Chapter Twenty-Two
XANDER’S SHOW WAS all set to go. And he felt fine about it.
Which was driving him crazy.
He didn’t want to feel fine about it, which was ironic, because as little as seven months ago, he’d have settled for fairly adequate. His advisor was over the moon with his promotion, his theme, his prepared works. “You have some real promise in your oils. Have you given thought to where you’ll be applying for your graduate work?”
No. No, Xander had not. And he hated all the oils he’d submitted. He’d done the last five landscapes with his teeth gritted, feeling like he was filling in the numbers. When those were his advisor’s favorite, he wanted more than anything to cover them with primer and start over.
Why was he so put out by it, he wanted to know? He didn’t give a fuck about the show. He just needed the damn grade. Get the check mark and move on. He didn’t have to do another oil painting if he didn’t want to. Didn’t have to go to grad school at all. He literally had to stand in a room and breathe while people told him he’d done a good job, get graded, and go home. He didn’t even have to dress up. Artists could be moody. It was almost assumed.
So what was up his butt, making him so crabby? He had no idea. All he knew was his work made him pissed off.
He wanted to talk to Skylar about it, but he didn’t know how to phrase it, and anyway, poor Skylar was too far in his own head at the moment. Xander thought several times maybe sharing his shit would distract him, but every time he tried to bring it up, it felt wrong. So he stayed quiet and sulked in silence, waiting for November 15 to arrive so he could get this shit over with.
While he marked time, he took care of Skylar, and there was plenty of caretaking to do. Skylar was starting to engage a little more, but he was still fragile. Xander had gotten him to use the phone again, or rather, he was using Xander’s old burner phone, the horrible flip one, which meant he swore a lot whenever he texted, but Skylar barely did that these days. He said he liked the break from social media, liked the quiet of knowing the only people who were going to text him would be the Lucky 7 crew.
Xander, drowning in the weight of his preshow social media, tried not to be jealous.
They made dinner and breakfast together every day, and met for lunch on the hospital hill whenever they could. They almost had the second edition of Hotay & Moo ready to hand off to the rest of the staff to wrangle, and they’d started working on their own manga, Skylar’s story about a god who fell from the sky into the wrong land and lost his memory, couldn’t use his powers, didn’t know he was a god, and had to find his way back to his people and his identity.
He was so sad, though. Whenever he caught Skylar alone, Xander could see the sadness coming off him in waves. He wanted to take it away. He needed to take it away. But it wasn’t his to remove. He’d tried everything he knew how to do—he’d literally painted on the man—and there was nothing left. He could only stand beside him and be patient.
But God, it was killing him, this plodding along, not being able to give him anything more.
Then two weeks before Xander’s BFA show, his mother called to tell him she wasn’t going to be able to come.
“I want to come, I really do, and I’d planned to, but it turns out I can’t get away. I’m sorry, honey.”
Xander was in the kitchen, making Skylar a cup of tea when she called. Skylar was in the bedroom, taking a nap. The sun shone through the window, landing on Benzaiten’s altar, giving a gloss to the surface of the cup of jasmine tea sitting beside the candle burning silently for the goddess. Xander stared at the flame, trying to wall himself off, to tell himself it didn’t matter, he didn’t care, he didn’t need her, it didn’t matter if she was there or not.
But there was a crack in his wall now. Several cracks, one of them huge and Skylar shaped, and six others of smaller size but no less damaging in moments like this. He couldn’t shut the pain out, not this time.
It hurts, he whispered to Benzaiten. It hurts when she chooses them over me.
His mother spoke again, sounding strained. “I’m really sorry.”
Xander shut his eyes. He’d spent months watching Skylar angst over his LSAT and his family, and now Skylar was reeling from realizing his whole life had been a lie. Xander acknowledged he wasn’t much different. His lie was more subtle, but it was there all the same.
You don’t ask me to be someone I’m not, but you look right at me and let me bleed alone. And it hurts.
It hurts when you look right at me and choose not to see me.
There was real pain in his mother’s voice now, and he suspected she was crying too. “Honey, it’s not that I don’t care. I know your art is important to you.”
