Farmed Out Read online

  It was a good portrait. More than good. I thought it was on its way to being great.

  But it was missing something.

  I crept into Anna’s room and took down a photo of her and Frida. The cow had a “Best in Show” blue ribbon tied around her neck. I heard Ruth’s voice in my head: Anna loves that cow so much.

  Frida had been a big part of Anna’s life.

  My Frida Cowlo portrait wasn’t about the Canvas art contest anymore. I was going to finish it for Anna.

  I took the photo back to my bedroom and set it on the desk with my sketchbook and art supplies.

  I sat down and picked up my black pencil with a flourish. I smiled as I drew hundreds of tiny feather strokes to create the Frida Kahlo unibrow.

  Once I had finished all the fine details in pencil, I took out my pastels. I had figured out what was missing from the portrait, and I knew just what to do about it.

  Chapter Twelve

  By the next afternoon, the portrait was finished. I wrote my initials, MT, and the year in the lower right-hand corner. I held it out and gazed at it. I felt a whoosh of pride.

  The cow looking out at me from the page looked exactly like Anna’s beloved pet. Bright red roses adorned her head, above her dark eyebrows. Large gold hoop earrings hung from her ears. Around her shoulders was a blue and green flowered shawl just like the real Frida Kahlo’s in her self-portrait. In the background I had drawn the red and white barn, the garlic shed and the river. Frida Cowlo on her farm.

  I laughed to myself. I never would have guessed that my masterpiece would be a drawing of a Jersey cow. I could just imagine the magazine articles. Early in her career, celebrated Vancouver artist Maddie Turner drew her inspiration from large farm animals.

  I was bursting to show the portrait to everyone. Closing my sketchbook, I ran out of the house. Anna and Ruth were still in the barn. My mom was still feng shui-ing the broken-down shed.

  “Mom, I have to show you something!” I said, bouncing up and down.

  My mom’s clothes were covered in dust, and her ponytail was one giant cobweb. “Just a second, Maddie. There’s too much yin over here. I need to figure out how to balance the yang with—”

  I opened up my sketchbook and shoved it in her face. “Look!”

  My mom set down her tools.

  “Oh, Maddie,” she said, her eyes going all pink in the corners. “It’s…it’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Are you going to show it to Anna?”

  I nodded. “I’m heading over to the barn right now.”

  “Okay,” my mom said. “Wow, I’ve got a lot to do before we leave tomorrow. I have to fill the missing bagua areas here.”

  “Tomorrow?” I said.

  “Can you believe our week on the farm is almost over?” my mom said.

  So much had happened in one week.

  My pace quickened as I approached the barn doors. I could hardly wait to show Anna my drawing.

  But then I stopped. I had a better idea. Carefully, I placed my sketchbook on a ledge outside the barn door.

  Inside, Anna was sitting in the stall nearest the door. The calf was drinking from the big bottle of milk on the wall again.

  “Hi,” I said, sitting down next to Anna.

  “Hey,” she said, petting the calf. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. “I’m going to name her Frida Junior. Look.”

  She turned the calf’s face toward me. Frida Junior had the same dark eyebrow markings as her mother.

  “My dad said I can keep her,” Anna said. “She’s sweet, but I just want Frida back.”

  Then she started crying all over again. It made me cry too. We sat together petting Frida Junior, our tears falling on her silky fur.

  The next morning, my mother decided it was time for her big reveal. She assembled Ruth, Klaus and me in front of the junk shed she’d been working on. She’d asked us to keep our eyes closed from the porch to the shack.

  “Ta-da!” she said, flinging her arms above her head. “The junk shed has been officially feng shui-ed. The yin and the yang are in balance.”

  My mom looked proud. Ruth, Klaus and I squished around the door and looked in. Ruth looked hopeful at first. Then her face fell.

  Inside the shed, stacks of cracked plant pots stretched from floor to ceiling. There must have been about eight stacks, all crammed on one side of the shed. Take one pot off the stack, and the whole thing would fall over. In the middle of the shed was a big pot full of water, with a few rose blossoms floating in it. I recognized the roses from Ruth’s well-tended rosebush in the front yard.

  “That’s your water feature,” said my mom. “Very important. You need to change that water every two days, or else it’ll go stagnant.”

  The Friesens, of course, were too polite to say anything. But I saw them exchange looks that said, We’ll have to fix this when she leaves.

