Owning It Read online

  “I don’t think your channel should just be about songs,” Jared says.

  “You don’t?” I turn my attention from Theo to his friend. “Why not?”

  “You aren’t a one-dimensional person, Laney. You’re, like, multidimensional. Your channel should be a platform for you to share your many dimensions.”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  “What if you used the channel to document the next year of your life? The broad stroke would be your journey from Boulder to Paris, but the finer strokes would be your journey through life.”

  “Who would want to watch videos about my life?”

  “A lot of people. There are loads of twenty-somethings in the world trying to figure out what colors are supposed to be on their canvases. I’ll bet they would identify with your struggle. Think about it”—he holds up his fingers like he is framing a shot—“a down-on-her-luck young artist embarks on a journey of self-empowerment and spiritual enlightenment by going to the City of Lights. You could call it Illuminated or Blank Canvas.”

  “Pixie dust.”

  “What?”

  “Pixie dust,” Theo interjects. “That means she is feeling your idea.”

  Jared looks at me. “Are you?”

  “Totes.”

  Chapter 7

  Laney’s Life Playlist

  “My Best Friend” by Weezer

  “Bitter Sweet Symphony” by The Verve

  “Miles Apart” by Yellowcard

  “Well, I’m off like Monica Bellucci’s bikini top,” Theo says, flashing a toothy grin in a perfect imitation of Duckie, our favorite character from our favorite John Hughes movie, Pretty in Pink.

  My heart hurts. Maybe not as much as Duckie’s heart hurt when Andy blew him off for Squaresville Blane, but it really hurts. We are standing in my parents’ driveway, beside the Bananarama, just like we did when I went off to Alaska for my volunteer year. But somehow this good-bye feels different. Heavier.

  I wrap my arms around him in a final hug.

  “We will always be best friends, Theo.”

  I say it for me more than him.

  “Duuude, you’re harshing my farewell mellow,” he laughs, hugging me back. “You know this isn’t a forever good-bye?”

  We break the hug and stand across from each other.

  “I know we will see each other again, but it feels like it did when I moved out of my parents’ house. I knew I would see them for Sunday dinners and holidays, but I also knew there would be this barely perceptible shift from intimate to just close.” I shrug my shoulders and smile wistfully. “I’m just going to miss sharing all of the minutia of our lives. That’s all.”

  “What if I promise to keep sharing the minutia?”

  “Will you?”

  “I promise,” he says, placing his hand over his heart. “I, Theodore S. Wilde, promise to call Delaney Lavender Brooks every time the Bananarama craps out, FroYo releases a new flavor, or I watch an ’80s flick.”

  I do one of those sad laugh-sniffle noises.

  “Before I go”—he opens the driver’s side door and lifts a blue bag off the seat—“I got you something.”

  He hands me the bag. I don’t need to open it. I know what is inside.

  “You bought me the Jullian Plein Air Easel?”

  “You said all of the artists in Paris use that easel.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But what?” He climbs into the Bananarama and slams the door. “You’re an artist, and you’re going to Paris, aren’t you?”

  I nod my head, and tears slip down my cheeks.

  “Okay, now you’re really harshing my farewell mellow.” He turns the key and the Bananarama rumbles to life. “Duuude, stop crying. Tears are for pussies.”

  He grins and puts the Bananarama into reverse.

  What-the-what? I can’t believe the last thing my best friend said to me before driving off to chase his dream of being a bike mogul was not to be a pussy.

  I am still standing in the driveway, staring down the street at the Bananarama’s fading taillights, when my iPhone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out and stare at the screen.

  TEXT FROM THEO WILDE:

  Look inside the bag.

  I carry the heavy blue bag into the house and up the stairs to my room. Unzipping the bag, I find an envelope with my name written on it in Theo’s practically illegible script.

  Inside the envelope I find a gift card to Sennelier, the oldest and most venerated art store in Paris. A generous gift card that would allow me to buy most of the supplies I would need for my year at the Cadré.

