Page 29 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

Fox helped me up. They got me into the van—not into the front seat, mind you, because they kept saying, You’re all wet . In the back.

With the Junk. (Capital J.)

There are a lot of jokes about people with vans. About not being forced into a van against your will.

Those jokes all have a kernel of truth. And that kernel of truth is the back of Fox’s van.

Imagine someone had a garage full of junk.

And that someone decided to hire Fox to move all of it.

An old record player. The front quarter of a canoe.

A toolbox full of rusty screwdrivers. (Is that the name of a drink?

If it’s not, it should be.) There was an oversized roll of duct tape with lots of gross, gritty things stuck to it.

And some kind of bird mounted like a trophy. And a child’s bike.

Now, add to the contents of that garage what appeared to be the garbage leftover from a fashion show.

Trash bags full of paper cranes. More trash bags full of wadded-up plastic wrap.

A bridal gown that had been cut down the center and then pinned back like the dissection and anatomization of a butterfly.

Hanging from the rearview mirror was an old air freshener that said either DRAGON MUSK or DRAGON MUST—I wasn’t sure which one was worse.

It was a lot.

I sat there, shivering and slowly soaking the pile of cut-up old T-shirts that I was, it turned out, sitting on.

Fox climbed in next to me, rolled the door shut, and sat on an enormous roll of fabric.

(Is it called a bale? It was enormous. ).

Heat chugged from the vents, and Fox passed me an old flannel shirt, which actually worked great as a towel.

I mopped myself up as best I could, and then I sat there, twisting the flannel in my hands and trying to find somewhere to look.

Fox did absolutely nothing.

Finally I said, “How’s your dad?”

“He’ll live,” Fox said. “Or so they say. He’s been awake a couple of times, if you can even call it that. He doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t know what’s happening.” Fox’s mouth twitched in what was most definitely not a smile. “He keeps asking for Tinny.”

“Oh, Fox. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He built this house of cards; he’ll survive when it all comes tumbling down.” Something must have shown on my face, though, because Fox said, “Too harsh?”

“I don’t know.” But then I said, “He’s your father.”

“Yes, he is.” That seemed to close the matter because then Fox said, “I saw Nora on the news.”

I definitely made a face that time.

With a laugh, Fox said, “She’s giving interviews to anyone who will talk to her—which, at this point, is pretty much everyone.

” Framing the words with their hands, they pretended to read off a headline.

“‘Local actor plays detective—in real life and on the stage.’ To hear Nora tell it, she’s the next Vivienne Carver.

Or the next Matron of Murder. I’m sure she’s already locking down deals wherever she can. ”

“God, Pippi must be dying with envy,” I said.

“She tried to walk in on one of the interviews,” Fox said with a smirk. “Live TV. Security had to remove her.”

“If there is any justice in the universe, I’m going to find that clip on YouTube and use it for the background on my phone.” I considered my next words, tried to think of a safe way to say what I wanted to say. “Nora did it. She killed Kyson.”

“That’s certainly what Jonni would like everyone to believe.”

“No, she did. I mean, I can’t prove it—apparently I’m as terrible an amateur sleuth as I am a writer—but she did. I’m going to tell the sheriff. Maybe she’ll be able to find a way to catch her.”

“Ah,” Fox said. “The self-pity route.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re done avoiding your problems, and now you’re going to feel sorry for yourself.”

“I’m not feeling sorry for myself.”

“I’m a terrible writer. My books are no good. I’ll never be published.” Fox arched an eyebrow. “Sound familiar?”

“You know what? I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

“Lord, there’s a surprise. You want to talk about everything in the known universe until it makes you uncomfortable.”

A faint vibration from the engine made its way through the floor. “Yep. I guess you’re right.”

“Oh, I’m most definitely right. I’ve seen it before. Although I’ll admit, Dash, that I didn’t expect you to take the coward’s way out.”

“I’m not—” I drew a deep breath. “I know you don’t understand. Bobby doesn’t understand. But believe it or not, this is a sign of maturity. I’m accepting my limitations—”

Fox blew a raspberry.

I stopped. Regrouped. “I’m recognizing that it’s time to consider something new—”

Another, louder raspberry.

“I’m making the grown-up—”

Fox blew another raspberry.

“Will you knock it off?” I snapped.

“I’m sorry. It’s terribly difficult for me to listen to that much horse plop.”

