On the first day of the exhibit, Plum sat in front of her vanity and drew circles of make-up onto her arms and by the time she was finished, she looked like the survivor of some terrible abuse. She pulled on a sweater, a pair of jeans, and a bracelet she’d gotten at a garage sale, without which she had no shot of surviving the night.
She moved through the apartment, hands grazing all of the hard surfaces—the kitchen counter tops and the television stand. Tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear, she walked to the door and walked out of the apartment before she had the chance to forgo the exhibit altogether and spend the night alone.
She walked to the museum early—earlier than she should have, not that anyone was going to ask her about it—and paced around the permanent exhibits there, the ones that had stood the test of time. She wanted to become them, but she also couldn’t help the relief that flooded her at the thought that this was only a two-night exhibit. Only seven other artists had been chosen—she was the best of the best, whether she liked it or not, and she really couldn’t decide if that was a good thing. Once it was over, she could pack up her paintings and stuff them in a box. She would be done in twenty-eight hours and then she would be able to get some air back into her lungs.
Plum squeezed her eyes shut tight. The sailboat in front of her was not new—she had stood in front of it dozens of times, wondering what made it special enough to be included here. Anyone around her would figure she was concentrating so hard on the sailboat as if she needed to block out the whole world. It was not the sailboat, but the thought of her lungs that had caused the reaction.
Her lungs.
The raisins her lungs were turning into, in the very room her art was about to be showcased for the first time. Sixty-seven days ago, she could breathe, and now she could hardly suck in enough air to fill her lungs and it had started with a phone call.
Actually, it had started with two.
The first had been from the museum, following up from the email they’d sent first—a mistake they were sure to apologize profusely for over the phone. Your work has been chosen…
The other call had been from Flynn.
She rubbed at her sweater sleeve. She was going to see Flynn tonight. He was going to see her heart, splattered onto fourteen once-blank canvasses.
“I don’t know anyone named Flynn,” she’d said during their first phone call, when he’d called, confused, thinking he was calling a man named Leon.
“You said your name was Plum?” he’d asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Like the fruit.” The explanation was an impulse.
She could almost hear him smiling. “Your name is Plum?” he asked again with a tone of amusement. “Like the fruit?”
“Yes,” she said. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and slid her fingertips across the counter. The tape was shiny, no bubbles or creases anywhere she could see. “Who did you think you were calling instead of me?” she asked, stretching out the rotary phone cord.
“Not you,” he said. “A guy named Leon. Got the numbers mixed up. Don’t tell my boss, okay?” He sounded worried.
“Okay,” she said. He didn’t say anything back, but she didn’t want to hang up. “I’m an artist,” she said, the words spilling from her before she could stop them. “My first exhibit’s coming up. Do you live in Savannah? You should come.”
Jane would be proud, she thought. Jane kept telling her she needed to work on sharing her work, but it was harder when her work wasn’t anywhere and every painting she’d ever done featured a bird of some sort. Except the exhibit, she thought, but that had been Jane’s idea. How was she supposed to have known Plum would be good enough to actually get in?
“Plum, are you ready?”
The words were from Angela, the lady running the art exhibit, who, Plum had been informed, had placed all of Plum’s artwork how she believed it should be displayed.
Plum thought this was weird. Should she not be allowed to display her own artwork? It was not as if she was going to ask if she could display her paintings all over the museum and make the event a scavenger hunt for the Girl with Bird Bones’ paintings.
Flynn would not have been amused by a scavenger hunt around the museum—she could tell after two phone calls.
Plum felt a hand on her arm, fingertips hardly grazing the sleeve of her sweater. Angela looked like Jane. They had the same freckles, the same pale skin, the same glasses, except Jane’s were squares with thick frames, and Angela’s were thin with round frames, and looked nothing like Jane’s once Plum had the chance to think about it.
“We’ll be opening the door in five minutes if you want to find your place.”
Find your place. Plum didn’t like the way she phrased the words. Find her place, like she’d had to edge her way into the exhibit. She turned from the painting of the sailboat and followed Angela to her spot by the door.
“You’ll get a lot of traffic over here. And it’ll be cooler because it’s cold out,” Angela said, turning back to Plum. All anyone could talk about was how cold it was, but it was only cold because there was wind. Plum had a drawer full of sweaters reserved specifically for weather like this.
“Got anyone special coming tonight?” Angela asked. She might have winked as she said it, but Plum was distracted. She was looking past the museum doors, at the pigeon sitting on the sidewalk. She wanted to paint the bird—add him to her collection, tell everyone she was an artist at work and she needed no more than fifteen minutes to sketch the pigeon and then everyone could come back and see it all. The collection wasn’t complete without it now—she was convinced of it.
“Flynn,” she said, snapping back to attention. “Flynn is coming tonight.”