  I am about to text Theo to tell him I couldn’t possibly accept such a generous gift when I see a folded piece of paper sticking out of the envelope.

  Laney Dude,

  I know you think I am being way too generous with this gift card, but it’s not really a gift. I’m your Stegosaurus Dude. I am investing in your ice cream. Pay me back when you get Ben & Jerry’s big. I know you will rock the Paris art scene.

  Theo

  Chapter 8

  Laney’s Life Playlist

  “Be What You Wanna Be” by Darin Zanyar

  “She’s Leaving Home” by The Beatles

  “Big City Dreams” by Never Shout Never

  I am flying to Paris tomorrow morning. Icelandair flight 670, departing at 5:00 with a layover in Reykjavik, and I haven’t told my parents I am leaving. I don’t think my eggshell resolve could take another of my mom’s assaults. Hearing her dismiss my art as a hobby and prepubescent diversion was pretty shattering.

  If I were a superhero, my superpower would be avoidance. Able to dodge awkward or difficult conversations in a single bound.

  It might not sound like much of a superpower, but it’s literally saved my life. Imagine, if you will, a dark alternate universe wherein I confessed my intention to use what little money I have scraped together to fly to Paris to be an unpaid intern in an art gallery. KRASH. BLAM. Holy torpedo! Mom would have brought out her heavy arsenal, the prepubescent diversions speech, and I would have folded like Superman’s cape.

  Call it rebellion. Call it desperation. Call it determination. Call it whatever you want, but ever since I found out I was accepted to the Artistes en Résidence Program, I have been mega-motivated and focused. I have been fabricating my own pixie dust, and I haven’t wanted anyone to blow it away.

  In Peter Pan, Tinkerbell sprinkles the golden, sparkly dust on Wendy, Michael, and John Darling so they can fly around Neverland. That’s all pixie dust is: something that makes you believe you can fly, that you can chase your dreams.

  Mom means well. She doesn’t mean to be a pixie dust blower. She’s of a world that believes pixie dust is the stuff of childish fantasies. I’m of a world that believes pixie dust exists as long as you believe it exists. It’s more than a state of mind; it’s a way of life. People who live the pixie dust life dream and encourage others to follow their dreams.

  In a few minutes, I am going to have to tell my parents I intend to follow my dreams.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, walking into the kitchen and taking a deep whiff. “The pork roast smells to die. Anything I can do to help?”

  “Would you set the table, please?”

  “Abs.”

  She looks at me with one brow raised.

  “I mean, absolutely.”

  I take the plates out of the cupboard and the silverware out of the drawer beside the dishwasher, and arrange them on the table. I take the pitcher of iced tea out of the fridge and pour us each a glass. Then I sit at the table and wait for the moment I have been dreading for seven weeks and three days. The moment I say, “Um, Mom, Pops, thanks for the serious parental talk about getting a paying job, one with bennies and advancement opportunities, but I’ve decided to disregard it and move to Paris instead, where I am going to work for free and live with five other bohemians in an attic room.”

  Mom carries the roast to the table. The scent of sage, apples, and roasted potatoes circles around
us like a warm, cozy blanket, and for a second, I wonder if leaving home is a good idea. I wonder if I am making decisions that will keep me from creating my own happy little domestic scenes. Is Mom right? Are my prepubescent pursuits leading me toward a lonely and unstable future of frozen dinners purchased with welfare checks?

  It’s not too late. I could refund my ticket and use the money to buy a sensible pants suit. I could apply to be a substitute music teacher or an art therapist at a home for at-risk youth.

  I could . . .

  . . . dance to the beat of my own heart. The beat that has been so loud it has drowned out all other sounds. The beat that has brought me to this very moment, this moment of truth. Will I continue to dance to my own tune, or will I fall in step with everyone else, ignore the music in my soul that compels me to skip while everyone else is marching?

  Pops is on his second serving of roasted potatoes and carrots when I tell them I have decided to keep on skipping. I know the news will come as a shock to them, but it shouldn’t. I have never been a goose stepper. When my classmates were drinking the conformity Kool-Aid, I was sipping Sunny D and spinning circles in the playground.

