Paintbrush Read online

  Paintbrush

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  ISBN print: 978-1-945519-10-9

  ISBN ebook: 978-1-945519-09-3

  Library of Congress: 2016954225

  Copyright © 2017 Hannah Bucchin

  Cover design by

  https://www.facebook.com/BlueSkyOverBoston/?fref=ts

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use materials from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permissions must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Blaze Publishing, LLC

  64 Melvin Drive

  Fredericksburg, VA 22406

  Visit us at www.blazepub.com

  First Edition: July 2017

  To Bop, who always knew I could do it.

  Contents

  Paintbrush

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Thank You for Reading

  .

  Chapter One

  Josie

  Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine what a normal school morning looks like. The type of weekday morning routine seen on TV. Mom and Dad eating breakfast, teenagers rushing down the steps to grab some food off the table before skipping out the door to meet the bus. Parents watching their children go with an affectionate shake of the head—those crazy kids. A normal morning routine. A normal family. A normal life.

  These are the thoughts that flit through my head as I watch an old woman doing topless yoga on my front lawn.

  Well, not so much my front lawn as our front lawn. The collective front lawn of everyone who lives here. And not so much watch as try to avoid watching. But it’s hard to avoid the spectacle when I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Mitchell’s truck, which is parked in the gravel lot facing directly out over the lawn, the cabins, the community hall, and all the people in between.

  People watching is a prime activity at the Indian Paintbrush Community Village for Sustainable Living. Especially early morning people watching. Paintbrush is a commune, a safe haven for mountain folk and hippies and eco-freaks and spiritualists and . . . anyone, really. Any lost soul Myra Gilligan, our founder, takes in. As a result, things are pretty bizarre around here. Julie, the naked old lady yogi, is just the beginning.

  Which is why I can’t focus on the battered copy of The Princess Bride lying open in my lap. People watching is so much more interesting. It’s not even 7:00 a.m. yet, but already I see Myra crossing the huge expanse of green lawn from her cabin to the community hall. While everyone else at Paintbrush is just now stirring awake with the sun, Myra is already fully dressed and determined, a long gray braid bouncing down her back as she marches to the vegetable garden and begins yanking rhubarb plants from the ground. Who knows how long she’s been up already. I’m not actually sure that woman ever sleeps.

  At the far corner of the lawn, Ned emerges from his cabin. He shuffles out of his house, looks around discreetly, and hobbles his way off into the woods. He’s almost eighty, and yet he still lights up a joint every morning like a teenage stoner. And he still thinks none of us can tell. Bernie, our other resident grumpy old man, cleans his rifle on his porch next door, a tobacco pipe hanging out of his mouth.

  Joe, our newest member, paces back and forth in front of Mitchell’s family’s cabin until Carrie, Mitchell’s mom, rushes out. They walk across the lawn, heads bent together. They’re working on a project to bring a working garden to the local elementary school. Their latest obstacle involved the principal denying their proposal to bring twenty chickens to live in the schoolyard. Go figure.

  I’m about to open the door and yell over to ask Carrie if Mitchell is ready, but the words die on my lips and I sigh as Libby ducks out the front door of my family’s cabin.

  Libby. She’s dressed in all black—ripped black stockings, black combat boots, and a very tight, very short black dress. Appropriate for a rock concert, or a funeral, or maybe a funeral for a rock star. Not appropriate for eighth grade.

  She dashes across the grass, dark hair flying behind her, gaze darting around the mostly empty lawn, probably to see if anyone notices her. They don’t.

  But I do. Libby doesn’t see me until she’s right in front of Mitchell’s truck. She stops short and blinks at me. I blink back. But before I can open the door to ask her where, exactly, she’s going this early in the morning, she squares her shoulders, grips her backpack, and runs right on by.

  I crane my neck and watch as she clambers into a car idling at the other end of the parking lot. Before Libby’s even fully inside, the car zips out of the lot and down the mountain road, out of sight.

  I close my eyes and lean back against my seat. I’m graduating high school in a month. I’m the one who’s supposed to be off getting into shenanigans, hopping into strange cars, and living it up. Not my little sister.

  At least I have one sister who is nice and quiet. I gaze over at my cabin. Mae, Libby’s twin, is probably still safe and asleep in bed like a normal fourteen-year-old. And I’m sure my mom is in there too, cleaning the kitchen and making breakfast, purposefully and cheerfully oblivious to the early morning disappearance of one of her middle schoolers.

  I take a deep breath and shake off the annoyance with my mother, with Libby, with the perpetually late, still-not-here Mitchell. I may not have a normal morning. Or normal mornings, ever. But this place is home. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

  I go back to my copy of The Princess Bride. I’m rereading the first page when the driver’s door bangs open.

