STOP. KISSING. FINN. - Chapter 13 + More Episode Tracks
Now I'm stuck painting her face.
Chapter 12 Recap: It happened. Finally. Charlie and Finn kiss… in a janitor’s closet next to a pile of mops, but still!
“Just let me read one,” he said, reaching for the backpack I’d just zipped shut.
“No.”
“You can pick it. You can pick the best one...or the worst.”
“It's not going to happen, Finn.”
He dove at me from one end of the couch and knocked me into a pile of pillows where he pinned both of my elbows against the corduroy seat cushion.
“Stop!” I said, laughing.
He stared at me from just inches away, his eyes darting back and forth like he was scanning for information. “Your face is heart-shaped. Did you know that?”
Jackie had said the same thing that day we bought all the make-up, back when she was still trying to improve me. Before she’d given up. But Marlena was the first to call me “Love” as a kid. She’d pull on my chin, which she said looked like the bottom point of her heart.
I must have been making a face, because Finn squeezed my sides and said, “Hey, cheer up, cheer up. It’s a good thing.”
“Get off!” I squealed, but he didn’t move. He looked down at me grinning, his hair hanging in a disheveled tangle just centimeters from my forehead. He slipped his arms around my back, pulling me into his chest, and placed his lips on mine.
“Charlie,” he said as he pulled away and rested his head on a bent elbow. In the afternoon when he was tired, he said it in a way that no one else I knew did, with extra emphasis on the first syllable, and almost with “j” sound instead of “ch.” JARlie...
“What?”
“You've seen my paintings,” he said, hooking a finger through one of the belt loops on my jeans.
“That's different,” I said.
“Why is it different?”
“Your paintings are objectively good,” I said.
“There’s no such thing as objectivity in art,” he said, laughing a little and pulling back to look at me.
“But, like, even if someone doesn’t like your paintings, they have to admit that you are a talented painter. They have to see that you have the skill to paint, like, an eyeball accurately,” I explained, thinking of the girl in the pink snowsuit.
“Anyone with fingers can write a poem,” I continued.
“Anyone with fingers can paint,” said Finn. “Just because someone can copy an eyeball doesn’t make them a good artist.”
“But at least you can see what’s real and create something based on that. And, because it’s real, other people can see what you’ve made and appreciate it,” I explained. “It’s different with writing.”
“So, who cares if people don’t like what you write?” Finn asked. “Not everyone is going to like what you put out there.”
“The thing is that…it’s personal. It would be like them not actually liking me,” I said.
He tugged the belt loop and slipped his hand just under the waist of my jeans so that his fingers rested on my hip bone.
“Isn’t it obvious that I already like you?” he asked.
It was the second time in one week we'd skipped sixth and seventh period to go back to his house and hang out. The first time he'd talked me into it because I was only missing study hall and calc, which was easy for me to catch up on. The second time I went without a fight, even though I was missing an exam review in history.
It was hard to say “no” to the idea of three uninterrupted hours of kissing Finn, and his house was basically designed for ditching school. First of all, Finn was the only person I knew who had a seating area, complete with a TV and a full-sized couch, in his room. Not a saggy-in-the-middle, hand-me-down couch, but a new sofa with puffy cushions. The smell of Finn's room – a mixture of acrylic paint, clean laundry, and a not unpleasant note of sweat – was a smell that was now familiar and comforting.
The whole house was covered in super cushioned carpeting so you could walk around with bare feet all day. And his fridge and “snack drawer” were stocked with cans of soda, frozen pizza, pop tarts, and every flavor of potato chip. It was like the whole house was saying, “Relax! Eat snacks! And why are you still wearing shoes?” Plus, his parents were never home.
We kissed. A lot. Literally for hours. We were like marathoners. Endurance kissing. We'd take a break to watch TV for ten minutes, or we would take turns pulling up our favorite songs on his computer. Then he’d give me that half-grin and we'd sink back into his couch where he would wrap his arms around me. At 5:10 with only twenty minutes left it was like a sprint. We'd kiss in a frenzied, desperate way. Then, at 5:25, I'd start pulling away, but we'd make out until 5:30 exactly when I’d tell him I had to leave. Finn would walk me to my car where he'd get this really intense look on his face that I loved and give me one last kiss. I would drive home with swollen lips and red patches of skin on my chin and neck where his afternoon stubble had chaffed me.