  “I was accepted to the Cadré Artistes en Résidence Program.”

  I fork some pork into my mouth and wait for Mom to demand I stop skipping and start marching.

  “You were?” Mom asks, brows raised.

  It’s one of those shocked, I-can’t-believe-it questions. She draws the “were” out for several insulting beats as if she needs extra time to absorb a scenario in which I actually succeed at something.

  “Of course you were!” Pops smiles. “You’re a talented artist, Lane.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  This is absolute amazeballs! The conversation I have been dreading for seven weeks and three days, the one where my parents douse my pixie dust with a bucket of cold, wet reality, is so not happening. Pops isn’t saying my art sucks canal water.

  “So, you’re okay with me going then?”

  He clears his throat and looks at my mother. If he were a cartoon character, this is when he would sputter, his cheeks would turn fire-engine red, and he would obsessively adjust his collar.

  My mom rests her fork on her plate. She lifts the napkin from her lap and folds it three times to form a neat rectangle. When she finally speaks, her voice is low and carefully modulated, like she’s speaking to a dim-witted child.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, placing her napkin on her plate. “You don’t have the financial means to fly to Paris, let alone live there for six months.”

  “I can make it work.”

  She inhales. “How, Laney? How will you make it work? Will you sing a happy song that summons your woodland creature friends, who will bring you forest berries and a basket full of cash?”

  “Wow.” I lean back in my chair and exhale. “That’s totes harsh.”

  “Life can be harsh, especially if you spend most of it chasing dreams. We aren’t living in a happily-ever-after Disney cartoon.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but all I can do is stare at this alien creature who supposedly hatched me. I look at her. Really look at her. The down-turned lips. The frown lines. The blouse buttoned to the chin.

  “How did it happen, Mom?”

  “How did what happen?”

  “How did you lose your pixie dust?”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “How did you forget that you can fly?” My voice wavers. “Wasn’t there a time when you had a dream?”

  “I am not a dreamer, Laney.”

  Tears flood my eyes.

  “Yes, you are,” Pops says, reaching for my mom’s hand and squeezing it. “You had a lot of dreams when you were Laney’s age. We used to spend hours at The Sink, drinking that Golden Ale they had on tap and sharing our dreams.”

  Wait! What? The Sink is a restaurant and bar in Boulder that’s been around for, like, ninety years. It’s a quirky dive, known for making amazing burgers and attracting famous customers, like Madeleine Albright and Anthony Bourdain. Now, if that’s not the quirkiest pairing in the world, I don’t know what is.

  “You used to go to The Sink?”

  I stare at my mother, blinking back the tears. I can’t imagine my mom and pops chillin’ at The Sink. And they drank Golden Ale on tap? Pops has no idea how much his revelation is giving me life.

  Pops nods his head. “That was our place. I even wrote our names on the ceiling near the air vent. Elisabet and Grant, in purple Sharpie.”

  Theo and I wrote our names on a wall. Everyone writes their names on the walls of The Sink. Everyone, but Professors Elisabet and Grant Brooks? I can’t even right now.

  Mom looks at Pops. Her gaze softens. Her frown lines disappear. The corners of her mouth turn up in a half-smile for just a nanosecond.

  “That was a long time ago, when we had the luxury to do silly things.” Mom looks back at me, frown lines firmly in place. “You’re twenty-five, Laney. You’ve done a lot of silly things, but you don’t have the luxury to do many more.”

  “Being an artiste in résidence at one of the world’s most prestigious galleries isn’t a silly thing, Mom.”

  Tears fill my eyes again. As corny, rom-com-worth as it sounds, I want her to love me . . . just as I am. I have always wanted her to love me, quirks, lack of focus, habitually late habit, and all.

  “You don’t have the money for a ticket to Paris.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You do?” Mom frowns. “A ticket to Paris must be over a thousand dollars. Where did you get that kind of money?”

  “Eight hundred and sixty-nine dollars and fifty-two cents,” I say, wiping a stray tear with the back of my hand. “And I paid for it with money I earned.”

