Page 27 of Fruit
“Yeah. It does.”
“I mean, everybody has something to say? Like…your own viewpoint of the world.Howyou express that viewpoint is a big part of who you are, right? You wanna be heard or whatever. Not by people, necessarily, but by…yourself? That sounds weird. I don’t know why I’m still talking.”
“No, I-I get what you mean. I might not be an artist by any stretch of the imagination, but I understand what you’re saying. You want to add a little bit to the world. Maybe not permanently, but I understand what you’re saying when you talk about finding the right way to express your voice. Some people do it through painting, others through music, through teaching or just doing things to shape the world into what you want to see it as.”
“Yeah. Like setting up an LGBT youth centre.”
“Or painting the world through your eyes.”
“One of those sounds way more impressive.”
“No. I don’t think that’s true. And I don’t think your voice has to be impressive. It just has to be truthful.”
The moment of silence that follows falls softly between us.
“Well,” I say eventually, “hopefully this big-ass canvas can give the kids a bit of their own voice.”
“They need it.”
“Exactly. I’ll find transport for it. You cool with putting it in the lot?”
“If you think it’ll fit, yeah. Send me the dimensions, and I’ll clear a space.”
“Cool. Well…”
“Thanks again. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
“The canvas isn’t gonna be—oh, right, for volunteering. Yeah, I’ll be there. See you then.”
“Okay. Goodbye, Iva.”
“Bye, Sebastián.”
There’s a moment of silence as we both stay on the line before I hang up. I lie on my back, sprawled on my bed. There’s a strange feeling in my stomach. A sort of tight fluttering that makes me think of high school. Of watching the person I had a crush on appear on MSN, that soda-fizz buzz in my gut, the hopping tempo of my heart.
I roll on my stomach, groaning. “This isn’t happening,” I tell myself. Nina, who is curled by my pillow, opens her sleepy eyes for a moment. “This isn’t happening. I’ve got indigestion. I’ve got the flu. I’m dying. This has absolutely, one hundred percent nothing to do with that weeaboo,” I tell Nina.
The cat looks at me before opening her mouth widely in a curled-tongued yawn. Before I can call her out for being rude, she stretches to her paws and then walks towards me, pressing against my face.
“You’re giving me acne, but I love you too much to move. I hope you appreciate that,” I tell her. Nina licks my face with herasperatongue, a weird thing she does sometimes. I close my eyes, stroking her head.
“You gotta remember to choose me, okay? We can’t let that guy win.”
Nina doesn’t reply, but I know she agrees.
**********
The canvas is delivered to the youth centre two weeks later, a surprise for the kids. When we tell them, some of them are totally indifferent, but quite a few of them, including Joshua, seem pretty stoked, although their level of expressed enthusiasm differs greatly.
We mostly let them decide what to do with it. Ideas for murals bounce around, but it’s clear that, although a lot of them want to participate, the idea of a cohesive mural would be too intimidating for most of them. In the end, they agree to each have their own little section to draw what they want.
The day is bright and warm when we take all the art stuff I’ve collected for the project outside.
“Okay, remember. There is no such thing as bad art here. Just draw what you want. What you’re feeling, or thinking, or how it’s like to be you. You’ve got a voice here, okay?” I tell everybody.
“Thanks for the pep talk, coach,” Gwyn smirks. I point my finger at her.
“Don’t sass me,” I say playfully.
