We stay like that for a few miles, and I squeeze his hand before I let go.
Kevin turns off the freeway, heading east on a two-lane highway through orange groves and fields of cabbage and brussels sprouts. I steal glances at him. CALINVA would be so different if I didn’t have Kevin to talk to.
I try to picture Adam and me talking about Mom, but I can’t. We talk about our work and Krell and the LA art scene, but now that I think about it, Adam never asks about my life outside of school.
“You’d better nail that physics exam,” I say, only half joking.
Kev gives me an easy smile. “I’ll do my best.”
It’s midafternoon by the time he drops me off outside Mrs. Mednikov’s. I say thanks and good-bye, but before I can cross the street, Kev calls me back. I grin and shake my head as I saunter over to the driver’s-side window. “What now?”
He hooks a finger on the strap of my bag. “I’m good at keeping secrets, just so you know.”
“Yeah, I figured that out.” I’d never have told him a tenth of what I did otherwise.
He drives away and I wander back inside the house. Kevin thinks I’m like him, that my secrets are merely things I want to keep private, not things I’m scared to let out. I doubt he’s ever had to hide who he is, and I’m sure he’s never had to hide what he’s done.
People say sharing secrets makes you closer, but not mine.
Pawning Mom’s guitar was like cutting out my heart, but I’d sold everything I could to make it through the spring and summer, and I needed my first month’s rent for Mrs. Mednikov. Today, I get that piece of my heart returned.
After Color & Theory, I have just enough time to run over to the pawnshop, liberate Mom’s guitar, stow it in my car, and make it to Artsy before my shift.
The pawnshop is two blocks west of CALINVA, and a continent away from the boutiques on Colorado Boulevard. The black-painted steel bars over the front door are peeling, and a thick coat of dust blurs the jewelry in the windows. Inside, the walls are lined with abandoned guitars, and the glass counters are full of cast-off wedding rings. If you’re shopping for broken dreams, this is the place.
I tug my tee down in front, exposing the lacy trim on my purple bra. Steve, the guy working the counter, was very helpful to me last August, which I’m pretty sure wasn’t because he loved the red roses on Mom’s guitar.
The man behind the counter buzzes me in, but it turns out he isn’t Steve. His bulbous nose is shot with red capillaries, and his graying hair is tied back in a stringy ponytail. His faded short-sleeve shirt is almost transparent from being washed so many times.
“Can I help you?” he says as he focuses his watery gray eyes on me.
“Is Steve here?”
“Not today. You sure I can’t help you?”
I set my pawn ticket on the counter. Gold watches on faded green velvet gleam dully through the glass below. “I’m here to pick up my guitar.”
“Name.”
My hand tightens around the thick wad of cash in my jacket pocket, and I give him my name.
“The loan was due on the first,” he says.
“Yeah, I know I’m a few weeks late, but I have the money.” I pull it out. “There’s four hundred I borrowed and the hundred and fifteen in interest.”
He counts out the money twice, turning the bills so they face the same way. He tests the twenties with a special pen, looking for fakes, and shuts the cash in the register.
“So can I have my guitar?”
“Absolutely. As soon as you pay the rest of what you owe. One-month interest, late fee, storage fee. Total’s seventy dollars.”
“Seventy?” The twenty in my wallet’s got to last until my next waitress shift on Friday. “I don’t have that.”
The man flips over my pawn ticket. “Reread the terms of our agreement. On the first of December you’ll owe the seventy plus five dollars interest on it, and another thirty-five dollars late fee and storage fee.”
“Okay.” I stuff the pawn ticket back in my pocket. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go. “Can I see it?”
The man’s mustache sags over his mouth. “Promise you won’t try to run out with it.”
“Yeah, no, I won’t. I just—”
“Wait here.”
There are cameras in the corners, and if I had to guess I bet there’s a loaded gun hidden by the register.
The man returns with the battered black guitar case. He lays it ever so gently on the counter, then steps back like he’s trying to give me privacy.
My eyes smart as soon as I see the white line of words that run clumsily down the case. THE SMALLEST BIRD SINGS THE PRETTIEST SONGS. My heart opens and is submerged.
I run my hand over the words, then carefully flip open the clasps so they don’t make a sound. The blond spruce body nestles in folds of dark crimson velvet. My eyes trace the red roses that twine from the pick guard under the strings and up the fingerboard to the headstock.
“Go ahead and play it if you want.”
“I wish,” I tell him. “I can barely pick out a tune. My mom, she—”
He nods, freeing me from saying any more. I close the lid. He picks up the case and sets it behind the counter.
“Thanks, I appreciate you letting me see it,” I say, and start for the exit. I have my hand on the door when I turn back to the guy. “You won’t sell it, will you?”
“Not as long as you keep paying down your debt.”
Out on the sidewalk, the sun half blinds me, and I flip down my shades.
Rent. Car insurance. Food. Gas. Phone. No way I can squeeze out another $110 in two weeks.
I hoof it toward work, stopping only to throw my portfolio in the back of my car. Two hands on the hatchback, I shove it closed. Should I sell the car and get a bike?
My stomach lurches, imagining it gone. It’s my life raft. I can’t give it up.
Nope, the car stays. For now.
So what am I going to do? I can’t lose Mom’s guitar again.
I storm up the street. Add another waitress shift? I’m barely getting my class assignments done now. I’d be better off selling something, but there’s not much in my closet anyone would want except Iona’s boots.
If Taysha’s right, Hollywood Redux would probably give me at least two hundred for them, but not with the torn heel. Damn. The only shoe-repair guy I trust to fix it is way over on the west side.
Nothing’s ever easy, is it?
It’s one of my last nights working on Duncan, and from the moment I pull out my brushes, I struggle. I prop my painting up on an easel right next to Krell’s, but I can’t get the shapes or textures right, can’t get a rhythm going, can’t even match the spruce blue that Krell used on the man’s shoulder. By the time Adam appears to help me tidy up, I’ve already started cleaning my brushes.
Adam snaps open a garbage bag and drops my used paper towels in it. “I thought I saw you over on Fair Oaks today,” he says.
Great. He saw me by the pawnshop. “Oh yeah?”
“I was riding by on my bike, and I called your name, but you didn’t turn around.”
I’m tempted to say it wasn’t me, but I’m so freaking tired of pretending to be “artist poor” and not “real poor.”