He laughed, a bitter sound that caught on the edge of his tears. Oh, she knew, did she? Maybe you care, but not as much as you do about them. He drew another breath, a steadying one. He saw Skylar’s keys on the counter, and he closed his hand over the Shichifukujin keychain for support.
“Yes, it is important to me. It’s the only reason I can keep going, some days. It’s the thing that got me through being bullied in high school. It’s been my only companion through most of college, where I’ve been so socially isolated I didn’t believe I had any friends, not until someone taught me how to see them. Which, I suppose I should tell you. I’ve gotten close to one of those friends, and because of him, I’ve made some important decisions about my future. In fact, I’m probably leaving the country.”
There was a pause. “What?”
He wished it felt good to hear her shock. It didn’t. “I’m hoping to teach English in Japan. My boyfriend and I are both going after graduation, if we’re accepted.”
Pamela had given them the application for an organization she had connections with, and they’d filled it out. They were both laying not only tea but sake for Benzaiten every night. And they’d started setting some out at the statue of Tenjin, the god of learning, where he sat in the Lucky 7 offices too. Not that this made it a sure bet or anything, but Xander didn’t figure it would hurt.
“But why? Why do you need to leave the country? I thought you were going to graduate school?”
“Because it’s where my boyfriend wants to go, and he’s my family.” The words felt so right to say, and he smiled, an ease settling over him. He was still sad, he still hurt, but he could forgive her now. “It’s fine that you don’t come. I have friends and family here. They’ll be there for me.”
“Xander—”
“Bye, Mom. Love you.”
He hung up the phone—and turned it off.
He couldn’t leave it off for long, though, because he was deep in the throes of the damn promotion that had thrust him together with Skylar in the first place. They’d fixed it, with some help from the rest of the Lucky 7 staff, making it more representative of Xander’s true self, but he still had to be present, responding to at-replies, posting teasers of his images, reminding people of his upcoming show.
The show he felt was wrong, that he hated more with every hour of every day.
When his phone rang the next day and he saw the Pennsylvania area code, he braced himself and answered, sure it was his mother. He assumed she was going to explain again why she couldn’t come, and he was ready to assure her once more it was fine.
It wasn’t his mother, however. It was his stepfather.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Xander blinked at the wall, not sure how to respond. “Nick?” was all he could say in the end.
Nick never called him. Had never called him, ever, not even to tell him he was going to be late picking him up from school, because he’d never done anything like that. Nick always delegated “dealing with Xander” to his wife.
Why in the world was he calling now?
“I’m done putting up with your crap.” Nick’s gruff voice rumbled through the phone, sandpaper against Xander’s ear. “You hear me? I’m done. Kirsten may be willing to put up with your whining and carrying on, but I’ve had enough for ten lifetimes. You want to behave like a fucking sissy, you can do it on your dime.”
Wait. “Um, what?” Xander shifted his grip on the phone. “Hold on, what are you—?”
“I’m cutting you off. Whatever money you have in the bank is what you’re living on until you make your own wages. End of discussion.”
Xander staggered into the kitchen counter, gripping the edge to stay upright. “What—you can’t do that, it’s November—”
“I can do whatever the hell I want with my damn money. Kirsten’s been crying ever since she got off the phone with you. She’s always crying over you. You’re always in the damn way. So either fix whatever you just did, or I’m removing you from the fucking equation.”
Xander couldn’t believe this. “I didn’t do anything. I told her it was fine that she couldn’t come to my show.”
“Jesus. Who the hell cares about your fucking show?”
I care about it. And I wanted to think she did too. But Xander cared a lot about being able to pay his rent too. He felt as if he were underwater. “I wanted her to come, but she said it wouldn’t work out.”
“Yeah, you know what’s not going to work out? This whole bullshit art career you think you’re going to have.”
Xander caught the slur in his stepfather’s words and realized Nick had been drinking. Now he really didn’t know how to handle this. He decided to say nothing.
Nick filled the silence. “You’re not going to get any kind of a job, and you’re going to end up back here, and I’m going to have to pay for your ass. I never wanted to pay for this fucking art shit, and I sure as hell don’t give a fuck about your show. So it’s done. You figure out how to pay for the rest. Good luck.”
