Owning It Page 5

  Theo might act dumb, but there’s a super-sharp brain behind that pretty face. I have no doubt he’s already memorized every word of the contract binding him to the ice cream dinosaur.

  “So you’re leaving Boulder?”

  I really want to say, “You’re leaving me.”

  “Yes.

  “When?”

  “The end of the month.”

  “The end of the month? But that’s only two weeks!”

  “It’s going to take me a week to drive the Bananarama from Boulder to Burlington.”

  Theo has this old banana-yellow Toyota Land Cruiser he’s been driving since high school. It breaks down a lot, but it has tons of space in the back for our band equipment or his bikes.

  “What will you do with all of your bikes and tools?”

  “I’m renting a U-Haul.”

  “Wow! This is really happening.” I grab the sleeve of his hoodie and pull him into a hug. “I am so happy for you. Wilde Rides is gonna be huge.”

  He hugs me back, hard. I am going to be lost without Theo, but I’m really glad the stegosaurus saw that he is a savage bike builder and a beautiful soul. Theo deserves a shot at Ben & Jerry’s greatness.

  We stop hugging. Theo picks up a stack of my mail, reads the return address on an envelope, and tosses it onto the floor.

  “So,” he says, tossing another envelope onto the floor, “are you going to move to Burlington and help me chase my dream or go to Paris and chase your own?”

  “Paris?”

  “Paris.” He flicks his wrist and another envelope whizzes to the floor. “France.”

  “I know where Paris is, Theo. Why would I go there?”

  “You could go to that snooty gallery and be one of those corporals.”

  “Cadré. It’s an art gallery internship, not a military promotion.”

  “So, why not go to Paree?” His French accent is really bad. “Eet ees what you want, ees eet not? To be dzee struggling arteest and live in one of dzose”—he snaps his fingers—“how you say, leetle room in dzee attic?”

  “Garret.”

  “Voilà!” He has tossed all but one of the envelopes onto the floor. He holds the last envelope behind his back and grins. “Dzees ees what you want, to leeve in a garret room and be dzee arteest intern at dzee Gallery Cadré?”

  “Yes.”

  “Zhen why not go to Paree?”

  “Une idée extrordinaire, Theo,” I say, crossing my arms and collapsing against my headboard. “Except they don’t want me.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Oh, yes they do.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Eet ees seemple, ma chérie,” he says, pulling the envelope from behind his back. “You got a letter from zhee Gallery Cadré.”

  “What? When?”

  “Today.”

  I take a deep breath and imagine myself inhaling all of the positive thoughts floating around in the collective thought-o-sphere. I hold my breath until my lungs ache and then blow out all of my doubts and negativity in a big, explosive exhalation.

  “You open it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod my head.

  “Okay, here goes.”

  He sticks his finger under the flap and begins tearing the envelope.

  What if it’s another rejection letter like the one the Colorado Museum of Fine Art sent me? What if they say I lack the qualities necessary for being an intern at the most prestigious gallery in the world?

  “Wait!”

  He stops ripping. I take another cleansing breath.

  “Go ahead.”

  He finishes opening the envelope and removes a thick packet of papers. He hands the papers to me. I close my eyes, say a little prayer to my higher power, open my eyes, and start reading.

  Dear Mademoiselle Brooks,

  Over four thousand artists from around the world applied to the Cadré Gallery’s Artistes en Résidence Programme d’Excellence this year—the highest number since Jacques-Louis Galliard de Cadré conceived of the bold and altruistic idea to create a program to foster young artists.

  “What does it say?”

  I look over the stack of papers at Theo.

  “They received a record number of applicants to the program this year.”

  “And?”

  “And that probably means I am going to be spending the next year painting murals, hocking my canvases at the flea market, and singing songs to toddlers.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” he says, snatching the papers from my hand. “I think it means you are going to be one out of the thousands to join zhee program.”

  He starts at the beginning and reads out loud. My stomach is in knots.

