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“And who doesn’t want to be a badass with street credit in your book?” I said sardonically.
Gabriel grinned and turned on the radio. “Whatever you decide, I’m on Team Cia.”
“Even if I decide to confront my father.”
“Especially if you decide to confront Brent. I would even make a huge banner, if it helps.”
“If you promise to dress up in a cheerleader uniform and bring pompoms, I’ll do it.”
He laughed. “I don’t think cheerleading uniforms come in my size – and besides,” he said dryly, “if you’re strong enough to confront your mom, Brent will be a walkover.”
“So you really think I should do it?”
“Absolutely.”
I took a deep breath and felt momentarily brave enough, so I held out a fist. “Okay… but you promise to be there and if she tries anything, you knock her out.”
He bumped my fist with his own. “You got it, partner.”
When we got back I found Bruce and told him I would do it. I knew if I didn’t tell him right away, I would probably chicken out.
Bruce was pleased with me and promised to contact her to set up the session.
In the meanwhile I went to finish my art project, which was a series of six paintings that illustrated my mental journey. The first five were already done and taking up too much space in our small cabin, so Gabriel helped me carry them to the main building, where we placed them in the common room for Bruce to see.
“Wow,” he said and took in each painting. “I would love to hear your thoughts on your work.”
“This one represent my day as a baby,” I said and pointed to the first painting. The background was a dark green meadow with eerie trees all around, and in the middle I sat in a black and yellow baby jumper. My legs were crossed, and my head bowed. The painting had a depressive darkness to it, and only a small circle of light fell upon me as I sat bent forward with my long black hair hiding most of my face. All that was visible was my nose and my mouth with a big pacifier in it to compliment the baby bottle in my hand. Above me hung a swarm of angry bees ready to attack and I was holding an arm up to shield against them.
Bruce was waiting for me to elaborate and when I didn’t, he said, “Care to hear what I see in this painting?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I see a person who is sad and defensive, feeling under attack and put in the spotlight.”
“Me too,” Gabriel seconded.
“And that one?” I asked and pointed to the next one.
Bruce tapped his finger on his upper lip. “Ah yes, how interesting.”
It showed me as a little blond girl stumbling on roller skates in a pink tutu skirt with a humongous cotton candy in my hand. I was trying to find my balance with my little tongue sticking out in concentration while my long shadow went to the lower corner of the painting, where another version of me as a little girl sat crouched over, wearing nothing but black.
“I suppose it could mean several things – why don’t you explain it?” Bruce suggested.
“I already expressed it through my art. You are the one who loves words; if you want to translate the meaning into words, be my guest.”
“All right,” Bruce leaned forward. “The Black girl is being left behind while the young child dangerously makes her way into the world of uncertainty.”
“And the cotton candy?” I challenged.
He took off his glasses and rubbed his nose. “Is she finding something in this new world tempting and delicious?”
The thought hit me hard.Gabriel is tempting and delicious.Was that what I had portrayed without realizing it on a conscious level?
“I know what the cotton candy is about,” Gabriel said and looked pleased with himself. “It was a joke between Cia and me because being dressed in all that pink made her look like cotton candy.”
“Really,” Bruce said and squinted his eyes. “I would have thought it held a more significant meaning with the prominent size and placement of it.”
