Reckless Kiss

She pauses on a sketch I did last year. My throat tightens as I look down on the drawing I hastily slid into one of the back transparent sleeves.

It’s my mother behind her camera. She’s sitting in a position I remember so well, looking at me as if I’m her subject. Her hand is on her leg, and her arm is slung over the tripod. She’s wearing jeans that have holes and are frayed at the knees, and her shirt is a loose navy button-down over a tan tank top.

Her eyes gaze forward with such intensity, and her ubiquitous black glasses frame her hazel eyes. Long, dark hair streaked with gray covers her shoulders like a cape. She looks like a woman who has done great things. It’s how I see her in my mind.

Her knowing smile makes me wonder what she’s thinking. Probably something about living in the moment. The small lines around her eyes remind me of how she looked at me when I’d say something amusing or wise for my years, as she’d say.

It starts me wondering… Maybe Rosalía’s right. I’m not the greatest portrait artist, but something about the eyes captures the spirit. When I look at this sketch, it’s like my mother is right here with me.

We’re silent, admiring the formidable woman who raised me, who decided I wasn’t going to grow up in this place of bitterness and inherited hate.

Yet here I am.

“Who is this, Angela?” Deacon’s aunt asks again.

“It’s my mother.”

Her lips purse, and she looks from me to the sketch. “It’s an excellent piece. Can you do something like this for me?”

Blinking up, I try to understand what she’s asking. “You want me to find what makes you special?”

It’s possible that came out wrong.

Her eyes narrow. “I’ll give you a trial period. No promises. If I don’t like what you’re doing, you’re out.”

It’s my turn to narrow my eyes and study her. “Ten percent up front.”

“Five.” Our eyes meet, and I hold my tongue. “Impress me, Angela. I want a portrait that causes people to stop and think. Can you do that?”

I don’t know…

That is not my answer. I imagine fifteen thousand dollars and moving out of my brother’s house, being independent at last. Being free to do what I want.

“Of course. You’re stunning.” That much is true.

Her blue eyes flinch as if she’s trying to decide if I’m being sarcastic. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

She walks toward the door as if she’s finished speaking to me.

“Before I go.” I wait for her to stop and give me her attention. “I’d like to have a contract, something in writing that states the terms. We can work out a time frame, signatures—”

One hand on the door, she straightens her shoulders. It’s a dramatic pose—maybe how I’ll have her stand for the portrait. “I’ll pay you fifteen thousand dollars to paint my portrait the way I like it. Is that something you can agree to, Angela? Or do I need to find someone else?”

My jaw tightens, and I think about how painting ‘the way she likes it’ might go.

Then I think of getting my own place. “I’ll agree to it.”

“Send me the list of supplies you need, and I’ll have everything waiting for you first thing in the morning.”

She leaves me alone in the room, wondering if I’ve made a huge mistake.

“It’s like my mother was there, helping me get the job.” I’m at Lourdes’s small apartment, pacing, trying to get my head around what just happened, what it means.

“So Deacon’s racist old aunt is going to pay you fifteen grand to paint her portrait as she sees fit?” My bestie is on her couch with a bowl of popcorn in her lap. “It’s like that old song.”

“Which one?”

“The one about making a deal with the devil for a boatload of money.” She shoves a handful of popcorn in her mouth.