on the floorboards, the sun coming in through the cracks of the walls. She looked so pretty and so sad that he wished he could both paint her and kiss her.
David could tell she’d been crying. Her gray eyes looked effervescent and shiny, like a feline in the dark, rimmed with red lids. She had no gloves or stockings on, but she was wearing her long sleeves, and he knew she must be hot in the summer sun. He could see beads of sweat collected against her brow, and the hot humidity had made her hair expand in frizzy curls.
“When do you leave?”
“In about an hour,” she said, fidgeting with her hands.
“Do you have your new address?”
She nodded and handed him a slip of paper from the pocket of her dress.
“Thanks,” he said, stuffing it in his pocket.
She looked at him properly for the first time. “I hate this.”
“Me too.”
“I won’t have anyone to talk to. Again. Before you, I was so lonely all the time.”
“You can call me. And we’ll write.”
“It’s not the same though, is it?”
It wasn’t.
“We aren’t that far away from each other. Maybe we can visit?” David suggested, but they both knew it wouldn’t happen. Unless her parents accompanied her, they’d never let Willow travel alone, and David didn’t have the money to visit.
“What am I going to do?”
David knew what she was really asking. He understood the other parts of her leaving. She was the girl who cries colors, and she needed to cry them. It was a part of who she was now.
“You’ll be fine,” he tried to assure her.
But Willow’s lip quivered and she shook her head. “Sometimes, when I don’t see you for awhile, or when I don’t get to cry for someone...I don’t know, David, it’s like I start going crazy. I feel like I’m crying too much for people, but then I think I’m not crying enough, and I just need to do it more,” she sighed shakily. “You always make me feel better. Without you here...I’m not going to be fine, David. I’m not.”
David moved to sit beside her and took her hands in his. “Yes, you will. You’re going to get used to the place. You’re going to find new spots. And you’re going to get your mom to let you go out, just like you did here. You’re going to cry for people when you feel like you need to, and you’re going to be careful like always. You’ll go home, and you’ll feel better, and you’ll write to me.
“You’ll tell me who you cried for and what colors the tears were. You’ll tell me what it felt like and what color it matched on your color fan. And then you’ll help your mom with dinner, or your dad with his lesson plans. You’ll play the piano or the violin, because you’re wicked good at both,” he said, making her smile. “You’ll sit outside and read, or practice your French, or knit a scarf—which you can send to me—and before you know it, a week will go by, and then a month, and then a year. And we’ll keep writing each other, and you’ll keep crying. Because you’re Weeping Willow. The Girl Who Cries Colors, and you’re going to be just fine.”
Willow cried then, and it was the very first time in almost five years of friendship that he saw her crying for herself. Like always, the splendor of it shocked him. Pink and yellow streams trailed down her face. She was the rain, her tears the rainbow, and David was certain that nothing else in the world would ever be as beautiful.
Willow wiped her cheeks and the colors smeared, staining her face like a warrior with paint. Her fingers and palms were smudged, too, but she didn’t care. She leaned over and hugged David, and he hugged her back. Colored drops fell onto his shoulder and dyed his shirt.
“It’ll be okay,” he said adamantly. “It will.”
She let go and took a wet wipe from her pocket, scrubbing off her face and hands until the colors rubbed away. “You’re a good best friend, David Beck. I don’t think anyone else could say the things that you say. You’re a painter and a poet.”
“Yeah, well don’t tell anyone. I get beat up enough as it is,” David said, trying to make light of his persecution.
Willow’s nose crinkled. “I wish you’d stand up for yourself more. Give that Peter Murron what’s coming to him.”
David shrugged.
“I’d like to punch him.”
David laughed. “That would surprise him. I’m sure you’d knock him out with one swing.”
Willow laughed, too, but then sobered. “Ugh. I can’t leave.”
“Well...we could still try to run away to the circus.”
She smiled. It was the best sight in the world.
“What if we just stayed here? Staged a coup and locked ourselves in? Or are you afraid of small spaces?”
David thought for a moment. “Remember the Cuban Missile Crisis?” he asked softly. “I was nine. It was before you moved here. My school used to send us all to the boiler room for drills in case the Russians ever really did nuke us. The teachers used to tell us, “Put your head down and close your eyes. Don’t look up even if you see a bright light.”
Willow watched him quietly.
“I used to think, what would happen if they really did nuke us? And what if I ended up in the boiler room with all those people, and we got trapped? I wouldn’t ever see my parents again. I’d be separated from my brothers and sister. I’d be trapped down there with Peter Murron and the boy who used to put his boogers on his shoes. I used to get so worked up about it. Not even about the actual missile, just about being trapped at school with them,” David admitted.
“But then it never happened. Eventually the drills stopped, but I always thought about how that boiler room had become its own little claustrophobic world. It had its own rules down there. Kids could cry and not get made fun of for it. People who didn’t normally like each other or even talk to each other, would become allies. Teachers acted like parents. They told stories, sang songs, made jokes so we wouldn’t be afraid. So even though it was scary, it was also sort of amazing that a room could do that to people. Become it’s own place set apart from the rest of the world.”
“Kind of like us in here?” Willow mused.
David looked around the cramped space. “Yeah, like this. Except I wouldn’t mind being stuck in here with you if a missile landed.”
“Willow!” They heard Mrs. Collins calling. “It’s time to go!”
“No thanks,” Willow answered back.
Mrs. Collins opened the shed door, letting the rest of the world spill in. She gave them a sad, guilty look. “We have to go, Willow.”
Willow crossed her arms and didn’t move.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Collins said.
David offered her a small smile and stood up. “Thanks for everything Mrs. Collins. Thanks for letting me come over every week and eat your food.”
She smiled sadly. “You’ve been a great friend to Willow. I’m sorry that we have to go.”
David turned to Willow, who still sat obstinately on the shed floor. They both looked at her pleadingly. Finally she sighed and stood up, brushing at the skirt of her dress like the wave of a white flag.
They followed Mrs. Collins out to the car, where Mr. Collins was already waiting. “The house is locked up. I made sure we got everything,” he said.
Mr. Collins put out a hand and David shook it. “You’re a good young man. Keep your head on straight, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
“Keep at your painting. When you earn your numerous awards in your art career, I want to be included in at least one acceptance speech.”
They laughed, the way people laugh when they’re sad but they’re trying to get through. They fake it.
“Right, well. Say your goodbyes. We’ll wait in the car,” Mrs. Collins said, giving her daughter a look that David translated into, “Don’t you dare cry.”
