Vogue

She wanted paint – impasto, gelatinous and viscous paint. Or some inks, or oil pastels, god she’d even settle for chalks but if there was one thing Arabella despised, it was pencils. Pencils were the machineries of realists, meticulous sketchers or architects. Pencil couldn’t make the same abstract gestures as oils; the harsh sticks of lead were too rigid and unyielding, unlike her favourite mediums which toppled from a brush or her fingers, autonomously and fluidly, on to a canvas. Arabella was beyond annoyed; it seemed that Warped Tour was devoid of anything but pencils, or sharpies, or pens and other elementary tools – there was not a paint can or oil stick to be found.

‘Marky! You’re a designer, your income depends on your drawings, and yet you don’t bring any paint or ink on tour?’

‘I have pencils…’ She almost strangled him with the Glamour Kills necklace that was so temptingly resting around his esophagus. ‘…what? What’s wrong with pencils?’

‘Their so… arbitrary’ she bit back, flopping down into the lawn chair inside the GK tent. She resisted crossing her arms and huffing – that’d be too dramatic. ‘Or would it?.

‘Ok seriously, what crawled up your ass… and decided to take residence, build itself a nice mansion, with a spa, maybe have a couple of kids…’ Marky was enjoying himself, he really was – how could he not, it wasn’t every day that Arabella got so pissed off she was alluding to writing instruments as ‘tyrannical’. ‘…before dying. Ok sorry, but c’mon no one has deep, unbridled hate towards pencils!’ he laughed.

It wasn’t the pencils – she did hate them, but it wasn’t what had made her angry. Truth be told, she wasn’t even angry; right now Arabella didn’t know what she was feeling.

In a controlling and obsessive-compulsive way, Arabella prided herself on her organizational abilities – in her work, house, and especially people. People were her energy and in Arabella’s mind, different people exuded different energies; if she had a system then determining who she went to for a laugh, or a hug, or a cry was made simpler. People were categorized by Arabella; assessed, placed and filed. And it threw her helter skelter when she placed people in the wrong folder. That’s what Arabella was feeling as she sat in Marky’s lawn chair – off-centre, not angry – and it was all because of John Cornelius O’Callaghan. ‘the fifth’

***

Having seen the seemingly never-ending bridge that connected South Padre to mainland Texas from the island, Arabella was shitting herself for the return trip. As a result, she hadn’t slept on the bus drive to Dallas, anxiety pervading any of her attempts at rest. Nonetheless, something positive had come from the nine hours she spent watching the scenery flood past the windows: the desire to make art. As they had neared Dallas, Arabella witnessed a sunrise – nothing too awe inspiring - but with the speed the bus was travelling at coined with her own fatigue; her hands itched to render the splattered colours that lazily organized themselves in the sky to resemble a blurry horizon.

Thus, her treasure hunt for paint had begun.

Arabella headed over to The Maine’s bus; she had seen Garrett’s paintings before and knew he kept some supplies in the back cupboard. The bus was abandoned when she arrived, but Tim had given her the key code for ‘emergencies’. ‘Definitely an emergency situation’ . However, her hopes of borrowing Garrett’s paints were shattered when she discovered a small post-it in the back cupboard.

’You’ll have to earn them Bells – look harder’

An hour later, a lot of searching and Arabella had yet to yell ‘eureka’, Garrett was a sneaky one that was for sure. Upon their introduction, art had been a bonding point for the two; when Arabella had brought the topic up on her first trip to Arizona the once reserved boy transformed into an animated character – talking non-stop about influences and concepts before showing her his canvases. Arabella clearly wasn’t thinking outside the box yet,’Maybe they’re hidden with the merch?’ .

As she walked back down the bus towards the door, a beeping noise interrupted the silence. Arabella turned to her left and spotted the source: someone’s Mac Book. She walked over to the laptop and thinking something might have been wrong, slid into the booth to try and stop the alarm. Examining the computer, she concluded it must have John’s as it was still connected to what she recognised as his SLR camera. The screen was black, but the energy light was blue. Swiping her finger across the mouse pad, the Mac Book slowly woke up showing her the open iPhoto on the screen and the complete transfer of photos. Clicking out of the alert had ceased the noise, she turned to leave but her eyes automatically flickered over the displayed galleries, which stopped her in her tracks.

Arabella was amazed – she knew John took photos but she had never seen any copies of them before. They were beautiful, focused on shades, gradients, colours and patterns. As an amateur artist herself, she the intent behind the photos; these weren’t random shots but the product of creative thinking. Her eyes roamed over the snaps, until one photo caught her eye. Hidden amongst the bleeding sunsets and black-and-white structures, was a picture of herself, looking out across the dark water underneath the Bay Bridge. ‘I knew he had taken a photo!’ Interested to see John’s other shots of San Francisco, she opened the folder. Instead, images of her face met her eyes, over and over again.

