Desert Crossing by Elise Broach

leaned my head against the sofa.
    â€œIt’s pretty abstract,” she said. “A way of seeing things.” She hesitated. “There’s so much ugliness around, you know? What you see on the highways, on city sidewalks, shoved behind people’s garages. All the junk. Nothing in nature is like that. Nothing is ugly like that.”
    Kit looked at Jamie. “She hasn’t seen Lisa Becker,” he said.
    I hit his leg with my fist. “Shut up, Kit.”
    He turned on me, annoyed. “What? She’s not a friend of yours.”
    Beth just shook her head, giving up. But Jamie was still watching her. “Go on,” he said. “Finish what you were saying.”
    She sighed. “I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. Since I started doing this, it’s changed the way I look at things. Now, when I notice a smashed can on the side of the road, I don’t see somebody’s trash, I see the potential for…” she paused.
    â€œA sculpture?” Jamie asked.
    â€œWell, yes. Art.” Beth smiled at him, a widening smile that lit up her whole face. “If you look at the most ordinary thing long enough, it can seem beautiful.”
    â€œHuh,” Kit said. He seemed unimpressed. “And people pay you for this stuff? You make a living doing this?”
    â€œWell, sort of. I teach art classes for half the year.”
    â€œYeah?” Jamie leaned forward. “You teach? I bet you’re good at that.”
    Beth looked at him. “Why?”
    I watched him, thinking how goofy it was. He was using his same old moves on this middle-aged woman who couldn’t care less.
    â€œI just mean, you’re so good at painting and all, I think you’d be good at explaining it to people.”
    She shrugged. “They’re two different skills. I’m not as good at the teaching as I am at the painting. I don’t really like having to deal with people.”
    Jamie and Kit and I looked at each other. That shut us up.

11
    After a while, Jamie said, “Could I take a shower? I feel pretty gross from last night.”
    â€œOf course. There are fresh towels in the bathroom closet.”
    Kit and I stayed there in silence, watching the sculpture change with the paint. Finally, the distant whine of the shower stopped and Jamie called, “Did you guys get my bag from the car last night?”
    â€œYeah, it’s in the study,” Kit said. He got up and wandered down the hall. After a minute, I followed him.
    Jamie came out of the study toweling off his hair. “Is Beth still painting?” he asked.
    The expression on his face was completely familiar, a kind of eager alertness, exactly how he looked when he and Kit were talking about some girl he liked.
    â€œJamie, she’s got to be in her thirties,” I whispered, appalled.
    He looked annoyed. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œI’m talking about you hitting on Beth, you moron. What are you doing, talking and talking to her? And you tried to put your arm around her in the truck.”
    â€œI did not!”
    Kit laughed. “So what if he did? She’s sort of hot. She’s got the older-woman thing going.”
    They were incredible. It was one thing at the diners and the gas stops. We were never going to see those people again. But we were in this woman’s house. “She’s got gray hair,” I said, gasping.
    Kit considered that for a minute, then shrugged at Jamie. “Yeah,” he said. “She could be kind of saggy. And she was a bitch about the beer.”
    Jamie balled the damp towel in his fist. “Back off, Luce. What’s it to you, anyway? I’m not hitting on her. I just like her, that’s all.”
    I turned away. “When have you ever liked somebody and not hit on them?”
    â€œOh, give me a break.”
    Kit laughed again, grabbing my shoulder and shoving me down the hallway. “Yeah, give him a break.