A sob gets caught in my throat. I guess I won’t have a reason to sneak to his room anymore now that Momma’s gone.
“Are you crying?” Devin’s head snaps in my direction.
I suck in a breath. “N-n-no,” I stutter. Good going, Roni.
“Veronica,” he growls at me like he does when I make fun of his stupid Pokémon obsession.
I swallow back the tears and pray my voice sounds normal. “I’m not crying, it’s the middle of the night, you weirdo. Of course my voice sounds funny.”
“Roni,” he says calmly this time.
“What?”
“Why are you crying?”
“Just go to sleep, Dev.”
He sits up in bed and turns on the lamp. The light burns my eyes and I press them closed. “Turn out the light, you idiot,” I hiss, careful not to make too much noise just in case Daddy is still awake.
“What’s wrong?” I can feel his fingers swipe at the tears on my cheeks. When did those slip out?
I suck in a breath and then another and another. The hole feels like it’s getting bigger and the room starts to spin. I gasp and pound a fist into my heart, hoping to stop the ache. It helps, so I hit it again and again and again. I lift my fist once more and Devin catches my hand and pushes it into the mattress. “Roni, do you want me to get your dad?”
I shake my head.
“You’re scaring me.” His big brown eyes search mine, and I can see how worried he is about me. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”
“I can’t.” I sob. I know he’s going to find out eventually, but how do I tell him Momma left because I’m a burden? What if he thinks I’m a burden too?
“I peed my pants the other day,” he blurts out. I still and turn my head to look at my best friend. He’s kneeling on the end of my bed. His brown hair is messy and his eyes are wide with fear. “We were at the grocery store, and I thought I could hold it until we got home. I almost made it to the bathroom, but I was too late.” He hangs his head in shame. “I pissed all over the hallway carpet.
A giggle-snort escapes my lips, and then another one, and another, until I’m laughing so hard my tummy hurts. “You peed your pants?”
He tosses a pillow at my head. “Shhh, before you wake up your parents.”
My giggles die and the tears start again. “My Momma’s gone.”
His eyes go round like cartoon characters. “Gone?”
“She left. She said she didn’t want to be here anymore. She doesn’t love me anymore.” My voice gets gravelly at the end. “She left because of me, because I’m a bad girl.” Tears fall down my cheeks, and I don’t bother hiding them. I don’t care if he knows I’m crying. I don’t care if the world knows. “If my own Momma can’t love me, then maybe no one will?”
Devin is silent for a beat, then he reaches for the lamp and clicks it off. He gets back under the covers and hooks an arm around my neck to pull me close to him. “I love you, Roni, and I promise I’ll never leave you.”
I swallow hard and snuggle into his side. “I’ll never leave you either, Devin.”
“Friends forever?”
“Friends forever,” I promise.
10
Chapter 10
Roni, age 18
Art is constant. Which is to say nothing about the act of creating art; that’s more like a constant struggle, at least for artists like me. Imposter syndrome and self-doubt are real. Every time I pull out my brushes or my pens or my charcoal I get a rush of fear, a tingle in the base of my spine, a gnawing pulse in the pit of my gut. My heart races. Can I even do this? Am I any good? Then the moment my brush touches the canvas, all those nagging little voices inside my head fade into the background, and the only sounds that pierce the fog are of my brush swiping the canvas.
My style has evolved a lot over the years, but art has always been my true north. It has always been there for me. And that’s why I showed up at my easel every day despite the fear and anxiety and self-loathing, because back then it didn’t matter if my art was any good, or if I’d ever be able to make a career doing it. All that mattered was the feeling I get when there’s a brush in my hand.
I ended up skipping The Grove, mostly because I’m not really sure how to act around Reese and Devin and I do just want to spend some time with Dad. After dinner and several episodes of Jeopardy, I head upstairs. I shower and brush my teeth and stare at the unfinished painting perched on my easel. It’s taunting me, so instead of going to sleep, I grab it, and some paint, and plop down on the floor. Earbuds in. Taylor Swift plays in the background and I get to work.
Dad’s right. It doesn’t have to be perfect or groundbreaking or unique in any way. It just needs to be done because it isn’t art if it doesn’t exist. It’s merely a possibility.
I don’t know how much time passes but I know I've listened to the entire album all the way through. I pull out my headphones and drop my paintbrush.
“Looks good,” Dev’s voice calls out from the other side of the room. I drop the Styrofoam plate I was using to mix colors, causing paint to splash on my leg on its way to the ground.
I turn to find Devin sitting in the chair in the corner. He’s wearing a pair of black jeans with holes in the knees, and a white t-shirt that’s loose around the collar.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I hiss.
Dad’s sleepy voice is at my door in an instant. “Is everything okay, kiddo?” he asks, poking his head through my door.
“Yeah,” I nod, angling my body so he can’t come in any further. He never had a problem with Devin sneaking into my room before, so I don’t know why I do it, but for some reason, I don’t want him to know he’s here. At least not until I figure out why he’s here for myself. “I thought I saw a spider,” I say, then instantly regret it. I spent my entire childhood playing in dirt. Bugs are part of the package.
“Since when are you afraid of spiders?”
“I-I’m not.” I amend. “It just surprised me, that’s all.”
He nod’s his understanding. I’m sure if he weren’t half asleep I wouldn’t have gotten off so easy, but he tells me goodnight and plants a kiss on my forehead before disappearing into his room.
I press the door shut quietly, and then turn slowly to face the asshole who broke into my bedroom.
“Look what you made me do.” I scowl, pointing to the big green spot on my left knee.
“How is that any different from any other day?” he asks, plopping down on my bed, lying back with his hands clasped behind his head. I stomp over to him and push his dirty chucks off my quilt.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, wiping at the paint with a towel.
“You weren’t at the park.” His words are slurred. His dark brown eyes are bloodshot and I can smell the whiskey on his breath.
My irritation wanes and I climb on the bed next to him. “You left the party, and broke into my room, what, because you missed me?” I chuckle.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he teases, pulling me down and tucking me into his side. He flexes his hand against my hip as he stares at the canvas. “You’re painting.”