  “I’m late. I know I’m late.” Mitchell grins at me as he launches himself behind the wheel. He chucks his backpack into the backseat.

  “Cutting it kind of close this morning, aren’t we?” I don’t really mind it that much. It’s a crisp May morning, the beautiful blue-green mountains stretch into the distance under the dusting of early morning sunlight, and I have my feet propped up on the truck’s sticker-covered dashboard. It’s kind of a nice morning to sit and wait an
d take it all in.

  But I can’t let Mitchell know that.

  “Nah. We still got, what, twenty minutes till the bell rings?” He stuffs the key in the ignition, turns it once. Nothing. Then again. Still nothing.

  “Yeah, and the drive takes thirty.” I raise my eyebrows as he turns the key for a third time.

  Silence.

  He groans.

  “Come on, baby.” Mitchell closes his eyes and leans forward, gingerly placing his hands on the dashboard. “Don’t do this to me. Just one more month. That’s all I need.”

  I glance at the time on my phone. “Mitchell . . .”

  He opens one eye and glares at me. “Josie.” He gestures to the dashboard.

  I sigh. “Fine.”

  I close my eyes and place my hands in front of me. My left hand rests on a sticker that reads Hugs not Drugs. My right hand rests on one that proclaims My Scottish Terrier is Smarter than your Honors Student.

  We sit in reverent silence for a few seconds. After a long and dramatic sigh, Mitchell opens his eyes.

  “Okay. I think she’s ready.” Slowly, he places his hand back on the ignition, and holding his breath, he turns the key.

  With a sputter, the engine coughs to life. Mitchell pumps his fist in the air and smacks the steering wheel, and a loud beep echoes throughout the group of wooden cabins in front of us.

  “Are you kidding me?” I say. “You’ll wake everyone up!”

  He throws the truck in reverse and backs out of his space, gravel crunching underneath his wheels. “It’s almost seven. They’re already up.”

  With a screech, he peels onto the road, and we are finally on our way to school. He happily pats the steering wheel as we speed along the deserted backcountry road, weaving our way down the mountain. “I knew she had it in her.”

  “You say that every morning.”

  He shrugs, and I shake my head.

  Mitchell is kind of my best friend but also kind of not. When you’re the only two kids growing up in a commune full of hippies and mountain folk, bonding for life just sort of comes naturally. My family joined Paintbrush almost thirteen years ago, when I was five and the twins had just turned two. My mom was only twenty-two then, basically a kid herself.

  We were lost, and Myra found us—literally found us huddled together and asleep in our ancient minivan in a drugstore parking lot. Her wrinkled face was framed by crazy wisps of gray hair, she was draped in brightly colored scarves, her round eyes were a startling icy blue, and I remember thinking she looked like a witch. But when she talked to my mom, Myra’s voice was low and warm and soothing, so when we followed her muddy truck up a winding mountain road, I wasn’t scared. At the top of the road was a battered wooden sign painted in a deep forest green with the words: Indian Paintbrush Community Village. We unpacked our stuff into a tiny wooden cabin, and we never left.

  The commune contained neither Indians nor paintbrushes. Myra named it after her favorite plant: a small red-orange wildflower that spreads over the mountains in the early summer. At that point, Paintbrush had been up and running for only two years, and there were only ten other members: two couples, two older men, and a family with one kid. That family was the Morrisons, and the little kid was Mitchell.

  I glance sideways at Mitchell now. His flannel-covered arms tense as he grips the steering wheel, and his dark hair flops on his forehead as he mouths the words to the classic rock pumping through the radio. He’s tall—a little over six foot—and even though he’s kind of skinny, his arms and shoulders are broad from his time on the swim team. He’s doesn’t look anything like the little kid he used to be. The goofy little boy I met when I was six years old.

  But then again, I don’t look like that six-year-old girl anymore. We’re eighteen now. Practically real adults. And high school is almost over.

  I brace myself as we turn the corner, as the gray walls of North Mountain High come looming into sight. I steel myself for another long day of classes, another day crammed in those gray walls with hundreds of other kids. Lots of kids I know really love high school. Not the actual school part, but the part where they get to do something they love, like playing trombone in the band or sprinting for the track team or reading to little kids for community service club. High school is where people can find their place, when they can find out how to fit into the puzzle.

  But I don’t have a place, and I don’t have a thing. All I know is that when I’m inside the school walls, the only place I really want to be is outside in the sunshine, gardening with my hands in the dirt, breathing in the fresh air.

  Graduation is only a few weeks away. I repeat this in my head like a mantra. Graduation is only a few weeks away. Graduation is only a few weeks away.

  Let’s hope I can make it that long.

  Chapter Two

  Mitchell

  The bell rings as I pull into a parking space outside school. “Just on time.”

