Page 72 of Script Swap
Fox blew another raspberry.
“Will you knock it off?”I snapped.
“I’m sorry.It’s terribly difficult for me to listen to that much horse plop.”
“It’s not horse plop.It’s a rational, responsible decision—”
“Really?Let’s hear your rational, responsible decision.What are you going to do with your life, Dash?What are you going to be when you grow up?”
“I don’t know.I’m still working on that.”But that didn’t seem like enough, so I mumbled, “A teacher.Maybe.”
“Oh, that’s hilarious.”
“It’s not hilarious!Teaching is a great career path!”
“For someone who likes children.For someone with patience.For someone who can teach.”
“I can teach!”
“When Keme wanted you to help him with that essay, you told him that it needed morejoie de vivre.”
“It did!”
“It was on the death penalty!”
I twisted the flannel a little more forcefully between my hands.“You don’t understand.You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about!”
“Idon’t have any idea what I’m talking about?Idon’t?”
“No, actually.You don’t.I know you’re an artist.I know you know that the creative life can have ups and downs.But you don’t know what it’s like to spend your whole life wrapped up in something, to have it be your identity, for it to be the only thing you want, and then for some faceless nobodies to stand in your way—and most of them don’t even have the courtesy to say no!They never respond, and you have to assume they hated it.”
“For God’s sake, Dash, I have an art gallery in a tourist town,” Fox said.“You want to talk about trying to please faceless nobodies?Do you know what sells here?Paintings of Hastings Rock.Paintings of the ocean.Paintings of cliffs and the ocean.Paintings of the beach and the ocean.The people who visit here want to buy little trinkets made of sea glass.They want cute knickknacks and curios and—and junk they can give to Aunt Ethel when they get home.They don’t want art.And that’s fine.I can do that.But the pieces I care about?The pieces I put my heart and soul into?They sit on my shelves.And eventually, I give them to people I love.You think I wouldn’t like a show in a real gallery?You think I wouldn’t like to go to Seattle or Vancouver or heck, New York, and have people drink wine and discuss the postmodern sensibilities of my work?At least you don’t have to see the looks on Ma and Pa Kettle’s faces when they’re browsing what you’ve put your heart and soul into, and you know they’re going to walk next door and buy a mass-produced print of a child building a sandcastle.”
“That’s awful!”I shouted.“I hate that people do that to you!You’re talented and insightful and you have so much to share with the world, and I wish everyone saw your work the way you wanted them to!”
“Then why are you yelling at me?”Fox barked.
“I don’t know!I’m feeling a lot of feelings right now!”
The inside of the van might as well have been a vacuum, swallowing up everything.
Then Fox’s mouth twitched.
I let out a tired laugh and covered my face.But then pins and needles ran through me, and my throat tightened, and I was sure I was going to cry.
Fox moved to sit next to me on the floor of the van.They patted my leg, and they gave me time to get myself under control.
When I finally lowered my hands, my face still felt hot, and my voice was rough when I said, “Your dad doesn’t like your art, does he?”
“My father has his opinions,” Fox said.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, Dash.It would be nice, yes, if he appreciated what I did.But I learned a long time ago that it was never going to happen.”
Silence fell between us.
“I never thought about that,” I said.“About what it must be like for you.I mean, I don’t know—I thought you’d grown up here, and you wantedto be here.Everyone loves you, and you’ve got the gallery, and you’ve got your show coming up—”