  “Uh, well, thank you, Lynn,” Ruth said. “For all your hard work.”

  “I am glad to provide my helping hands where needed,” my mom said, “and to teach you a little about feng shui along the way.”

  She didn’t get it. These nice farmers couldn’t wait to get rid of her, and she thought she’d done them a great service. I had that familiar I-could-just-die feeling again.

  Smiling, my mother turned to me.

  “All packed, Maddie?” she asked.

  “All packed,” I replied.

  “Okay,” she said. “See you at the car.”

  “I just need to do one last thing,” I said.

  I hurried to the guest bedroom and opened the big drawer in the desk. There it sat, my portrait of Frida Cowlo. My masterpiece. I had wrapped it up in two blank pages from my sketchbook. I thought about looking at it one last time, but I decided not to. It might break my heart.

  I leaned the wrapped-up portrait against Anna’s bedroom door.

  I turned and walked away. At the end of the hall, I hesitated. You’re doing it for Anna, I reminded myself, and Frida.

  I walked out into the hot summer morning, leaving my chances at winning the Canvas art contest behind.

  The Friesens were gathered around my mom’s car. By some miracle, she was able to start it after all that sputtering on our way there.

  “Thank you for coming,” Ruth said, clasping my hands and then my mother’s hands.

  “It has been interesting,” said Klaus, winking at me.

  Anna had come out of the barn to say goodbye. She gave me a big hug.

  “Bye, Maddie. I’m really going to miss you.” Her voice came out whispery. She seemed too worn-out to say much more than that.

  “I’ll miss you too,” I said.

  I hate goodbyes. They’re the worst. I hopped in the car before I started blubbering. Or worse, before I decided to run back in the house for the portrait of Frida Cowlo.

  I waved as we drove down the long dusty driveway. The Friesens waved back.

  There were a few blissful moments in the car when my mother didn’t speak.

  When I say a few moments, I mean a grand total of about twenty-seven seconds.

  “Well, that was fun. I’m so glad I could be of service to the Friesens.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “It was a lot of work reorganizing that shed,” my mom continued. “But in the end I really improved the flow of chi.”

  I couldn’t hold it in anymore. My chest felt heavy, and I burst into tears.

  “What’s the matter, Madison?” my mom said, her eyebrows knitted together.

  I still didn’t say anything. I couldn’t, with all the tears and the hefty helping of snot.

  “Are you sad about leaving the farm?” she said.

  “I guess so,” I said.

  I was crying for Anna, and Frida, and the little calf without a mother. And I was crying because I left my beautiful, possibly prize-winning portrait behind.

  I am such an idiot, I kept thinking. Now I’ll never get to New York City. That was my big chance.

  “See,” she said,
sounding pleased with herself. “I told you that city girls can learn to love the country.”

  I balled my hands up into fists. I wanted to scream at my mother to turn the car around so that I could get my drawing back. Instead I looked out the window as the perfect green rows of vegetables whipped by.

  Bit by bit, I felt my hands relax. I wondered if Anna had discovered the portrait yet.

  “So, for next summer’s adventure,” my mom was saying, “there’s this nice little ashram in the Kootenays. You can do yoga up to six times a day if you want to. A girlfriend of mine went there a couple of years ago and loved it.”

  My mom went on and on. I closed my eyes behind my sunglasses and fell asleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Life got back to normal when my mom and I returned home to the city. My mom put her pantyhose on and went to work. I returned to my life as a teenager in the summertime, which meant hanging around the house and watching old movies all day. I did some babysitting, and I hung out with my friends. I went to the art gallery and worked on my Downtown Soles drawings. My latest drawing was a pair of red high heels against a graffiti-covered alley wall. Life felt different though. I didn’t have the hopes of the New York City trip and the cover of Canvas Magazine to look forward to. A week after we got back from the farm, I got a card in the mail from Anna. Thank You, it said in fancy scrollwork letters on the front. Thank you for the incredible portrait, Maddie! Anna had written on the inside of the card. I can’t believe you gave it to me. You’re the best. Love, Anna. My heart thumped with pride. It also broke a little. I sometimes couldn’t believe I had given her the portrait either. But I was glad I had.

  Anna and I had been chatting online and emailing almost every day since I got her thank-you card. She sent me updates and photos of Frida Junior.

  The long, hot days and weeks went by, and soon it was the last week of August. School was going to start again soon.

