Sweet Dandelion Page 6

  “Cool beans.”

  “I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but you’re a weird guy.”

  He winks again. “Thanks.”

  We cross the street and walk a couple more blocks—I have no idea why he didn’t drive, but it is a nice day so I can’t complain—and end up in front of a modern looking brick building. There’s a sign on the left side of the front that says UMFA.

  “UMFA? What’s that?”

  We start across the street. “Utah Museum of Fine Arts.”

  “This is your favorite place in the whole city?”

  He tosses his empty coffee in a recycling can in front of the building. “Yeah.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I love drawing, painting, pottery, all of it. I think it’s about working with my hands, being able to create something from nothing except a vision in my brain.”

  “Wow,” I murmur, leaning my head back to stare up at the building. I squint against the harsh sunlight.

  “And here you thought I was taking you somewhere to smoke.” He shakes his head but grins at me.

  I finish my boba tea and toss the empty cup in the recycling bin. “What’s that over there?” I point to a driftwood looking figure to our right, a ways over, but clearly a part of the large building.

  “I’ll show you.”

  I follow him over and gasp. “It’s a horse! Is it made of sticks?”

  “Among other things.”

  I study the sculpture, amazed by the amount of work and craftsmanship that had to go into this.

  “Its name is Rex. An artist named Deborah Butterfield made him. Her pieces are awe-inspiring. I’m not much of a sculptor myself, I do better with drawing, but her pieces make me want to get better at it.”

  “I don’t have words.” I truly don’t.

  “There’s more.” He points over his shoulder to the building.

  I grin at him, actually feeling excited and more than a little happy that I texted him today. “Show me.”

  He takes my hand. “Come on, Meadows. If this doesn’t make you want to be an artist nothing will.”

  It takes us three hours to explore the whole building. Ansel, no doubt, has been numerous times and knows every detail but he never encourages me to hurry up. Instead, it’s like he’s seeing it for the first time too.

  Sage starts blowing up my phone once he’s home, despite me texting him numerous times to let him know I’m okay, so I ask Ansel to take me home instead of grabbing a bite to eat like we planned.

  “I’m sorry about my brother,” I apologize, undoing my seatbelt when he parks in front of the condo building.

  “It’s fine.” He seems to truly mean it. “You live with your brother, then?”

  I didn’t think about this part, about what potentially gaining friends might mean. Yeah, sure, the school shooting got plenty of media coverage but it’s the killer’s name that was always on their lips as well as those who died that day. The survivors, we didn’t matter, we still don’t. We exist out here and no one knows who we are or understands what we lived through.

  “Um, yeah.”

  “That’s cool. What about your parents?”

  It’s a normal enough question, but it spears through me like a physical lancing. “They’re gone.”

  His lips downturn. “Like on vacation?”

  I laugh humorlessly, leaning my head against the headrest I let my head drop to the left to meet his confused stare. “A permanent one.”

  His confusion deepens before bleeding into horror. “Fuck, I’m the worst. I’m sorry, Meadows.”

  “It is what it is.” That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. As if I repeat those five words enough the reality will hurt less. “Thank you for today.” I mean it, too. His eyes soften and I know he can tell I’m being honest.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I better go before my brother loses his shit even more.”

  Sure enough, my phone vibrates with another text. I wave the device around.

  “I’ll text you later.”

  “Okay. Thanks again.” I hop out and close the door behind me. He pulls away as I head inside.

  I cross the lobby and get in the elevator.

  Me: I’m heading up. Cool your jets big bro.

  The elevator dings when I reach the floor and I hop off, heading down the long hall. Before I can pull my key out the door swings open.

  “I’m not good at this whole parenting thing,” Sage blurts. “I thought I’d be fine to do my thing and know you were out with a friend. But no. I’m a disgruntled mother hen.” He throws his arms in the air, stepping aside so I can come in. “Next time, I’m meeting this friend first. What’s her name again?”

  “Uh…” I bite my lip, because Ansel is definitely not a her. I didn’t purposely keep that information from Sage, it didn’t even cross my mind that it might matter. “Ansel.”

  “Is that a girl’s name?”

  “I’m sure it can be,” I hedge, opening the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water. Unscrewing the cap I take a sip.

  “Can be? Meaning in this instance it’s not?”

  He pinches his brow. “Fuck I am a failure at being a guardian. I let you spend the day with a boy, a teenage boy, and didn’t even think until now to ask about it.”

  “Ansel is … Ansel. He’s harmless.”

  And a drug dealer, but Sage doesn’t need to know that.

  “Dani.” His hazel eyes narrow in disbelief. “When I was his age I was constantly having to whack one off. Flirting with girls was basically a full time job and believe me we did a lot more than flirt.” He uses air quotations and I roll my eyes. Watching my brother have a meltdown over this is mildly hilarious.

  “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

  He scrubs his hands down his face. “How did Mom handle this shit with you? Boys and stuff?”

  “Well, I had friends that were both girls and guys. It was never a big deal.”

  He tugs on his hair and then points at me. “No dating for you. Friends, fine, I’ll have to get used to it. But absolutely no dating.”

