Chapter Twenty-Three

September 2005

Nothing could have prepared Mandy for how intense the art program turned out to be. She learned so much, but barely saw any part of England past the four walls of her bedroom and the school she attended daily—even on the weekends. Although she was taking only a couple of classes, they occupied every moment of Mandy's waking hours—and sometimes her not-waking hours. Mandy barely had time to eat, or sleep, or breathe, but it was a good thing because it gave her little time to think either. No time to think about missing home, or her parents, or Isa. No time to think about what she had done.

So instead of doing any of that, Mandy poured herself into her studies. If she could get through this one task, she could move on to the next, and so forth—but she didn't look forward, and she did everything she could to stop herself from looking back. Anytime one of those before thoughts crept in, she would distract herself. Sometimes in small ways, like scrubbing paint that shouldn't be there from her fingernails, or helping Sophie iron fabric—she'd gotten really good at that.

Today though, she was concentrating on her current assignment, which had her re-creating the work of a master with her own unique POV—meaning she had to take a well-known piece and somehow remake it as her own, but not let it be so far from the original that it couldn't be recognized. And if that weren't hard enough, Mandy chose an artist she admired but whose work was nothing like her own—Artemisia Gentileschi. Realism wasn't Mandy's strength, but there was something about Gentileschi's work that spoke to Mandy in a way she couldn't explain. Plus, Mandy was there to challenge herself. She hadn't come all this way to play things safe.

After carefully preparing all of her supplies, Mandy swept her long hair back into a bun and stared at her blank canvas for a moment. It wouldn't stay that way for long, but it was like a ritual at this point, to take a moment and visualize what she was about to do. In her head she watched herself create exactly what she intended—each stroke of the brush held purpose—and when it was completed, it was perfect. She could do this. She hadn't given everything up for nothing. She needed to succeed.

As always, she started with the background. She would get the base to exactly where she needed it and go from there—the plan seemed simple enough, but the blue wasn't mixing correctly, or there was something wrong with the lighting, because it seemed too dark and not at all the tone she had wanted. Plus, there was a little hair that must've escaped her bun tickling her nose. She swiped her hand across her face to get rid of the sensation, but it persisted.

Mandy clenched her jaw and attempted to ignore it. A little more white would do the trick—everything was still well in hand. She mixed the color and applied it to her canvas, but now it was too light. What the heck? She stepped back and swiped at her face again—to remove the annoying tickle—before she picked up her canvas and shifted it ninety degrees. It had to be the lighting where she was.

From this angle she got a little natural light from a high window. It was what she needed to get the color just right. Everything was going to work out now. She took a deep breath and once again she mixed, this time adding a little purple but also a drop of black. She almost laughed at how much of a genius she was for doing that. The color was perfect, and she proceeded to apply a nice thick coat so none of the natural canvas texture came through. Sometimes it was nice, but not for this project. By the time Mandy finished covering the middle, she realized her error. In her haste to get the ideal color, she hadn't mixed enough to cover the entire canvas.

No. This was not how this was supposed to go. She was not supposed to fail at this assignment like she had her last one. This time it was all going to work out.

Mandy quickly mixed some more—adding a little purple and a drop of black, just like she had done before, but as she swept it across her canvas, it didn't match. No. This could not be happening. And that damn hair was still tickling her nose! She swiped at her face again—forgetting she still had her brush in her hand—and smeared paint across her cheek and into her hair.

Mandy allowed her head to fall back and let out a deep breath, which was much better than the scream she really wanted to let fly from her lungs—but getting kicked out wasn't an option. She really needed to get a good start on this project. She really needed something to go right in her life since coming to London.

And to make everything worse, that damn hair was still tickling her nose.

Five hours later, Mandy stood at the sink in her bathroom with steam filling the room. She slid her hand across the mirror and stared at herself. Cyan paint was smeared against her right cheek onto her ear and trailed off into her hair. She hadn't even attempted to clean it off, not wanting to break her concentration from her project, but it didn't matter. By the time she gave up, she was covered in paint and had sore feet, and all she had to show for her effort was a multitone blue canvas, which was not at all what she had wanted.

She attempted to drown her sorrows at the local cantina in a large basket of chips and a small bowl of what they called salsa, but was about as flavorful as ketchup. Mexican food in London was a rarity, so she was lucky there was at least something within walking distance of where she was staying. She allowed herself to think it would somehow magically make her feel better like it used to when she was home. She had been in Europe for weeks, and nothing was going right. Every painting she attempted never got to where she wanted. This was supposed to be her time to prove to her parents that she could be a successful artist—it was something she needed to prove to herself too—and she was failing miserably. The constant crunch between her teeth and the delectable salt of the tortilla chips did little to ease her aching soul. She brushed the elusive hair that had been annoying her all day back again with no success.

Today had ended in yet another epic disaster.

Now, as her fingers curled around the edges of the sink so hard her knuckles turned white, with enough paint speckled in her hair it looked like confetti, she wanted to scream. She yanked the hair band from her hair, and gold locks tumbled down past her shoulders. Her puffy red eyes with bags so dark underneath from too many nights of restless sleep stared back at her.

What the hell was she doing?

Who was she kidding?