Angela didn’t ask anything else and waved her hand in front of the space Plum would be standing for the next two hours. Her high heels clicked against the smooth wood floors.
“Thanks, Angela,” Plum said. She was trying to be polite, but it was hard when Angela wouldn’t look at her. She wouldn’t look at her paintings either, Plum noticed. She hoped Flynn would look at them and hoped he wouldn’t ask any questions.
Why birds? he would ask. Everyone would ask. It was the reason she was so hesitant in the first place to let other people see her work.
Bird bones, she thought. It’s because of my bird bones. She placed her hand on the tiny table she’d been given at her spot and studied her tiny wrist. She shook the thoughts from her head—she hadn’t thought of the taunt in years and had only brought it up to Jane a week before the exhibit, when there was no turning back. She’d already signed all the papers and handed off all of her work to be kept safe in the museum before the exhibit.
“No one will think anything of your use of birds in your artwork,” Jane had said.
She was sitting pretzel-styled in her chair, with her head cocked to one side, chewing gum. Peppermint, Plum thought once she’d mulled over whether it was professional or not to chew gum.
“They aren’t scary,” Plum said to Angela, her conversation with Jane rushing back. “They’re paintings. They aren’t real.”
Angela forced a smile and walked to the man next in her row.
Angela announced that she was going to open the museum doors.
Plum wrung her hands, and then ran them along the front of her jeans. She wondered if she should’ve dressed better—did a sweater and jeans really cut it? Should she have worn a dress like the lady three spots down was wearing?
“Everyone should be wearing a smile,” Angela said, walking towards the doors, where a small crowd of cold-looking people was waiting.
Plum took out a stack of business cards from her bag. She’d only had them made the day before and hadn’t really had the chance to look at one yet. She liked the bird on it—had picked the cardinal out special, because she liked the shade of red, although it didn’t appear much in the collection. The red popped against the black background of the cards, the stark white letters, displaying her name and website and email address reserved for business things.
When the doors opened, her bones seized. Her shoulders tensed uncomfortably, and she sucked in her stomach, in the hopes that might keep her warmer than if she were relaxed. Now she was glad for her sweater.
People pushed their way through the door, feigning excitement for the event, or perhaps their excitement was real, but Plum figured it probably had more to do with being indoors again than seeing artwork. Plum scanned the crowd for Flynn, convinced she would know his face after only hearing his voice over the telephone.
Voices came from her left. A chunk of the crowd had all but gravitated to the woman in the exhibit next to hers. She’s good at this, Plum thought, not entirely sure what this was. She counted nine people and hoped that their close proximity might make her warmer.
She searched the crowd. Flynn was here, she was certain of it. The idea of it made her long for a telephone to separate them, so she could speak without overthinking her words, without fear that there was anything to mess up. She wished to be back in her apartment, where there was still a whole city and a rotary phone cord to separate them.
A boy was standing alone in the corner of the room. His arms were wrapped around himself and his hair was messy, his eyes bright blue. He bit down on his thumbnail and Plum watched him with the same intensity with which she painted. She wanted to leave her spot, walk over to him and stand together until he talked to her.
Was he waiting for her to leave her work—neglect all the other people not coming to see her work and seek him out instead? Was that what Jane would consider being assertive? She picked up one of the business cards, trying hard not to listen to any of the other conversations taking place around her. The lady on her right was talking about the color yellow so enthusiastically that Plum slipped away unnoticed.
She crossed the room and approached the boy cautiously. “Hi,” she said. Her voice was breathless, like the walk across the room had exhausted her tired lungs. The business card was curled up in the palm of her hand. She stuck out her hand and the boy reached out, taking the card from her. His eyes searched her face, like he recognized her too, like her voice alone was enough to identify her.
Plum Bridges, she imagined him reading. He grinned, his whole face lighting up.
“Hi, Plum,” he said. He raised his hand in a wave, her business card cupped inside his hand.
“Hi, Flynn,” she said. “Do you want to see the birds?”
He nodded and they walked over to her exhibit, empty of people, but not of birds. He walked around the exhibit, looking at each of the paintings closely before moving to the next one. Plum fidgeted at her table and tugged at the sleeves of her sweater, watching Flynn.
“These are good,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said. “There was a pigeon on the sidewalk earlier.”
Flynn looked away from the sparrow painting she’d done on a night she’d fallen asleep sitting on the kitchen floor. She’d been left standing in a mess of photo stock paper scraps and couldn’t possibly summon the energy to walk to her bedroom.
“I wanted to paint it,” she said wistfully.
“I’m sure you’ll get the chance to,” he said. He smiled and pocketed her business card. “I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.”
She looked down at her feet, embarrassed and wishing again that she had dressed up more for the exhibit.
“Like the trees?” she asked, grinning and looking up.
He grinned back. An inside joke realized somewhere within the space of two phone call conversations. She liked that when he grinned, his whole face turned into sunshine.
