Pieces of Us Read Online Free PDF Page B

hand.
    I know what it is without her telling me, but she does anyway. “This is the tree you drew for me,” she says. “This,” she says again, holding the painting tightly, like it could fly away and take with it any remnants of her dreams, “shows me we’re the same. We think alike. You need beauty, too.”
    I look at the picture in her hand and carefully trace the lines. The tree was supposed to echo Vincent van Gogh’s painting of a cherry tree. My seventh grade art teacher spoke about the strokes van Gogh used, the quality of brush, the way the tree cascades to the grass. She wanted us to draw our own version of that painting. I took away the starkness I saw in van Gogh’s painting, covered the naked, lonely branches. I painted leaves that appeared to rise out of the tree. They spread out, like they wanted nothing to do with the bark and instead clung to the branches. The pink mixed with the brown and green so it wasn’t obvious where one color ended and another began. I added cherries, too. They clung to the branches, to the leaves; some found one another and huddled on the ground. My teacher didn’t care that it didn’t resemble van Gogh’s style. She used it in an exhibition, talked about its beauty. But my mother loved it more.
    She’d looked at it, speechless. “This,” she’d said, “is where we were supposed to live.” She may have said these words aloud, but they weren’t meant for me. She hugged me tight. “Stay beautiful like this picture,” she said. Then she ran out to have the painting matted.
    Now I touch the frame again. Maybe she’s right. Why else would I stray so much from the assignment? I feel her eyes on my face, see her head nod.
    “I know you,” she says.
    No. You don’t.
    Today I used my art skills to cover permanent marker in a bathroom stall. I hadn’t seen it before. I wonder if Ethan told someone, or maybe someone thought I needed a distraction from thinking about him, from moping about being dumped when I had everything they wanted. For help with splits, call Katie Taylor. She knows how to spread ’em .
    I stared at it for a long time, trying to figure out if it was really there. Like I’d stared at Chris the morning after. Then I took out my pen and crayons from my art class and began to draw.
    Branch after branch of ink and crayon to block out the words. I made the branches dark and thick and high, high, high. The words fell under their weight but did not go away.
    I give the painting back to Mama. I don’t tell her about the kinds of trees I draw now.
    Instead, I smile. “A pool party is just what I need.” Anything to get away.
    I grab a red bikini out of my suitcase and go to the bathroom to get dressed. I leave Mom on my bed holding the painting close to her chest, imagining the perfect life for both of us within those trees.

Kyle
     
    Y ou watch the trees draw shadows on the shades, and it calms you. Your mother is out—as usual. Alex is out and will be for the entire night—not so usual. You were invited out, too. You were promised Girls. Beer. Beer-Goggled Girls. A celebration before “Junior Year Hell.” For once, you thought about the invite. You don’t usually do that. But then your bud Steve kept talking about the girls. How many he’d grab. How many he’d lay. How many beers he’d have to feed them so they’d be more willing to screw, but he wouldn’t cross into the “is this date rape” gray. Your other friends egged him on, their mouths full of greasy pizza. They laughed and chocolate milk sprayed out their noses. This made you laugh, too. Hard. Like you haven’t in a long time. “Shit,” said Steve. “Looks like Kyle might actually come to something.”
    You punched him lightly in the arm. “Maybe.”
    The other guys laughed and snorted more, talked about how they’d divvy up the girls. Who they’d leave for you, who they’d share. And it was all in fun, but you got chills. You got hot. You felt the pizza making its way up to