Cora Carmack: Finding It

I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.

Now for that coffee. Bliss and caffeine—the perfect one-two punch to put all thoughts of last night to rest.

It felt like cheating to go to the Starbucks up the block since I was in another country and all, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I compromised by taking my drink to-go and finding a park to relax in. Near the center of a green space that covered a couple blocks, I found a fountain adorned with statues. I settled onto a park bench and let my eyes trace over the figures depicted—a man at the top of the fountain, barely clothed and rising out of the water, reminded me of Poseidon. Then below him were three women, soft and beautiful, lounging nearly naked above the water. The sky was a rich blue above them, and I made myself still in their image, soaking up the sun.

I sipped at my coffee and watched the people around me. There were a few other obvious tourists, but for the most part it was locals, and I listened to the way the complicated language rolled off their tongues with such ease. Maybe I would learn another language while I was here. That would be something more . Something better. But would it be enough ?

I tried repeating a phrase that I heard an older woman say near me, but the words mashed together in my mouth. I didn’t try again for fear of what offensive thing I might say by accident.

When I was close to finishing my coffee, a group of kids raced past me, laughing. That sound, at least, was the same in every language. They were dressed in matching uniforms, a school group I guessed. The one in the front was around twelve, maybe thirteen, and the biggest of the lot. He held up a sketchbook over the fountain, and a few of the kids around him egged him on, in English. So, I guessed, they were from some kind of international school.

Another smaller boy came running up to the group then, his hair in disarray and his glasses askew on his face.

“Give it back!” he demanded.

The bigger kid pretended to fumble the sketch pad, catching it only a foot above the water.

“Give me a reason, Cricket.”

Without really thinking it through, I stood and walked in their direction. I pulled out my map of Budapest and stopped when I was close to the bigger kid. “Excuse me, do you speak English?”

I thought he was going to ignore me at first, too enamored with his bullying, but after a few seconds he turned, and like any pubescent little boy, his eyes went from my face to my chest in two seconds flat.

While he stared, I repeated, “English? Can you help me?”

He smiled back at the other boys and said, “Of course.”

I moved closer and tried not to be repulsed by the way his eyes stuck on me as I bent over the map.

“Can you tell me where I am?” I asked, dumb-blonde mode powered up to full. “I’m trying to get to this metro stop, and I just keep going in circles.”

While he leaned close to me, simultaneously searching the map and me, my eyes darted to the other boy. His eyes were on the sketchbook grasped in the bully’s free hand, and I could see him contemplating making a grab for it.

“Here,” I said, pushing the map completely into the kid’s hands. “I just can’t find it for the life of me.”

He struggled to open the map with the sketchbook still in his other hand, and I dove for my opportunity.

“Let me help.”

I snatched the sketchbook out of his hand before he could argue, and took in the sketch on the first page.

Immediately, it pulled a smile to my face.

It was a sketch of the fountain, the lines of the sculptures captured almost perfectly in highlights and shadows. I can only imagine what an average little boy’s drawing of half-naked statues would look like, but I was certain that it wouldn’t be like this. This was mature. Realistic. The boy had found a way to capture the reflection of the sun on the water too, giving it all a three-dimensional feel. It was fantastic, really. I never would have guessed that a kid his age could do this.

For the most part, the sketch focused on the fountain, and I could tell he’d put in a lot of time working on the details of the figures. But in the corner, he’d begun work on another part of the sketch. The lines of the park bench were drawn quickly without too much detail, and on the bench was a girl. It wasn’t as detailed as the fountain, not yet, but the face and the hair were finished enough for me to think that the girl might be me. The swoop of my sundress around my knees made me fairly certain.

“Is this yours?” I asked the bully.

He paused, torn between impressing me and his friends.

He glanced at two of the guys closest to him and then said, “No. No way.”

A small hand went up at the back of the group, and I was smiling before he even spoke.

“It’s mine!”

I took a step in that direction and the group of boys parted for me. In my heels, the boy had to crane his head backward to look at me, and his face was splotched red and white.

“You drew this?”

He hesitated, and for a moment looked like he wanted to run. But then he nodded.

“It’s wonderful!”

The silence from the boys behind me was almost palpable, and a few of them shifted, trying to actually get a look at what was on the paper.

“Really?”

“Really. You’re very talented.” I pointed to the girl in the corner and said, “Is this me?”

Now he really looked like he was going to run. Or perhaps take a page out of my book and be sick on the street. I decided to put him out of his misery, and held the sketchbook out to him without requiring an answer.

“It’s beautiful. Keep drawing like that and you won’t be able to keep the girls away from you.”

Then … because I couldn’t resist, I swooped down and placed a kiss on his cheek.

His pink face exploded into hues of red and almost purple, and as I walked away the boys around him were cheering and asking to see the sketch. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed that the group had shifted to encircle the boy with the sketch pad, leaving the bully standing alone and dumbfounded, still holding my map.

He could keep it. Let it serve as a reminder not to be an asshole.

I sent one last smile at the artist, and then headed for the street.

I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. Who knew all it took to cheer me up was to put some punk-ass kid in his place?

I glanced down the street, contemplating where I should go next, when I caught sight of a familiar buzzed head.

Hunt.

My heart skyrocketed up into my throat, and I took a step in his direction before a touch at my elbow pulled my attention. I stared at the guy that I thought was Hunt for a second longer before glancing behind me.

It was the little artist.

Before I could even open my mouth to ask what he wanted, he shoved a paper into my hands and ran. I looked down, and my heart melted back down into my chest at the sight of his fountain sketch, torn from the pages of his book. I turned to watch him join the group of boys, this time to a high five and cheers.

I held the sketch close to my chest and waved at him. He must have been braver for the distance because he waved back enthusiastically.

When I turned in the other direction, my phantom Hunt was nowhere to be seen. I sighed. It probably wasn’t him anyway. The odds of seeing him again, and on the street no less, had to be minuscule.

Maybe I should hold off on going to that hotel and stay in the hostel a little while longer. Because if Hunt did try to find me, that’s where he would go. I mean … he probably wouldn’t. Not after the ass I’d made out of myself, but just in case. It wouldn’t kill me to stay a few more days.

Hopefully, I could keep myself from killing Creeper Chris in the meantime.