I reached for my phone. 5:13
“Why don't you just call your parents and tell them you're staying for a little while longer. Like, for dinner, or something,” he said, burrowing his face into the crook of my neck.
I hadn't yet told him about Gram, and that 5:30 wasn’t just some dinnertime curfew, but that I needed to make sure she ate so she could take her pills. I wasn’t hiding it, I just hadn't wanted to break the little bubble of his room and the couch and the paint/laundry/sweat smell with so much reality.
“You want me to eat dinner with your parents?”
“I don’t even eat dinner with my parents,” Finn laughed. “I’m just saying that you could tell them that and stay longer.” He moved his hand slightly so that more of his hand fit between my hip bone and my jeans. I felt very aware of his fingers, but did my best to seem relaxed.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Go for it.”
“It’s kind of personal. Or, maybe it’s not…I guess it might be something personal.”
“Charlie, just ask me already.”
“Who’s the little girl? The eyeball. I mean, the one in the snowsuit in your painting.”
I felt him tense a little.
“AP Art Studio requirement. It’s one of my portraits.”
For a few seconds we were both quiet.
“It’s, uh…” he started to say before he stopped to adjust his neck and clear his throat. “She’s this girl I used to know. I found that picture in a box of stuff at her house and I just…thought it was funny or something.”
I watched his face like I was observing a chemistry experiment.
“Was she your girlfriend?”
He did that sort of laugh/sniff people do when they want it to seem like they think something’s funny, but it’s really not. He rolled onto his back and sat up.
I propped myself up on an elbow and watched him walk across the room. He sat down at his desk and peered at his open laptop.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset,” he said. He looked at me with a strained little smile. “I just…that painting is totally annoying.”
“What do you mean?”
“She wasn’t my girlfriend. We were hanging out. And, it was so stupid, but I got this idea to use that photo for one of my AP assignments. It was going to be this surprise, or something, when I finished it. I mean, I had to do a portrait anyway, and the textures in the photo were interesting.”
“You were going to give her the painting?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“That’s really nice,” I said.
“It was dumb,” he said. “My paintings take, like, 10 months and we don’t even talk anymore. It’s too late to start over. Now I’m stuck painting her face.”
I got the feeling that my window for asking Finn any more questions was about to close.
What’s her name? I wanted to know. Do you still see her? What happened?
“I’m thirsty,” he said. “You want something before you go?” The conversation had expired. He got up and headed to the kitchen. He didn’t wait to see if I was following.
Now spinning: The Louvre by Lorde
My phone lit up with a text.
You are needed!! Meet me at my house?!
I’d texted Andy back immediately to make sure that no one had died. (No one had.) And that’s how I found myself upstairs in Andy’s room. The second guy’s bedroom in only two days, I thought to myself. I could say it out loud somewhere and it would sound scandalous, but this was totally different. Different guys, different circumstances, and very different bedrooms.
Everything about their houses was different, starting with what was in their refrigerators.
“Green juice?” Andy asked as he held the largest mason jar I’d ever seen. It was filled with a murky green fluid. A layer of yellowish foam floated on top.
“Whoa.”
“Yeah, my mom makes a ton of it fresh every morning. It’s kale, celery, romaine, green apple, lemon and ginger. It’s actually really good.”
“She makes that much every morning?”
“Yeah, with our juicer. My parents are total hippies. You probably guessed that based on the nature sanctuary in the backyard. Or, by just looking around.”
The house did seem sort of…green. Like an earthy green. The floors were hardwood and had a few scattered rugs that looked like they were woven out of some kind of dried grass. The walls were all kind of bare, but there were a few pieces of abstract art mixed in with black and white family photos.
I’d been expecting Andy’s room to be the one room in the house that was totally different. Maybe covered in movie posters or theater memorabilia. Or painted all red with random pictures and ticket stubs thumbtacked into the wall. But it was a lot like the rest of the house. His bed was made up with a pale yellow blanket and one pillow. A pile of books were stacked neatly on a metal desk. I sniffed, trying to place the smoky, woodsy scent.