“Exactly like the trees,” he said.
Plum imagined Jane sitting at home alone in her house. At their last session, she had asked Plum how she thought she would handle the exhibit. They had already discussed all of the minor details—Plum’s worry that people would ask why she painted birds, her worry that Flynn wouldn’t come, her worry that he would. Jane had said it wasn’t worth it to worry about Flynn because he wasn’t anything she could control. When the clay sculptures four artists over, caught Flynn’s attention, Plum stood in front of her birds and stared out the doors, at the pigeon still standing on the sidewalk.
When the museum closed for the night, the eight artists exchanged half-hearted pleasantries and toasted with warm champagne that had been sitting out for the entirety of the evening. Plum held her glass by the stem, her pale hands spidery and shaking.
“You’d think someone would at least give us a cold bottle, wouldn’t you?” asked one of the artists, a man with round glasses and a mustache, who drew people and was a psychologist, or that was what Plum gathered from his business card. “I don’t think I’ll come back tomorrow, if this is how they’re going to treat us.”
Plum glanced around the circle of artists. She didn’t want to be the one to say anything, could not imagine being the person to respond to that so she sipped her drink and tried to calm herself.
“Do you want to go get food?” Flynn asked, stepping up behind her and whispering the words in her ear. He had stood in the corner while the artists celebrated and their families and friends watched. He’s my friend, she thought, and the idea made her warmer than her sweater.
“I have food in my apartment,” she said. She smiled at the other artists, keeping her head down and hoping no one would stop her as she turned to leave. Flynn walked next to her, and slipped on his jacket on the way out.
Plum stood in the kitchen with the lights off, her hand hovering over the light switch.
“I’m not a hoarder,” she said, wondering what Jane would think of her use of the word. She’d never referred to what she was doing as such, but she’d also never had a reason to—she’d never felt the need to explain her kitchen décor.
Flynn laughed. “That’s not what I was thinking,” he said. He didn’t say what he was thinking instead.
She bit her lip and flipped the switch. Flynn blinked a few times to adjust to the light. His eyes moved to the counter and devoured every inch.
“People think they’re raisins,” she said hesitantly. “I hate raisins, that’s why I’m trying to eat grapes. They won’t turn into raisins if I eat them first.”
She had been the one to hang up first, on their second phone call. She had put off buying grapes until the last possible minute before she couldn’t stand it, had no choice but to drive to the grocery store and buy three bags of red grapes. Were they purple? She could never tell.
Flynn looked at the pale yellow walls, the bare counters, the complete lack of evidence that a person might actually live there. His gaze roamed the room and resettled back on the counter tops, so plastered in images and mailing tape that he had to guess their color.
“They’re lungs,” he said eventually. He reached out to touch one of the pictures and Plum sucked in a breath.
“I’m trying to quit smoking,” she said quietly.
He nodded. “You think covering your counter tops with dead lungs is going to help with that?”
Her eyes fell on him. She debated telling him that the lungs weren’t dead—they were just black. Still somewhat effective, even if they didn’t look like it.
“It’s supposed to help,” she said, instead.
“You’re worried about getting black lungs?” he asked.
“Smoking causes black lungs,” she said, rubbing her arms again.
“Smoking causes a lot of things,” he said. “You’re not worried about getting cancer?”
“Anyone can get cancer,” she said. “Not everyone can get black lungs.”
She wondered what Jane would think of her telling Flynn all of this. Flynn, who was a voice on the telephone only a couple of hours ago, who was now standing in her kitchen.
“You want a banana?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said.
“Why are you a telemarketer?” Plum asked once they had settled onto the couch, and there were two banana peels sitting in the garbage can in the kitchen. Flynn had thrown them both out and hadn’t given the counter tops a second look.
Plum smiled in spite of herself and curled her legs up on the couch like Jane always did.
“I need money,” Flynn said.
“For what?” she asked.
“Living,” he said. “Food.”
She shook her head. “No, there’s got to be something better than that. You aren’t just calling rude people all day long for food and survival.”
“Why do you think I’m there then?” he asked, sitting up a bit straighter. “If you’re such an idealist, then you must have a guess.”
She shrunk into her seat. She had never been called an idealist before, and wanted to know what Flynn’s definition of the word meant. She wanted to compare his meaning to Jane’s and see if they matched.
She cocked her head to the side. “You want to buy an ant farm,” she said.
“So close,” he said. “I actually just want to buy food and survive.”
“Oh,” she said, rubbing together the sleeves of her sweater.
“Why is it so cold out?” Flynn asked, like Plum was going to have an answer. She had turned on all the lights in the apartment and Flynn had thrown his jacket over the back of the couch. They’d opened up a bottle of sparkling cider because it was all Plum had in the apartment.
That’s progress, she imagined Jane would say. But you didn’t have to invite him into your apartment. Saying hi would have been progress enough for three nights, let alone one.
