Page 32 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
“So what’s your thing?” Oliver prompts.
All of them turn to me, and my thoughts nose-dive off a cliff. Because whatismy thing? What am I meant to be? Without modeling, there’s nothing special about me anymore. But that’s the kind of thing you confess to your therapist after at least ten sessions together, not in the middle of a casual conversation. Plus, if I tell them the truth, they’ll realize how unbearably boring I am, how my whole confident persona might as well be propped up by a few weak tentpoles, threatening to cave in under the slightest pressure.
I swallow, ignore the low, tumbling feeling in my gut, and—in an act of true desperation—glance out the window for ideas. There’s not much to go off of. The sprawling compounds rush by in dark gray and brown blurs, the mountains curving in the horizon, their shapes softening with distance until it’s difficult to tell where they blend in with the clouds … “Clouds,” I say, before the silence can drag on long enough to become suspicious.
Oliver blinks. “Huh?”
Cyrus’s brows furrow, and I feel my stomach twist nervously in response. He’s the only one here who knows enough about me to see straight through my lie. The only one who’d expect me to talk about modeling.
To stop him from questioning me outright, I rush to elaborate: “Cloud drawings, I mean.” Like this is a very real hobby that real people most definitely have. “I just find that they’re so peaceful, and there’s so much you get out of drawing them. Like, artistically. And emotionally.”
Cyrus stares at me for another beat, clearly trying to figure out where I’m going with this. I make myself stare back, cleanse my face of any panic, as if my palms aren’t sticking to my skirt with sweat right now.Don’t say anything,I will silently, drawing upon any mind-control powers that might be lurking dormant within me.Don’t ask about the modeling. Just accept that I love drawing clouds.
“Remind me, what kind of clouds did you like drawing again?” Cyrus asks me, resting his chin on one hand.
This is sonotthe follow-up I was braced for, and I don’t know whether to feel relieved or to start searching for the closest emergency exit on the train. Despite the utter nonchalance of his tone, there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.
I clear my throat. “Well, you know. High clouds, low clouds, medium clouds, semi-medium clouds, storm clouds …” Dammit, I’m running out of clouds. “I’m not picky.”
“That’s a real niche interest you’ve got there,” Oliver comments good-naturedly, and for some reason, my relief at him buying my ridiculous lie is chased away by guilt. It’d be nice if I didn’t have to choose between being myself and being liked.
“But she’sreallygood at them,” Cyrus jumps in, turning to smile at me. Abruptly, I remember that phrase my mom always says, one that never made sense until now:Don’t be afraid of a crying owl; it’s the laughing owl you should fear.I can handle Cyrus with his regular poker face and general air of suffering, but I have no idea what to do when Cyrus is smiling at me like that. “Leah, you have to show them your cloud drawings.”
I freeze. “Oh, I mean—I didn’t bring any with me. They’re in my special cloud sketchbook—”
“You can draw them right here,” Cyrus says, smiling still, his features positively angelic, concealing his diabolical schemes. It’s middle school all over again. He just wants to see me make a complete fool of myself and laugh at my expense. “It’s not like we’ll be getting off this train anytime soon.”
“But I don’t have my art supplies,” I counter, smiling back through clenched teeth. Never mind the dormant mind-control powers. I’d give anything for the power to kill with just my eyes.
“You can use this,” Cyrus says at once, reaching into his bag and pulling out a black ballpoint pen with our last hotel’s brand name on it. “And you can draw on my hand. I’d be honored.”
I want to refuse, but Oliver’s watching me with keen interest, like a child waiting to see a fireworks show for the first time.
Fighting the vicious urge to use the pen as a weapon, I snatch it from Cyrus and turn toward him. He extends his hand, his palm held open. He has the long, elegant fingers of a pianist, his skin smooth and so pale on the underside of his wrist that it’s almost translucent, the purplish-blue veins as visible as creeks running through snow. I grab his arm to steady it against the movement of the train, my nails digging in with a little more force than necessary, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull back. His attention remains sharp on me as I tighten my grip on the pen and press down, outlining the wobbly shape of a cloud in the center of his palm.
“There,” I say. “Done.”
Oliver and Daisy both peer over.
“That’s so cute,” Daisy says very generously, and I feel a sharp surge of affection for the girl. She’s one of those people who is kind solely for the sake of being kind.
“It has personality,” Oliver agrees. “Personal style is important when it comes to art.”
Cyrus lifts his hand and stares down at the cloud for a long time, his lashes shadowing his eyes, focusing hard as if I’ve really drawn something worthy of critical analysis. Even his breathing seems to still. Then his fingers furl around the doodle. “Your art holds such potential,” he tells me. “If you just added horns to it, you’d have a sheep.”
If I just added horns to you, we’d have your true form, I can’t help replying inside my head.
He glances past me as an attendant pushes a snack trolley down the aisle toward us, the wheels rumbling under the weight of all the bottled drinks and instant noodles. I immediately forget about him and perk up. It’s only been a few hours since our last meal, but I still crane my neck to scan the trolley. This was one of my guilty pastimes when I’d force myself to go hungry for a shoot—I would stand in the middle of the grocery store aisle and simply browse through the shelves of ready-made cakes, imagining myself eating all the things I couldn’t.
“You shenme xuyao de ma?” the attendant asks in Chinese, slowing down near our seats, and again, I’m surprised at how the words—which would’ve been a nonsensical jumble to me when I was in LA—actually clarify themselves inside my head, only because I’ve heard the words spoken by so many waiters and hotel staff by this point.Is there anything you need?
The top layer of the trolley is covered by an assortment of lemon iced tea, grape juice, and milk tea; the layer beneath it dedicated to beef jerky and sesame candy and the Choco Pies I used to crave all the time, with the soft white marshmallow filling and the crumbling cake layers.
I’m about to say yes, but Oliver turns away with a look of complete disinterest, and Daisy has already returned to her knitting. I bite my tongue, feeling stupidly self-conscious at being the only one so eager to try out a bunch of likely overpriced snacks.
Cyrus’s gaze flickers in my direction, and then he tells the attendant something in Chinese. Apparently, he’s asked to buy half the trolley, because she brightens and starts handing over a packet of almost every item, until Cyrus runs out of room on his lap and has to spread the mini mountain of snacks out on his tray.
“Here,” Cyrus says, tossing one of the Choco Pies to me. He doesn’t make any move to eat the food himself.
