Page 59 of Follow My Voice
“I’m fine. Do you have much longer?” I ask.
“No, I just have to put away a few more paintings.”
“I’ll wait here.”
Diego hesitates for a second, as if he doesn’t know whether to probe further or leave it at that. I hope my expression lets him know that I don’t feel like explaining myself. I’m not ready to talk about my little meltdown.
“Okay.” He smiles and turns to go back to the stage.
I follow him, drawn to a corner where ten paintings are lined up against the wall. They are lovely and I have no idea why my heart begins racing as I approach them. I stop in front of a brightly colored portrait of a girl: Her face is a rainbow. Instinctively, my hand moves to feel the texture of the paint, each brushstroke. I gently run a finger along the contour of her face. It’s been so long. I still remember my second-grade teacher telling me that I had an innate talent for drawing. She said the same thing to my mother at the parent-teacher conference.
“Whenever we do drawing activities, Klara leaves us all amazed. She has talent. I recommend you enroll her in private drawing lessons.”
My mother gives her a warm smile. “That’s a great idea.”
That night, when we get home, my mother bends down to look me in the eye. “Klara, do you like to draw?”
I shrug.
“Your teacher says you’re good at drawing, but I’m not going to put you in private art classes unless it’s something you want to do. Would you like to take drawing lessons?”
I shake my head.
“Okay, that’s fine.”
“I want to paint, Mom.”
“Paint?”
I nod energetically. “Yes, that’s what I want to do.”
And that’s how I began taking art classes. Being good at drawing is helpful when it comes to painting, but it’s not a requirement. I’m a good sketcher, but painting is my passion—experimenting with brush techniques, mixing different colors. My second-grade teacher found it strange that I preferred painting over drawing, but I’m grateful to my mother for taking the time to ask me what I wanted instead of just listening to the teacher. I was lucky to have a mom like her.
I remember the tears of joy in my mother’s eyes when my paintings won a district-wide art award and were exhibited at several schools.
I step back from the painting and stare at it. The more I look at it, the more I feel like I can see the mood and emotions of the person who painted it. At first glance, the face looks cheerful, full of color, but looking closer there are colorful tears under the girl’s eyes. That’s what I like about art: It’s so subjective and lends itself to so many interpretations. A painting might make me feel one way and make someone else feel completely different.
“Do you like it?”
I jump at the sound of Diego’s voice behind me. I turn to him. “Yes, it’s… It has a lot of feeling.”
“My father told me you liked to paint. Are you taking any art classes?”
I shake my head.
“No, I can’t… not yet.”
“Why not? The way you were looking at that painting—”
“I was just enjoying it; that’s all,” I say, cutting him off.
“Okay… Well, are you ready to go?”
I nod, and we begin to head toward the student parking lot.
Diego’s car is two-toned black and white. It looks new and classy. We get in and the scent of his cologne permeates the air; it smells great. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve ridden in a car belonging to someone other than Kamila, Andy, or an Uber driver. I feel a bit anxious, imagining a variety of horrible accidents, but I’m not as scared as I would’ve expected.
Diego sighs and I hold on to my seatbelt as he pulls out of the parking lot. We stop at a local drive-thru, where Diego orders two cups of strawberry Jell-O with vanilla ice cream. Then he drives to the cemetery, and I immediately tense up. I haven’t been back to the cemetery since the one time I was able to visit my mother’s grave before I was diagnosed with cancer.
