Bittersweet (Book #1 Evening Wings Trilogy)

Chapter 16

16

My mom drove the Rust Bucket along the snowy road, her sparkly high heels under the seat, singing along to ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ as it spewed under static from the radio.

I closed my eyes and tried not to laugh.

“Sweet home Alabama/Where the skies are so blue,”

We were on our way to the Art Gallery where my artwork was on show, along with other pieces from students around the state.

As the song ended, albeit you couldn’t tell under the cloak of static and my mom pulled the Rust Bucket up to an older style building. She circled the lot a few times, almost backed into someone’s shiny Mercedes and finally parked.

“Elizabeth, check my makeup,” she said, dabbing on some more lip-gloss.

“Mom, it’s fine.” I rolled my eyes without really looking at her.

“Come on; don’t let me go out there looking like a clown.” She laughed.

I rolled my eyes and shouldered my handbag.

The Art gallery was buzzing with people who look especially important under the dim, intimate lighting. Waiters milled around in sharp uniforms, offering champagne and wine, juice and appetizers to the formally dressed guests.

My mom clung to my arm as we waltzed through the crowd.

The paintings on show in the gallery were very nice, extraordinary even and I admired them with an adoring eye for each technique, every brush stroke and charcoal or pencil line.

We stopped by a large painting of a house, shrouded in black, then paint splatters making the sky and the clouds.

“Nice isn’t it?” asked a deep voice from behind me.

I jumped on impulse; it was a silly habit.

My mom squinted and bit into one of the hors d’vours

A particularly artsy looking boy stood behind me; he had long, shaggy unkempt hair and he wore a pale blue polyester sweater and meticulously ironed black pants and well abused and paint spattered Chucks.

“It’s really amazing,” I smiled, acknowledging it. “The brush technique is lovely.”

“Thanks,” the boy smiled.

“My pleasure,” I smiled back, admiring his other portraits.

“So are you an artist too?” he asked after a moment of curious silence.

“Yeah, some of my work is displayed here… I just can’t find it.” I smiled uncertainly, his looked way, much better than my love struck portraits of Xander.

 “I’m sorry, I’m so rude. I didn’t catch your name.” the boy smiled easily.

“Elizabeth,” I responded smally. “I’m Elizabeth Corrigan.”

His face hardened a little, insignificant bit.

“Oh, I’m Mason Shepherd.” He said, shaking my hand; his was clammy. “You’re the Elizabeth Corrigan that everyone’s been on about for the last three days.”

“Really?” I asked, my eyes popping open. “Wow.”

“Are you still looking for your showcase?” he asked.

“Yes, will you show me?” I asked.

“Sure…” he said, but he didn’t take his eyes off me; that was creepy—even beyond weird. Maybe I would have tolerated it if he stopped making that face.