A/N: If you love Steinbeck, sorry for picking on him. I didn't know what other author to make Tris hate, since Steinbeck happens to be the one that I personally am literally incapable of reading. Anyway! This is late. Sorry. Writing is not coming easily to me these past couple of weeks. It happens sometimes, it will get better, can't promise that the next one will come any quicker though. So, thanks for being patient! I appreciate everyone who has read, favorited, followed or taken a minute to leave me a review!
Chapter 38
Paint and Steinbeck
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 2016 | 10:15 AM | TRIS
Uriah's first ever job was at a grocery store, and he was fired on the third day. He insists on taking responsibility for that, which is good, but I still feel at least partially to blame. It was the first time I tried visiting him at work and, well, Uriah is easily distracted… which led to him knocking over a rack of wine bottles. Seven of them shattered all over the floor. Apparently the manager was already less than impressed with Uriah and that was the last straw. When he got his second job, at a gas station, I made sure to go elsewhere for fuel.
That's probably why I have yet to visit the sporting goods store where Uriah works. Even when I saw the leftovers still neatly packaged in the fridge, I hesitated. But he was so looking forward to bringing his favorite Chinese dish for lunch, and he has been at Deek & Brian's for three months without issue, so I wrapped the food in a plastic shopping bag and placed it carefully into my backpack before hurrying out the door forty-five minutes before I would usually leave for class.
Even now that I have just parked my bike on the curb on Stark Street I am nervous to go in. Reminding myself that he has invited me to visit many times now, that his bosses are much more lax than that asshole supermarket manager, and wanting to get out of the neverending rain, I check for traffic and race across the street.
The store is large with plenty of natural light streaming in through high windows, despite the gloomy gray of the sky outside. There are areas for water sports, fishing, snowboards and skiing, to name a few. I only get a moment to take the place in before I hear Uriah's voice.
"Tris!" he calls out. He is coming out of a storeroom with a large box in his hands. He quickly maneuvers behind a counter and sets it down before he bounces through the store to meet me. We hug and I feel his lips briefly press against my forehead.
"You forgot your lunch," I inform him.
"You weren't afraid you'd get me fired?" he smirks.
"Yes, actually, I was. So let's stay away from anything breakable."
Uriah laughs. "Let me introduce you to everyone, and then I can ask my boss if I can take my break early," he says. "Plus, I just set something aside for you for this weekend!" I can't help smiling at the energy he exudes. Sometimes he reminds me of an overexcited puppy.
There are three other guys and a girl on shift. I am a little overwhelmed by the repeated nice-to-finally-meet-yous; it's obvious that Uriah has talked a lot about me, which makes me smile. I know my coworkers have heard plenty about him, too, though they all know him as he comes in to the pub fairly often.
Even the part-owner seems to know me when Uriah goes to ask for his break. "So, Uriah says you two are heading up to Meadows this weekend. Ever been snowboarding on a real mountain?" Bryan teases.
"No, just the little hills near Chicago," I admit, "but I can't wait!"
"I don't know why we never made it up to that glacier," Uriah frowns.
I poke him in the side. "Because we have jobs now, and there were too many summery things to do while it was nice out."
"Sounds like you two had quite the summer," Bryan says. "Uriah, why don't you take a break. Show your girl that gear you set aside for her yesterday."
Uriah thanks his boss and leads me behind a counter. I pull his lunch out of my backpack and set it on the counter while Uriah pulls a box out from below.
"First of all, I've got…" Uriah holds up a pair of ski goggles and gestures to it like a game show host showing off a prize. "Ski goggles! I know, so exciting, and these are used but they're really good ones. I can get a really good deal on them. You'll need them for our trip up the mountain this weekend."
I inspect the goggles. "Thanks! These look great."
He goes on to show me the other gear he picked out for me ― he has completely outfitted me for the season, and it's all what I would have picked for myself. He knows me so well. I can tell he has been gathering up this stuff for a while, there's no way he found just the right things at these bargain prices all in one go.
Uriah leans against the counter. "So," he says, "Lynn and Marlene are going to the nickel arcade tonight and invited us along. You wanna go?"
