Page 104 of Follow My Voice
“Vincent van Gogh said that.”
I press both palms against the canvas and the paint squishes through my fingers as I lick salty tears from my lips. “Cancer sucks,” I say in a whisper. “I hate it—I hate that it took my mother from me.” I slap the canvas hard and scoop up more paint. I continue tracing lines and tapping out shapes with my fingers. “I hate that it ravaged my body and ruined my mind. I miss my mom so much. And I’m so tired of living in fear. I’m…” My voice breaks.
Mann puts an arm around me and I turn to her, crying against her shoulder. “Pssst, Klara, you’re an artist. Welcome back.” She turns me around to face the canvas.
I look at the marks I’ve made and they somehow make sense to me. I can see anger and sadness, but I also see what I could create from them.
“Take as much time as you need,” Mann tells me as she heads for the door.
After taking a few minutes to compose myself, I start pouring some colors onto a palette, then take the brush and use black to create a figure in the middle of the chaos, outlining it in white to make it stand out. It’s clearly a girl. I add a darker shade of red and touches of gray to create a chaotic, fiery background. At the girl’s feet I add more grays, like ashes fallen from the flames of the sky.
I remember one night I sat shut away in my room listening to Kang’s show and I began to trace the full moon with my finger on the windowpane. I now use white to paint the moon in the red sky. As I paint, the smiling faces of my mother, Kamila, Andy, Dario float through my mind, along with all the new people who have entered my life: Diego, Perla, Ellie, and… Kang. Through the chaos, fire, ashes, and darkness these people have been my full moon, there to light my way.
I lose track of time and it’s not until someone opens the door that I realize how long it’s been. I stop painting as Mann enters. “How are we doing?”
I shrug. “It’s nothing special.”
“Let’s see,” she says, stopping before the canvas, resting her chin on one hand. “Wow. It’s beautiful, so much… pain…” Her voice trails off.
“Thank you,” I say, even though I think she’s just being polite.
“Thank you for returning to painting. I can tell that you’re going to make an important contribution to art, Klara.”
I fall silent.
“By the way, your friends are outside looking for you,” she says.
“What?” Ellie texted a while back and I told her I was in the art studio, but I didn’t expect her to come. I wipe my hands but the paint has stained my fingertips. I don’t mind; it feels good to get my hands dirty again. When I get downstairs, I’m surprised by the sound of cheers and clapping from my friends standing at the end of the hallway.
“Klara! Klara! Klara!” Perla, Ellie, and Diego chant in unison.
I take a deep breath to keep the tears from coming; I’ve already cried enough today.
“It’s okay to celebrate small victories in a big way, Klara.”
I smile and start walking toward them, shaking my head.
“You guys are totally crazy,” I say as I hug each of them.
“Oh, shush! You’re finally painting again! I’m so happy for you.”
“It’s no big deal,” I say quietly.
“Don’t sell yourself short. Of course it is. When Kang asked my mom to help you get back into art, I honestly didn’t think it would work,” Perla says.
“What?”
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Diego says. “Kang was the one who gave Ms. Romes the idea to walk you to the art room. He told us about it, too, so we could encourage you, but he askedus not to say anything. I guess we’re not very good at keeping secrets.”
I freeze. Kang did all this for me, even though we’re not together, even though I asked him to give me time to think. My mind travels back to the first time I listened to his show, to our first text messages, the hallway outside the auditorium where we first spoke, the party, the hot chocolate, our first kiss, our date to the movies (and the many dates after), our conversation at the ice cream shop, his deep black eyes, his warm smile, those dimples…
And I’m overwhelmed by all my feelings for him, which I’ve been trying to ignore for the past month and a half. I want to see him, to hug him, to tell him that he’s too good for this world and that staying away from him has been so painful, that I only did it because I thought it was the best thing for him, but… is it?
I call him, but his phone goes straight to voicemail. Ah, that’s not good. I rush through the building, with my friends chasing behind me.
“Klara?” Diego calls out from behind. “What are we doing?”
“I need to find him,” I say, out of breath.
