It’s a future that would be perfect in so many ways, for so many reasons. But lately, if I let myself, I start to wonder if it’d be perfect for me. I keep going back to that quote, and to that night I spent talking with Orion, who was so different and free, he made me feel like I could be too. Like maybe I could do something that is mine alone.
I would paint, that’s what I would do if I could choose anything.
I used to, a long time ago, before I came here. I used to love the barely-there weight of a brush in my hand, and the feeling that somewhere inside, I knew how to create something beautiful from nothing but a blank canvas and instinct. Aside from being with Shane, that feeling made me happier than anything else ever has. Like maybe it’s who I really am, or what I’m really supposed to do. Which is why I’ve never told anyone, not even him. It feels too precious almost, to say it aloud. Like it would somehow take the magic away.
Shane would probably think it was cute if I ever told him. Anyone else would nod and smile at it like you do with a little girl who says she wants to be a singer or a model. But Mr. Kinney said to be idealistic here, so there it is. My big secret, on paper for all eternity. Maybe someday I’ll be brave enough to actually do something about it. I can talk and write and daydream all I want about going places and making art and living a beautiful life, but if I never leave this town, if I just settle into what’s easy and already there, I don’t know if any of it will ever happen. I may read this ten years from now and it’ll just make me sad.
I don’t know why I’m like this today. Restless is the perfect word for it. I need to get out. Maybe I’ll buy a new sketchbook and get in my car and just drive until I find someplace beautiful and inspiring. Maybe I’ll do that, and in a way, it’ll be like I’m flying too.
I leave off for a second to reframe the image of Julianna in my mind, because reading this journal is a little like how I imagine it would be watching film develop. Not evenly or all at once, but in fragments and layers. I had no idea that Julianna Farnetti painted, or that the life she and Shane would’ve had together made her feel restless, or unsure. Why would I?
But I can see it now, and understand it. We all have something we hold close or dream about, something that maybe seems too dear to tell anyone. I have, ever since my dad published his book when I was little. I decided at eight that I wanted to write stories and poems like him. I did, too, in notebook after notebook. And I brought them all to him, and when he’d set everything aside to read my words, I felt that thing she talked about. That pure feeling of happiness at having created something from my own imagination. But then writing became a thing associated with my dad, which meant it was a thing my mother didn’t like anymore. So I stopped. Probably for the same reasons Julianna stopped painting. It didn’t fit into the life she had with a person she loved. I wouldn’t have guessed it, but I understand this part of Julianna.
There’s something else I think I understand reading her words, even though she probably didn’t when she was writing them. Or maybe she did, but she couldn’t bring herself to write it. But as a perfect stranger reading her words ten years later, I can see clear as day that her restlessness started to grow the night she met Orion.
12.
“We make ourselves a place apart,
Behind light words that tease and flout”
—“REVELATION,” 1915
“I need a favor,” I say. And it surprises me how bold it comes out sounding.
Trevor drops his hand from the dial on his locker and turns around to face me. “Says the girl I pulled out of the mud yesterday. Good morning to you, too.” There’s a smile in his voice, but he’s surprisingly good at keeping a straight face.
“Sorry, I’m just in a hurry.” I back up a step. “Good morning,” I say, meeting his eyes. “Um . . . any chance you still have the keys to the art supply closet?”
With this I have his instant undivided attention, and it takes everything in me not to hide behind my locker door like I usually do.
He steps toward me with a smile. “Maybe. Why?”
Because I need a place to hide out and read Julianna’s journal this period. “Because I might wanna see it today . . .” I try to channel Kat and sound playful and sexy when I say it, but I’m no good, so I opt for a practical approach instead. “And because I want to go through the old student work and see if any of it belongs to the same kids who wrote the journals I’m working on for Kinney. I thought it’d be cool to send that to them too.” That sounds believable. I think.
He just looks at me for a second, probably trying to make up his mind whether I’m lying or just lame. I’m not sure which one he settles on, but he seems genuine when he asks, “You need some help?”
“No, no, no,” I say, trying to sound casual, only it comes out sounding ridiculous instead. “I’d rather be alone. Or, I mean, no. I don’t need help. I just . . . it’s a one-person job.”
“Hm,” he nods. “Too bad. I thought maybe you finally realized what you’ve been missing out on all these years.” He digs around in his backpack, fishes out the lanyard, and hands it to me. “Here. Have fun. By yourself.” Our fingers brush, just barely, when I take the keys, and I feel a little rush of gratitude and something else I decide to ignore. “Thanks,” I say. “And thanks for yesterday too. I owe you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” The bell rings and people slog by us, making their way to class, but we stay standing right there. Trevor clears his throat. “So did you want me to show you where it is or something?”