Nick hung up.
Xander tossed the phone across the counter, afraid he was going to be sick.
Skylar was still in class, and no one else was home from class yet either, though Pamela’s car was in the drive. Xander’s first instinct was to bottle up, to hide from everyone. But the truth was he couldn’t afford to. Literally.
He’d spent almost all his money on the body painting. He wasn’t going to be able to pay his bills for December. For the rest of the year.
He paced his apartment until he drove his cats crazy, then went downstairs, ready to face the music, or at least Pamela. Except by the time he got down there, she’d left to run errands. So he paced her front porch instead, worrying himself into a pretzel, trying to figure out how to explain to her he was completely broke except for whatever jobs she gave him from now until he graduated.
Goddamn fucking Nick.
He was still pacing when the car came up the drive—he thought it was Pamela at first, or maybe Skylar, but as the car got closer he realized he didn’t recognize it at all. It was some kind of sleek black number, a BMW, and when it parked near the top of the drive, two people got out that he didn’t know. Two men, both white, clean-cut and clean-shaven.
Both of them wearing suits.
The taller one took off his sunglasses as he approached, smiling the fakest fucking smile Xander had ever seen. “Hello there. Would you happen to be Xander Fairchild?”
Xander went to the edge of the stairs but didn’t descend. What the shit was this? He glared at them. “Who the hell are you?”
The tall one smiled wider as the other suit pulled out a tablet and began to tap unsmilingly into it. “So you are Mr. Fairchild?”
“Yes.” Xander crossed his arms over his chest. “Who the hell are you?”
The tall suit came up enough stairs to stick out his hand. “Edward Preston. I’m with Carslie, Waters, and Stone, Attorneys at Law. Would it be all right if I came inside and asked you a few questions?”
Jesus fuck, these were Skylar’s dad’s suits. “No, we can talk right here.”
The plastic smile strained a little, but mostly held in place. “Very well. I won’t take up much of your valuable time. But on behalf of Mr. Stone—Mr. Leighton Stone, that is—I’d like to confirm…” The smile stretched back into full, grotesque glory. “What exactly is your relationship with Skylar Stone?”
Oh, if this fucker wasn’t a lawyer, Xander would punch him in the mouth. But God knew he couldn’t afford to get sued right now. “None of your goddamned business.”
“I see. And if I were to express Leighton Stone’s displeasure in your relationship with his son, you would—”
“Tell you both to go fuck yourselves.” This was fun, actually. Bring it, asswipe. What else do you have?
The shorter suit didn’t look up, only continued tapping into his tablet.
Edward Preston’s smile remained in place. “Am I correct, then, in surmising that if I hint he could make your life miserable, you would remain unmoved?”
“No, I’d be pretty moved. But good luck to him. My own asshole stepfather has done a fine enough job fucking shit up as it is. There’s not much left for him to maim. Next shot?”
Short Suit leaned over to say something into Preston’s ear, and Preston nodded. Still grinning. He was a creep show, this one. “Yes, your stepfather does have a long history of neglect, and of course your birth father has never been much of anything at all, has he?” He glanced at the tablet. “And…Kirsten. Your mother? How is your relationship with her?”
Fuck it, Xander was going to punch a lawyer anyway. “Get the hell out of here.”
Preston held up a hand. “Only one more thing to say. Leighton Stone is nothing if not a man of business. While it’s understandable that you feel something for his son, he’s sure your feelings will change once you hear he’s prepared to offer you—Shit!”
Whatever numerical figure Preston had been about to prattle off was lost as he and Short Suit dodged the tall piece of painted barn board folk art Xander picked up from beside the door and hefted at their heads. Before they could recover from that missile, Xander had another piece of art primed and aimed at them, which he didn’t throw but instead used to chase them to their car.