All up, there was only about ten photos in the gallery but all of them featured her in recent settings - Arabella could place each and every one of them chronologically; from the first day of tour in Pomona, to one of her at Moose’s house when they had a free day in Arizona, and even one of her laughing in Las Cruces as she attempted to piggy-back the encroaching 7” monster that was Nat.

Unlike the hundreds of photos that professionals took of her day-in-day-out, these shots where candid. She was natural in them, no caked makeup, hair sprayed bouffant or architectured pose – they were pictures of Arabella as herself, not someone a creative director wanted her to be. If Arabella was honest, they were the only photos she’d even seen of herself that she’d willingly label ‘stunning’.

It hadn’t exactly been the photo’s that had set her off-centre – more the motive and person behind them; they showed Arabella that John was a lot more introverted then she had him originally pegged for. The photos were beautiful; understated and simple. ’So, why would he hide them from me?’. And if anything, that thought had sent Arabella into the state of limbo she was in now; she had thought her friendship with John had been analyzed – they were close friends, she had shared secrets with the singer, even gone into the water with him, and yet he clearly kept his own talents and secrets hidden from her view.

To Arabella, it appeared that John didn’t trust her as much as she did him – she had put him in the wrong file.

Following her discovery, Arabella’s urge to paint had increased exponentially. A creative release would help to organize the tumultuous thoughts running around her brain. And yet, Warped Tour seemed maddeningly incapable of helping her out.

***

The parking lot party – it was almost as cliché as the skinny jeans all the boys were rocking that were at the party, but nonetheless Arabella found herself sitting beside Jack at a makeshift Beirut table, watching him lose, miserably.

Every now and then, Jack would pass her a cup of beer off the table. She didn’t like it. No wait, that was a lie – she hated beer, almost as much as pencils. But the amber liquid bound and gagged the nagging voices in her head that wanted her to do stupid things; like ask John about the photos and why he had kept his talent for capturing such essence, and spirit in a single shot, hidden from her. But Arabella wasn’t ready for that yet, she hadn’t finished finding John a new file and until she did, she was content downing beer and watching her best friend kill his liver.

‘Arab Ella, fuck you never told me you had two heads before!’ Jack’s own head was spinning, five and a half rounds of Beirut and he was already gone? ‘Fuck Jack, your going soft. Ha, soft – what a sexual word, soft. Placid. Pen…’

***

Marky had helped her lift Jack onto a cleared, spare table, after he had passed out. Together, Arabella and Marky sought out a couple of free lawn chairs and whilst he was talking a mile-a-minute, Arabella wasn’t really listening to him; her eyes were drawn to a tall figure across the lot. His dark blue skinny jeans sat low on his narrow hips, so low she spied the hint of boxer briefs. He was casually clutching a bottle of beer in his left hand whilst his right swung around energetically, animating whatever he was saying to Danny K.

‘…and then Sawyer’s back in the ‘50’s? I mean the whole time…Bella?’ She quickly averted her eyes back to the designer beside her before guiltily asking what he had been talking about. He said nothing, smiled and then looked across the crowd to where her attention had been previously directed. He looked thoughtful before nodding. Marky then turned in his chair to the cooler that was sitting on the bitumen, lifting two bottles of beer out of the ice before handing one to her.

‘Marky…?’ Arabella was confused, but then again she hadn’t known the guy that long. ’Maybe this is his normal behavior?’.

‘Good choice Arabella…’ He uncapped his beer before lifting it towards her in a ‘cheers’ motion. She copied his actions. ‘… ‘lets drink to feelings of temptation’.’

***

A couple of drinks later, Arabella had to admit, she was tempted. Tonight she had no obstacles, Justin was MIA and Jack was passed out – the path to Alex was clear and her confidence sky high. ’Beer does have its benefits’. Gathering the last of her courage, Arabella watched Danny leave Alex for the barbeque before she lifted herself from the lawn chair, ignored the wink Marky sent her way and walked to Jack’s collapsed form. ’Sorry Jacko’ she whispered, slipping her hands into his hoodie and extracting the bottle of rum he had hid in there earlier this evening.

‘‘Got a little Captain in You?’’ Arabella snuck up behind Alex, wrapped her arms around his stomach and poked her head underneath his raised arm to see his surprised face smiling back at her. He laughed at her butchered accent before looking down to the bottle of Captain Morgan’s she had clutched in her hands. Alex’s eye’s lit up and he dropped a kiss on her forehead.

‘I will soon. It looks like you turned my night around, Bella’ He moved to pick up the bottle but Arabella laughed and unwrapped her arms from his form, pulling the bottle out of his reach. She knew this was it; now or never.

‘Not here - I’m only sharing it with you, Danny always hogs the bottle’

His eye’s twinkled. ‘To the bus, then?’