I am a Picasso painting. Different and a little strange. The world thinks a Picasso Painting is beautiful, but for some reason, I’m not. The mantra I’ve had since we learnt about Picasso in 6th grade art replays through my head as I shuffle in the plastic seat on the edge of the field. It’s still hard to believe I’m here.
When Adam brought home the sign up sheet, my parents were ecstatic. Naturally, I seized the opportunity and brought home one of my own. Got the signature, picked up a uniform and here I am. One step closer to being more like my brother.
The electrical scoreboard changes to say “TRACK AND FIELD RUN”. Adam taps my shoulder and I stuffed the pen I was doodling w6ith into my shorts pocket and walked with him toward the track.
“Excited Zo?” Adam asks.
“A bit nervous,” I admit. “You?”
I take one last look at my parents standing on the bleachers, their necks craned above the other parents to get a good look at the tracks. I know they’re really here to watch Adam but once in awhile their gazes flicker to me. If this is how Adam feels every day, I’d love to be him. Through the gaps in the wide steps, I see a colourful banner rippling in the wind. The art exhibition banner is perfectly in my field of view. reminding me of the missed chance to showcase the painting I was so proud of, and for what? To be more like my perfect twin brother.
“RUNNERS, TAKE YOUR POSITIONS!”
I try to mirror the awkward position Adam is hunched over in. Butterflies began to grow restless in the pit of my stomach.
“Ready...”
I study the track laid out ahead of me.
“Set…”
I look over at Adam who is muttering silent words. Planning his course or singing a Christmas song. You never know with that kid.
“Go!”
I run as soon as the flags go down, but I’m already falling behind. Adam sprints past me and runs toward the first hurdle. He stretches his legs and leaps over it, while I pause and take a slow, clumsy step over it. He gracefully slides beneath the second hurdle, but I crawl on all fours. Seeing him do this race almost effortlessly makes my chest feel heavy, but I try to swallow it down and keep my eyes on the finish. The final obstacle, a skipping rope, lies in a knot at the end of the track. It’s emerald green. The colour of my favourite shirt and the base for so many of paintings, especially watercolours. Stupidly, I` think it’s the universe trying to send me a message. But all that tells me is that I’ve been watching too many episodes of Once Upon A Time. The rest of the ropes are the same colour... and the rest of the ropes are already in the air. Over, under, over, under and they’re all down again.
Blood rushes through my cheeks as I fumble with the tangles in the rope. Cheers ripple across the crowds, telling me that at least one runner has made past the finish line. Cheer after cheer, clap after clap until I am left standing alone in the middle of the lanes. I really feel like a Picasso painting now. Hanging in a museum with thousands of pairs of eyes boring into me. My legs feel like jelly, but I jog off the track with my head down. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see sad smiles and a few chuckles aimed at me as I continue to the bleachers. My parents nor Adam are there to confront me. Instead, they’re standing in all their pride and glory at the podium, oblivious to me, their daughter dying of humiliation in the bleachers.
My feet scrape against the shiny silver metal and I feel warm tears sting my eyes. I shouldn't be here and I know it. I was never expecting to win but I should have known that I couldn't do it. I tried my best to be the best person I could be, and from what I knew, that was the female version of Adam. Adam got good grades; I studied all night for each of my tests. Adam was popular in school and amongst adults; I made a special effort to look nice at every event my family and I went to. Adam was good at sports; I signed up for this stupid sports event. People even said Adam had a nice face; I looked like a lizard and we were supposed to be twins! And now I had humiliated myself in front of so many people and they couldn’t care less. I try again to look for my parents and I feel even more regret when I see them staring at me from next to the podium. Fake smiles and laser eyes.
After what seems like forever, Adam, his friend and a girl whose name I think is Jenna step onto the podium. My parent’s chests are puffed out with pride when they embrace him, making their way to the bleachers practically skipping. His gold medal gleams against his chest.
“Hey, Zo. How’d it go?” Adam asks, taking advantage of the rhyme.
“Just fine,” I reply, hoping the brains he uses to get straight A’s to understand my sarcastic tone.
Using one ear, I hear the conversation my parents are having with some other mums and dad’s come to an end.
“Zoya.” My father’s deep voice sends a shiver down my spine.
He looks more humiliated then I do, it breaks my heart. Not because I disappointed him, though, but because even changing who I am wasn’t enough for him. For anybody, really.
