My uncle placed a huge bowl of spaghetti and meatballs in the middle of the table. “I made this for you because I know how much you like it.” Our eyes met. “Thanks for joining us.”
Emotion rose up my throat and nearly choked me. I could only nod my head. Attention shifted when Deena started talking about her day. Affection gleamed on my aunt's face as she looked at her daughter.
“I made the cheerleader squad. Mom, I need to bring the money for the uniform to school by the end of the week and practice is Monday, Wednesday and Friday until five, so I'll need a ride home on those days.”
“Absolutely. I'm so proud of you, Deena. Anything you need sweetie, you've got it.”
My uncle saw my reaction to my aunt's unguarded response to Deena. Not once had she ever shown that kind of affection to me even though I knew she was capable of it.
“So tell us Lark, what are you painting now?” My uncle asked.
“The chapel in town square.”
“You favor oils, right?”
“I do, but charcoal is a close second.”
Carol chimed in from her spot across the table from me, “Have you tried a self-portrait yet?”
Anger pulsed off my aunt at the fact that the conversation centered around me, but I ignored her and allowed myself to engage in the banter with my uncle and cousins. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I really enjoyed myself.
***
Monday afternoon found me working on my painting. My thoughts kept returning to the dinner I had shared with the family. Notwithstanding my aunt staring daggers at me from across the table, it had been very nice. Another thought that preoccupied my mind was my dad. When had he come into my mom's life? Had they dated or was it just a hook up? Had she even remembered him? Did he remember her? Was it possible that for a time my mom had been happy despite the secrets that haunted her? I truly hope that was so. Ms. Whitney interrupted my thoughts.
“Lark, could I have a minute, please?”
I wondered what was on her mind because I knew she didn't generally like interrupting a painter at work. It was something she found intolerable when others did it to her. Placing my brush down, I joined her at her desk.
“Please have a seat. There's something I would like to discuss with you.”
I settled in the chair, but I was nervous. Luckily, she didn't make me wait long before she just got right to it.
“Have you heard of the Logan Dupree scholarship?”
“No.”
“It's given to one graduating senior every year: a full academic scholarship to any school of your choosing.”
“Wow, that's quite a scholarship, but isn't it a little late to apply?” Ms. Whitney and I had already applied for pretty much every art scholarship out there, but I didn't remember this one.
“Well, I'll get to that in a minute. The recipient is required to mentor with Logan Dupree, and due to his wife giving birth this summer, you would have to move to Harrington, Maine the last week of April. I've already discussed this with your teachers. They have all agreed to give you your exams early. You would miss the senior prom, though.”
She acted as if I had already won the scholarship. “I don't understand.”
“I applied for you—submitted a portfolio of your work—but I didn't say anything because it was a long shot, but such an incredible opportunity if you did win it.”
She reached over her desk and took my hands into hers. A smile spread over her face. “Lark, you won the scholarship.”
It took me a minute to understand what she said and another few minutes to process it. Two weeks ago I would have accepted it immediately, and it was stupid to even ponder not accepting it, but now there was Bastian.
“A scholastic opportunity like this comes only once in a lifetime.”
“I know. How long do I have to make my decision?”
“February.”
“Okay, so I have time.”
“Yes, but I do so hope you take it.”
“Thank you, Ms. Whitney, for applying for me.”
“You are very talented. Despite what else is happening in your life, please don't lose focus on that. Think of David Cambre and the joy you feel when studying one of his sculptures. Now imagine if he had gotten sidetracked and deprived the world of his art before he died. Your gift should be shared.”
“You're right and thank you. I'll let you know.”
***
I was distracted for the rest of the day and ended up skipping lunch to spend the time Googling Logan Dupree. Damn, the man was talented. Having an opportunity to mentor under him really was a once in a lifetime chance.
His wife, Saffron—cool name—was expecting their second child in July. He sounded like a dream. He had learned to have both a family and a career, and so it wasn't just art I could learn from him.
My thoughts turned to Bastian. He was the reason for my hesitation and for good reason because deep down I knew he felt for me what I did for him. It was crazy, this attraction between us, but it was real and something I really wanted to explore.
I headed for my locker when the final bell rang, but I was so lost in thought, I didn't realize Bastian was waiting for me until he said my name.
“Lark, are you okay? You've been kind of out of it today.”
“I just have some things on my mind.”
“Your conversation with your uncle?”
“Partly that.”
“I have soccer practice now, but I can skip it if you want to go somewhere to talk.” He said.
“You should go to practice, but would you mind if I watched?”
“Mind? Hell, no.”
“Do you guys play shirts against skins?” I asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“Please make sure you're a skin.”
His chuckle rumbled through him. He kissed my forehead. “For you, anything.”
***
As I watched practice, I realized Bastian was good, in fact, he was really good. Why wasn't he pursuing a career in soccer? Was soccer not an acceptable occupation in the world according to Mr. Ross? It was baffling, how the Rosses saw their son. Ignoring his obvious attributes, he was exceedingly bright, breezing easily through his honors and AP classes. Whether he was talking to guys on his soccer team or members of the faculty, he was equally comfortable with both. What he could do with a car was as impressive as it was enviable. And to top all of that, he was just a really good guy. How anyone could look at him and see anything but perfection just pissed me off. And more, the fact that he didn't allow it to get to him—the neglect at home—and could live his life despite having to do so on his own, showed his incredible strength of character. It was just one more reason why I was so completely drawn to him.
Kira and a few other Cheers were on the sidelines, drooling shamelessly, but they tried to camouflage their lusting behind a weak attempt at cheerleading practice. I wanted to call over to them and say they weren't fooling anyone, but then I was ogling too.
A few times Kira actually engaged Bastian in conversation despite the coach shooing her away, and even from my distance, I could tell there was an easiness about the exchange which I guess would happen when you'd practically grown up with someone. I wondered what he was like at six or ten, or fourteen? Was he always as confident as he was now? Did he always have such a strong sense of who he was?
My thoughts turned to the scholarship. I was going to take it; I’d known it as soon as Ms. Whitney mentioned it, but I hated that I was going to lose that time with Bastian. We had only just started dating and I wanted as much time with him as possible.
I pulled myself from my thoughts when I saw that the team was getting ready to call it quits. Bastian looked seriously overheated. I had spied the cooler earlier, had watched as the team's manager filled several coolers with icy cold water. I stood and made my way over to him.
His hair was pulled back from his face with a bandana and his muscles were all flexed and hard from the exercise. When he saw me, he separated from his team and started toward me in that most excellent swagger of his. I asked when he was just in front of me, “Thirsty?”