She wasn't some great artist. She couldn't even complete an assignment. And now here she was, thousands of miles from home, and she didn't have any friends, and if she ever saw the sun again, it would be some kind of miracle. Why was England so fucking gray? It wasn't even a pretty gray. It was cold, and dreary. She never should have come here. She never should have let herself believe she could actually be good at this. She blew up her life, and for what? She hated it here, in this house, in this country, a gazillion miles from home. But most of all she hated that girl in the mirror. And that damn hair was still tickling her nose!

Without any thought, she grabbed the scissors from the top drawer and started chopping. But with each cut, that annoying little tickle was still there. Still reminding her of what a disaster her life had become. Blonde strands littered the black-and-white-tiled floor. She cut one side, then crumpled into a ball on the floor and let out a guttural sob. Tears splashed down among the clumps of golden hair.

There was a gentle knock on the door followed by, "Are you okay in there?"

With the little strength Mandy had, she unlocked the door because no, she was not okay. She was very not okay.

"Bloody hell, what have you done?" Sophie knelt next to Mandy and took the scissors from her.

"It wouldn't stop tickling," was all Mandy could say. She'd fucked up. Just like she'd been fucking everything up lately. She'd destroyed her hair. And she deserved it.

"Get in the shower, and I'll deal with the mess. And then…and then we'll figure this out."

Mandy nodded and unclipped the straps of her overalls. She didn't care that Sophie was there. She didn't care about anything anymore.

She didn't need to look in the mirror to understand the mess she had created on her head. As soon as she went to shampoo, her hair was obviously different—at least on one side. Where she once would've had to pull up her hair and pile it on top of her head to reach the ends to wash them properly, she didn't have to do that anymore. There was no need to reach, as there was nothing to reach for.

The water never got quite warm enough, but Mandy didn't bother trying to turn up the heat. She washed and scrubbed until her skin was red and angry, just like she was with herself. When she got out, Sophie had removed the evidence of Mandy's earlier breakdown, scheduled her an appointment at a salon later that day, and made her a cup of tea, sending her to her room for a lie-down before they had to go. Mandy didn't deserve someone being so kind to her. Especially not after all she'd done.

She lay on her bed, wrapped in her down comforter, and picked up the phone. She had to dial so many numbers to make a call, and she didn't even know what time it was in California. But no matter, caller ID would say it was her—or at least someone calling from London—and they'd pick up no matter the hour. And Mandy needed Mom.

"Amanda, sweetheart. How's it going?" Mom's voice echoed through the receiver, and the dam of Mandy's emotions broke. What was it about hearing your mom's voice that did that? Tears ran down her face so quickly, she couldn't catch them all—and she didn't even try. "Oh, honey."

"I messed up, Mom. I messed up so bad."

"It's going to be okay."

"I miss her so much," Mandy confessed.

"I know you do."

Before Mandy had left, Mom chalked up Mandy's attitude to stress and thought that Isa and she had just had a fight and that was why she wasn't with Mandy when she left. But she didn't know everything, and Mandy didn't even know where to start. And now since she'd been gone, had Mom talked to Sandy? Did Isa even tell her own mom what Mandy had done? How was Isa doing? Was she as miserable as Mandy?

"But you don't know. You don't know what I did," Mandy said.

"I'm sure it's something you two can work out. You've been friends forever," Mom tried to reason.

"I don't think we can this time." Mandy used her blanket to wipe her face. "I should've never come here."

"It's never easy being away from home for the first time."

But it was more than that, so much more. It wasn't just the place that Mandy longed for. "I need to tell you something, and I don't want you to get mad."

"You can tell me anything, but I can't promise I won't be upset."

Mandy nodded to herself. That was fair, she supposed, and she couldn't bear to keep it inside anymore. She cleared her throat and let it all out. As she cried into the phone and used her blanket as a tissue, Mandy told Mom everything—well, almost everything—there was to know about her and Isa, and how Mandy messed everything up.

Mom had been true to her word and just listened, like she always listened. She wasn't happy Mandy had kept their relationship a secret from her, but Mom also didn't yell. Maybe because Mandy was already so upset, or because yelling wouldn't do any good, but either way she was relieved.

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself," Mom said. But that's what moms were supposed to say.

"I don't know what to do."

"It seems that the only thing you can do is move forward. You made your choices, and now you need to let Isa make hers."

"But I was wrong. I fucked up. What can I do to take it back?"

Mom took a deep breath. "As tough as it is, actions have consequences. Sometimes there's no going back to the way things were. But maybe if you give it a little time, you can make something new."

Mandy didn't want anything new, or different. "But I love her."

"Then give her time."

"How much time?"

"As much as she needs. All you can do is reach out, and then it's up to her."

Reach out. If only it were that simple. Mandy was thousands of miles away. She had already tried to call, but no one answered, even though it was almost impossible that no one was home. And Mandy couldn't leave a message—not without knowing what Isa could've told her family. "What am I supposed to do, email her?" That seemed so impersonal.

"Have you thought about writing her a letter? That way you give her the opportunity to open it when she's ready."

A letter seemed like an even worse idea, but Mandy was out of options.

"I love you, sweetheart. Things will get better. I know it doesn't seem like it now, but they will," Mom said. "Go make some friends. Perhaps your—what did you call her?—flatmate wants to hang out."

Mandy had almost forgotten until Mom mentioned Sophie—even if it wasn't by name. "That's something else. I should tell you what happened with my hair—"

"Amanda Elizabeth Dean. What did you do?"