Page 16 of Another Girl Lost

Chapter Four

SCARLETT

Then

Friday, June 6, 2014

9:00 p.m.

I didn’t think of myself as an artist. I liked to draw. I’d even mustered enough courage to sketch the contractor working across the street. He had a Paul Walker kind of vibe (if Paul weren’t dead), and when he smiled, I sizzled.

When he’d crossed the street on Tuesday and asked me my name, I’d felt special. Seen. He told me his name was Tanner Reed.

Tanner. Tanner. Tanner.

We kind of flirted even though he was older. He asked about my art, and I showed him my sketch pad. He looked impressed and said I should try to sell it. I mentioned trying to sell at the concert at the Naro theater. The venue was a mile from my house, and the show, an ’80s band, was sold out. He told me to give it a whirl.

I was stoked this evening as I packed up my few drawings and took the bus to the corner of Colley and Shirley Avenues. I set up, which basically meant laying out a beach towel and placing my five drawings on the ruby terry cloth. The paper was flimsy and easily caught whispersof wind, so I placed rocks on the corner of each. However, random breezes teased the edges all night.

I felt lucky. The music drifting from the ’80s concert was decent. A lot of old people came and went, but they were laughing and smiling. Even under the city lights, the stars were so vivid. Maybe Tanner would show.

As the evening passed, people walked by; a few glanced in my direction, but most looked at me as if they were afraid that I’d catch their gazes and chase them down. As time passed, doubt took root and grew quickly.

I glanced down at the self-portrait and drawings of the bay and homes in the area, and I realized this was a dumb idea. The air was hot, even at nine o’clock at night, and my feet ached.

“What do you have there?”

The young woman’s attention drew my gaze up. She wasn’t much older than me, and she wasn’t someone I’d have noticed right off. Curly shoulder-length brown hair drew my attention to wide-set eyes and full lips. She wore cutoff jeans, a cropped T-shirt, and flip-flops. A belly button ring peeked out from her midriff.

I smiled, grateful to be seen. “I’m selling my art. Nothing fancy.”

She leaned in and inspected each piece. “That’s you in this picture, isn’t it?”

“It is.” I sketched a lot of self-portraits. I was an easy subject to find, and each time I drew a different version of me, I saw something different. I’d scribbledGirl Ready to Escapeacross the bottom. “I was practicing portraits.”

She looked at me and then back at the picture. “It’s really good.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m Della.”

“I’m Scarlett.”

Her hand trembled very slightly when she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s so nice out here. Better than inside the concert hall. Hot as hell inside, and the band has blown a fuse twice.”

“What do you like about eighties music?”

“Not as much as I thought.” Laughing, she picked up the drawing of me. “You’ve always been an artist?”

Artistwas too pretentious.Think you’re something, don’t you?Mom often said. “I’ve always drawn. This is the first time I’ve tried to sell anything.”

Della held up a sailboat on the bay. “Can I buy one?”

“Sure.”

“How much?”

I’d never thought about how much to charge because I never thought I’d really sell anything. “Ten dollars.”

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