Page 33 of Brushed and Buried
My pencil moves across the paper without conscious direction. The curve of Vince’s jaw first, that sharp line that cuts through his profile like it was carved from stone. Then the messy dark hair that never quite behaves, not too long but still, it falls across his forehead no matter how many times he pushes it back. I capture the tension inhis neck, the way he holds himself like he’s ready to bolt the second the bell rings.
Everyone knows Vince Holloway. Star quarterback, college recruiters already sniffing around. He drives a truck his father bought him for making varsity. He belongs to that golden circle of popularity that I’ve never particularly wanted to join.
But sitting here, sketching the secret softness around Vince’s eyes when he thinks no one’s looking, I see something else. Something restless and searching that has nothing to do with football or Friday night lights.
The pencil keeps moving. I may be sitting behind him, but I have memorized his face from the few sketches I have already done at home based on the photo I have of him. I add the slight furrow between his eyebrows, the way his mouth tilts when Mrs. Henderson says something particularly ridiculous about “finding your artistic voice.” He’s beautiful in that unintentional way some people are, not posed or practiced, just naturally arranged in a way that makes me want to keep looking.
The bell rings with its usual jarring shriek. Around me, chairs scrape against linoleum as everyone bolts for the door. Vince starts shoving books into his bag with the efficient movements of someone who’s perfected the art of quick escapes.
I tear the page from my sketchpad before I can think better of it. I reach forward, tap Vince’s shoulder, and slide my drawing onto his desk before I chicken out. Forty minutes of careful observation and something dangerouslyclose to longing, handed over without explanation.
He glances at the sketch, then up at me, looking lost. “What is this?”
“You,” I say simply. “Keep it.”
His ears flush pink as he stares at the drawing, something between confusion and recognition crossing his face, like he’s seeing himself through someone else’s eyes for the first time.
I don’t wait to hear what he might say. I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk out, leaving Vince staring after me with the drawing still clutched in his hand.
Two weeks after the art class incident, I push through the heavy doors leading backstage at Santa Ynez Valley High School’s auditorium. The smell hits me first, sawdust and paint with an undercurrent of old curtains and teenage ambition. It’s my second home, really. This is the place where I can disappear into someone else’s skin for a few hours and forget about everything else.
I’m expecting to find the usual suspects, Brooke and Lee from the drama club, and maybe Mrs. Crawford sorting through fabric samples for costumes. I’m not expecting to find Vince Holloway standing in the middle of the chaos, looking like he’s been dropped into an alien landscape.
“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” I say, genuinely surprised.
Vince shrugs, but there’s tension in the movement. “I need the extra credit. Coach says my GPA needs work if I want those scouts to take meseriously.”
“And you picked theater?” I can’t keep the amusement out of my voice. “Not, I don’t know, study hall? Library assistant?”
“Those were full.” Vince’s voice goes flat. “And I’m not doing stage plays, I’m doing stage props. Look, if you’re gonna be weird about it…”
“I’m not being weird.” I hold up my hands, paint-stained from yesterday’s work session. “Just surprised. Most football players would rather fail than be caught with the ‘theater people.’”
“I’m not like most football players.”
The words hang between us, heavier than they should be. I study Vince’s face, looking for the joke or the defensive anger I expect to find there. Instead, I see something that might be vulnerability, quickly hidden.
“Well,” I say finally. “Grab a brush. Try not to ruin my masterpiece.”
I gesture toward the half-finished backdrop, a forest scene for the spring production ofA Midsummer Night’s Dream. It’s ambitious, maybe too ambitious, but I’ve never been one to think small. Trees stretch toward a painted sky, their branches intertwining in patterns that took me three days to get right.
Vince approaches the canvas cautiously, like it might bite him. “I’ve never…I mean, I’m not really artistic.”
“It’s just painting,” I say. “If you can hold a football, you can hold a brush.”
I show Vince how to mix colors on the palette, how to load the brush without getting too much paint, and how to follow thelines I’ve already sketched. Our hands bump as I demonstrate a particular brushstroke, and Vince jerks back like he’s been burned.
“Sorry,” Vince mutters.
“It’s fine.” My voice comes out softer than I intended. “You’re not gonna break anything.”
For the next two hours, we work in surprising harmony. Vince follows my directions with the same focused intensity he brings to football practice, his tongue poking out slightly when he concentrates on a particularly tricky section. He’s careful, methodical, and better at this than either of us expected.
“You’re a natural,” I say, watching Vince add delicate shading to a tree trunk.
“It’s just following directions.” But Vince looks pleased despite himself.
The backstage area fills and empties around us as other students come and go. Some other kids work on props, stage crew tests lights, and Mrs. Crawford calls out costume measurements. But I find myself hyperaware of Vince’s presence beside me. The quiet way he listens when I explain technique. The small smile that creeps across his face when he gets something right.
