The Right Kind Of Wrong Girl

Finding Malu in that state feels like a punch to the gut. She is a complete mess: unevenly cut hair, swollen face, puffy eyes and a considerable purple bruise on her cheek.

I take her to her room, which looks like it was struck by a tornado: clothes everywhere, a suitcase thrown in a corner, a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. I take her to bed, help her wear a T-shirt from her closet, taking off the wet towel she was wrapped in. She lies down curled in a fetal position and I cover her with a comforter. While she rests, I pick up her stuff from the floor, hang the wet towel and sweep off the hair from the bathroom floor. When everything is finally organized, I take off my shoes and lie down next to her on the bed, holding her in my arms.

Beyond desire, Malu brings up tenderness in me in a way nobody else can. Deep inside that strong and vibrant woman, there’s a little girl hidden, who hardly ever shows up.

Just the thought of what may have happened makes my heart bleed. She left home to visit her parents with no bruises on her face or anywhere on her body. Unfortunately, I must wait until tomorrow to find out.

I let my hand walk through her left arm, the one she uses to paint, caressing it lightly. When I reach her thin wrist, what I see brings a smile to my lips. There, pending on her hand, is my gift for her nineteenth birthday, which she hasn’t taken off since. Touching her wrist, I feel the cold metal from the bracelet from which two pendants hang. The first one is a silver paint palette with a small golden brush to remind her of never giving up on the art she loves so much. The second one is a joke of the fact she doesn’t believe in love: an adorable silver frog wearing a tiny golden crown representing what she usually says about men: there’s no prince charming – all men are frogs in disguise. I smile at the thought of, year after year, she hasn’t taken that bracelet off. That’s something representing our bond, which may be something beyond friendship… we’re almost a family, even if it’s a dysfunctional one.

Little by little, the sound of her breath becomes constant, indicating that Malu has fallen asleep. I get lost on the strawberry perfume on her hair, the soft touch of her small body close to mine and the constant movements of my thumb on her wrist. In a couple of minutes, I fall into a deep sleep.

****

Both the sunlight and a smell of coffee wake me up. I open my eyes to realize that I’m not on my own bed, but on Malu’s. I get up in a sudden jump, wear my pants, which was lying on an armchair, and follow that wonderful smell.

I expect to find Malu still a bit down, with tears in her eyes, but the woman who greets me in the kitchen is totally different. Her hair, cut in a complete uneven fashion, was wavy to hide the bad cut. Her face, wearing heavy makeup, doesn’t show any sadness or bruises. She’s wearing a short sleeved blue dress which let part of her arm tattoo exposed, as well as the black rose covering her left ankle and feet.

“Morning, honey.” She greets me with a peck on my lips, as she usually does, and a coffee mug.

“Morning,” I say, taking a sip. “How are you doing?”

She takes a deep breath and turns around to face me with a smile. I know she’s playing strong and I’m proud of her for not letting that event take her down.

“I’m doing fine. I need your help…” she begins walking towards the living room, follow by me.

“I wanna know what happened, Malu. And don’t even begin by saying it was nothing.”

She lets her head down, takes a deep breath and nods in agreement.

“I did everything as planned. I went there, explained that I’m not happy so I want to change majors, that there’s no way I can get through this shitty course they want me to take.” She begins her narrative, and I don’t interrupt her. “First, the Judge yelled at me. He said his money doesn’t grow on trees and I’m going to finish to course one way or another. When I said I wouldn’t, he jumped over me saying he wouldn’t take it.”

“Did he hit you?”

“Yeap. He gave me thirty days to find an apartment I can afford with my own money, since I’d never be able to afford a place like this. He suspended my allowance, my tuition and everything else. Oh, and he also said I’m a whore who doesn’t belong to that family anymore.”

“You’re not a whore” I replied feeling irritated.

“The first virgin whore in history” she says laughing and I help but laughing of her sense of humor. “If you had had sex with me, at least there would have been some truth in it.”

“You deserve more than some guy with relationship issues.”