  On the Friday before the first day of school, I got a brown envelope in the mail. Canvas Magazine, it said on the front of the envelope. It was always fun getting my magazine in the mail. But now it was a little sad too.

  I ripped open the envelope. I might as well see who had won the contest.

  I pulled out the September issue of Canvas. It had a typed letter paper-clipped to the front cover. Weird, I thought. The magazine didn’t usually come with a letter.

  Dear Madison, the letter said. Thank you for your entry, “Frida Cowlo,” for our “Face of Youth” Art Contest. We are pleased to announce that you are First Runner-up.

  Holy. Crap. Was this a dream? I read the first part of the letter over and over. How did my picture get entered in the contest? Finally I decided to read on.

  Your prize includes $500 cash and an all-access pass to New York City’s major art galleries. We hope that you will enjoy your full-page portrait, printed on page thirty-six of the enclosed September issue. Thank you for your excellent entry.

  I let out a big, loud, whooping scream of surprise and happiness. I danced around the apartment, clutching the letter over my head. I plopped myself on the floor and rolled around with giddiness. I read the letter about twenty times.

  I flipped to page thirty-six. I screamed all over again. There was Frida Cowlo in all her colorful glory. At the bottom of the page it said: Frida Cowlo, by Madison Turner, age fifteen, Vancouver, BC, Canada. I pinched myself. This wasn’t a dream.

  I was so glad to have a copy of the portrait. It really was the best piece I had ever drawn. It was probably the best piece I would ever draw.

  I flipped to the cover of the magazine, to the winning portrait. It was an intricate line drawing of an old woman’s face, with heavily wrinkled eyes and a small, sad-looking smile. “Face of Youth” Art Contest Winner—Grandma Violet, by Jessie Sayers, age fourteen, Portland, ME, it said. The artist had gotten the light and shading on the old woman’s face just right. It was an excellent portrait.

  Then I tried to analyze how it had all happened. Anna would have known that the contest deadline was coming up. She must have figured out where and how to send it. Wow. This was too much to take in.

  I leaped up and ran to the phone. I dialed the Friesens’ number. Anna answered.

  I didn’t even say hello. “I’m First Runner-up!” I blurted.

  “You didn’t win?” Anna said. “That’s ridiculous!”

  “But, Anna, how did you—? Where did you—? I can’t believe you entered my portrait in the contest!” I said.

  “The Internet is a wonderful thing,” Anna said in her matter-of-fact tone. “I looked up the Canvas Magazine website, found the contest details, went to town and mailed it. My parents had your address from your mom’s volunteer application.”

  Anna made the amazing thing that she had done sound so straightforward.

  “But you sent the portrait in to the contest?” I implored. “The whole idea was for you to keep it!”

  “Ever hear of digital copies?” Anna said. “I mailed a copy to the contest. I kept the original.”

  Oh right. Duh. I hadn’t thought of that.

  “How did you keep it from me all this time?” I said.

  Anna laughed. “I’m pretty good at keeping a secret. So, what’s your prize?”

  “Five hundred dollars in cash, a pass to New York City’s art galleries, and the portrait is in the magazine,” I said.

  “You can get tickets to fly to New York for only six hundred, on a good deal! You’ll just have to save a little more,” Anna said, sounding excited. “We can go together next summer. We can stay with my brother, Thomas. We might have to sleep in his bathtub, but that’s okay!”

  Anna was right. We could still go to New York City, even if I hadn’t won first prize.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, yes, yes!”

  I started jumping up and down as I said it. After Anna and I talked about our Manhattan plans for a while, I hung up.

  I couldn’t wait to go on my dream trip to New York. No tarot cards. No Reiki. No feng shui. This was going to be my adventure.

  Acknowledgments

  A very big thank-you to my wonderful editor, Melanie Jeffs, for your thoughtful, perceptive comments and changes.

  To Heather Bell, Janis McKenzie, Pat Maher, Zoë Howard, Laura Dodwell-Groves and the Inkslingers—Rachelle Delaney, Lori Sherritt, Tanya Kyi, Maryn Quarless and Kallie George—many thanks for your friendship, feedback and support.

  Much love and gratitude, as always, to my amazing Joshua and my family.

  Christy Goerzen has never performed Reiki on a pig. Farmed Out is her second entry in the Orca Currents series. Christy lives in Vancouver, British Columbia.

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