  “As you know, only six applicants are chosen to join our Artistes en Résidence Program. It is with great pleasure that I inform you that Le Conseil de Sélection reviewed your portfolio and application and has voted to admit you to the Spring 2017 Artistes en Résidence Program.”

  Theo stops reading and looks at me with wide, holy-shit eyes. I snatch the papers from his hands and scan the lines until I come to the part he just read.

  “Holy shiatsu balls!” I say, jumping up on my bed and hopping up and down like a giddy six-year-old. “I am going to Paris!”

  Theo laughs.

  I stop jumping as a pain shoots through my head. The pain travels from my head to my heart as I realize I don’t have enough money left in my bank account to buy a luggage tag, let alone an airline ticket from Denver to Paris.

  I stop jumping and sink to my knees on the mattress.

  “What’s going through that crazy brain of yours, Lane? Why’d you put the kibosh on your victory jumping?”

  “I can’t go to Paris.”

  “Why not?

  “Unless the Bananarama is seaworthy, I have no way to get there.” I exhale, and my lips smack together to make a violent raspberry sound. “I am flat busted. Like, outta scratch and without credit.”

  “I have some extra nuts hidden away I could give you.”

  “Thanks, but I need to dig up my own acorns. It’s time I made it on my own.”

  Theo grabs the stack of papers I dropped on the bed and reads the rest of the letter. “It says here you don’t need to be in Paris for another three months. I have faith in you, squirrel; you’ll dig up the acorns by then.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Dude!” Theo punches the air as if he’d just won the Superbowl. “What if you, like, make a CD of the songs you sing to the little dudes?”

  “I don’t have money to pay for studio time.”

  “Duuude, you’re seriously harshing my FroYo mellow.” He puts the lid on the empty container and tosses it into my trash can. “Okay, so what if I have a convo with Jared and ask him to donate the studio time and a few CDs?”

  Jared is Theo’s OBFF (Other Best Friend For, like, Ever), and he owns a multimedia company that produces videos, photography, and audio recordings for nonprofit organizations and businesses committed to “authenticity.”

  “Even if Jared donates the studio time, how will a few CDs make me enough money to spend six months in France?”

  “Hello. Hello.” He knocks on my forehead with his closed fist. “Think, McFly. We take the CDs to stores that cater to little dudes and ask the managers to play them when the stores are open. Customers and their little dudes will totally want to be able to listen to the songs when they’re not in the store, so they’ll ask the managers to hook them up. The managers will tell them Luna Sings to Little Dudes is available for download on iTunes.”

  “Doesn’t iTunes charge a fee to list music?”

  “Nah, man. They just take thirty percent of sales.”

  A bubble of hope rises from the murky, despondent depths of my heart. “Do you think I could make enough money from downloads to buy a ticket to Paris?”

  “Doubtful.”

  The bubble pops.

  “What’s
the point then?”

  “The point, McFly, is that if you just use your melon, you will probably think of other ways to get to your future.”

  Chapter 6

  Laney’s Life Playlist

  “Take Off Your Sunglasses” by Ezra Furman and the Harpoons

  “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey

  “The Climb” by Miley Cyrus

  Close your eyes.

  Take several deep breaths.

  With each breath, wipe your mind clean, like an eraser on a chalk board, until your mind is a blank space, ready to take in new thoughts.

  Are you ready?

  Good.

  Now, imagine you are magnet attracting all that is good in the world. You attract love through the boundless application of love. You attract beauty and goodness by presenting your most beautiful self to the world. You attract positive growth through positivity and action.

  Like a magnet, you can also repel. Negative, self-depreciating, and self-defeating thoughts repel love, beauty, acceptance, achievement.

  What does your heart most desire?

  Do you see it in your mind?

  Good. Now, imagine yourself pulling it to you like a magnet pulls iron. If you can believe, you can achieve. Believe you are a magnet, attracting everything you hope to achieve.

  Namaste.

  After listening to Theo’s Marty McFly pep talk and the Positive Vibes! app’s meditation on achieving, I am feeling motivated. My life might be floating in the crapper, but it’s just one flush away from a whole new scene. I am not going to keep floating in the stench of my indecision and failures. I am going places.

