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Luck had been on my side that morning and I encountered little traffic on the way to school. I had even managed to get there ten minutes early meaning I could lean against the front wall and people watch with my friends. I ran a hand through my sandy blond hair and walked over to Paul, who was always there early. Paul’s dad was an English teacher at school, currently my English teacher to be exact, and Paul didn’t have his own set of wheels yet. I stood next to him and he nodded his head in acknowledgement before looking beyond me. I followed his gaze and saw Diana Lewis. Diana wasn’t necessarily my taste, but Paul found her to be one attractive lady. She noticed us watching and decided it would be worth her while to walk over.
“Didn’t your mom ever tell you it wasn’t polite to stare at women?” Diana asked us. I smirked and gave her one of my patented responses to these situations.
“Nope, or I didn’t listen, take your pick,” Diana chuckled at my remark and Paul looked at me like I was stealing his thunder. “I’ve got to go set up some stuff in the art room,” I said. Paul pretended he was sorry that I had to leave so soon and had soon distracted Diana enough so she wouldn’t miss me.
I didn’t really need to set anything up in the art room, but I knew if I stayed Diana wouldn’t concentrate on Paul the way he wanted her to. I did go into the art room anyhow, because I had suddenly felt struck by a muse. This happened to me quite frequently. My mom had always encouraged me to express myself any way possible and when she handed me a paintbrush at age seven, something clicked. Dad had been gone for almost a year by then and she was afraid I would suppress something if I wasn’t able to let out my feelings in some kind of artistic fashion.
I had only made a few strokes on the canvas when June entered the classroom. I didn’t see her at first, and it wasn’t until she said something that I realized she was standing right behind me.
“That line is intense,” she said, pointing to a thick, deep blue line squiggling diagonally across the page. I almost jumped at the feeling of her breath on my neck. I looked over my shoulder at her face.
“Most are,” I replied, thinking my retort somewhat clever. She, however, did not see it this way.
“Artists,” I distinctly heard her grumble under her breath. I chuckled then.
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be snotty about it; I was just trying to make a joke. You know, like the line between genius and insanity is intense,” I tried, she smiled then, and her whole face lit up. Her green eyes sparkled then in a way I never knew they could, and just as suddenly as she had smiled, it was gone. We looked at each other for a few more moments before the bell rang and we left for our separate homerooms.
After school had ended, I planned on making the escape to my car before anyone, mainly Paul, could catch up to me and ask for a ride. Don’t get me wrong, Paul and I are good friends, but I was sort of tired of going out of my way to take him home when his idea of paying me back was buying me a soda once in awhile on the way home. But a nice quiet ride home was not to be because Paul was already leaning on the side of the passenger’s seat door. He stood up as I approached and gave me a wave.
“Mind if I bum a ride?” Paul asked even as he was opening the door and sliding inside. Obviously he thought the answer was a given. And it was only because I could never say no to a friend.
“So, how’d things go with Diana today?” I asked him. I had seen them together at lunch before I had headed into the art room to continue my painting for class. I had also spotted June sitting with one friend, Elaine, not seemingly talking, but listening intently to everything Elaine said. I didn’t mention the sighting to Paul.
“Man, that Diana is dynamite. Not only is she smarter than half the girls I’ve dated, but she also is fluent in ‘that’s what she said’ jokes,” Paul said, a pleased smile upon his face. I couldn’t help but smile at his goofy grin as I pulled out of the school parking lot.
By the time I got home it was three thirty and I had only a little homework. Before I started in on the homework, though, I decided it would be good to call my father. Even though he’d made no effort to contact me on my birthday, I felt it was my duty as his son to wish him another happy year. The phone rang twice before my dad’s voice was on the line.
“Hello?” He answered, “Who is this?” I cleared my throat.
“Dad, it’s Liam. I was calling because…” He didn’t let me get the words out.
“Liam? Oh, William,” I had forgotten Dad hated my nickname. “Yes, what did you want, I’m very busy. It’s not one of those art shows again, is it? I told you I don’t have the time…” Dad was saying.
“No, Dad, I just called to wish you a happy birthday,” I replied. There was a pause on the other end like he didn’t think I knew today was his birthday.
“Well…thank you. I have to go now, I’m working,” Dad answered. I was about to tell him it was fine, but he was gone, the line was dead. I felt so stupid for calling him. Why did I think he wanted to hear from me? I was an utter disappointment to him, just passing in school, and “wasting all my time with frilly art” as Dad liked to say.
I stayed in my room doing my homework until I heard the front door close and Mom walk inside. I drifted into the kitchen, a common meeting ground, if nothing else, since Mom had the cooking abilities of a first grader and we usually ate out.
“How was your day?” Mom asked me. I shrugged.
“Not too bad, only a little homework, I finished it already,” I added. She nodded. “I called Dad for his birthday,” I said in addition. Mom looked surprised.
“Really, that’s today? Hmm. How was he?” Mom asked. I shrugged again; Mom seemed to know what I was thinking. “Too busy?” I nodded.
“He hung up too,” I replied. She looked at me, her brown hair falling in her face as she tried to decipher how I felt about the conversation. I should, in all honesty, be completely used to the way my dad had been on the phone. The stilted conversation was nothing new between us and had occurred less and less as I grew older since we talked less and less as well. When the divorce was new Mom had tried her hardest to keep my Dad and I connected. Then, when I was twelve, I was going to be showing my dad the art class that my mom had recently signed me up for. He went along and after looking at all of my paintings, his face went slack and he had a look of defeat about him. I was good, and I think that’s what scared him most.
He brought me back to Mom’s and sent me to my room. I could hear them arguing from there.
“What, he doesn’t have enough problems already? Are you trying to make him more like you?” Dad asked Mom. I knew he was saying that by me painting, he thought I would soon be coming out of the closet. This had no relevance to my painting, and I was about to go out and tell him this when my mom spoke up.
“Don’t you even start that up in this house!” Mom yelled. “I could kill you for that last statement, George. How dare you say that because he paints it means he’s gay. That kind of assumption proves even more that you have no idea about what you’re saying, and it will earn you the hate of your only son if it continues,” she told him. These were strong assumptions on her part, but I couldn’t help to wonder if later on I might resent him for thinking of me that way. I also couldn’t help but think there might be something wrong with me and that there was something wrong about art.
“Fine, if that’s how he wants to be, fine. No son of mine would throw his life away on painting,” he said followed by the slamming of the front door. I walked out of my room then.
“Does he hate me?” I asked. Mom looked over at me, tears in her eyes. She gathered me in her arms.
“Oh, no, honey. He loves you, he’s just misinformed. He’ll come around, you’ll see,” Mom told me.
She was wrong, it had been almost six years, and Dad still hadn’t come around. He was convinced that the environment my mom had me living in was “toxic” to my masculinity.
Every time my dad hung up on me, it stung. I never told my mom this, pretending to be used to it after all this time. But how could anyone be used to rejection? Mom touched my hair lightly and I walked back into my room. I had to paint, it was a necessity.
I stood in front of my easel, wanting so desperately to get onto the page exactly what I was feeling. The only thing was, I didn’t know what I was feeling at the moment. Every time I encountered my dad, this was how it ended, me wanting to let out my emotions the best way I knew how, but not being able to pinpoint the emotions I was feeling. I felt angry at him for pushing me aside as if I didn’t matter. I also felt stupid for thinking he’d change, or be sorry for neglecting me the way he did. But most of all I felt like a disappointment. I thought, maybe if I were better he would pay attention to me.