Voices

  Sitting on a fold-up lawn chair, I adjust a thick sheet of paper on my easel. To my right: oil paints, acrylics, and brushes, organized in one of Hanks’s old fishing tackle boxes. On my left: a small tin lunch box with a bottle of water and a bag of trail mix.

  Oak tree branches twist and turn like sprawling arms embracing the sun. I use my thin-tipped brush to capture the bark’s texture.

  My cell phone buzzes and plays Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1. Vibrant. Peaceful. Soothing.

  When Grams was alive, she loved classical music. Ever since my death and return two years ago, I’m also a fan. Mostly of Johann Sebastian Bach’s cello suites and Frédéric Chopin’s piano. I’d never heard of them before my heart problem. There’s something amazing about the power of Chopin’s solo piano and the cello’s warm, supernatural purity and its passionate tenor. The music reminds me of lingering vibrations, dancing like dandelion seeds caught in a wind gust. The way it swirls like a sudden breeze across the pond is magical.

  I answer my phone. “Hello?”

  “Just checking in, honey,” Mom says. “How was your last day?”

  Mom and I don't need to talk about why I wanted to leave school before everyone else today. Last year I ended up in the office, shaking from emotional overload, until Mom could pick me up and drive me home.

  “School was fine. Uncle picked me up right on time.”

  “Good. Are you painting?”

  Mom encourages me to follow my passions, as long as it’s not anything I used to love, like competitive sports. Painting qualifies in her book as acceptable.

  “Yeah. The oak trees look amazing today.”

  There’s something magical that happens to me when I’m painting ducks gliding across the pond’s surface, floating water lilies, a turtle’s nose barely above the water, or a curious crawdad lurking in the shallows. It’s as if I become the gliding duck, floating lily, turtle, and crawdad. If I’m lucky, I might even become a lizard, doing pushups on the big rock near the muddy bank.

  I’m at peace when I paint at the pond.

  “Be home by six, okay?”

  I dip my brush in a small plastic cap filled with brown paint.

  “I will.”

  “I’m fixing your favorite tonight. Hank is taking the night off for your end-of-school-year dinner celebration,” Mom says. “It’s tradition, after all.”

  That means turkey meatloaf for three. I feel my mouth watering. “Mashed sweet potatoes too? With brown sugar and lots of butter?”

  I lightly brush the painting to add tall grass.

  “You got it—” Mom says. “Oh shoot. I need to go, honey. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Mom. Good luck in court.”

  I set my cell down and notice how the midday sun brightens the color of the trees. I mix three colors together to match it and then stroke my brush on the paper until it needs more paint. After the brush tip touches, paint spreads on the paper like an expanding inkblot. Maybe I’m supposed to be an artist? Paint landscapes. Portraits. Roses.

  I dip my brush again, remembering how colorful and vibrant the pond had looked during my visit with Grams. I still remember the excitement in her eyes, hoping I’d return to my life with Mom and Hank. I felt so immersed in love and joy.

  As much as I love painting alone at the pond, I doubt avoiding people is what Grams had in mind.

  chapter four

  I grab my ears as if it will help.

  “Admit it loser!” Bouncer shouts. “You’re weak!”

  Of course, it doesn’t help. “Fine, I admit it! I freaked.”

  Moser stops his math lecture mid-sentence. His eyes lock onto me.

  Epic failure. Twenty-five kids in the cramped classroom swivel their heads and glare. A buzzing sound radiates from fluorescent tubes overhead while whispers whip through the classroom like a brush fire. My lungs burn, but I don’t show it.

  I sit back, fold my arms, and peer at Moser, serious but non-threatening. There’s a subtle difference, I learned, the first time I was arrested. If I appear too intense, I’m considered a threat.

  “Mr. Rush, do you have a question?” asks Moser with steel-hardened eyes. Even though it’s the last day of the school year, Moser’s jerky motions tell me he’s worrying I might get violent.

  “Nope,” I say, shaking my head and forcing a smile.

  Whispers. Pointing fingers. Silent stares. Waiting, watching, preparing their cell phones to record. Most days I can tune them out, but not today.

