“You said, ‘their plan.’ Who’s they?” I ask.
“What?”
“The plan for you to go to college and work for your father’s company. You said it was their plan.”
She shakes her head, remembering, then wrinkles her brow. It was only a minute ago. She must be pretty distracted with her thoughts to forget so soon. “Yeah, I meant my parents. It was their plan.”
“What was your plan? What did you want?”
Jenna’s face twists as if I’ve asked something she wasn’t expecting. “For my future?”
“Yeah.” I smile. “What did you want to do or still do?”
She swallows and wets her lips, hesitating to answer the question. She finally blurts, “I wanted to teach. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
I adjust my smile. “Nothing. It’s just I could see that. You teaching.”
“Can you?”
“Yeah. What did you want to teach?”
She shakes her head. “It’s stupid, actually. A stupid pipe dream.”
“Not to me it isn’t. I’d like to hear it,” I tell her, genuinely interested in her response.
“All right.” She drops the spoon into her bowl and pushes it aside. “I wanted to teach art for young adults in their early and late teens—but not just any teenagers. I…” She looks down, staring at her now empty bowl, and brings a hand up to her cheek, pressing it in as if biting the inside. “I wanted to teach teens with mental illnesses, those who suffer from any type of mental disorder, whether it’s depression, bipolar, autism, or,” she looks up at me for the last one and whispers, “schizophrenia.” She closes her mouth and swallows nervously as she watches my expression. I don’t know what she sees on my face, but she must have deemed it okay to proceed because she continues, “A lot of teenagers who suffer from a mental disorder need an escape. Some use writing or music, and many use art as way to escape the monsters trapped in their head. I wanted to give them that escape, to be a mentor, an open ear, a person they can trust and feel safe with. I don’t know.” She laughs. “I told you it was stupid.”
“That isn’t stupid. That’s…wow…it’s fucking great.”
“Really?” she asks uncertainly.
“Really. I wish…” I let out a huff. “I wish Sean had that…had something like that. I mean, I know he was in his early twenties when he was released from jail, but I kind of wish he had that…” I trail off.
She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Thank you,” she says, giving it a tight squeeze.
I smile with a nod. “Yeah, no problem. So…” I shake off my thoughts about Sean and ask, “Why don’t you still do it? I’ve seen your work. You’re talented, Jenna, and to use that talent for something good would be awesome.”
“No. My parents, especially my mother,”—she rolls her eyes when mentioning her mother—“think art is a good hobby, not a career choice.” She shrugs. “Besides, I don’t paint anymore.”
“At all?” She shakes her head. “Why? Shit, if I was even a quarter as talented as you are, I wouldn’t throw that away.”
“Logan, when I paint, I feel. It may not make any sense, but painting brings out a lot of emotions for me. I’m sure, like any artist—musician, writer, sculptor—the emotion just pours out. But sometimes, it becomes too much to handle. You know?”
“Yeah. And what’s wrong with that? Do you know how many people keep so many bottled up feelings inside, there’s no way to just let it all out, and they don’t have a way to let it out. Why not pour it out into something beautiful? Make it a masterpiece, whether it’s a piece of art, or a brilliant poem, or a soulful song? That’s what makes it the best. When someone else can look at your work and see every single nuance, sense every individual emotion. Feel like they were there with you. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t waste that talent.”
“Wow,” she says, lost for words. “Are you sure you don’t have any secret talents you’re hiding from me?”
“Nah. I wanted to be a rock star when I was thirteen, but that was short-lived. When I realized I couldn’t hold a tune, I had to give it up.”
She laughs. Hard. I laugh too. Then she looks at me differently, as if she’s seeing me in a whole new light. “I like you, Logan.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“You know, when someone gives you a compliment, just say thank you. Okay? Because you can ruin a moment like this.” She snaps a finger.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
I look across the street where the playground is. It’s nice out and I’m not ready to take her home yet. I’m not ready for her to want to leave either. I want to keep her as long as I can. I want to know her better. I want to just… Dammit. I just want to be able to look at her for as long as I can. “Wanna go to the park and act like big kids?” I blurt out.
“Hmm,” she contemplates. “Okay. I’ll race you.” She quickly stands, removes her shoes, and darts for it.
“Dude! That’s so not fair. You’re cheating!”
I swirl off my seat and run after Jenna, making sure there’s no oncoming traffic as I pick up the pace. I catch up, sticking my tongue out as I pass her. She gasps and runs harder. “First one to the slide wins!” she shouts out.
“Bet!” I respond.
We both run harder. Shit, she can run. I’m all out of breath, but I continue to push through. My legs are way longer than hers, so my strides are wider. She beats me anyway, by a few inches. As she reaches the red slide, she turns around, and throws out her arms, breathlessly yelling out, “I won! Ooot, ooot!” She does a little dance.
I stop in front of her and bend at the waist, out of breath and raspy. “Did you just cabbage patch?”
Jenna lands her hands to her hips. “Yeah, why?”
“You need to get out more.”
She laughs. “Well, you need to work out more. Because…I BEAT YOU! OOOT, OOOT!” She dances backward all the way to the swing. “Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Oh, oh, oh!”
“Please don’t ever quit your day job,” I tease, following her and taking a seat on the swing right next to hers.
“I don’t have a day job,” she says softly.