  I want to laugh at him but I know it would be the complete wrong reaction in this scenario.

  “All right, whatever you say.” I pat his chest mockingly as I pass him. “I’m going to my room.”

  “Why do I feel like you’re secretly laughing at me?” he calls after me.

  “Because I am.”

  Closing my bedroom door I lean against it, biting my lip to stifle my smile.

  I know not all days are going to be perfect. Happiness is fleeting for everyone. But I allow myself this one small victory.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Hey, Neighbor.” I drop onto the loveseat cushion in Mr. Taylor’s office. He looks up from a piece of paper, laying it aside.

  “I suppose we are.”

  “Bleh.” I stick my tongue out like I’ve tasted something sour. “Don’t say suppose it makes you sound like a stuffy old man. You’re not old.”

  “I’m not?” He leans back in his chair, fighting a smile.

  I don’t think he’ll ever admit it, but he’s amused by me. And I’ll never admit it, but what I thought would be a torturous fifty minutes every day is quickly becoming my favorite part of the day. He doesn’t push me to talk about what happened. If I don’t want to talk that’s okay. If I want to have a simple conversation he’s cool with that. And if I give him a breadcrumb of information I know he feels like it’s a win.

  I pull out a sketchpad I bought yesterday, using a basic #2 pencil to scribble some lines on the page. I’m definitely not an artist like Ansel is, but the museum he took me to inspired me to try things out on my own. Art is, after all, experimental and subjective.

  “How old do you think I am?” he questions when I don’t reply.

  I look up from the piece of paper and the lines that look like nothing but to me form a close up image of the trunk of a tree. The ridges and whorls.

  “I don’t know, but you
’re not old. I doubt you’re thirty yet.”

  “Twenty-nine,” he surprises me by giving me a definitive answer.

  I point the eraser end of my pencil at him. “See? Not thirty and not old.”

  “What is old to you?”

  I pause, pouting my lips as I ponder his words. “I don’t know. I guess it’s more of your being than an actual number. Someone fifty might act older than someone eighty, you know? There are some crazy old ladies out there.”

  “But I’m not allowed to say suppose?” He cocks his head to the right, waiting for my answer.

  “Hey, that was a piece of advice not a judgment. Do you want to sound like a stuffy old fart?”

  “You’re on a roll today.”

  “Eh.” I shrug. “My real personality was bound to show through at some point.” I set the sketchpad aside and crisscross my legs under me. “I guess I’m acclimating.”

  “Do you think being around kids your age is helping?”

  Mr. Taylor is asking more questions today, but it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to split apart my mind and see inside. It feels like I’m talking to anyone who might ask such a thing, like my brother.

  “Maybe. It’s not like I got a lot of socialization in the hospital or rehabilitation center. I was more focused on being able to walk again.”

  He rubs his jaw, his blue eyes darkening to a navy. “I can’t even imagine.”

  “Yeah,” I blow out a breath, melancholy settling on my shoulders as I look out the window. “They told me I’d never walk again, let alone run, but I wanted to prove them wrong. It’s a miracle I can stand, but I put everything I had into making it happen. I still have numbness radiating down my left side. It’s why I walk funny.”

  Mr. Taylor stares at me like a complicated math problem, something he’s both equally fascinated by and desperate to solve.

  I hate to tell him, but there’s no mathematical answer when it comes to me.

  I’m scarred. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally.

  Every way you look at it, I’m broken.

  My leg is probably the least broken part of me even if sometimes I hate it so much I’m afraid the anger will choke me from the inside.

  Running was my life. I was passionate about it. It was my freedom. Now, I’ll live the rest of my life never doing it again.

  But, at the end of the day, I have a life where others lost theirs.

  Several moments pass before he says to me, “You don’t think you’re strong, do you?”

  I shrug, looking down at my half-painted nails I never bothered to finish. “I’m not. I was put into that situation and I did what I had to do.”

  “You could’ve given up,” he points out.

  “I think I would have,” I admit, the words like sandpaper on my throat. “But I couldn’t. Not for my brother’s sake. He needed to see me whole, well as whole as I can be.” He doesn’t say anything and I pick up my sketchpad again. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  Nothing.

  “What’s your favorite color?”

  “Blue,” he answers easily, not at all bothered by me shutting down the previous conversation. “What’s yours?”

  “Yellow.”

  “Like a dandelion?” Some people have asked that question mockingly. Not Mr. Taylor. I can tell he’s genuinely wondering.

  “Mhmm,” I hum, “dandelion yellow. I used to braid them in my hair during the summer.”

  Back when things were simpler and easy.

  Brushing some eraser shavings off my sketchpad I ask, “What made you want to be a school counselor?”

  He leans back in his chair, spinning slightly. He might think he looks unbothered, but I can tell my question has him a tiny bit on edge.

  “I wanted to help people.”

  “Sure, yeah, but why a school counselor?”

  He looks me in the eye and I feel a shiver course down my spine.

  He doesn’t get a chance to answer because the bell rings and I’m forced to go to class.

  But the look in his eyes? It stays with me.