Plum squashed the thought.
“It’s cold because it’s windy,” she said. “It’s not actually that cold.”
She decided not to tell him that all her bird bones had tensed up when Angela had opened the museum doors.
When it started raining, Flynn decided it was time to go. He grabbed his coat from the back of the couch and slid his arms through the sleeves.
“I should get home,” he said. He didn’t say where home was and Plum hadn’t asked.
She yawned and said, “Okay.” She glanced at the table, where two empty glasses sat, and the bottle of sparkling cider was half empty.
They stood from the couch and walked to the door. It creaked open, the light in the hallway bright and florescent compared to Plum’s apartment. Flynn slipped on his shoes, a pair of sneakers he’d just bought, or that was what he’d said during their first phone call.
“What are you going to do with that collage of yours when you move out?” Flynn asked, although Plum hadn’t said anything about moving.
“I’m not moving out,” she said.
“Eventually,” he said, raising a hand like he wanted to make sure he hadn’t upset her. “Can’t imagine you’re going to live here forever.”
She rubbed her arms.
“You’re gonna have to scrape all those lungs off the counters, probably gonna have to pay for all the damage you did to them too.”
Plum made a face. She didn’t want to think his words stung, even though they did.
“I should’ve brought you something for your exhibit,” he said. “I didn’t even think to bring you anything. Flowers, a bottle of champagne, anything.”
You showed up. You were the only person who showed up, she wanted to scream.
“It’s okay,” she said instead. She leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and smiled half-heartedly. “Have fun at work tomorrow,” she said.
He laughed. “Getting paid to talk to people isn’t as exciting as you’re making it out to be.”
It was meant as a joke, she was sure. The trees were a joke and she’d joked about the ant farm, so this was one too, wasn’t it?
“Like Jane,” she said wistfully. “Jane gets paid to talk to me, too.”
Flynn concentrated on a spot somewhere above Plum’s head. He wouldn’t look at her.
She looked down at her fingers, tinged with the metallic make-up she’d rubbed down her arms. She rubbed them onto her jeans, hoping Flynn wouldn’t notice because she didn’t want to tell him things about the bruises that she couldn’t explain.
“I want to know how tomorrow goes,” he said.
She nodded absently. She wondered why he didn’t call outside of work, when he had time, or when he wasn’t getting paid to talk to strangers. Were they still strangers after tonight?
“Bye, Flynn,” she said.
“Why are your fingers shiny?”
They both stared down at them. “I was in foster care for a long time,” she said carefully. “Lots of foster siblings. They liked to hit me and I got used to the bruises. They liked to say I had bird bones.”
He stared at her before clearing his throat and apologizing.
“Not your fault,” she mumbled, drawing circles into the carpet with her foot. She wanted him out of the apartment, had hardly ever wanted anything so strongly.
She’d never told anyone about the bruises before and now Flynn knew about them and they’d known each other all of three in-person hours.
Flynn pursed his lips and turned away from her. He walked out of the apartment and Plum shut the door behind him. She held her breath until she was sure she was going to burst and then walked to the kitchen, not bothering to watch him leave. She left the sparkling cider sitting in the living room, thinking she would wash the glasses tomorrow and pour the rest of it in the sink, listen to it bubble and fizz as it went down the drain.
She stared at the kitchen walls and thought of the color yellow. How she was going to take everything yellow in the apartment and throw it out the windows. Scrape the yellow paint off the walls before she scraped the lungs off the counter tops. She would pay whatever she needed, to get the color out of her apartment.
Reaching into the drawer closest to the refrigerator, Plum pulled the pack of cigarettes out and shut it before she could change her mind.
How could she have said that to Flynn when she hadn’t been able to tell Jane?
She slipped on a rain jacket and left the apartment, locking the door behind her. The rain was a drizzle. She stared at the box and opened it carefully. Two cigarettes were left in the pack. She slid the first one out, twirled it through her fingers before throwing it across the parking lot as far as she could. She threw the second one farther. She stared after them and walked back inside.
In a daze, she walked back to the kitchen, and threw out the empty pack of cigarettes. She took a knife from the drawer and looked down at the counter tops.
She took in a breath. She’d told Flynn everything.
Carefully, she took the knife, sliding down the counter top until she could grab ahold of the tape. She peeled it back, revealing white counter tops and a scratch she was sure she’d have to pay for, but it made her smile anyways. A girl with bird bones could never have made that mark.
She took out a canvas from underneath her bed and blew off the dust. The lungs would make people stop—she would get more traffic on Night Two.
Jordan Meechan is a senior at St. John Fisher College. She is an aspiring literary agent and is working on a Young Adult contemporary book. Her work has been published in OCCULUM and ANGLES, where she is currently a Managing Editor. She enjoys listening to true crime podcasts and spending time with her enormous family.