Pure Red

Woodbury, Minnesota

Pure Red
© 2011 by Danielle Joseph.

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First e-book edition © 2011

E-book ISBN: 9780738730844

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Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the following people and places for inspiring me and helping me bring this book alive.

Delle,
l’amour de ma vie
, the person I can always bounce an idea off of even when he’s half asleep. My editor, Brian Farrey, for helping me dig deep into the heart of this story and for shedding a tear. Sandy Sullivan, the master of continuity and logistics. Courtney Colton for all her publicity efforts. My agent, Rosemary Stimola, for being my fairy godmother.

Joyce Sweeney for helping me find
Cassia’s motive and Adrienne Sylver for reading early drafts of this story. Christina Gonzalez for being my trusty “officemate,” and Ter
i Gotgart Andersen for sharing her ceramics expertise. Linda Bernfeld and the Wednesday Night Critique Group for all their valuable comments. Museum of Fine Arts Boston for having such an amazing collection of art.

And many thanks to Dad, Mom, Cindy, Kenny, Nikki, and Emma, all of whom added color to my childhood; and to my little artists, Marley, Makhi, and Naya, for creating something new every day, even if it’s just a mess.

For my mother, who volunteered, year after year, to teach art appreciation at Hunnewell Elementary School.

ordinary brown

Red is the color of passion, but I haven’t found mine yet. After my guidance counselor, Ms. Cable, basically told me last winter that I’d be “lucky to work as a grill scraper at Paloma’s Diner,” I promised myself I’d know exactly what I wanted to do before I turned sixteen. But my birthday was three months ago and I’m still passionless. So that’s my goal for this summer. To embrace my heart’s true desire, find my reason for living. And by the time I return to school, I’ll be so focused that Ms. Cable will go cross-eyed with surprise.

For now, though, I’m sitting here in my living room, completely still. Usually I could rival any store mannequin, but today I have a crick in my neck and a mosquito bite on my left ankle that itches like hell. If I move, it might break Dad’s concentration, and I definitely don’t want to start all over again.

I zone out. Try to think of the basketball game taking place later this afternoon. Of the sweat dripping down my back and pooling in my sports bra. Of my new green sneaks skidding across the cement top. I like running up and down the court. It feels good to get my blood pumping. I spent last summer sunning at the beach and watching Dad paint the breathtaking view of the ocean from our condo balcony. That was okay, but it will not get me any closer to discovering my true calling. Nor will it help my “nearly catatonic resume,” as Ms. Cable put it. She also went on to say that if I didn’t pick up some extracurricular activities and find something I can excel at, I’d just be a blip on the college radar.

I pretended not to care as I huffed out of her office, but truth be told, I don’t want to be a blip. I don’t need to make a huge splash, but I at least want to make a wave. So before school ended, I asked Coach Heller if he knew of anyplace where I could play basketball during the summer. He said I should give the league at the Y a try. He also told me that it was a great idea, because I handled the ball well in P.E. So I got to thinking, maybe
this
is my thing. Maybe it’s something I could be really good at. I’ve always enjoyed playing basketball with friends, but besides P.E., I’ve never had any formal instruction.

Thankfully, I got Liz to join with me. She played school ball our freshman year, so she was all for it. We practiced at the hoop in her driveway the entire weekend before our first day. She taught me how to block shots and go up for rebounds so I wouldn’t make a dumb-ass of myself. I guess that’s what best friends are for.

I can’t hold off any longer. I reach down and scratch my ankle. I have to.

“Ay, Cassia, I’m almost done with the highlights. Sit still.” Dad dips his brush into the brown oil paint. He says my hair color is hard to recreate. I thought brown was brown. The color of mud, chocolate, and tree bark. He says it evokes energy and relaxes the soul. Maybe if this living room was painted brown instead of fuchsia (joy, compassion, and prosperity), I could take a nap.