“It’s nag champa,” he said, holding up a box of incense. “It’s the only thing that calms me down.”
“So, what’s going on?” I asked. “Are you freaking out over calc? I honestly think you’re more than prepared for the quiz on this unit.”
“No, I know. It’s nothing like that. I need you for brainstorming.”
“Brainstorming,” I repeated and took a sip of green juice. It was surprisingly tasty.
“Yeah, I need your brain.”
“Okay.”
“So, graduation is, like, six months away, and we don’t even have an idea for class prank.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know that the senior class pulls a prank every year, right?”
“I guess,” I said.
“Well, the last few years have been really pathetic, so maybe you never even noticed,” he said. “Like, last year they went with the whole sneak-in-and-turn-all-the-maps-upside-down thing, but who seriously looks at maps by the end of the year? They’ve been up all year. They basically fade into the background.”
“So, you’re in charge of our prank?”
“Yeah, it was unanimous.”
“There was a vote?” I felt like I was barely keeping up.
“Unofficially. Student council. So, I have to plan everything and organize everyone. It’s six months away, and I hate all my ideas.” He groaned and collapsed backwards on his bed.
I didn’t quite get the urgency, considering we had six months until graduation. But, I was talking to someone who started inviting people to his Halloween party in July.
“Okay, well…I’ve never pulled a prank before.” Part of me wanted to tell Andy he was talking to the wrong person. Plus, I had my own problems. I should have been working on my independent study or catching up on history, not figuring out the sequel to last year’s failed map stunt.
He sat up and leaned forward. “I can plan everything. I just need help with a brilliant idea. You’re, like, the smartest person I know. And, I know you’ll keep it a secret.” His stare was intense, almost pleading.
I felt a warmth spread up my neck and over my face. He honestly thought I was smart, and not just in a math nerd way.
“Okay,” I said after a minute. “I might have an idea.”
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“I know I’ve said this like ten times already in just the last hour, but this is going to be so good,” Andy said, rubbing his hands together.
“I have to agree,” I said. I looked up from his laptop and smiled at him.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I’ll run down to the kitchen and grab some stuff,” Andy said, swinging his feet over the side of his bed. He jogged out of the room.
I leaned back in the desk chair and stretched my arms overhead. The nag champa did seem to have a relaxing effect. I was barely thinking about all the other things I should have been doing at that moment. That combined with focusing so intently on Andy’s prank – our prank – had totally cleared my mind. Well, almost. There was still one thing I couldn’t stop thinking about.
Now I’m stuck painting her face.
I opened a new window on Andy’s laptop. I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for. It’s not like I hadn’t scrolled through all of Finn’s photos already. There weren’t that many. That last one, a series of abstracts I’d recognized from the art room, was from two months ago. He had a few thousand followers, and I seriously doubted that, even if he was still friends with the girl from the painting, she was using the snowsuit photo for her profile. I clicked on his followers list.
I'm not stalking, I'm just killing time until Andy gets back with snacks, I told myself as I scanned through the list of faces until I recognized one.
Jenna’s photo was filtered almost beyond recognition and she’d gone with a nickname--one I assume she gave herself--for her handle: littlejay527. But it was definitely her. The eyeliner and cleavage were undeniable.
I clicked through to her account. I couldn’t help it. And there he was. Finn was in the most recent photo she’d posted just two days ago. It was a group shot with a few other guys I didn’t recognize. But she was sitting next to Finn. Practically on top of him. The crook of her elbow looped around his neck, and she’d turned to face his face, which was looking the other direction.
“Miss this crew… I better see all your asses at Spencer’s. <3”
Finn had responded.
Hey, J. Will see you there :)
My heart dropped.
“I hope you like quinoa.”
“Huh?” I said, startled.
“The protein-rich grain,” Andy said, entering the room and juggling a couple ceramic bowls. “I hope you like it because it’s healthy for you. I also hope you like it because there were three Tupperware containers in the fridge, and they all contained various forms of quinoa….what are you doing?”
“Just on Instagram. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, of course not. You just look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head.
Andy gave me a sideways look. “I think I’m starting to know when you’re bullshitting me.” He sat on his bed, facing me, and quietly ate a large spoonful of quinoa.