  The next morning, while I’m eating leftover pancakes with Nutella, I decide to take a page from Fanny’s super-organized book and make a list of everything I need to do to be a more mature adult and to make my Paris dream a reality.

  Laney’s Magnet List:

  1. Fill out insurance paperwork for accident.

  2. Send card to angry soccer mom, apologizing for crashing into her minivan.

  3. Call Jared about making Luna Sings CD.

  4. Sell all canvases.

  5. Call Get Good Press and agree to paint their mural.

  6. Sell records to High Fidelity.

  7. Go through closet. Pare down wardrobe. Take my reluctant orphans to secondhand stores (sell clothes, jewelry, and *gulp* Lucite sunglasses collection).

  8. Apologize to Dad (and Mom) for stressing them out.

  9. Buy plunger.

  By mid-afternoon, I have filled out the insurance paperwork for the accident and painted a watercolor card for Angry Soccer Mom, aka Bettina Reade of 12622 Lake Shore Drive, Longmont, Colorado.

  I have also sold most of my record collection, several boxes of clothes, and all but five pairs of my vintage Lucite sunglasses. Selling my records and sunglasses felt like performing seppuku, the ritualistic act of committing suicide by cutting open the abdomen with a short sword. I read somewhere that samurais committed seppuku to release their spirit to the afterlife. I hope giving up some of my most precious possessions will release my spirit into Paris. The alternative—a long, miserable life spent in Boulder without being able to groove to the Mamas and the Papas’ If You Can Believe Your Eyes and Ears, while wearing my ’60s Jackie O–inspired marbleized pearl and black mod specs—is worse than hell. Seriously? The B-side of that album, with “SomebodyGroovy” and “The ‘In’ Crowd,” is the end.

  Now I am wearing my ab fave pair of Lucite glasses, ’50s golden-brown femme fatale frames that make me look like Barbara Stanwyck, the shady lady in Double Indemnity, and maneuvering the Banarama into a parking space on Spruce Street. The owners of two of Boulder’s best-known galleries, Artful Soul and Munch & Lunch, have agreed to take all of my finished canvases. Although galleries usually pay sixty percent and keep forty percent, I have agreed to a fifty-fifty split because I need the cash fast.

  Named in honor the Norwegian painter Edvard Munch, Munch & Lunch is a gallery cum sandwich shop that draws Pissers—pseudo-intellectuals with serious scratch. Since Munch’s paintings are famous for their psychological themes, the sandwiches at Munch & Lunch are named after psychological disorders. My favorite is the Bipolar, a turkey and hot pepper jelly sandwich served with spicy sweet potato fries. Way better than the Schizophrenic, tuna salad and peanut butter.

  I finish pulling into the parking space, feed a fistful of coins into the meter, and drop the first load of canvases off at Artful Soul. I drop the rest of my canvases off at Munch & Lunch, grab a Bipolar to go, and am on the freeway headed to Denver to meet Jared at his studio when my phone rings.

  I fish my phone out of my purse. I hit the speakerphone button and set the phone in the cup holder.

  “Spread the joy.”

  “That’s an unusual greeting,” Fanny says, laughing.

  “I like to make my expectations clear.”

  “Well, I am pretty sure I am going to meet your joyful expectations.”

  I laugh. “You always meet my expectations, Fanny-Bo-Banny. What’s up?”

  “I got your e-mail about being accepted to the Cadré and wanted to call to congratulate you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What can I do to help you?”

  “Just send me good vibes.”

  “Always,” she says, laughing again. “But I was thinking of more tangible help, like a place to live. I spoke to my father, and he said he would be happy to let you stay in my old room. Our place isn’t that far from the gallery.”

  “Thanks, but the program requires us to live at the gallery.”

  “Bon,” she says in her no-nonsense Fanny tone. “What about a plane ticket?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “I’ll buy your ticket.”

  “Thanks, but if I go to Paris, I really want to get there under my own steam.”