“It’s not horse plop. It’s a rational, responsible decision—”

“Really? Let’s hear your rational, responsible decision. What are you going to do with your life, Dash? What are you going to be when you grow up?”

“I don’t know. I’m still working on that.” But that didn’t seem like enough, so I mumbled, “A teacher. Maybe.”

“Oh, that’s hilarious.”

“It’s not hilarious! Teaching is a great career path!”

“For someone who likes children. For someone with patience. For someone who can teach.”

“I can teach!”

“When Keme wanted you to help him with that essay, you told him that it needed more joie de vivre .”

“It did!”

“It was on the death penalty!”

I twisted the flannel a little more forcefully between my hands. “You don’t understand. You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about!”

“ I don’t have any idea what I’m talking about? I don’t?”

“No, actually. You don’t. I know you’re an artist. I know you know that the creative life can have ups and downs.

But you don’t know what it’s like to spend your whole life wrapped up in something, to have it be your identity, for it to be the only thing you want, and then for some faceless nobodies to stand in your way—and most of them don’t even have the courtesy to say no!

They never respond, and you have to assume they hated it. ”

“For God’s sake, Dash, I have an art gallery in a tourist town,” Fox said.

“You want to talk about trying to please faceless nobodies? Do you know what sells here? Paintings of Hastings Rock. Paintings of the ocean. Paintings of cliffs and the ocean. Paintings of the beach and the ocean. The people who visit here want to buy little trinkets made of sea glass. They want cute knickknacks and curios and—and junk they can give to Aunt Ethel when they get home. They don’t want art.

And that’s fine. I can do that. But the pieces I care about?

The pieces I put my heart and soul into?

They sit on my shelves. And eventually, I give them to people I love.

You think I wouldn’t like a show in a real gallery?

You think I wouldn’t like to go to Seattle or Vancouver or heck, New York, and have people drink wine and discuss the postmodern sensibilities of my work?

At least you don’t have to see the looks on Ma and Pa Kettle’s faces when they’re browsing what you’ve put your heart and soul into, and you know they’re going to walk next door and buy a mass-produced print of a child building a sandcastle. ”

“That’s awful!” I shouted. “I hate that people do that to you! You’re talented and insightful and you have so much to share with the world, and I wish everyone saw your work the way you wanted them to!”

“Then why are you yelling at me?” Fox barked.

“I don’t know! I’m feeling a lot of feelings right now!”

The inside of the van might as well have been a vacuum, swallowing up everything.

Then Fox’s mouth twitched.

I let out a tired laugh and covered my face. But then pins and needles ran through me, and my throat tightened, and I was sure I was going to cry.

Fox moved to sit next to me on the floor of the van. They patted my leg, and they gave me time to get myself under control.

When I finally lowered my hands, my face still felt hot, and my voice was rough when I said, “Your dad doesn’t like your art, does he?”

“My father has his opinions,” Fox said.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Dash. It would be nice, yes, if he appreciated what I did. But I learned a long time ago that it was never going to happen.”

Silence fell between us.

“I never thought about that,” I said. “About what it must be like for you. I mean, I don’t know—I thought you’d grown up here, and you wanted to be here. Everyone loves you, and you’ve got the gallery, and you’ve got your show coming up—”

“I do want to be here,” Fox said. “In some ways, at least. But every choice has a cost. I don’t want you to think I’m unhappy with my life.

I am happy. Quite happy, as a matter of fact.

And happier with you here too. You’re a wonderful young man, Dash.

A bit wrapped up in yourself sometimes—” Fox smiled to take the sting out of the words.

“—but that’s the artistic temperament. You’ve made so many people happy.

You’re a wonderful partner to Bobby. Millie and Indira treasure your friendship.

And you’ve given Keme the greatest gift of all: someone he can bully for the rest of his life. And we want you to be happy too.”

I nodded. The van’s heater was still doing its best to drive back the cold, and as I dried, my wet clothes began to itch. A part of me knew I should get home, change, talk to Bobby. But I didn’t.

“What’s going on?” Fox asked quietly.

“Nothing,” I said. “I mean, aside from the fact that I’m apparently a total nutcase.” When Fox didn’t take the bait, I found myself talking again. “You know about the rejections?”

“I was given to understand that A Work in Progress didn’t find representation.”

“That’s putting it lightly. I tried every agent in the book—pretty much literally, although it’s a website now.”

“And?”

“And? Fox, that’s it. That’s the end.”