“You scared me for a minute there, going speechless like that,” he says as we slowly let go of each other. We both take a step back. “Although I’m sure I have a pretty high bar to hit as far as birthdays go. Margo and Stella seem like the inventive types. Ginger, too. And Noah,” he tacks on.
“Mimmy bakes delicious cakes, that’s true. And sometimes Mama takes me and Mimmy camping or rock climbing or rafting—some kind of activity that she not so secretly wants to do anyway, and it’s convenient to hype it up as a birthday family outing. Ginger always talks big and likes to brainstorm elaborate outings, but usually it just ends up being the three of us and my moms hanging out in the backyard like we would any other night. But with Mimmy’s cake.”
“So, no real competition is what you’re telling me?”
“I’m not making an official declaration until the birthyear celebration is complete.”
“Fair enough.”
He takes me to the first easel, hands me a wooden palette.
“Do you have advice for me? As the expert?” I ask, running my fingers along the rainbow of paint tubes.
“Nope. Just have fun, birthyear girl. Anything you paint will be a masterpiece with a fine subject like this. But no peeking at each other’s work until we’re both finished. That’s the only rule.”
I’ve never painted outside of art class. And that was always of boring, ordinary things, potted plants and stacks of books, a portrait of the person across from me. Once I was assigned to paint Penelope Park, and Ginger was jealous.
Painting today feels completely different. Max and I don’t talk as I first study the tree, looking at every swirl of bark, each knob and hollow and arc of the trunk with new eyes. There are more leaves than I ever stopped to consider before, like a sea of wide green hands waving down at me from up high.
I’m lost in it all, trying to capture each unique shade of brown and black and green and blue. If not perfectly, then adequately enough to do this tree justice. My hand moves painstakingly across the canvas, drawing rough shapes and outlines to start, then filling in slowly from the bottom of the tree to the top. Watching the tree bloom into being on the canvas fills me with a satisfaction I’ve never felt before. Maybe it’s how Mimmy feels when she creates a perfect recipe from scratch, or how Mama feels when she puts together a new yoga workshop. How Max feels every time shapes and colors spring from his hands, or how Noah feels after composing a new piece for the cello.
I lose track of time.
The only reason I know it’s passing is because the light takes on a new slant, the shadows shifting and changing.
I add what might be the last bit of shading to the deepest part of the trunk’s hole, step back, and squint at the work.
“How does it look?” Max asks, startling me. I glance up at him for the first time since my paintbrush touched canvas.
“Okay, I think? Not perfect. But maybe nice in its own way. Though part of me wants to keep tweaking, see if I can get some of the shadows to look more realistic.”
“The hardest part of painting is knowing when to stop.” He looks gravely serious as he says it, like an old monk imparting some ancient philosophy. I bite my lip to stop from smiling.
“Then maybe I am done.”
“Can I see?”
I nod. I’m anxious, suddenly, about what Max will think. I’ve seen the Philly mural on his walls, the elegant way the sun glints off the jagged skyline, the streets filled with miniature, lifelike people. His strokes are all grace and precision.
Max doesn’t say anything as he takes in my work. I watch his eyes roam around the canvas, analyzing each piece individually.
“Well?”
“It’s beautiful,” he says matter-of-factly.
“You don’t have to sugarcoat for me. It’s amateur, I know.”
He shakes his head. “No. You know this tree better than anyone and it shows. It’s all heart. You’re a natural.”
I feel myself glow with his praise. The words make me shy. Fluttery. I step around to look at his canvas, and my jaw drops. It’s not just the tree. It’s me painting the tree. More me than the tree, really.
“You were so engrossed, you didn’t notice me observing you,” he says.
The painted Calliope definitely looks engrossed. Tightly furrowed brow, narrowed eyes, biting down on her frowning lip as she studies the canvas in front of her like it holds all the great truths of the universe. Sunbeams filter down playfully through the leaves—round and swirly sprinkles of yellow and white and gold, ending in a burst of light that centers directly on me. My rosy cheeks and the messy bun pinned up with a paintbrush, the colorful smears of paint on my arms, my fingers, my dress. The tree is secondary. A background afterthought.
This painted Calliope is stunning. Dreamy. A creature of these woods.
“You changed the assignment.” It’s the best I can manage.
Max laughs. “I did say two different styles and perspectives, didn’t I? I can’t help my perspective. Good thing you’re not around every time I paint, or I’d have a very limited portfolio.”
“Oh,” I say. Oh.
I’ve never understood the idea of feeling butterflies when it comes to romance. The cliché of all clichés. I thought it was just something people said, a throwaway line from cheesy rom-coms.
But no—I feel it now. The sensation of actual flapping insects circling and dive-bombing in my stomach. It’s a very real phenomenon after all. Because here it is, the truth I’ve been avoiding: My summer, my friendships, my priorities have changed because of Max. And it didn’t require an official title or label.