  Sitting near the classroom door, football captain Jason points and whispers to Josh, the Hulk, as if he’s calling a football play on the goal line. They’d probably rush me if I made any fast moves.

  Zeke Sarov sits at the desk to my right and taps on his cell. The dude looks like he should be the chess club president with his black-framed glasses, short black hair, and long sleeve t-shirt with three buttons. He’s the only senior I know who’s taking Moser’s Algebra class this semester in order to graduate.

  Zeke may look like the average nobody geek, but teachers, school officials, and law enforcement go out of their way to help him. Most people think it’s because Zeke’s dad runs the biggest property corporation in Arkansas. It gives him implied power. Some even say Zeke volunteered to go to public school just to help his dad get elected as Governor next year.

  “Watch yourself,” says Honesti. “If your teachers think you’re talking to yourself again, they’ll ship you off to Willowgate.”

  “New rules,” says Bouncer. “Talking to us in public—serious no can do. Whispering—off limits. Singing to us—priceless.”

  “Will you be serious?” asks Honesti. “You know Reizo can’t sing.”

  “But he has to talk to us,” says Bouncer, chuckling under his breath. “Who else will train him?”

  I feel like screaming. We’ve been over it a million times. People freak when I talk to the voices.

  “Sorry, Mr. Moser.” My voice sounds as if it squeaks out of a giant party balloon.

  Embarrassing.

  Murmurs bounce off the walls and grow into laughs. Raymond kicks the leg of my desk chair from behind. I’m about to turn around, but I don’t.

  “Dude.” Zeke whispers to me.

  What the hell does he want?

  “I have an extra ounce if you need something to relax,” he says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “First ounce is free if you promise to buy five more.” Zeke winks.

  I shake my head and turn away. Marijuana from Zeke is the last thing I need.

  Moser continues. “You’ve completed all the material for Algebra two...”

  A ball of paper hits the back of my head, causing me to tense up. I want to take the ball of paper and shove it down Raymond’s throat. But I keep cool. “Jerk—” I mutter, making sure Moser doesn’t hear.

  Zeke chuckles. “Pathetic.”

  “Careful, brother man,” says Bouncer. “He’ll kick your punk ass.”

  “Just forget it,” says Honesti.

  Screw them all.

  I flip open my sketchbook and gaze at my latest tag design. Too bad I’ll never finish it on a cement canvas. Anonymous 3D street art is my thing. Tunnels with on-coming trains painted on the side of old brick buildings. Sprayed sidewalks opening into painted sinkholes. No one in Franklinville knows I’m the infamous 3D tagger, except for Mom and the cops, thanks to my court-sealed records. But I could care less.

  Whispers of disappointment circulate the classroom. There’ll be no crazy Reizo show today. Idiots. I’d love to see how they’d handle voices inside their empty brain buckets.

  “That’s the answer,” says Honesti. “Writing in your sketchbook, it’s the safest way.”

  “Yeah, right,” says Bouncer. “We talk, he takes notes. He can poke himself with a pencil while he’s at it,” whispers Bouncer. He raises his voice. “Or better yet, his eye!”

  I cringe.

  “Be nice to Reizo,” says Honesti. “He st
ill has a lot to learn.”

  “Shut the hell up!” shouts Bouncer. “Face it, Reiz is barely passing his Algebra class.”

  I hate it most when they act like I don’t exist, making me feel lower than low, emptier than empty. It’s hard to think, let alone concentrate, when the voices are carrying on. Bouncer will celebrate when I’m gone.

  “Stop it!” I shout.

  Aw, man. Nervous laughs erupt around the classroom like heated-up microwave popcorn. Moser’s shoulders stiffen as he paces across the front of the classroom, glancing at me every few steps.

  I’m sure Moser has seen the vid of me going crazy on Simon Taylor, Theodore High’s six-foot tall mascot. I admit it. The entire thing was a big mistake. Simon wore the full grizzly bear mascot outfit at the homecoming pep rally in the beginning of freshman year. Bouncer encouraged me, and my survival instincts kicked in. The football players and cheerleaders had finished their speeches when I heard that bear growling. I bolted across the courtyard and planted my shoulder into the grizzly. Simon folded like a lawn chair.

