There’s this place downtown where you can sit with your feet in water and little fish come and eat the dead skin off your toes.
And you’re telling me this, why? Cooper responded.
The list. Trying something new. I needed a new painting stat, and I couldn’t think of anything. It was time to force myself to think way outside the box.
My sister has a goldfish. You can stick your foot in its bowl if this sounds like fun to you.
Nope. Fish spa.
Sounds lame.
I don’t hear you coming up with any ideas.
My brain is still thinking.
Well I’m going to try this anyway. With or without you. I still have three more new things to try, right?
Without me.
Are you scared of fish? Wouldn’t I know this if he were? But I didn’t know. Maybe I’d found his fear and I’d force him to do this with me.
No. I’m not.
Come with me, you punk.
Race today. Must mentally prepare myself to be even more awesome than I already am.
Fine.
I’ll see you at my race.
“I’m going to the fish spa,” I declared as I entered the living room. Grandpa and Mom were sitting on the couch. Grandpa had the television on. Mom had her laptop open. “Who’s coming with me?”
“Fish spa?” Mom asked.
“Little fish eat the dead skin off your feet.”
“Fish? Can’t you just use a loofah?” she asked.
“It’s an experience.”
“Won’t you catch some sort of infection?” Mom held up her foot and wiggled her bare toes.
“I don’t think so.”
Grandpa stood. “I’ll go.”
“Mom?” She was typing into the computer in a way that made me worried she was looking up the safety of fish spas.
“No, thank you. I’m writing an email to your father.”
“Tell him I said hi and tell him about the fish.”
She nodded without looking up. “I will.”
Grandpa and I sat on the tile edge of the long, trough-like pool of shallow water. The place didn’t smell like fish. It smelled like incense, and chlorine from the hot tub we had passed on our way to this room. In the water, Grandpa’s feet were surrounded by fish. “You must have more dead skin because you’re old,” I said. My feet were unadorned.
“I am the perfect age,” he said.
“The perfect age for fish.”
He ruffled my hair.
The water was a little colder than room temperature, and the coolness felt like it was traveling up my legs.
“What’s it feel like?” I asked.
“It tickles.”
“Come here, little fish,” I said, inching my left foot closer to Grandpa’s right. A single fish, appearing warped from the movement of the water, worked its way over to me. My shoulders tensed as it got closer. And just as it was about to nibble, I let out a yelp and yanked my feet out of the water.
Grandpa laughed. “What’s this? Scared?”
“No, it just surprised me.”
“It surprised you? You watched it the entire time.”
“Okay, fine, I saw it coming, but it scared me when it finally got close.”
He nodded toward my still-raised legs. “Try again. You can do it.”
They were just fish. Little ones, at that. I took a deep breath and slowly put my feet back in. The single fish that had braved the trip to my feet before had left, so now I had to wait once again. It was the waiting that was the most nerve-racking. The waiting and watching the impending approach. This time I kept my feet in. This time I felt the slight tickle of the fish as it made contact over and over again.
“That doesn’t hurt at all,” I said.
“I told you it wouldn’t.”
“I thought you were bending the truth.”
This is when I thought Grandpa would be offended, or at least fake offense, that I had suggested he would lie to me. But he just shook his head a little and smiled.
I stared at the fish for a long time before saying, “I asked Mom to come to my art show last night . . . I mean, if I end up getting in the show.”
“You did?” he asked.
“She didn’t tell you?” That worried me. They talked about everything.
“Maybe it slipped her mind.”
I wiggled my toes a little, but the fish stayed put. “Do you think she’ll come?”
“I’ll come.” He smiled over at me.
“You don’t think she’ll come?”
“I think she’ll try very hard.”
More fish surrounded my feet now. “She promised. And when she promises, she always follows through.”
“You’re right. She does.”
Grandpa and I had hit traffic on the way home from the spa and I barely made Cooper’s race for the second time. I found his family and was surprised to see an addition to the little group—Iris. At least, it looked like the girl I remembered seeing once, briefly. She was cuter than I remembered. Her brown hair was pulled up into a high ponytail and she was holding a sign with Cooper’s name on it. I lowered my sign to my side and finished my walk a little slower.
“Hey,” I said when I reached them.
Amelia hopped up and down, then gave me a hug. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“I know. I haven’t been to your house lately. Sorry.”
“Have you met Iris?” Mrs. Wells asked.
“No,” Iris said at the same time I said, “Yes.”
“We have?” she asked.
“I was at the movie night on the beach a few weeks ago.”
“Was that you?” She stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.” I shook her extended hand. “I’m Abby.”
“Are you friends with Cooper?” she asked.
She didn’t know I was friends with Cooper? He’d never mentioned me? I tilted my head, studying her expression. She looked completely serious. They really hadn’t hung out that much. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. “Yes, I am.”
She nodded with a smile.
“Looks like they’re starting,” Mr. Wells said.
“Oh!” Iris turned her attention back to the course. “This is so exciting.”
“Have you never watched a race on the dunes before?”
“No. This is my first time.”
“Did you grow up here?”
“No, we moved here two years ago from Ohio.”
“Wait, do you go to Pacific High?” I’d never seen her around school before, but I didn’t know everyone. I was middle-of-the-road popularity-wise.
“No, I go to Dalton Academy,” she said. Dalton was the private school right on the beach. It had marine biology classes, and surfing could replace normal PE.
“Oh, cool. Do you like it?”
“It’s amazing.”
The man holding the red flag lowered it, and the drivers were off.
“Which one is Cooper?” Iris asked.
I pointed. “The bright-green helmet.”
She stood up on her tiptoes and let out a squeal. Cooper took a jump and landed front-tires first, his back tires airborne for a few seconds longer. Iris gasped from beside me.