“I don’t care how much he’s prepared to offer me, you stupid fuckheads.” He lobbed the art anyway, deliberately missing them, then picked up a wire piece of yard statuary and waved it threateningly as they scrambled to unlock their doors. “I don’t want that asshat’s money. I want his son. Who, by the way, is a thousand times better at your job than you are. Which is probably why the asshole’s so desperate to get him to come join his shit-tastic fucking firm. Except too damn bad, he doesn’t get to have him. Nobody gets to have him, because he’s not a fucking prize anybody wins. He’s his own person. He’s going to make up his own mind about what he does, and he’s probably going to end up even poorer than me, God save him, but I’m going to follow him all the way to the welfare line if that’s what it comes down to. I don’t care who cuts me off or what anyone threatens me with. I want Skylar Stone. As he is, not what you want to turn him into.” He chucked the statue at the hood of the car. “Tell that fucker that! Tell him, and then never fucking come here again.”
He threw more art at the car as it drove away, then threw more art around the yard just because he could.
Then he took a long walk up the hill, into the state park.
He wandered for a long time, not sure where he was going, his head splitting. His anger had been spent, but he still felt full of fire, as if something was about to burst out of him. Like he had a thought, an idea in his head, and he needed a hammer or a knife to pry it out.
He came to the clearing at sunset. The sun was a soft orange ball nestled in a line of clouds, the fingers of color etching across the evening sky. Alizarin crimson and cadmium red and yellow and orange. If he had his oils, he could paint it. Except he didn’t want to paint it. He wanted to take a black marker, outline the edges, and turn it into a manga.
He stopped breathing.
The sun was low enough that it moved fast, and he watched the blazing ball roll lower and lower into the bluffs. Saw the hills and trees darken, their shadows lengthening and their colors taking on more blue and black.
He saw the sharpness of the lines. Where he would draw the outlines. Where he would make the edges of the manga-like painting, how he could turn it into the style that Skylar and Zelda and everyone loved. That he loved.
The vision that was his, not that of his department.
The vision that went so well with someone who had no money, whose mother had broken his heart, with someone who had just thrown art at a lawyer’s expensive car and was probably going to get the clothes sued off his back.
The vision everyone but a handful of people would hate. The one that would not get him the grade Peterson wanted.
The one that wouldn’t look wonderful on a grad school application.
But I wonder what you would think of it, Japan?
Two weeks. Two dozen paintings. He had at best five he could use.
Paint, he’d need so much new paint. And he had no money to buy it. Well, he had a tiny bit of money, but he’d need to buy canvas. More than he could afford even if he ate nothing at all until his show.
Unless you painted over every canvas you have.
His heart clenched. Too big of a risk. What if he couldn’t finish? He’d have no backup. Nothing. He could ask Skylar—
Except he couldn’t. Skylar had no money. He had to save it.
Unc—
Pamela—
He could ask everyone for one canvas, and he could sell every single record he had, every article of clothing, every pot and dish and—
The clouds parted, the sun turned red, and exploded into his face.
Xander had been staring at it, just as you weren’t supposed to, and he tried to shut his eyes, but he wasn’t fast enough, and his vision streamed, the ball burning against his retina. Except something like wings burned there too, wings and a crown. Like a figure coming at him with a sword raised.
You need to sleep more, buddy.
Rubbing his eyes, he turned back toward home.
His eyes were blurry as he walked, and he stumbled, clutching at trees, his mind still racing.
He couldn’t ask any of them. It wasn’t right. If he did this, he had to do it. He kept tripping, falling twice, but every time it only steeled his resolve. When he got back to the main road, the sun itself burned inside his chest, lighting him on fire. He felt as if he were fire.
He went to Art Building West, his heart beating like a drum inside his ears. His breath came fast. His chest hurt. As he stood in the middle of the studio, all alone, a voice whispered to him that he didn’t have to do this. He could leave well enough alone. He could ask Pamela for help. He could call his mother and beg. Or Nick and beg. He could do so many other sane things. He didn’t have to follow some crazy notion he got while hiking up a mountain.
The voice sounded a lot like his mother’s.
As he stared at his oil paintings lined up for his show, the fire wings burned across his vision.
Taking a deep breath, then letting it out, blinking through his tears, Xander hefted the brush full of primer and swiped it across the canvas.