Cupid's Beau

Chapter 4

I pulled my black truck into the driveway, and killed the ignition. This beautiful truck was just one of the "I'm-sorry-we-moved-you-800-miles-from-home-but-here's-something-to-win-you-over" gifts from my parents. Before today, I had no problem accepting it; however, now that I've met Demeter I feel kind of guilty for keeping the truck. Despite how I thought today would go, I didn't even anticipate meeting a person like Demi, nor did I imagine today would go over so well.

The only thing that really messed with my head was how quickly I came to like Demi. Not just like a person, but I mean really, really like her. She was cute, and nice, and she made my first day great, and clearly she was smart as hell. There was just something about her that made this place easier to tolerate despite the cold and the ambiguity that was Salt Lake. Aside from that, I found myself wanting to be around her, and I wanted to know more about her. I mean, today I told her all about myself and my life back in Cali, but I didn't even bother to ask about her.

Man, I really am awful. But something told me she wasn't very open to talking about herself in the first place. She only seemed to want to hear about me, and from what I'd noticed with other girls, they liked to turn the attention onto themselves when they felt we had been talking too long. She just didn't seem like the type of girl to do that.

I unlocked the door, and made my way inside the house. There were still boxes in the front hallway filled with kitchen supplies and the like. Nothing was quite right just yet, but I could already smell the fresh paint cans not too far away, telling me my mom was already on it.

"Beau, honey?" I heard her call out.

"Yeah, mom, it's me." I hung my lanyard up on the key holder, then walked towards the living room where my mom was. She had plastic coverings all over everything in the living room, as she donned her painting overalls, a hanky over her dyed red hair, and her feet bare.

"Hey there, handsome. Go get some painting clothes on and help me with this mural, yeah?" She looked at me with her paintbrush in hand. I looked at what she was painting, and it looked like the beach at sunset, kind of like the sketch I was working on. Creative minds think alike.

"Yeah, I'll be right back." I told her without hesitation, deciding that painting our new walls was a lot more appealing than homework. I took my backpack upstairs to my room, and threw it right beside my desk. I pulled open my bottom drawer, then got out my painting jeans and shirt--both thoroughly worn and covered with paint from various projects my mom and I worked on--got them on, and went back downstairs. I picked up one of the paintbrushes my mom had out, sat on the floor, and began working on the water.

"So, how was your first day at school?" She asked me, trying not to sound too interested but I could tell she was.

"It was good."

"Was it like good, good, or eh good?" She began probing.

"Somewhere in between good and eh." I shrugged. She looked down at me, placed her hand on her slender hip, and gave me her infamous really, Beau face. "What's with the face, woman?" I laughed.

"I'm standing here, trying not to pry because I'm an awesome mom, and you're lucky to have me, and you aren't giving me squat to go on, kid."

"There's really nothing to tell, mom." Lies. She was going to see right through me, but if I told her I made a friend—a girlfriend, for that matter—she was never going to let it go.

"Beau?" She spoke softly. I looked up at her, and although I should have known better, apparently eighteen years of existing in an artistic household wasn't enough practice for me to know not to look up at my mom when she had a paintbrush in her hand. She waved her brush at me, freshly covered in bright orange paint, and covered my face in spatter. "Don't lie to me, little boy. I brought you into this world, and I can take you out in a heartbeat. And I'll make it look like an accident."