I always wish I got to hang out with our new friends more often, but working nights often leaves me out of the fun. I'm off work tonight, but I know that I should work on that English paper. Despite trying to get a head start on Grapes of Wrath a couple weeks ago, I still haven't finished the stupid book and I have to write ten pages on it by Friday. The thought of it stresses me out, and once again I entertain the idea of just reading the spark notes on it, even though I am fairly certain the instructor wasn't bluffing when she warned us off of that shortcut. It would be better to actually read the book, so that is my top priority this afternoon.
"As long as I can get something done on that English Lit paper. I'm still only halfway through the book. I hate Steinbeck," I complain. "I really want to come, though."
"Still having trouble with that?" Uriah frowns.
"Yep." I have always learned easily, so it is frustrating to struggle so much on an assignment and I don't quite know what to do. Uriah, while school was never really his "thing", has a bit more experience making it through these sorts of challenges. "I want to at least get a passing grade on this paper. Any ideas ?"
"Spark notes?"
"It's my last resort," I sigh.
"You're really smart, so I'm sure you can do it." Uriah's tongue peeks out the corner of his mouth as he thinks about my problem. He has been encouraging me for weeks but I haven't made much progress and now I am running out of time. My heart lifts with hope when Uriah's eyes light up. "I have an idea," he says.
"I'm ready to try just about anything," I answer, practically begging him to give me any help he can.
"Well," he says, "once, in high school, we were reading Shakespeare and I couldn't understand any of it. So I read the spark notes instead, but then it wasn't enough to get all the quotes and stuff I needed, right?" I nod, encouraging him to continue. "But the thing is, when I already had read the summaries of the chapter and understood the plot, it was so much easier to understand the play when I went back to read it. So what if you read the summary first before each chapter then just skimmed the actual book?"
"That might actually work!" I tackle him in a hug to show my appreciation. "Thank you, I'll try that, then maybe we can go out tonight if I actually make some progress."
"No problem, Schmoopy." I can hear the smile in his voice. "I hate to say this, but I have to get back to work."
I pout my lip, which Uriah laughs at. "Fine," I whine. "Actually, I have to get to class anyway. See you tonight?"
"Yep, I should be home by 7. Do good at school."
"I'll try. See you tonight." We exchange a short kiss and pull away. "I love you."
"Love you too, babe."
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 2016 | 3:15 PM | TRIS
It is still raining when I get home from school. Portland has a reputation for rainy weather. I knew that before I came here, but knowing something is different from living it. It doesn't pour for twenty minutes then stop. No, it just drizzles. All day, every day, with an unending ceiling of gray overhead. The summer was beautiful, but now that we are well entrenched in autumn, it's getting hard to remember what I have to look forward to. I can hardly wait to use our recently purchased season ski lift tickets when we go snowboarding this weekend. I feel like I have been cooped up inside for too long.
My jeans are soaked through by the time I pull my bike into its usual spot at the edge of the parking lot. I grab my book bag and trudge up the stairs, thinking about the paper I need to write for English Lit. I want to go out with Uriah, Marlene and Lynn tonight, but I really need to get some work done first. Hopefully Uriah's suggestion will prove helpful.
As I drop off my bag in my bedroom, I can hear the shower running and know that Four must be home; Uriah works until six tonight. With my school materials safely tucked away, I go back to the kitchen for a snack. A few minutes later I am carrying a bottle of water, string cheese and a bowl of grapes back to my bedroom.
I am about to pass the bathroom door when it opens and Four begins to step out.
He is wearing nothing but the towel wrapped around his waist.
Oh, God. No matter how angry and hurt I have been because of this man, something I could certainly never deny is that Tobias has always been dead sexy. But now… he still has that lean body type, not much bulk, but his muscles are more defined than I remember. His skin is a smooth warm olive against his white bath towel, and I can see that the tattoo that I have noticed creeping onto his neck licks at his shoulders as well. A sort of fuzzy feeling swims in my head and there's an entirely unwelcome flutter in my stomach as my eyes rake over him, taking him all in. I don't want to check him out like this, yet I cannot seem to stop myself.