  “We’re doing vocabulary words,” Sasha hisses beside me under her breath. “What is this? Second grade?”

  She looks down at the paper with a list of vocabulary words that we need to draw a line to the correct definition for. Sociology is definitely worth every agonizing minute spent in this class before we can go home.

  “It could be worse.”

  “I’m bored,” she whines.

  Someone hushes her. Across the room the teacher lifts her eyes from her desk, shooting daggers at us.

  Mrs. Kauffman is mildly terrifying. She’s probably in her late forties, with a blunt bob past her ears, and thick bangs. She has these beady eyes that seem to stare right through you and there’s a permanent scowl glued to her face—unless her son, who also works at the school, pops in. Then she’s all smiles.

  “Keep your voice down,” I hiss under my breath.

  I might’ve walked out of our history class last week, but this is not one I’m willing to rock the boat in. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Kauffman has a dungeon somewhere and gets her shit and giggles out of torturing her students.

  I finish the worksheet and turn it in, moving on to the next assignment. I spend the rest of the period looking up the same definitions we matched in an actual dictionary instead of Googling it and write them all down.

  It’s time consuming and tedious.

  I’m beginning to wish I’d fought harder to get my GED. Sage had insisted I finish school and I’d wanted to make him happy.

  Regardless, I’m here now and I have to make the best of it.

  I manage to get everything done before the bell rings, dismissing us for the day. Several people groan, because they’re not as lucky and will have to do it as homework.

  Sasha and I walk down the long hall together, descending the stairs to the main floor.

  “I thought senior year was going to be great,” she whines, the sound of lockers slamming closed echoing around us. “Parties. Football games. Basketball games. More parties. And no school work. So far, it’s none of that. It’s only week two. I won’t survive this.”

  I laugh lightly. To my ears it sounds forced and fake but Sasha doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Somehow I think you’ll manage.”

  Her curly blonde hair sways as she jumps the last two stairs, landing solidly on the floor.

  I descend the last two like a normal person.

  “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow in Statistics.” She sticks out her tongue playfully, crossing her eyes at the same time.

  “Bye.” I wave as she heads in the opposite direction to the student parking lot while I walk straight ahead for the bus loop.

  I only make it a couple of feet when I hear, “Meadows! Wait up!”

  I stop, tightening my hold on my backpack straps.

  Ansel strolls leisurely through the crowd of students. They part around him. He doesn’t even have to fight against them. It’s kind of incredible.

  He slings his arm over my shoulders when he reaches me.

  “Are you riding the bus?”

  “Well, I don’t drive, so … yes.”

  His arm falls from around me. “A senior riding the bus?” Nuh-uh. Can’t have that. You’re coming with me.”

  Before I can protest he grabs my hand. Not to hold my hand, but to pull me along. People begin to stare as he drags me from the direction of the bus loop to the opposite end where the parking lot is.

  “I don’t mind riding the bus, Ansel.”

  “Yeah, well, can you stop and get coffee on the bus? No, I don’t think you can.”

  He doesn’t let me go until we’re at his car, and at this point I don’t feel like running to try to catch my bus to make a point.

  He unlocks the car and I get inside, setting my backpack between my feet.

  Horns honk and tires squeal as students race to get out of the parking
lot before they let the buses through.

  Ansel turns the car on and I promptly roll the window down as he backs out. “You don’t mind, right?”

  He shakes his head and lowers his. “Nope, prefer it actually.”

  It’s a fairly warm day, but there’s a crispness to the air and I know it means chillier days are around the corner.

  Leaning back against the headrest, I let the air whip my hair around my shoulders. It’ll be a tangled mess but I don’t care.

  I look over at Ansel, his strong arm gripping the wheel in one hand. The slender column of his throat. He’s a pale skinned work of art and I’m the damaged new girl. He doesn’t know that, though, and I can’t help wondering why he’s taken me under his wing.

  His gaze darts to me before returning to the road. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I answer looking out the window at the mountains in the distance.

  Salt Lake City isn’t short on the stunning views.

  “You were looking at me.”

  “Am I not allowed to look?”

  He chuckles. The sound rumbles in his chest. “Yeah, look all you want, I don’t care. I was wondering why.”

  “I was thinking.” I look away from the window. He’s haloed by the yellow sun. The golden glow seems at odds with the white, black, and gray aesthetic of him. Ansel has the moody artist vibe down, even if he’s the complete opposite of moody.

  “About what?”

  Getting answers from me is like pulling teeth, but he seems undeterred.

  “I still don’t understand why you want to be friends with me?”

  The blinker comes on and he turns onto the main road leading into the city.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs, loosening his grip on the wheel. “You seem like someone I’m meant to know.”

  “That makes no sense.” My nose crinkles.

  His eyes pierce me for a second. “It does to me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The condo door opens and Sage enters, dropping his bag on the floor. His tie is askew and his hair mussed like he’s been shoving his fingers through it all day.

  “You’re home early,” I remark, closing my laptop lid on my homework. I decided to work at the kitchen bar today, instead of holing up in my room like I normally do.