Damsel in the Red Dress

Chess with Cinnabar Pawns

"Ahhhg, and there goes the sappy part."

"Is it sappy to say I love you?"

Etan used to say it.

He didn't mean it but he still said it.

Kattar would suffer to say it to his mother because he knew it would break her heart if he didn't. But for me, there was no such obligation. It went without saying - or it went unsaid. Either or.

And two can play at that game.

A stalemate.

*

I feel fire and needles under my skin - furiously breaking hair ties as I try to get ready for the 'mock interview,' Shannon is holding today in preparation for my real interview with Wylde Journal this Friday.

I dab on a touch of blush, a swipe of mascara - brown, never black - still there's something about the style that's unnatural to me. I don't want to show up to the meeting looking like an 18-inch doll.

I've had my picture taken enough times in my life - between promotional photographs for my website and unofficial modeling for certain crazy photographers that I don't think I'll be nervous. Still, it would be worthwhile to have a gist of the sort of questions I'll be answering.

Shannon sent me home with a pile of magazines twelve volumes thick from Wylde Journal as well as a link to their website, which he texted some time while I was on the train.

They've had quite an impressive lineup in the last several years, for such a young publication.

"It's no Callisto Magazine," Shannon informed me "It's kind of like it's weird, hipster younger sister."

But any step is better than none at all - better than complacency and monotony.

A few weeks ago I wouldn't have imagined myself doing interviews at all. Now, if things go well, he says I'll probably do three before Christmas.

My schedule is packed. My living room is crowded with half-finished masterpieces, and three-quarters finished works of daunting daring - requiring a level of adroitness to complete that I'm not sure I possess.

There's a black fox with the northern lights woven through its fur staring back at me as I make my way down the stairs and into my kitchen, grabbing my keys and a cornmeal muffin before I make my way out the door.

I've started baking myself easy-to-carry edibles to have on hand for breakfast in the mornings. I don't have the time to cook five out of seven days a week. By the time I get home - or get done painting - I'm already starved and I'm sick of takeout. Fortunately, my aunt taught me how to cook - not much - but enough to feed myself.

Sometime soon I'll ask Mrs. Moon for some of her recipes - whenever she gets back from San Diego.

She says her magazine is arranging a big writing and art competition for teenagers with this crazy $5000 grand prize.

She wants me to speak at the award ceremony - but that won't be until next summer. Maybe by then, I'll be big enough for those kids to know who I am.

For the moment, I'll be discussing albino lions with Callisto's weird little sister.

Shannon's office is arranged differently than usual when I arrive around noon, on Wednesday morning. For one thing, there's a copy of my white lion piece, "Snow," on an easel beside what looks a lot like a black high chair, the kind directors sit in for interviews.

"Excuse me, Mr. Man," I nag, hands on my hips, as he comes in sipping a cup of coffee, "but how exactly do you expect me to get up there in pumps?"

"Well, there are two or three ways." He smirks, setting the cup down on his desk, and wiping the condensation onto his cable-knit sweater. "I can put my hands together and help you step up or you can take the heels off and climb up like a five-year-old in Mickey Dees play place."