  Reizo Rush: sixteen-year-old secret 3D artist and mascot stopper. I was the most popular kid in school for nearly thirty-seconds until everyone realized I’d lost it.

  Crazy Kid became my nickname. It took four football linemen to pull me off the hairy beast. Simon received a concussion. I ended up the lucky winner of a one-week suspension from Principal Rutworth . . . again.

  I focus harder on Moser and pretend Algebra is the world’s most important class.

  Just as Moser’s shoulders relax, Raymond pokes me in the back with a sharp pencil.

  I grimace. Raymond has crossed the line. One more and I’m going—

  “Choke yourself and get it over with,” says Bouncer. “You’re pathetic.”

  “Just put up with it for a little longer,” says Honesti. “It’s the last day of the year.”

  I decide to chill. It’d be a fool’s move to lash out at Raymond, the next aspiring rap artist of the century. Tagger verses rapper. I wouldn’t stand a chance. Raymond has friends. I hear voices. It’d just give the dude more material.

  I deliver a grizzly-killer snarl, but keep my fists to myself.

  Raymond’s smile reverses course. The classroom goes silent. Being unpredictable gives me the advantage today.

  “Nice one,” says Honesti.

  It always starts the same way. Someone gets under my skin and pushes me until I freak out. Tit for tat, right? Wrong. I’m the one who gets suspended or taken away in cuffs. It’s always the crazy kid’s fault, the sick kid, yours truly.

  “Glad he’s off the meds,” says Honesti.

  “He’s still going to blow it,” says Bouncer. “Launch your pencil at your face, loser.”

  I press down hard on my pencil until it snaps. All the haters are watching. Pointing at me. Laughing. Waiting for me to screw up.

  I take out a new pencil and stare at the sketch of my latest tag: Stairway to Heaven. I usually plan my newest tag in Moser’s class, but what’s the point? It would have looked cool on the ten-story brick wall of the courthouse.

  “Before I pass back your graded final,” Mr. Moser says. “I want to encourage you to practice over summer break ...”

  I nudge at my backpack and hear the bottle of my mom's pills rattle inside. The grassy bank around Murdock’s pond is the one spot in the world where the voices go silent. I have no idea why that’s the case. It was pure luck that I found the place. A few months back, I’d taken the long way home from school. One second the voices were chatting nonstop and the next they went silent when I passed the giant oak trees surrounding Murdock’s pond.

  The pond will be the perfect spot to exit.

  Mr. Moser raises his voice. “I’ve added an exercise sheet with a page of online resources...”

  Before long, the last day of school is over and I’m walking two-miles to Murdock’s Ranch, the oldest ranch outside the city limits of Franklinville. Normally, it’s a short bus ride home, but today is the day.

  “Way to go on Moser’s math quiz,” says Honesti.

  “Sixty-one percent?” asks Bouncer. “Pathetic.”

  “It was way better than the previous quiz,” says Honesti. “He’s improving.”

  “Improving?” Bouncer asks. “Is that what you call it?”

  I don’t respond.

  “Weak ass fool!” Bouncer shouts.

  I hate it most when Bouncer yells. He usually gives me a pounding headache. But this time it doesn’t bother me as I focus on my Exit Plan.

  “The bus driver was supposed to monitor you today,” says Honesti. “Remember?”

  Honesti is right. The bus driver expected me to sit in the front seat on the ride home. But ditching the bus won't matter after today. I ignore the voices.

  “Where we headed, Reiz?” asks Honesti. “Getting some air, are we?”

  I rub my face and keep walking.

  “Wait,” says Bouncer with panic in his voice. “Reizo, stop.”

  “He’s going to the pond—” says Honesti.

  I smile and take off in a sprint.

  As soon as I reach the oak trees marking the outer boundary of the pond, the voices go silent. Gone. It’s such a strange sensation. Like turning off a radio after hours of broadcasting noise in the background. I instantly feel lighter. Relieved.

  I slow to a walk and smell the scent of gardenias, which is weird since there are no gardenias anywhere on Murdock’s ranch.

  I see a girl. Oh, man. She’s sitting near the pond with a brush in her hand and a canvas in front of her.