I'm not listening to what he's saying, but I can guess the general subject when he holds his towel closed with one hand before leaning down to start picking up the spilled grapes. I should help him, but now I'm entranced by the artwork on his back.
"Tris?"
I realize I am just staring at him. "Uh yeah, right, sorry. I should get out of your way."
I hear him, feel his presence behind me as I walk quickly to my room. Then I mentally curse myself for staying in the doorway to watch him continue down the hall to his own room. Shaking my head, I finally sprawl out on my bed. Our bed, mine and Uriah's. Uriah. My boyfriend. Right.
I find the synopsis and analysis I printed off in the college's computer lab, highlighter poised over the page, spiral-bound notebook at my side ready to take notes for my paper. And I try really, really hard to concentrate.
I lay there trying to read it, but it's even harder to concentrate than usual. What the hell is wrong with me? One glimpse of Four's naked chest and I am stand there like some stupid infatuated fourteen-year-old.
I'm still stuck on this thought when I hear Four leave for his class. I thought maybe when I knew he was gone, I could forget about the situation and all the awkwardness that came with it, but can't focus for anything. I finally make it through the summary and analysis for the next chapter, but it takes forever.
By 4:30, I have given up on studying. I am just too distracted, which makes me so frustrated that I throw the book across the room. It lands on the floor right by the wall, open and face down with a few of the pages obviously bent. I pick it up and put it neatly on my desk. Looking around the room, I tidy the desk Uriah and I share, and the lotions and nail polishes and sports magazines on top of the dresser, and I just keep going. Until I come across a big plastic shopping bag. The one Four brought me, full of paints and brushes and canvases, and a basic tabletop easel.
It has been years since I last painted. When Four gave me this stuff all I could think was that he doesn't know me anymore, and that I had no intention of ever using this stuff. But I pull it out now and inspect it anyway. The brushes and paints are a better quality than I had first realized, and I close my eyes at the feel of the canvas under my fingers. My mom always loved to watch me paint, decorated many of the rooms in our house with my work. And I remember her pointing out once that when I was stressed or overwhelmed, painting always seemed to help me.
Why did I give up painting, again? I can't remember anymore. All I remember is that it was something Beatrice did and that Tris doesn't. But maybe it doesn't have to be that way.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 2016 | 5:05 PM | FOUR
The rain is falling harder than usual, contrary to the afternoon's typical drizzle, and has begun to soak through my jacket by the time I make it to my car, so I toss it on the passenger seat and ignore the goosebumps on my arms while the engine warms. The kids in my boxing class all did well today, but I know I didn't give them as much instruction as I should have. I was too distracted.
I was concerned about Fernando before the first time I even spoke to him. But now my suspicions have been confirmed by the yellowing bruise to his jaw and the finger-shaped marks I spied when his long sleeve slid up his arm to expose his wrist. He hurried to tug it back in place, but not quickly enough.
Suspicions are one thing. Near certainty is another. To know that this kid is being mistreated by someone makes my stomach turn. My own father was much better at hiding the evidence, but I see so much of my younger self in the kid. He is skittish and closed off, lonely and insecure, like he just wants to disappear into the crowd where no one will notice him. Invisibility is the best line of defense: if no one notices you, no one will hurt you.
I know what it's like.
I think of him walking out here in the cold rain, probably still without a coat, and it reminds me of Tris's advice. Take it slow… try to earn his trust. It's with that thought that I back out of the parking space, scanning the street for a gangly, hunched 13-year-old in a hoodie.
I have hardly driven a block when I find him walking down a side street, so I turn and drive toward him. His hoodie is more dark, wet splotches than its usual blue, he has hardly started walking and is already nearly drenched. Checking my mirror and seeing that there is no traffic coming up behind me, I slow to a crawl beside him and roll down the window.
"Fernando," I call out. He glances over his shoulder and his step falters. His dark fringe is plastered to his forehead despite his attempts to shield his face with the hood. "Let me give you a ride."
He stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head. "I'm fine," he says before he turns to continue down the sidewalk.