“I guess I’m not exactly fine,” I said, stirring my bowl.
“Tell me,” Andy said. “You know I won’t tell anyone else. I can’t risk it – you now know who’s behind the senior prank. You’re the keeper of my biggest secret.”
I took a deep breath and, between spoonfuls of quinoa, told him everything that had happened with Finn. From the utility closet to skipping school. I told him about the girl in the painting and how Finn was “stuck painting her face.” And then everything I’d just found.
“I told you something would happen between you guys,” Andy said as he peered over my shoulder at his laptop screen.
“I know. You and Jess were right,” I admitted, as I pulled up Finn’s page again. “Now, see, read her caption. And his comment. Do you think Jenna’s the girl from the painting?”
Andy mumbled a little as he read. “Ugh, she’s so transparent. It’s actually kind of sad to watch her shamelessly throw herself at him.”
“Well, do you think it’s her? The snowsuit girl?”
“Oh, no way,” he said definitively.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Well, it’s an educated guess. From what you’ve told me it sounds like snowsuit girl was the one who dumped Finn. Or maybe she cheated on him, he found out and he dumped her. Either way, snowsuit girl had some kind of power, and Jenna’s too obvious and desperate to be the one doing the dumping. And, no one stays friends with someone who cheated on them. But I’m thinking, no matter what the situation, Finn was wronged in some kind of way. Hence, ‘And now…I’m trapped…painting her face…”
Andy stepped back from his desk to deliver his last line with a far-off look. He clenched one hand into a fist and placed it over the heart while the other held onto the bowl of half-eaten quinoa. He even managed to make his eyes glassy with tears.
“Stuck, not trapped,” I said. “And he didn’t say it like that. I don’t think he was being dramatic. It seemed like whatever happened still bothers him,” I said.
“Well, he needs to get over it. He’s with you now.”
I shifted in my chair a little. Finn and I had never actually talked about whether or not we were “together.”
“Do you think Jenna’s hot?” I asked.
Andy shook his head. “Remarkably unappealing. You’re so much hotter.”
“Thanks…” I said. “Well, they're at least friends… the nickname and smiley face...I would have never guessed Finn to be a user of emojis.”
“What nickname?” Andy asked.
“'J.' He called her 'J.'” I slumped my shoulders.
“That’s barely a nickname. He’s just being nice.”
“You think?”
“Well, to be fair, I really don’t know him that well.”
“We should all hang out sometime.” It slipped out before I could really think about what that really meant. The little world I’d created with Finn was completely different from the one I’d created with Andy. And I felt different when I was in each of those worlds – just being in one of their bedrooms made some kind of switch flip. In Finn’s room with the plaid comforter and piles of acrylic paint tubes and the laundry smell, I felt alternately thrilled and exhausted by the adrenaline rush. I felt out of control – mostly in a good way. In Andy’s room there was no intensity, good or bad. There was stability and comfort. There were organic cotton linens and nag champa.
“Me, you and Finn?” Andy asked, scrunching his eyebrows at the idea.
“Well, yeah.” I said. “And, maybe Liz, too. I think you guys would totally get along.”
What the hell was I doing? Liz would add an entirely separate layer of complexity.
“Okay,” Andy said agreeably and shrugged his shoulders. “Are you still hungry?”
“No, this was good,” I said, gesturing toward my empty bowl. “Maybe I should include the recipe in my cookbook.”
“I’ll allow it, but only if you call the dish ‘The Andy.’”
“Okay, deal.”
We were both quiet for a minute.
“Hey, so you won’t tell anyone, right? Like, about the stuff with Finn? I just haven’t told a lot of people.” I didn’t want anything to get back to Finn and for him to think I was going around telling people we were together.
“Of course not,” Andy said.
“I just don’t want a lot of people talking…”
“Right.”
“It’s just—“
“Charlie, I won’t tell anyone,” Andy interrupted. “Like I said, you know my secret, now…Well, it’s really our secret now,” Andy said.
I liked the idea of having a shared secret. I felt a little like I did all those years ago when we’d all signed our names to “The Constitution” in pink, purple and teal.
Now spinning: Wild Things by Alessia Cara