Page 37 of Fall for Me

I think I must have always known that.

I pulled my eyes from her, trying to focus on anything but her. My eyes landed on her empty glass. “Let me get you some more.”

While my back was turned, she said, “Basquiat!”

She was looking at the print in my living room, I knew. It was a huge print, hanging over my rock fireplace.

I was surprised—most people wouldn’t go straight to identifying the artist. But then I remembered: Chelsea had been an artist—at least I’d considered her that, back when we were kids.

“Yeah,” I said, snapping the top of the can. “You’re a fan?”

“I love him.” I heard the scrape of her stool, then Chelsea Kelly was in my living room, her back to me as she inspected the print.

A memory popped, from so long ago I was surprised it appeared with such clarity. I’d been picking Eli up for our baseball game—we must have been fourteen or so. The entryway was right next to the kitchen, and Chelsea—maybe eight?—had been sitting at their kitchen table, charcoal and pastels strewn around its surface. She’d been drawing, which wasn’t unusual for a little kid. Except I remember even then, they were good. There were some childlike elements: the proportions were slightly off, some of the detail not quite accurate. But they were still better by far than anything I could have done. By a long shot. She was shading faces; putting color in the trees that wasn’t just green.

“How did you learn how to do that?” I’d asked.

“I didn’t learn it anywhere.” She didn’t look up.

“She’s a natural,” Mr. Kelly had said, from the sink. Something on the stove was bubbling. “God knows I don’t have an artistic bone in my body.”

One I could see poking out of the stack was of a baseball player. It was small, the size of a postcard. But she must have done it off one of Eli’s baseball cards, because I could swear it looked just like Roberto Alomar.

She must have felt me staring because she looked up then, meeting my eyes.

“You’re really good,” I’d said. Then felt the flush of embarrassment at having shared my opinion, and with my friend’s sister.

She’d tightened her lips and suddenly gathered all the drawings together, stacking them and flipping them over. Like she was embarrassed by them.

My own embarrassment flared. Why had I said that?

“Sorry,” I’d said.

She hadn’t responded. But the next day, at baseball practice, Eli had shoved something in my hand when I’d arrived at the field. “My sister said you could have this one,” he said, his face screwed up like it was something gross. “I don’t know why she thinks you want a little kid’s drawing, but whatever. You can throw it out if you want.”

The soda water fizzed as I poured it now. Chelsea came back over at the sound, but not before staring at the Basquiat a moment longer over her shoulder.

“It’s not what I would have expected to see on your wall,” she said as she reached the kitchen again. “Are you into art?”

I’d kept that drawing, I remembered now. I wasn’t sure where it was, but I think I’d stuck it in a box of Kevin’s things. If we still had them, they’d be in the old barn at my dad’s place.

I looked over at the Basquiat now, not wanting to think about Kevin or his things, all dust now.

But the next words out of my mouth were about another dead person. “My mom was.”

Something shifted in her expression. Chelsea knew my mom was gone. Just like hers.

“Do you still draw?” I asked. Blurted, wanting to shift us away from dead people. Moms, specifically, and especially hers, given what she’d said earlier. I didn’t want to corner her into a conversation about that with me, like I was looking to win a saddest story contest. “I remember you used to draw when you were a kid.”

But apparently that question was worse, because Chelsea stiffened, gripping the edge of the counter as she sat down. I thought of her embarrassment at her kitchen table all those years ago.

She took a sip of the water.

I gritted my teeth, turning back to the sink. This was going great. I felt just as stupid as I had way back then. “Sorry,” I said. Grunted, more like. “I don’t know why I asked. Just—”

“No,” she said softly. “I don’t.”

For a moment, only the sound of the tap running filled the space. I shut it off. There was more, and suddenly, I wanted to hear it. I turned around, my back against the counter.

---