"You'll get sick walking around in this weather, you don't even have a coat," I argue, letting my foot off the brake just enough to match his pace. "Do you want to be stuck at home with pneumonia?"
The suggestion that he could end up 'stuck at home' gets him. I bring the car to a stop again and he comes up to the window and looks me over, scrutinizing me. "What do you get out of it?" he asks, obviously wary. The question takes me aback.
"Why would I need anything out of it?" I ask.
Fernando shrugs, but he is still analyzing me with his stare.
"Just get in," I huff, pressing the button to unlock the doors. Fernando scowls but reaches for the door handle and climbs in.
I reach for a jacket from the backseat. Tris gave it to me about a week ago. It was Uriah's but he never wears it and she had hoped I could get Fernando to accept it. I smile to myself at her thoughtfulness. "Take off that sweatshirt and put this on," I demand.
"I told you last time, I don't want your coat," Fernando growls. "I'm not a fucking charity case, Four."
I roll my eyes. "Suit yourself. But I hope you don't mind me running a quick errand while you tell me where I'm supposed to be going."
He shrugs. I know the last place he wants to be is at home, he'd probably let me drive him all around town as long as I liked just for the delay. I pick the Goodwill donation strategically, do a U-turn at the next intersection, and head in that direction. I'm banking on the idea that Fernando will take the damn jacket before he lets me just toss it into the donation bin.
On the way there, I attempt small talk (which I hate) and Fernando only responds with grunts one-word answers. I learn that he's in the eighth grade and lives about ten blocks from me, but nothing about his interests. But I do hear him curse when he looks into his backpack and finds a sketchpad has gotten a bit damp. I remember Tris's advice to take it slow and I don't push him by commenting.
We pull up to the donation bin and I grab the jacket. "Give me a hand, will you?" I actually do need to donate a few things, one a box of old books and movies, the other full of Uriah's stuff. Tris had cleared it out after she and Uriah brought a carload of their stuff back from Seattle a couple weeks ago. Apparently he just threw everything he owned into boxes, unlike Tris, who only packed the things she wanted to keep. I wonder if she left behind everything I ever gave her. Or maybe she threw it all out right after I left.
Ten minutes later, I find myself sitting at a table in a local burger chain, Fernando slumped in the chair across from me wearing Uriah's old jacket. Just as I had hoped, he must have decided at the last moment to save it for himself rather than donate it. It is too big, but better than no jacket at all.
I tuck into my food as soon as it arrives, and Fernando does too. He let me buy him a meal, apparently warming at least a little to the idea of letting me help him. I'll take that as a good sign.
I continue the same sort of small talk I was attempting in the car, hoping I can get him to tell me a little about his life but being careful not to push him, remembering when I was in his shoes. If I pry too much, he probably won't even show up to class next week. I manage to learn that he lives with his mom and step-dad. He also has a 16-year-old sister who recently moved in with her boyfriend.
"They don't want me there," he says, "and Maria doesn't even check on me."
I stir my milkshake with my straw. "My mom left when I was twelve," I confide, "and she never checked on me, either."
"This is different," he says, and I look up. Maybe this is my chance to get him to open up.
"How so?"
"It just is." His whole body has tensed, so different from his previous slouch. I'm getting too close to home. "Never mind, Four. You wouldn't understand."
"I'd probably understand more than you think," I say in a low voice. "I know what it's like to feel unwanted in your own home."
"You don't know shit, Four," Fernando snorts, glowering angrily down at his food.
He has no idea just how much I would understand, what I know. But without telling him why, I know he won't believe me. And I just can't summon the words.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 2016 | 6:20 PM | FOUR
I feel heavy as I walk up the stairs to the apartment. I pointed out the building to Fernando as we passed it on the way to his house, trying to be as nonchalant as possible when describing which apartment was mine. I just can't tell him about my past ― and even if I could, I don't think he's the first person who deserves to hear it. But at least this way, maybe he can see my place as somewhere safe he could go if things get too bad.