  Josie shakes her head as she gathers her stuff. “Actually, you’re supposed to be inside by the time the bell rings. Not standing outside in the parking lot.”

  I grab my backpack out of the backseat and slam the door. “Same difference. Plus, we’re seniors. No one’s going to give us a hard time when we’re graduating in a month.”

  Josie makes a face at me as she weaves her long dark hair into a braid. “You mean no one’s going to give you a hard time, Mr. Golden Boy. Not all of us are Advanced Placement, student council, swimmer stars.”

  “Yeah, but as long as you’re with me, you’re fine.” I gesture to the empty parking lot. “I cast my golden shadow over everyone around me.”

  She shoves me as we hurry toward the school, but her mouth tugs up in a smile. “Whatever.”

  We step inside the front door and turn to separate. The hallways are almost empty; everyone’s in homeroom by now. Josie hurries to the right, and I make a sharp left.

  As she walks away, I call out over my shoulder. “Meet in the parking lot at 4:30?”

  “I’ll be there.” Her voice echoes down the hall. “Oh! I almost forgot.”

  I turn. “What?”

  “Catch.” She tosses a book to me, and I snatch it out of the air. “Finished it yesterday.”

  She jogs toward her classroom, her boots echoing on the hard, shiny floors.

  I glance down at the book in my hand. The Princess Bride.

  I smooth my hand over the worn, familiar cover and smile.

  And then I look around to make sure no one’s watching as I stuff it into my backpack as quickly as possible.

  It’s not that I’m embarrassed I like to read books. Or that I’m embarrassed to be seen with Josie. It’s just that I’ve spent my entire life working so hard to be normal. I’m captain of the swim team, I plan pep rallies and dances, and I take as many advanced classes as my schedule will allow. So that one, I can spend less time at Paintbrush. Two, so people will know I’m a normal guy. And three, so one day soon I can get out of here—way, way out of here—and finally live a normal life. One that doesn’t involve so much spiritual sharing and communal energy, or any other of Myra’s scary catchphrases.

  And an eighteen-year-old dude reading The Princess Bride for fun? It doesn’t exactly fit with the whole Cool-Normal-Guy-image I’m trying to uphold.

  And not to be a jerk, but neither does Josie. Which is probably why we don’t hang out much at school. Or at all, really. I mean, people know that we know each other. They know we live in the same weird hippie place. But Josie looks the part. She has long brown hair that’s always in a messy braid, and she either wears hiking boots and faded jeans and big flannels—real outdoor work clothes—or long flowing skirts and tie-dye shirts and ribbons in her hair. She has buttons on her backpack and she doesn’t eat meat and she listens to the Grateful Dead. She looks like she stepped straight out of Woodstock.

  And that’s all cool and fine and whatever. It’s just not me.

  I stifle a yawn as I turn the corner down the hallway. I swear, every morning
I’m already exhausted by the time I get to school. Trying to get ready in the morning and get out the door and on the road is like running the gauntlet. The insanity starts in my cabin, with my parents, who are so completely and blissfully in love with each other it’s gross. No one should have to worry about walking in on their own parents making out. Or worse.

  Then outside there’s wrinkly old Julie doing her naked yoga thing on the front lawn. Every. Single. Morning. And I know the human body is a beautiful thing or whatever, but seriously. It’s the last thing I want to see first thing in the morning.

  Then I have to make sure to avoid Ned because he comes back from his early morning “nature walks” with a cloud of pot smoke hanging over him. I don’t need any teachers eyeing me suspiciously, thinking I’m a stoner.

  And those are just the usuals. There are always other people milling around too, smiley, huggy, chatty people who don’t seem to understand I have school to attend. And that the start time is not really a suggestion so much as a hard and fast rule. Today it was Joe Jagger creeping around my house. Again. I’m not kidding—Joe Jagger. That’s really his name. Joe arrived here six months ago, straight from the coast of California to “try the natural life, man.” He’s in his thirties, but his long blond hair and baggy shorts and tank tops scream teenage surfer dude. He’s nice enough, but he tries way too hard. Like, the first time he met me, he got way too close to my face, looked right into my eyes, and told me I had a righteous vibe. He’s like a caricature of a real person. And since he and my mom got paired together to work on some organic food initiative in town a few months ago, he’s been following her around like a puppy dog. I can’t wait for their project to be over. I’ve had enough of his good vibes to last me for a long, long time.

  I know I sound whiny when I talk about Paintbrush. And that in the grand scheme of the universe, considering all the terrible and horrible lives I could be forced to live, mine is really not that bad. But still. I’ve lived with the same group of people, the same way, doing the same farming and work and community dinners since I was four years old. Since before I can even remember.