  “If? If is a weak, passive word. It denotes doubt.” Fanny’s accent is thickest when she is emotional or impassioned. Right now, it is as thick as my brows. “And doubt is a bug that must be crushed beneath your heel. Crush it, Laney.”

  I imagine a ladybug fluttering its wings in a vain attempt to escape the heel of my fur-trimmed granny boots, and my stomach lurches.

  “Crush it!” Fanny orders. “Crush the fat, ugly cockroach before it crawls into your basket and ruins your picnic. Do it!”

  “Okay! I’m doing it! I am crushing the cockroach.”

  “Bon!” she laughs.

  Fanny’s innate strength can be intoxicating. Just a few minutes talking with her and I feel drunk with the possibilities looming on my horizon. Maybe my doubts will return tomorrow, like a bad hangover, but today I feel empowered, strong, focused.

  “Merci, Fanny.”

  “De rien.”

  We chat until I pull into the parking garage near Jared’s studio. Fanny tells me about some of the handcrafted items she’s selling in her boutique, life in her small Highland town, and her plans for her wedding. Before we hang up, she makes me pinkie-promise that I will tell her if I don’t raise enough scratch to buy my ticket to Paris.

  “Karma might be a mean girl, but she was super nice when she introduced us,” I say, sniffling. “I don’t know what I did to deserve a friend like you.”

  “I could say the same thing, ma chérie.”

  * * *

  “That’s great, Laney,” Jared says, his voice low and reassuring in my headphones. “I think we got it.”

  It’s after midnight. We’ve been recording songs for over nine hours. Theo showed up a few hours ago with salads and soup from Uber Eats, a vegetarian place not too far from the studio. He rode his bike from Boulder to Denver. Thirty-two miles. Ninety minutes of intense cycling cardio is nothing for Theo, but it means everything to me.

  He grins at me through the window and gives me two thumbs-up. I must have done something right for karma to give me such a to-die best friend. Forget Beyoncé and Jay Z, Jennifer Lawrence and Amy Schumer, Craft Beer and Food Truck Tacos. The
o Wilde and Laney Brooks are the OTP of the decade. We are the one true pairing . . . in the completely nonromantic way.

  I take off my headphones and leave the booth. Jared and Theo meet me in the hallway.

  “We’ve got six good tracks,” Jared says. “That should be enough to upload to iTunes.”

  “It sounded good, then?”

  “Dude, you were slaying it,” Theo says.

  “Thanks.”

  We walk back into the studio. Theo and Jared help me pack up my instruments. I had brought my ukulele, guitar, tambourine, and harmonicas.

  “I thought of another way you could make some scratch to fund your PBG,” Jared says, grabbing my tambourine and giving it a little shake. “Like, serious ka-ching.”

  “PBG?”

  “Paris Bohemian Goals.”

  I suddenly see myself living like Manet, minus the affluent parents. Working in my cold garret room from sunrise to sunset to capture snapshots on canvas of bohemian and bourgeois Parisian life. Surviving on cheap red wine and baguettes. Exchanging radical ideas on art in smoke-filled cafés. I can’t help but smile.

  “Hit me. What’s your idea?”

  “Start a YouTube channel.”

  I exhale, blowing my bangs off my forehead, and roll my eyes. “There must be, like, a billion singers on YouTube, with, like, a trillion uploads of covers.”

  “That’s because there’s, like, a billion dollars to be made on YouTube if you have a popular channel,” he says, rolling his eyes and mimicking my pff whatever tone.

  Jared means well, and I am being a total Rooney (the creepy principal in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Hail Hughes!). A tyrant in Lucite cat’s-eyes. A month ago, I would have been excited about the idea of starting a YouTube channel. It would have been all fairies and pixie dust and big dreams. Life has knocked the pixie dust right out of me.

  “I appreciate the idea,” I say, smiling. “Do you really think I could be the next Madilyn Bailey or Kurt Hugo Schneider?”

  “Doubtful,” Theo says, pulling his beanie out of his pocket and putting it on his head. I stick my tongue out at him. “Not before you have to leave for Paris. Just keepin’ it real.”