At night, Tris usually prefers the soft glow of table lamps, so I am surprised to find that a couple of bright desk lamps are on in the living room. A surge of something ― surprise? Happiness? Maybe even pride? ― courses through me when I see that the bright lights are strategically pointed at a canvas smeared with color.
Seeing Tris there with a palette and paintbrush, using the little tabletop easel I gave her, the bottles of paints I purchased strewn over the coffee table, brings a smile to my lips. I walk slowly into the living room, stopping about a yard behind her.
"I was starting to think you'd never use those," I say. Tris jumps, so engrossed in her craft that she must not have heard me come in. I sit on the arm of the couch and watch as she mixes paints to make a patch of blue on the easel look a bit more grayish and she begins to dab the brush against the canvas again. "What are you painting?"
"A cliff… or, well, a waterfall," she tells me. "The one I told you about back home. I wasn't sure what I wanted to paint, I just… I was trying to read and I couldn't concentrate. Mom used to remind me that painting helped."
I nod my understanding then just watch her paint. Sometimes she used to bring her stuff to the park and paint the things we saw in the clouds, or a flower in the grass, or a child on the swings ― whatever caught her eye. Painting always relaxed her, but watching her paint was what relaxed me. It seems it still does.
"I've missed this." She doesn't pause in her work as I begin to make out the figure of a person diving off the cliff. "I didn't even realize it. Maybe I'll do what you suggested...sign up for some art classes next term."
My ears perk at that. "You're thinking of going back to school?" I ask. "Just for art classes or…"
For the first time since I startled her, a good twenty minutes ago, Tris glances at me, a soft smile gracing her lips.
"Not just art classes." Her shoulders rise with the deep breath that follows. "I've been in school since September." My jaw drops. All that time I kept telling her to… and she never told me. Why would she? But at the time, why wouldn't she tell me, at least it would have gotten me off her back. "It's just part time ― nine credits, for now. I don't want to take out loans."
Realization dawns on me. "That's why you were torturing yourself with Steinbeck."
Tris chuckles. "Yeah. I think I'll probably fail the paper on that one. I seriously just cannot deal with Steinbeck."
I smile. "Sorry to say, I can't help you this time." Three years ago I helped her study for her test on Of Mice and Men. "Never read The Grapes of Wrath."
"Lucky you."
"Why didn't you tell me before?" I ask.
"I didn't tell anyone before," she says. "Except Uriah, of course."
Yeah, that didn't answer my question… at all. "But why? Going to school is a good thing, I don't understand why you would hide that, Tris."
She bites her lip and brushes away a stray strand of hair, leaving a small smear of paint behind ― grayish-blue, like her eyes, but darker.
"I was tired of people's... expectations," she says slowly. "If I wanted to live my life by what other people tell me, I'd have stayed in Chicago with my father." She spits out the last word so forcefully, it reminds me of the way I feel about Marcus. Tris and her dad have never gotten on too well but even so, it leaves me wondering just exactly what the hell happened after I left.
I open my mouth to ask, even though I'm not sure it's such a good idea to push her for anything more right now, but I am interrupted by the front door opening and Uriah's heavy footsteps.
"Hey, Four," he says, seeing me first as he dumps his backpack on the kitchen table. "Hey Schmoopy," he grins. "Oh. Wow, that's the cliff ― how did you ―" He comes up behind her and studies the painting with wide eyes. "When did you learn to paint?"
I turn to stare at him with my mouth literally hanging open like an idiot. "So much for no secrets," I mutter under my breath.
Tris glares at me as she responds. "A long time ago," she says gently. "I didn't feel like it any more after…"
"Wow. I can't believe you never told me! So, you coming out with us tonight?"
Tris bites her lip. "Can you give me half an hour? I want to try again to get some things done first..."
I head to my bedroom, tuning out their conversation. I'm amazed at how unaffected Uriah seems at not knowing about what, not long before they met, had been her favorite hobby. Maybe this is just what she means ― Uriah doesn't expect anything of her. And so she trusts him.
She told me finally about school, so does that mean she trusts me? I have a feeling that while she's beginning to… we're not there yet.
But I desperately want us to be.