“So please don’t lie to me, Moses. That’s all I ask. Don’t lie to me. And I won’t lie to you. I’ll tell you everything you want to know. But don’t lie to me.”
She thought I was lying. She thought I was doing the crazy thing with her. She didn’t believe I could see Eli. She wanted me to tell her the truth, but when everyone called your truth a lie, what then?
“You’re afraid of the truth, Georgia. People that are afraid of the truth never find it,” I told her. But she didn’t look at me, staring up at the sky once more, signaling that the conversation was over. I waited for several long minutes and finally rose to my feet, leaving her there, the Lady of Shalott, the Lady of the Lake, lying in a sea of grass. My legs were shaking and I felt drained all the way to my bones as I walked away.
“I did what I came to do,” I told Tag. Although I had no idea if that was the truth, it sounded good. If that was what Eli needed me to do, to see, then it was done. Finished. All I knew was I wanted to leave, and the sooner the better.
“We’re not done painting, though,” Tag tried again.
I continued gathering supplies.
“There’s another mural upstairs. Or did you forget about that one?” Tag asked.
“I didn’t paint anything upstairs. I was pretty strung out. But I’m pretty sure I never went upstairs.” I’d walked down those stairs and out of the house, straight to the barn where I found Georgia. And I’d never walked up them again.
“Come on. I’ll show you.” Tag climbed the stairs eagerly, and I followed decidedly less so. I was sick to death of seeing my handiwork. My stomach had been as knotted as a fisherman’s net since I’d stepped inside G’s house. And it hadn’t eased yet. But when Tag pushed open the door to my old room and pointed at the wall, I realized that it wasn’t my handiwork I’d forgotten about.
The stick-figure mural was still there.
“Maybe I’m wrong, but I’m thinking this is a Moses Wright knock off. Similar styling . . . but not quite there yet,” Tag said, squinting his eyes and stroking his chin like he was actually studying a piece of artwork.
“It was Georgia.”
“No shit?” Tag said in mock surprise, and I laughed, even though I was choking on the memory.
The last Saturday before school started, Georgia failed to show up on the fence line at lunch time like she’d done every other day. By the time I packed it in, I’d convinced myself that I was better off. Good riddance. I never wanted her anyway. I stomped up the stairs into the bathroom, showered with my teeth gritted and anger coming out my ears, only to walk into my room with a towel wrapped around my waist and halt in amazement.
Georgia had painted a mural on my bedroom wall.
It looked like a child’s comic strip, complete with stick figures and speech bubbles.
The female stick figure had long blonde hair and cowboy boots and the male stick figure had bright green eyes, a paint brush, and no hair at all. The awkward stick people were holding hands in one frame, kissing in the next, and in the final frame, the girl stick figure—Georgia—was kicking the boy stick figure—me—in the head.
“What in the hell . . .” I breathed.
“Nice outfit!” Georgia chirped from where she was seated, cross legged, in the middle of my bed.
I shook my head in disbelief and pointed to the door. “Out.”
She laughed. “I’ll shut my eyes.”
I grumbled and stomped to my dresser. With one hand I gathered up some clothes and stomped back out, slamming the bathroom door as if I was truly irritated. I wasn’t. I was thrilled to see her.
I came back, fully dressed, with my arms folded, and I stood in the doorway and stared at her hideous drawing.
“Are you mad at me?” Her brow was wrinkled and her eyes were worried, and she wasn’t smiling anymore. “I thought you would laugh.” She shrugged. “I told Kathleen I was going to surprise you. And she said, ‘Go right ahead!’ So I did. I used your paints, but I put everything back.”
“Why are you kicking me in the head?”
“It’s our story. We meet. You save me. I kiss you. You kiss me back, but you keep acting like you don’t like me even though I know you do. So I’m kicking some sense into you. And man, does it feel good.” She grinned cheekily, and I looked back at her depiction. That was some kick to the head.
“It’s a terrible mural.” It was terrible. And funny. And very Georgia.
“Well, we can’t all be Leonardo DiCaprio. You painted on my walls, I’m painting on yours. And you don’t even have to pay me. I’m just trying to bond with you over art.”
“Leonardo da Vinci, you mean?”
“Him too.” She smiled again and laid back on my bed, patting the spot beside her.
“You could have at least given me some biceps. That doesn’t look anything like me. And why am I saying, ‘Don’t hurt me, Georgia!’”
I plopped down on the bed and purposely landed partially on top of her. She wiggled and scooted breathlessly, trying to free herself from my intentional squishing.
“You’re right. Maybe I should have written those words coming out of my mouth,” she giggled. But there was a look in her dark eyes that had me ducking my head and burying my face in her neck so I wouldn’t have to think about the inevitability of her pain.
She stroked my head and I breathed against her skin.
“Are we bonding over art?” she whispered in my ear.
“No. Let’s bond over something you’re actually good at,” I murmured back, and felt her chest vibrate with her laughter.