Page 13 of A Sea of Unspoken Things
Six Rivers High looked more like a mountain chalet than a school.
The original 1970s brick building was still partly visible behind the façade that had been added during the largest renovation, but the oiled wood trim and dark blue metal roof was the kind of modern architecture that didn’t belong in a landscape as wild as this one. Large floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the trees like mirrors, creating an optical illusion that made it feel like the forest was inside the building. Sometimes it had felt that way.
The metal door sent a groan down the linoleum-lined hallway as I hiked my bag higher on my shoulder, trying to balance its weight. I followed the memorized layout of the school I still had filed away in the back of my mind, not bothering to look up to the blue-and-white signs that marked the corridors as I passed. When I reached the art wing, I was instinctively unnerved by how quiet it was. The school day had ended, but I could still hear a few distant voices and the faraway slam of a locker.
Large wood-framed windows looked into several studio-style classrooms that were brightly lit with afternoon light. For a rural public school, the workspaces were incredible, rivaling even the oneswe’d had at Byron. It seemed that with every state championship won, the school got another grant or endowment. The art wing had been one of the first improvements and was a primary reason why I wound up painting the series that got me into art school.
I peeked into each of the classrooms until I reached the last door on the left, a long barrel-shaped studio that had three wooden worktables in lieu of desks. Large papier-mâché sculptures painted in bright colors were suspended from the ceiling and several overgrown potted plants were stuck on the windowsills. I pushed the door open wider and stepped inside.
“JamesfuckingGolden.” I heard my name spoken in a soft kind of awe from the corner of the room, where Olivia Shaw stood with a plastic bucket in her hands.
Her dark curly hair was pulled back from her face in a long braid and thick-framed tortoiseshell glasses sat on the end of her nose. The yellow blouse she wore was tucked into baggy, high-waisted linen pants, and she had on a pair of cloth sneakers that were covered in specks of paint. Behind her, a messy, cluttered desk reflected the same creative chaos. Half-squeezed tubes of paint and different grades of charcoal pencils were strewn over a large desk calendar that was covered in frantic, looping writing.
She, too, hadn’t changed. The Olivia Shaw I’d grown up with was cool, in a lazy kind of way. Pretty, but simple. There had also always been that innate sense that there was more going on behind her eyes than the echo of the smile on her lips.
She set down the bucket, rounding the corner of one of the tables before she threw her arms around me and squeezed, surprising me. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
I tried to relax under her touch, keeping my balance as she pulled back to see my face.
“How do you look exactly the same?”
I smiled a little awkwardly. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
“Wow.” She let out a breath. “It’s been a really long time.”
The comment made me bristle a little because I knew that’s what everyone was thinking. I was sure there were a number of theories about why I’d never come back to Six Rivers, and no shortage of judgments made about how I’d stayed away. But the curiosity and hurt I’d seen in Olivia’s eyes the last time I saw her were gone now.
She folded her hands like she didn’t know what to do with them, and then thought twice, absently picking up one of the colored pencils on the table and rolling it between her palms. It was the same fidgeting, excited energy she’d had as a teenager, too.
“Thanks for letting me come by,” I said. “I don’t want to keep you too long.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all.” She gestured to a stack of cardboard portfolios on the table beside me. “I’ve got grading to do, anyway.”
I studied the pieces that were already laid out. The assignment was a still life of three oranges in a bowl, and the students had used a number of mediums to capture it. It was the same assignment Olivia and I had when we were in art class here together. I distinctly remembered it, because our teacher had insisted that one of the great pursuits of an artist was to try to capture the color, shape, texture, and light of an orange every single day for an entire year. It was a challenge I’d taken on personally at Byron, but I’d made it only fifty-two days before giving up.
“It’s weird, right?” Olivia laughed, reading my mind. “Bet you didn’t think I’d wind up here.”
I hadn’t. At least, I’d hoped she wouldn’t. Olivia had said for years that she would go to L.A. or New York—somewhere loud and bright, where buildings were covered in murals and you could sell your art on the street. And she could have. Olivia was talented, but she had never been desperate and hungry in the same way I was. She was more easily crushed by critique and devastated by rejection. I’d thought many times in my years at Byron that she’d never really had the grit it took to make it as an artist.
“When did you come back?” I asked.
Her smile fell a little before it righted again. “I never left. I mean,I went to school in Redding, but I came back here after I finished and, a few years later, got my teaching certification. Then I just ended up here.” She looked around the studio as she reached up, sticking the colored pencil into her hair. “I’ve been following what you’ve been up to in San Francisco. Keeping tabs, that sort of thing. It’s been really amazing…just incredible, James.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I tried to soften the moment with a self-deprecating laugh, but it didn’t quite land. The truth was, I was embarrassed. Olivia and I had been neck and neck in our pursuit of the fine arts as we came up through high school, and I knew there was a time when she’d believed she would be shooting forNational Geographicor doing editorial work somewhere by now. If she was keeping tabs on me, it would all look very impressive. Press releases and collections and features in publications. But what people didn’t know about that world was that it was mostly composed of smoke and mirrors. I was long past the point of rose-colored glasses.
“And Byron? Was it as magical as it seemed all those years ago?” she asked, voice wistful.
“Yeah, I guess it was.” I smiled. “And you? Are you still shooting?”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, I’m not exactly working on my next series for an exhibition at the Met or anything.” She laughed again, but this time it had just the smallest tinge of sadness. “But yeah. Still shooting.”
I let my gaze wander to the corners of the studio. A lot of young artists with grand ideations of their future notoriety ended up as teachers in schools like this one or at the university level. For some people, it was a kind of settling they were glad to take in lieu of a dream that just never got closer, and I guessed that Olivia was in that camp. For others, it was a dangerous injury to ego that could poison your humanity. The same was true even for the professors at an institution as prestigious as Byron.
“I think it’s really great what you’re doing—finishing the CAS project for Johnny. It’s been pretty wonderful for our little school in the middle of nowhere to be a part of something like that.” She looked genuinely proud. “I mean, admittedly a very small part, butyou know what I mean. The kids think it’s exciting, and they justadoredJohnny.”
My mouth twisted involuntarily, threatening an ironic smile.Adoredwasn’t a word I’d ever really expected to hear in reference to my brother.Intriguing,maybe. Johnny’s lack of interest in people had always seemed to make them that much more curious about him. In that way, he was magnetic, even. But not adored. No one knew what to do with Johnny.
Olivia laughed, as if tracking with the internal conversation I was having with myself. “I know. But he just had that thing, you know? That mysterious vibe.” Her hands splayed out in front of her, illustrating the point like the slogan on a billboard.