“Don’t worry,” I said, sensing the anxiety that I knew so well. “He was born on the dunes.”
She laughed. “That’s what he said.”
“Right . . .” Of course he would tell her that too.
This wasn’t the first time a girl had shown up to watch Cooper. But seeing her there, so comfortable with his family, so excited about his race, this was the first time I felt like I was the outsider, the one who didn’t belong here.
Cooper finished in first, like he always did, and Iris went wild, causing Mr. and Mrs. Wells to smile.
I glanced at my phone. I needed to shower and get a little more professional for the museum tour, plus I still had the drawings the preschool teacher had brought in to hang, but I had over an hour, so I could stay and at least say hi to Cooper. Maybe his presence would make things feel normal again. We all walked to the trailer where he would meet us.
“That was fun. He’s good,” Iris said, falling in step beside me as we walked.
“Yes, he is. Fearless.”
Cooper was already at the trailer, helmet off, when we got there. The first thing he did was give Iris a hug. “I like your sign.”
She let out a happy yelp.
“Did you meet Abby?” he asked.
“Yes, we met,” Iris said. I waited for her to say something like, why have you never told me about Abby before? But she didn’t. I waited for him to say something like, she’s my best friend in the world. But he didn’t.
“Are we going out to celebrate?” Mrs. Wells asked.
“I have to run, but have fun,” I said.
“Where are you going?” Cooper asked me. “You don’t want to celebrate?”
“I have that museum preschool group thing, remember?”
“Oh, right.” He gave me a side hug.
I pushed him away a little. “Ew. You’re sweaty.”
He laughed. “It’s hot. And this is ‘winner glow.’”
“Congrats on your win. I’ll see you later?”
“Yes. For sure.”
I said bye to everyone else and left with only one backward glance. It wasn’t a good move on my part, because all I saw was Cooper giving Iris another hug and his family all smiles.
“Are you a painter?” It was the second time the little girl had asked me that question. I had led the group and their parents through over half of the museum at a faster rate than I would’ve an older group. I was surprised their attention spans had lasted this long. This was the first tour I had personally led, but I’d watched what felt like a thousand. I didn’t think I’d be this excited to lead one, but I was enjoying opening their eyes to art, even if they weren’t quite getting it. A little boy in the back of the group head-butted his mom’s leg over and over. I sensed I was seconds from losing them. But this little girl, the one in the front, with big brown eyes and pigtails, was paying attention. And apparently she knew a nonanswer when she heard one, because she didn’t accept my “I like art” answer.
“Yes, I paint.”
“Show us your painting here,” she said.
I straightened the museum blazer I wore. “I don’t have a painting here. These are famous artists on display. And once a year, we have an art show with amateur art that people can buy.”
“So that’s when we can see your paintings?”
“Maybe.” I clapped my hands together. “But right now, I’m going to show you some really famous works of art.” I was deflecting a four-year-old’s question. How pathetic was I?
I led the kids down the hall and into the room where I had hung all their drawings, lower on the wall than the other paintings, so they could see easier. I’d even rearranged some spotlights to highlight them.
This focused the previously restless group.
I spoke in an official tour guide voice as I said, “Art from the Schoolhouse Preschool is on display today. This is a rare exhibit that we’ve never had before, so it’s extra special.” The kids pointed out their own drawings with loud voices. Even the parents and teacher seemed more animated than they had been until then. I noticed Mr. Wallace in the back. He gave me a thumbs-up. As the group filed out, Mr. Wallace walked with them, talking to the teacher as he went.
I began taking the drawings down one by one. The skill level of the four-year-olds was more or less the same. They could draw circles with eyes on them and sticks for legs and arms. They could draw a sun or a rough tree. But there was one drawing that was quite good, that was well above the skill level of the others. This was how I’d been with my art at a young age, ahead of the curve. This was what prompted my parents to put me in classes.
Feet scuffing along tile caught my attention, and I looked up.
Cooper’s smile greeted me.
“You’re here,” I said both surprised and happy.
“Do you know how tempted I was to sneak up and scare you? What had your undivided attention?”
I held up the drawing I’d been looking at. It was a girl standing under a rainbow. It was obvious it was a girl; she had more than just a circle head. She had arms and legs and a body. She wore a purple dress.
“Cute,” he said. “Did you draw that?”
“Funny. No. A four-year-old drew this.”
“Is Mr. Wallace putting it in the show?” His voice was sarcastic.
“Shhh,” I hissed. “Don’t say stuff like that here. He’s everywhere.” I looked around, but the room was empty.
“Maybe I should say stuff like that here. Maybe it will make him think.”
I sighed and pulled down the remaining drawings.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said. “What was I supposed to notice about that four-year-old’s drawing?”
“Probably nothing.” This child’s picture may have been ahead of the curve now, but everyone would catch up with her soon enough. I stacked the papers together and looked up at him. “I thought you were out with your family.”
“We just grabbed dessert this time, so we’re done. And I have something for you.”
“Okay.”
“We were leaving the Cheesecake Factory and they had one more piece of white chocolate raspberry left. One! And I thought, it’s fate. Or whatever you like to call it.” He brought the white bag with colorful stripes out from behind his back.
“You’re the best.”
“I know. Now come on. Let’s go sit on the overlook so you can share that with me.”
That night I went home and set up a small canvas. I painted a fish. At first I painted it realistic, as if viewing it underwater. But I realized it didn’t feel right. How I’d been feeling at the spa, how I’d felt at Cooper’s race that day, didn’t match up with what I’d created. I changed the painting. I made the fish warped, bent at a weird angle, its parts not aligned quite right. I made the water around it choppy, almost murky, unclear. I stepped back and studied the final product. That was how I felt.