  “Earned?” Pops leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You didn’t tell us you got a job.”

  “I didn’t get a job. I took a gig painting a mural on the wall of Get Good Press. It’s an organic juice bar and news agent in the Pearl Street Mall.”

  “A mural?” Mom asks.

  I nod my head.

  “And you made enough money painting a mural to buy a ticket to Paris?”

  “I made enough to buy four tickets to Paris!”

  “Good for you, Lane,” Pops smiles. “You see what you can accomplish when you put your mind to it? I am so proud of you. My daughter’s artwork is on the wall of a business right here in Boulder, for thousands of people to see.”

  Pops is sprinkling some serious pixie dust on me. It doesn’t matter that my artwork has been hanging on the walls of several galleries here in Boulder for months now. I am sparkling with happiness and ready to fly.

  “That’s great, honey.” And now Mom is sprinkling the dust. “I can’t wait to go to Get Good Press and see your mural.”

  Whee! I am floating, free-falling, flying.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “But”—she takes a deep breath and blows my pixie dust clean away—“you will need to paint a lot of murals to earn enough to spend a year in Paris.”

  “I am going to Paris.” I see myself making a superhero landing, knee bent, scowl fierce. “Nobody is going to stop me.”

  “We aren’t going to fund your year in Paris.”

  “I’m not asking you to fund me.”

  “How will you pay for food, toiletries, art supplies?”

  “Munch and Lunch sold four of my canvases, and Artful Soul sold two more.” I can’t keep the self-congratulatory note from my tone. “I also liquidated my record and sunglasses collections. Added together with the money I have left from doing the mural, I should be able to live like a starving artist in Paris.”

  I don’t bother telling them that my newly padded bank account contains only enough to allow me to live like a starving artist for four of the six months. The last two months I will just be starving. I don’t tell them that I am banking on getting a royalty check from iTunes. And I sure don’t tell them that I am bank
ing on them floating me a loan if things get Toulouse-Lautrec bad (I am referencing, of course, the artist’s struggles with poverty, not syphilis).

  Pops sits back in his chair and lets out a long breath. “We hoped she would show some initiative and motivation, Elisabet. I think she’s met our hopes.”

  Mom looks at Pops with her you-can’t-be-serious expression, before staring at me, eyes wide, disbelieving.

  “I have accepted that you don’t want to be a lawyer or doctor, but starving artist? Really, Delaney? Is that really what you aspire to be?”

  I remember my conversation with Fanny last night, and a strange sort of déjà vu washes over me.

  “Face it, Laney-Bo-Baney, you won’t ever be a lawyer or doctor. You have an artist’s soul, so own it. You are meant to bring beauty and light into this world. Own your destiny. That’s when the magic will happen.”

  “I’m owning it.”

  Mom frowns. “Excuse me?”

  “I want to be an artist, Mom.”

  Fanny’s voice whispers in my ear. “Stop saying want. It’s a weak, passive word. Own that shit, Laney.”

  “I am an artist, Mom.”

  Chapter 9

  Laney’s Life Playlist

  “Nerd Lust” by Schäffer the Darklord

  “Pumpkin Soup” by Kate Nash

  “You are not an artiste. You might desire, long, yearn to be an artiste, but you are not truly an artiste until you ’ave suffered for your passion.”

  I have been in Paris for exactly three hours and fourteen minutes, and I have managed to eat two pains au chocolat and anger one Frenchman. Monsieur Alexandre Galliard de Cadré is the gallery manager. He’s tall, lithe, intimidatingly sophisticated, and a stickler for punctuality. He didn’t say he was upset over my tardiness, but his aura, which is mostly the blue-black of a powerful intellectual, definitely showed some angry red when I walked into the gallery.

  I missed the shuttle the gallery had arranged for the artistes en résidence because I was buying the aforementioned croissants. Missing the shuttle meant taking a taxi. Taking a taxi meant getting to the gallery an hour after the other artistes and earning Monsieur Alexandre’s disapproving tsk-tsk.