  As I approach, I recognize the girl. It’s smiling Aimee, the full-figured girl with glossy-black hair, side-swept bangs, and bushy eyebrows. She’s the girl who almost died at school a couple of years ago.

  Painting at the pond? It’s the worst timing ever—of all the days.

  I hesitate when I notice her aquamarine eyes, the tiny brown freckles sprinkled across her nose, and her glistening, dark red lips. She isn’t wearing much make-up, but she doesn’t need it. The girl is way cuter than I remember.

  “Hi there,” she says with a wide smile, holding the paintbrush away from her painting. She’s wearing denim shorts and a loose ruffled white blouse over a red tank top that matches her lipstick. Silver sparkles on white polish covers two pinky fingernails while her other nails have been polished to match her tank top.

  Hell. Turning around now isn’t an option. My plan will have to wait.

  “Hey,” I say with a stupid half-wave and gaze at her painting.

  The texture of the oak tree branch is full of mad detail, with careful shading that gives the scene an afternoon feel—impressive. The girl has talent.

  “You like it?” she asks. A touch of red highlights her cheeks.

  “Yeah. Not bad. I didn’t know you were an artist.”

  She giggles nervously and dips her paintbrush. “Actually, you don’t know anything about me.”

  “Fair point,” I reply. “I suppose the same goes for you, huh?”

  She continues painting. “I suppose.”

  Aimee’s eyes sparkle like sunlight dancing across the pond.

  “Your first time at the pond?” I ask.

  “No. I’ve just been too busy to spend time here during the school year. What about you?”

  “A few months ago I found the place when I cut through Murdock’s ranch. It’s full of wild color.”

  Now what? I feel like a dork just standing here, kicking at the dirt. Kind of like the time I sat down at a lunch table and everyone stopped talking, got up, and left. Awkward. I just sat there alone, eating a green apple.

  But with the voices silent, I feel lighter and more clear than normal. I lower my voice. “The only time I feel alive is when I’m painting.”

  Aimee stops painting and stares at me for a moment, then she leans her head to one side and smiles. “Van Gogh, right? You’re quoting Vincent Van Gogh.”

  I smirk and nod.

&
nbsp; There’s a curious glint in her eyes. “I don’t say everything, but I paint everything.”

  I like this girl.

  I rub at my chin. “Let me guess . . . Picasso?”

  She smiles. “Yep. So you paint?”

  “Yeah. Well, sort of.” I want to slap myself on the forehead. It’s a lame response, but I hadn’t planned on talking about art today. Hell, I hadn’t planned on talking period. Let alone talking to a girl at the pond.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Fair question. I’m about to turn around and walk away, but there’s something different about her. Something interesting. I decide to stick around. “It’s complicated.”

  She stares.

  I feel like she might be trying to read my mind—good luck with that. I grin. Bouncer would have a party inside her head.

  “I sketch.”

  “What sort of sketches?”

  “Abstract mostly. Three-dimensional landscapes. Death. Heaven. Hell. Flying cows and candy canes. You know, the basics.”

  I pick up a flat rock and toss it, trying to skip it across the pond as if I’m cool.

  It hits the water and sinks.

  chapter five

  Death? Heaven? Hell?

  I prepare to grab my phone and call Hank if he makes any unexpected moves. I recognize the boy. He’s the one everyone calls Crazy Kid. He talks to himself at school.

  Hank might be working, but he always answers when I call.

  Reizo turns around after throwing a rock into the water like a second grader. I doubt the frogs are impressed.

  He looks me straight in the eye with intensity and boldness. “I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.”

  I relax when I feel warm energy radiating from him. It also helps that I recognize the quote. But still, I hadn’t expected this feeling I’m getting from him. “Another Van Gogh. I like that one too.”

  Reizo glances down at his feet.

  I smile and brush my painting with a touch of blue. “Most people I know who sketch carry around a notebook. How about you?”

  There’s something odd about him, and I try not to look at him again, but fail miserably. A black t-shirt hangs loosely on his six-foot tall frame. I’ve never noticed how broad his shoulders were at school. With such a muscular build, he could easily play sports. Long brown hair frames his olive skin. Chiseled cheeks. Haunting hazel eyes and a sweet smile cause me to stare.