“Save it, Rafa. Who says I even want a relationship? I’ve told you already that I don’t believe in any of this eternal love shit.” She shakes her frog bracelet to remind me of where she stands.

“If you didn’t believe in it, you wouldn’t still be a virgin.”

“I must stop hanging out with you. All the guys who want to bang me are afraid of being punched by you.” I can’t help but laughing of what she’s saying. “I don’t know of one single relationship that has worked out or of a love story that has lasted forever. This is soap opera material – or movies, for that matter. Love is a son of a bitch invented for delusional fools.”

“What should I do with you, Malu?” She’s the most honest person I’ve ever met.

“How about helping me figure out my life? I don’t know what to do. After my life is settled down again, I’ll find some hot cutie to take me to bed and solve this inconvenient issue.”

“Damn it, Malu.”

“Damn you what? I’m sick and tired of this shit. I know you hold your horses because of that. You think I don’t feel your little buddy all agitated when I’m around? This way, when one of us is need of a more intimate care, we may turn to each other as we already do when we need someone to talk. You won’t have to search for skanks on the streets anymore.”

“Foul mouth.”

“Stubborn.” She smiles and I can’t help thinking about everything she just said. “Well, but before pleasure, I must decide what to do. I have to move out from this apartment.” She looks around with sadness. I know how much she likes this place, where she’s been living for so long.

“You can stay at my place…”

“No way” she doesn’t even let me finish.

“But Malu…”

“Rafa, no. You have your own life. I don’t earn a lot at the bar, but I can always ask Tito to let me work more hours.”

My face shows how unpleased I am at the same time I try to think of a way of finding her another job. Suddenly, an idea emerges.

“Let me take a look at your atelier.”

“What? Why?”

“Just because. Come on, move this pretty ass and open the mystery room door. I want to check it out.”

She unwillingly leads me to the bedroom she keeps locked out, as if she’s hiding a big secret there. When she opens the door, the smell of paint and thinner hits us. She walks in and opens the curtains, while I wander around surprised at what I see.

I thought there would be average paintings. For what Malu has told me, she’s never taken art classes and everything she knows, she’s taught herself or learned by watching videos on the internet. She uses her sixth sense to lay on canvas what’s on her imagination. However, to my surprise, her work seems really good. Of course, I’m no art expert, but to the best of my little knowledge, I could see great potential. I head to a pile of paintings in a corner: landscapes, people, a boy on a surfboard trying a maneuver, half the face of a sad woman with black tears running through her cheek. Those paintings bring up different feelings for me. I immediately reach for my phone in my pocket and call Hellen.

Hellen’s a friend of my parents who owns an art gallery. By the age of fifty, she possesses an incomparable sincerity. She’d be able to take a look at Malu’s production and evaluate if we could get anything for it.

“Have you ever shown anyone these paintings? Like, selling or something like that?” I ask Malu while I wait in line.

“No, never” she replies, to which I shake my head turning my attention to the phone.

“Hi, Hellen. Rafael Monteiro here. How are you? I’m great. Sorry for bothering you so early, but I need your professional opinion. A friend of mine has some paintings and today she’s finally agreed to show me. I’m no expert, but I thought them quite good. Could you take a look and give us an expert opinion? She has to decide if she’s still going to pursue a career in arts and we’d really appreciate an evaluation from a professional. Sure, I’ll text you the address right away. Looking forward to hearing from you. Thank you.”

“What was that?” she asks looking confused.

“Hellen owns an art gallery. She’s stopping by in a couple of minutes. Apparently, she’s been looking for a new artist to exhibit in her gallery for about months now, since the one who was booked decided to leave everything behind and move to Paris.

“Exhibit?” Malu sounds strangely scared.

“What? Isn’t that the goal when someone paints?

“Oh… I don’t know.” She looks at me apparently lost. I pull her closer to hug her.

“What about this? Hellen stops by to take a look at your paintings and tell us if you have a chance of turning this into a career. Then, we’ll see what to do about the house situation. When your grandparents died, haven’t they left you and your brother some sort of trust fund?