Tam's lake

But what will happen next?" She asked.

"Shh, lets just float a while."

He said in a whisper so soft it was a lullaby.

Tam's Lake

I don’t know if I’m happy by the time I pull my blue SUV off the highway and down onto a small road, passing the little sign reading “Elizabethton TN”. I haven’t seen my cousin Lily since Christmas. She’s one of my best friends ever, my father’s brother’s daughter. Though I live all the way in Atlanta we talk all the time and now that I’m sixteen and able to drive I got permission to drive up and spend the summer in the countryside of east Tennessee. The only downside? I have to live in the countryside of east Tennessee for the summer. Plus I just broke up with my douche bag of a boyfriend Carter and despite the fact that he’d been doing everything possible to make me want to break up with him, a break up is still a break up and I feel like crap.

The radio thrumming with some hip hop song I rolled through the tiny down of Elizabethton, through the tinier town of Hampton and on into the deep green of Nowhereness. Up and around the side of the mountain I go, the houses getting smaller, the fields getting bigger. Cattle graze on the hillsides and I see a mangy dog scuttle through some bushes. This is a place where paint peels and barns are still made out of wood. Where rocking chairs on porches are not for decoration. People fish and then eat what they catch. Children go barefoot from April to September. It sounds quaint and all, but I get uneasy when I get farther than a twenty minute radius from n light iced Venti double espresso caramel soy-latte.

I check in my rearview mirror, my easel partly blocking my view. I feel kind of silly, lugging all my painting stuff on a five hour trip like this. But I couldn’t handle the thought of not painting all summer- even though I never let a soul see my work. Not my mom, not my little sister Holly, not even Lily, no one. Painting is like my secret. It’s the one part of my life that I get to fully be myself in. When I’m painting I’m not Taylor Eliabeth Bandelle, daughter of a big CEO, wearer of expensive brand names. I get to shrug off the mantel of being rich and fabulous. Everyone expects perfection. But not while I’m painting. That’s private. That’s the only place where I have the freedom to break down and bare my soul to the oil paints.

People say I’m passionate; they see the sunny Taylor Bandelle driving to school, singing along to some song in her Holister jeans and Prada sunglasses. They see me out shopping with Holly, us holding hands like storybook sisters and say that I’m flawless. They see me jogging in the park in sofie shorts and a victoria’s secret tank and say that I’m focused. They see me making A’s in school and say that I’m brilliant. They see so much yet they know nothing. What they don’t know about me could fill a lifetime’s worth of paintings. In our house I have a room for my own particular use. Its my painting room. Not even the maid is allowed in there. There are windows on two sides and everywhere else is covered in canvas and paper. Sure, there’s stuff that I paint for school and theres stuff I paint for my grandma or for people’s birthday presents- but none of that matters because no one has seen what I can do. The paintings are just like what people want to see of me. They’re sweet, they’re bright, they’re simple.

A painting always presents a question- it’s the artist’s job to unravel and answer that question. The paintings people see are two plus two is four. The paintings in my head are what is the meaning of hope? Does anyone ever feel alone in a room of friends? Is peace really found in the middle of a rushing city? But I never show anyone those questions. That would be dangerous.

My tires spin on the gravel as I ease my car up the long driveway of Lily’s house. Her littlest brother is outside kicking a soccer ball around. He looks up at the sound of my approach. His hair is a rich nutty brown, just like his sister’s. His round face cherubic in the afternoon light.

“Taylor’s here!” he hollers in delight. I open my door and step out, taking care not to fall, my wedge heels feeling unstable on the grass.

“Hey Robbie!” I exclaim reaching down and giving him a big hug.

“Taylor! Welcome!” Mich yells, leaning out of an upstairs window. He’s the oldest of the four kids. Nicky- the middle brother- and Lily both come charging out of the screened door of the rickety white house.

“TaylorTaylorTaylor!” Lily screams running and giving me a hug so energetic it could knock over a bear.

“Lily! Ah! Ohmygod, its so good to see you!”

“You too! Come on, lets get your stuff inside. You’ll want to rest a bit too, I reckon.”

“Nicky!” I start to ruffle his hair, but now that he’s twelve I decide that that might not be welcome. So I settle for giving him a big grin. “How are you, buddy?”

Two hours later I’m sprawled on the rag rug in Taylor’s attic bedroom, my clothes half put away, half strewn across the extra mattress on the floor.

“Gracious, girl, Carter was a good-for-nothing scoundrel. Good riddance.”

I nod, pulling my hair up into an elastic- no air conditioning in late may is something I am not- and don’t plan on- getting used to.

“Well, since you’re single and all, tonight seems like a good night to get out back out there, yeah? A bunch of them boys are meeting up at the lake for a bonfire tonight. Let’s go. Lauren, Gillian and Katie can’t wait to see you again.”

My face lights up at the thought of Lily’s three best friends. “Let’s do it then.”

Lily rolls off her bed and marches over to her closet with a no nonsense look.

“You know, my friend Nathan is single. He’s got blonde curly hair and sweet blue eyes.”

I laugh, “well, in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve met Nathan before and his hair isn’t so much as curly as a freaking jew-fro.” Lily laughs and pulls a peach tank top out and shimmies out of her tee shirt. “All the same,” she adds, it couldn’t kill you to wear a skirt tonight. I’m pretty sure a saw a cute little blue jean one in your suitcase.”

“You ridiculous matchmaker!” I yell playfully, chucking a pillow at her. “Maybe I want to be forever alone.”

Of Hurricanes and Porcelain