a classic black Misfits logo tee, but not one where skeleton hands would be cupping my boobs. Clearly the right choice. (
Let’s test your threshold of pain, let’s see how long you last
, indeed.)
I go for a refill, staring at this circular painting—a.k.a. a “tondo”—I’ve studied for the past couple years that’s hanging near the counter. I’m glad no one’s bought it yet, because then I wouldn’t be able to savor it. And I
so
don’t have the money to buy it myself. The tondo is encircled by a simple ebony frame, but the painting itself always makes my heartrace. It’s oil on canvas, a shadowy figure in a top hat, cravat, tuxedo, the works, but rendered entirely in a crimson to black spectrum. Elegant and mysterious. When the barista brings my cup back, I almost ask what I need to do to get a piece hung in here.
Instead, I take my refill back to the table, sit down, and call myself a few thousand names, all prefaced with
stupid
. I do this
every time
. I should stop coming here. It just depresses me.
But I’ve got Friday night to look forward to, so that’s something.
I let out a big sigh and take another look at the art class flyer. Maybe Mike’s right; maybe I should go ahead and take a class this summer. But at my college, not the Hole; at least there I can get credit for it. What’s the worst that could happen?
I spend another hour carefully detailing every possible answer to that question before going home. I decide on the drive to sign up for my first official art class since graduating, hoping I’ll get a teacher at least half as cool as Mr. Hilmer. Maybe start over on my portfolio. Just in case. I thought I’d learned a lot since freaking eighth grade. But that’s the problem: obviously I had a lot to learn, and no one’s taught me anything new since I was twelve, thirteen. Maybe that’ll change if I get a good teacher again.
Hey, I can dream.
About a lot of things. One of which, it turns out, is Mike.
I mean, if I’m going to be around for a while
anyway
…
six
The first man to compare the cheeks of a young woman to a rose was obviously a poet. The first to repeat it was possibly an idiot.
—Salvador Dalí
“Got a date?” Dad asks Friday night as I walk past his bedroom door.
I stop in the hallway. He’s pulling on a black sports coat. Must be party time.
“Uh … not … I mean, sort of.” I’m not convinced my
rendezvous
with Mike at Hole in the Wall was a date, so I’m not sure tonight’s meeting at Damage Control is, either. Plus, the rest of the band is going to be there. What’re they, chaperoning?
“Why?” I ask Dad.
Dad shrugs. “Haven’t seen your hair in a while.”
I touch my hair. Dad’s right; it’s been a while since I tried styling it. Probably should’ve gotten my hair cut before attempting such a feat, but that would make
sense
, you see, and so is clearly beyond my capacity. I’ve clipped my bangsback with little black barrettes so they’re out of my face; a new look, to be sure. Where am I supposed to hide?
“Oh,” I say. “Um—do you like it?”
“Hm?” Dad goes, and riffles through his wallet. He doesn’t look up. “Yeah, sure.”
“Gosh. That’s a ringing endorsement.”
Now he looks up and smiles guiltily. “Sorry, kid. Got a lot on my mind, I suppose. Work’s been a little crazy.”
“What’s going on?”
“Oh, just”—Dad sighs, turning to the mirror over their bureau—“thought I had a promotion all locked up, but it, ah … didn’t quite materialize.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Would it have meant a raise?” Sue me for being selfish, but maybe a nice raise could negate the need for a stupid scholarship.
Dad sees right through me. He winks, and I want to tear the eyelid off with my teeth.
“Hey, Z,” he goes. “That was an expensive school you wanted to go to, you know.”
And thanks for using the past tense, Daddy-O. He may as well have said,
Since there’s no way in
Let’s test your threshold of pain, let’s see how long you last
, indeed.)
I go for a refill, staring at this circular painting—a.k.a. a “tondo”—I’ve studied for the past couple years that’s hanging near the counter. I’m glad no one’s bought it yet, because then I wouldn’t be able to savor it. And I
so
don’t have the money to buy it myself. The tondo is encircled by a simple ebony frame, but the painting itself always makes my heartrace. It’s oil on canvas, a shadowy figure in a top hat, cravat, tuxedo, the works, but rendered entirely in a crimson to black spectrum. Elegant and mysterious. When the barista brings my cup back, I almost ask what I need to do to get a piece hung in here.
Instead, I take my refill back to the table, sit down, and call myself a few thousand names, all prefaced with
stupid
. I do this
every time
. I should stop coming here. It just depresses me.
But I’ve got Friday night to look forward to, so that’s something.
I let out a big sigh and take another look at the art class flyer. Maybe Mike’s right; maybe I should go ahead and take a class this summer. But at my college, not the Hole; at least there I can get credit for it. What’s the worst that could happen?
I spend another hour carefully detailing every possible answer to that question before going home. I decide on the drive to sign up for my first official art class since graduating, hoping I’ll get a teacher at least half as cool as Mr. Hilmer. Maybe start over on my portfolio. Just in case. I thought I’d learned a lot since freaking eighth grade. But that’s the problem: obviously I had a lot to learn, and no one’s taught me anything new since I was twelve, thirteen. Maybe that’ll change if I get a good teacher again.
Hey, I can dream.
About a lot of things. One of which, it turns out, is Mike.
I mean, if I’m going to be around for a while
anyway
…
six
The first man to compare the cheeks of a young woman to a rose was obviously a poet. The first to repeat it was possibly an idiot.
—Salvador Dalí
“Got a date?” Dad asks Friday night as I walk past his bedroom door.
I stop in the hallway. He’s pulling on a black sports coat. Must be party time.
“Uh … not … I mean, sort of.” I’m not convinced my
rendezvous
with Mike at Hole in the Wall was a date, so I’m not sure tonight’s meeting at Damage Control is, either. Plus, the rest of the band is going to be there. What’re they, chaperoning?
“Why?” I ask Dad.
Dad shrugs. “Haven’t seen your hair in a while.”
I touch my hair. Dad’s right; it’s been a while since I tried styling it. Probably should’ve gotten my hair cut before attempting such a feat, but that would make
sense
, you see, and so is clearly beyond my capacity. I’ve clipped my bangsback with little black barrettes so they’re out of my face; a new look, to be sure. Where am I supposed to hide?
“Oh,” I say. “Um—do you like it?”
“Hm?” Dad goes, and riffles through his wallet. He doesn’t look up. “Yeah, sure.”
“Gosh. That’s a ringing endorsement.”
Now he looks up and smiles guiltily. “Sorry, kid. Got a lot on my mind, I suppose. Work’s been a little crazy.”
“What’s going on?”
“Oh, just”—Dad sighs, turning to the mirror over their bureau—“thought I had a promotion all locked up, but it, ah … didn’t quite materialize.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Would it have meant a raise?” Sue me for being selfish, but maybe a nice raise could negate the need for a stupid scholarship.
Dad sees right through me. He winks, and I want to tear the eyelid off with my teeth.
“Hey, Z,” he goes. “That was an expensive school you wanted to go to, you know.”
And thanks for using the past tense, Daddy-O. He may as well have said,
Since there’s no way in
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