Every year, shortly after the last day of school, Dad gets all nostalgic and paints a portrait of me. He says he’s celebrating the fact that I’m a year wiser. All I gained this year were a few pimples and size-ten feet. I hope none of that shows up on my portrait. School’s been out two weeks, and thank God sophomore year is over and Dad’s almost done with my mug shot. Don’t get me wrong. My dad, Jacques Bernard, is a great artist, but there’s only so much a girl can take. Two more years of school equals two more portraits. Unless he follows me to college.

I straighten up again and sigh. I hope I get a lot of playing time in the game today. At our scrimmage on Tuesday I played two quarters. Not bad for a rookie with no formal training, especially with two Amazons on the team.

I roll my eyes to look at the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes until we have to be in uniform on the cour
t. Coach Parker already made it abundantly clear that she despises tardiness: “You’re late! Take a seat on the bench!”

“Dad, I’ve got a game in half an hour,” I say, keeping my lips as still as possible.

“Perfecto! Your hair is like silk.” He tilts his head to the left, then to the right.

My neck is beginning to freeze up. My mouth is Sahara-desert dry. I instinctively lick my lips. “Can I at least get a dri
nk?”

He takes the brush, dips it in a cup of murky water, and runs it back over the painting. I watch his arm move the brush up and down the canvas with delicate strokes. He looks like he’s conducting a sleepy orchestra. He steps back a few feet and smiles. His thick black hair sticking up in all directions, coupled with his animated smile, makes him look like an exclamation point. I can’t help it. I smile, too.

“How do I look?” I ask.

Dad blows me a kiss.
“
Magnifique, ma cheri
e
!
”

“Good.” I pull myself out of the papasan chair. My legs are numb and tingly. It takes me a second to steady myself. Dad stands next to me as we soak in the painting. I pull my hand up to my face and run my finger over the bridge of my nose. I never realized how long it was. I graze
my cheekbones; are they really that high?

Still, I look so … ordinary. Not like the cover of Cosmo—more like the girl in a phone book ad for sedation dentistry.
Poor girl, she doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into.

I close my eyes and quickly open them again. The painting stares back at me. Creepy. Even after all these years, I’m still not used to having my likeness up for all to see.

I take one last glance before running to my room. I trade my teal sundress for a red reversible tank, gray shorts, and Reeboks. My hair is up in a ponytail and I’m back in the living room in less than three minutes.

I walk past Dad. “I’ll be home around eight. We’re getting pizza after the game.”

I swing open the fridge to grab my water bottle. The emptiness inside glows. A stick of butter, two partial heads of lettuce, and a liter of Perrier, all huddled together on the top shelf. I throw the lettuce into the vegetable drawer, tuck the Perrier into the side door, and put the butter in the shelf marked
Dairy
. I glance over at Dad. His eyes haven’t moved from my portrait, prickly stubble framing his face. It’s almost three p.m., but he’s still in his undershirt and plaid boxers.

“Dad, want me to bring you home a couple of slices or an egg salad sandwich?”

He pulls on a tuft of hair but doesn’t answer. There’s no way he’s having butter and lettuce for dinner. Maybe he has a date. Someone willing to take him out for a four-course meal and a stroll along the beach.

I grip the side of the door. My knuckles turn red. Then white. “Or maybe you want to come to the game. And join us for dinner. There’ll be other parents there, I’m sure.”

His eyes don’t leave the painting. “You look so much like your mother,” he mumbles, then lights a cigarette.

My eyes go wide. “Really?” He’s said we have the same smile or posture before. But he’s never actually said I look like her. And even when a relative or old friend comments on the resemblance, he just clams up.

He takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales. I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t say anything more.

I glance at my watch. Fifteen minutes until pre-game warm up. Exactly the time it takes for me to walk to the court. It kills me to be late, but it’s not often that Dad mentions her. Mom.

“Did she like having her portrait painted?” I ask.

“Mmm, yes.” Dad looks up from the painting.

“But did she like sitting still?” I play with the spout of my water bottle.

Dad’s lips part. It looks like he’s trying to say something but somebody has muted the sound in the room. Even the air conditioner is quiet. He stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray. “You don’t want to miss your first game.”

So he
was
listening.