“How come you didn’t finish the race?”
“Sorry.” I simply mumble in reply.
I look up just to see my mother gracefully climb up toward us. Her heels clang against the metal, creating an eerie sound worthy of the moment.
She says, “You didn’t have to win Zoya, just try.”
Read: Finish the race and win. Possibly come second to let your brother get gold. I
look back down at my toes.
“Zoya.” My mother's repeated more sternly.
I feel my anger and humiliation rise up in me.
“I said I’m sorry,” I say through clenched teeth, but my anger doesn’t compute. “You wanted to me to try right? I did, I tried. But I failed and now you’re mad at me?”
“Zo, they aren’t mad. No one is.” Adam steps in.
I want to give him a tight slap right now. Maybe I will after I’m done with my parents.
“He’s right, Zoya. And besides, we never asked you to sign up.” My father says.
“You. You didn’t ask me to sign up? You seriously believe that.” I laugh sadly. “You just want me to be like Adam. So smart, so polite, so popular, so athletic. I tried to be like Adam, but just because we’re twins does NOT MEAN WE ARE THE SAME PERSON!”
My mother looks taken aback and my father mirrors her expression. Adam nervously fiddles with his thermos cap.
I turn away from them and bend down to get a sip of water. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the art banner being taken off the school entrance. If my memory serves me correct, the exhibition is over and the art department must be cleaning up now... I turn around to face my parents again, and they are staring at me, fuming. Without a word of explanation, I trudge down the bleachers.
“Zoya! Where do you think you’re going?” My mother calls in a shrill voice.
“Leaving you to celebrate with your perfect son!”
I make my way through the maze of people, lunchboxes and sports bags. The other spectators are too busy watching the next event to notice. The fence isn't that far way from our spot and all it takes is a smile at the volunteer to get out of the field. The walk towards the school building is slow. I take my time to enjoy the mostly silent atmosphere and also to make sure that the building is fully empty. Like I expected, I hear no footsteps approaching from behind me.
As I walked into the first hallway filled with artwork, the overwhelming smell of oil and acrylic paint wafted up my nose. It wasn’t the most pleasant of smells, but better than the stench of teenage body odour that normally filled the school walls. I recognise some of the art hanging in elaborate frames. Jack’s abstract collage, Anya’s peacock watercolour. I also happen to recognise the lady standing at the end of the hallway pulling frames off the wall. My art teacher Mrs Tampa. Instinctively, I shove myself against a wall, as quiet as possible.
“Tale as old as time. True as it can be…” She sang to herself as she worked.
Mrs Tampa was the human version of a Disney princess. Kind and happy, and always singing some classic Disney song. She had rich chocolate skin and hazel eyes that resembled a paint palette. The edge of a gold frame digs into my neck, but I try not to make a sound until she walks into one of the empty classrooms. But Mrs Tampa still has 20 paintings left to take down, some of which are right next to me.
“Zoya?” she said, eyes widened in surprise.
“Um…yeah?” I reply awkwardly, stepping away from the wall.
“How come you weren’t at the exhibition today?” She says, cutting right to the chase.
I notice a small hint of disappointment in her voice and I try to cover my sports uniform and wipe the sweat from my hairline- but it was obvious where I’d been.
“Sorry, Mrs Tampa. I’m just here to collect my painting.” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from saying something awkward.
She puts her palm up and unhooks a painting from behind her. “The Troubled Heart”.
Somebody put a simple wooden frame around the canvas. In the dim light of the hallway, you can barely tell the blues, greys, blacks and that one spot of red. Mrs Tampa hands the painting over to me, a small smile dancing on her lips.
“How come you were at the sports event?” She asks, knowing me well enough to know that I don’t do sports.
“My brother was going, so I guess I, um, kinda decided to tag along, I guess…” I reply hesitantly.
“Well, I’m sorry you missed the exhibition. Did you win anything?” she asks.
“No. But my brother-”
“Zoya.” she interrupts. “You’re art was beautiful. So many people complimented it, it was one of the stars.”
“Thank you, but-”
“Zoya.” She interrupts again. “Adam’s piece didn’t even make it to the exhibition.”
