I’ll Give You the Sun(47)
Author: Jandy Nelson

When Guillermo said to bring my sketchpad, I thought he’d have me work on the studies of the sculpture I want to make, not sketch with him. And in front of Oscar. Sketching Oscore!

“Drawing is critical,” Guillermo says. “Many sculptors do not know this.”

Terrific. I follow him down the hall, portfolio in hand, stomach in turmoil.

I spot Oscar’s leather jacket hanging on a hook—yes. I slip the orange into the pocket without Guillermo noticing.

Guillermo opens one of the doors that line the hallway, flicks on the light. It’s a jail cell of a room with a table and a couple chairs. In one corner are bags of clay stacked on shelves. In the other, hunks of stone, all different colors and sizes. There’s a shelf full of tools, only some familiar to me. He takes the portfolio case from me, unzips it, and opens it on the table.

The thought of his eyes on my work is making my toes curl.

He flips through quickly at first. Photos of bowls in every size in various stages of development, then the final photo of the piece broken and glued together. His forehead creases in confusion more and more with each passing page. Then he comes to the blobs. It’s the same. Each blob whole and then all broken and glued together in the final photo.

“Why?” he asks.

I go with the truth.

“It’s my mother. She breaks everything I make.”

He’s horrified. “Your mother breaks your artwork?”

“Oh no,” I say, understanding what he’s thinking. “She’s not mean or crazy or anything. She’s dead.”

I see the earthquake in his expression, the concern for my safety turn into concern for my sanity. Well, whatever. There’s no other explanation.

“Okay,” he says, adjusting. “Why would your dead mother want to do this?”

“She’s mad at me.”

“She’s mad at you,” he repeats. “This is what you think?”

“This is what I know,” I say.

“Everyone in your family is very powerful. Your brother and you divide the world between you. Your mother come back to life to break your bowls.”

I shrug.

“This sculpture you have to make, it is for your mother then?” he asks. “She is the one you mention yesterday? You think if you make this sculpture she will not be mad at you anymore and she will stop breaking your bowls? This is why you cry when you think I do not help you?”

“Yes,” I say.

He strokes an imaginary beard, studying me for a very long time, then returns his attention to Broken Me-Blob No. 6. “Okay. But that is not the problem here. Your mother is not the problem. The best part, the most interesting part of this work is the breaks.” He touches the final photo with his index finger. “The problem here is that you are not here. Some other girl make it all maybe, I don’t know.” He looks at several more blobs. “Well?” he says. I glance up at him. I didn’t realize he was waiting for a response.

I don’t know what to say.

I resist the impulse to step back so I don’t get swatted by his hands. “I do not see the girl who climbed up my fire escape, who thinks spilled sugar will change her life, who believe she is in mortal danger because of a cat, who cries because I will not help her. I do not see the girl who told me she was as sad as me, who says her angry dead mother break her bowls. Where is that girl?” That girl? His eyes are blazing into mine. Does he expect an answer? “She is not making this work. She is not in this work, so why do you waste your time and everyone else’s?” He sure doesn’t mince words.

I take a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“That is obvious.” He closes the portfolio. “You will put that girl in the sculpture you make with me, understand?”

“I understand,” I say, except I have no clue how to do that. Have I ever done it? Certainly I haven’t at CSA. I think about my sand sculptures. How hard I used to work to get them to look like they did in my head. Never getting it. But maybe then. Maybe that’s why I was so afraid Mom wouldn’t like them.

He smiles at me. “Good. We will have fun then. I am Colombian. I cannot resist a good ghost story.”

He taps his hand on the case. “I am not sure you are ready for stone. Clay is kind—it can do anything, though you do not know this yet. Stone can be stingy, ungenerous, like the unrequited lover.”

“It will be more difficult for my mother to break it if it’s in stone.”

Understanding crosses his face. “She will not break this sculpture no matter what it is made of. You will have to trust me on that. You will learn to carve first on a practice rock. Then together we will figure out the best material for this sculpture after I see the studies. Will it be of your mother?”

“Yes. I don’t usually do realistic, but . . .” Then, before I know I’m going to, I’m telling him. “Sandy asked me if there was something I needed in the world that only my two hands could create.” I swallow, meet his eyes. “My mom, she was really beautiful. My dad used to say she could make trees bloom just by looking at them.” Guillermo smiles. I go on.“Every morning she used to stand on the deck staring out at the water. The wind would stream through her hair, her robe would billow behind her. It was like she was at the helm of a ship, you know? It was like she was steering us across the sky. Every day it was like that. Every day I thought that. The image is always somewhere in my mind. Always.” Guillermo’s listening so intently and I’m thinking maybe he’s the kind of man who makes all the walls in people fall down too, not just rooms, because like yesterday, I want to tell him more. “I’ve tried everything to get through to her, Guillermo. Absolutely everything. I have this weird book and I scour it for ideas nonstop. I’ve done it all. I’ve slept with her jewelry under my pillow. I’ve stood on the beach at midnight, holding up a picture of the two of us to a blue moon. I’ve written letters to her and put them in her coat pockets, in red mailboxes. I’ve thrown messages into storms. I recite her favorite poem to her every night before I go bed. And all she does is break what I make. That’s how angry she is.” I’ve started to sweat. “It would kill me if she broke this.” My lips are trembling. Covering my mouth, I add, “It’s the one thing I have.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder. I can’t believe how much I want him to hug me. “She will not break,” he says gently. “I promise you. You will make it. You will have this. I will help you. And CJ, this is the girl you need to let into your artwork.”