Mrs Tampa is one of my favourite teachers. She understands my love of art and always helped me nurture it. She didn’t care what I averaged in Math or Science, she cared about what I loved to do. But she didn’t know that what I loved to do wasn’t enough. What she didn’t know was that art was just art.
“You are a very talented young lady. Your brother is talented too. You’re just, different.”
I look up at Mrs Tampa, frowning. Talented, I think. Humph.
“Think about that.” She says before knotting up her burgundy scarf. “Also. Reflection is due on Tuesday!” She adds as she walks into a classroom filled with art.
The wood of the frame grows cold in my hands as I turn around and exit the hallway. I can hear cheers and shouts in the field, fists rising above the green wire fence.
I don’t want to walk back, so I try again to walk as slowly as possible. Mrs Tampa was right when she said Adam wasn’t selected, but it didn’t matter when you saw how many things he was picked for. I was regretting going in now to collect my art, dreading the look on my parent's face. I hold the canvas out in front of me. Studying the grey background, blue waves and red lily floating on the sea. The volunteer who let me out earlier is now standing at the gate as a few families dribble out of the stadium. They laugh and smile, most of them cradling medals in their palms. Among them are my parents. I pause in my tracks, which is hard considering the almost unbearable smell of sweat floating around me. My mother’s perfectly manicured nails are wrapped around the strap of my duffel. She turns head to the left and the right, probably looking for me, but she misses me by an inch.
“Hey Zo.”
I spin around to see a grinning Adam looking straight at me. My gaze flickers once more to the gleaming gold circle bouncing on his chest.
“We’ve been looking for you. Where you been?”
The canvas and frame in my hand, tagged with the exhibition logo answer his question for me.
“You’re art got into the exhibition!” he exclaims, sounding like a proud father.
“Course’ my art got in, doofus.” I replied snarkily, but what I really want to say is “I know right! I can't believe people actually thought it was good!”
He frowns at me for a second, then opens his mouth to call for my parents. ”Mom! I found Zoya!”
I quickly slap my hand over his mouth, my eyes widened in fear. He says something, but it's too muffled to make out.
“Adam, wait. I’m sorry.” I say shyly as I remove my hand from his face.
“For what?”
“For humiliating you. And myself. And Mom and Dad. I just wanted to be more like you.” The words pour out of my lips like water.
“What? Why would you want to be more like me?”
I make a face at him that says ‘seriously dude’, but before I can say more my mom rushes towards the two of us with my dad in tow.
“Zoya! Where have you been?” they both say, exasperated.
I don’t reply. My mother's gaze flicks towards the back of the wooden frame and her eyebrows rise a few centimetres.
“I went to get my art.”
“Art?” my father asks.
“ Zoya’s art got hand picked for the art exhibition at school!” Adam jumps in.
Out of the corner of my eyes I flash him a glare. But still, I look towards my parents, hoping they congratulate me or make some kind of compliment. No matter how small. That would make my day, possibly even my year. Of course, they say nothing.
“Let’s just go home.” I murmur.
The parking lot is crammed with people. As I wait for a couple of cars to pass, I tilt the canvas back and study my painting. If you squint hard enough, you can see the layers of charcoal and paint. I worked for months on the same painting, aiming to achieve perfection. But this time it wasn't for Adam, my parents or my confidence. It was because I loved to do it.
“It really is a good painting Zo. I wish I could do that.” Adam says.
I smile over my shoulder at him. I shouldn't hate him. I know I shouldn’t. He is not the one who’s been making me compare myself to him for all these years, but he’s the reason for it.
“I spent days doing this Adam. But they only see the medals you win.”
They only see gold if it’s a hung on a piece of fabric. Once more, I tilt the canvas away from my body. I really am proud of his painting and it almost takes away all the anger and humiliation I feel.
“You’re art was beautiful. So many people complimented it, it was one of the stars.” was what Mrs Tampa has said to me and suddenly, I know why the athletes that stand on the podium are always wearing big smiles.
The feeling of joy and realisation must have shown on my lips as Adam smiles and lifts his medal off his head. My head spins towards him as he reaches out and hangs the green and blue ribbon with the gold disc on the corner of the frame.
“It really is a good painting Zo. Also, I call shotgun!” he calls as he crosses the parking lot and jumping into the front seat.
I am a Picasso painting. Different and a little strange. The world thinks a Picasso Painting is beautiful. But I’m beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, I could be too.
by: Raniyah Basheer
