Glow Read online

  She didn’t answer.

  “I still have plenty of canvases from senior art seminar, and the leftover acrylics and oils. I don’t need to buy anything besides some glow-in-the-dark paint!” I babbled on. “And I bet they sell that at Utrecht, or even Michaels—”

  “Or Toys ’R’ Us,” Lauren said a little snidely, like my project was so immature that it would only appeal to kids. There was something very weird in her voice. I’d heard it before—when I told her all about my first date and when I’d been accepted to NYU. But it almost always vanished as quickly as it appeared, and this time was no exception. A sudden smile spread across her face, and her eyes gleamed with genuine enthusiasm.

  “It sounds really great,” Lauren continued. “Really cool. So…what next?”

  There was still something in her voice that wasn’t quite right, but I didn’t know what to do about it. I didn’t want to answer her question, either, but there was no way to dodge it. “I’m going back to Lost and Found tomorrow. Hopefully I can find out who brought them there…and if there are more.”

  “Cool. I’ll come with,” she said. “If that’s okay?”

  “Sure,” I replied.

  What else could I say?

  Chapter 4

  September 26, 1917

  Dear Walter,

  I have so many questions: How are you, and where are you, and what occupies your days? Every evening I race home from the factory in hope that I will find a letter from you. My eagerness has impressed upon me how you—how all our boys overseas, so far from home—must long for letters.

  My last letter left you with the news that I have found work at ARC, where Liza has worked for the last two years. On the first day of my training, I was so nervous that my hands were trembling, but on our way to the factory, dear Liza chatted so merrily that there was very little room in my mind for nerves as we approached the iron gates. The other girls streaming in for the day’s work greeted me with such cheer that I was sure we’d all become fast friends, especially as Liza is so well liked. Only Minnie Johnson was stone-faced, which I suppose I can understand, for she must have wished she was accompanying her own little sister. Poor Eugenie, facing another grueling day at the munitions plant, but I cannot feel too badly for her as munitions work is rather well paying too, for all the heat and danger it entails.

  Inside the factory, Liza showed me where to hang my coat and hat before leading me to the dial-painting studio. (The second floor is reserved for offices and the laboratory.) Such a bright and airy room, Walter, with the biggest windows I’ve ever seen! It is a rather dusty place, though. All the surfaces are coated with a fine layer of powder, so that it is impossible to move about the room without acquiring a good deal of the stuff on one’s clothes. I suppose that is why the girls glow when they leave the factory at night.

  The girls began to gather their supplies, and in all the bustle, I was left behind. By the time the clock struck seven, the girls were perched on tall chairs at dark wooden tables, ready to begin. I hung back, unsure, until Liza beckoned me to her workstation. There was just one chair, so I was standing there awkwardly when Mr. Mills arrived. His smile was unsettling as he approached us.

  “Well, Lydia, look at you today,” he said so loudly that everyone turned to see. “So fresh-faced and ready for a hard day’s work!”

  To my dismay, he made a great show of dragging a chair to the opposite end of the table, far from Liza. Once I was seated, the other girls took up their paintbrushes and began to work. Their quiet chatting was a low hum that filled the room like so many bees buzzing about a hive. Mr. Mills sat close enough that I could smell the pomade slicked through his hair. He placed several items on the table: a small vessel shaped like an eggcup, a sheet of paper with several watch faces drawn on it, a dish of gritty powder, a jar of paste, and another jar with three of the queerest paintbrushes I’ve ever seen. They have long wooden handles and a thin brass strip to hold the camel-hair bristles in place—what bristles there were, I should say, since they only had three or four thin hairs. How, I wondered, is anyone expected to paint with these?

  Yet all around me the other girls managed, so I resolved to find a way.

  First, Mr. Mills showed me how to mix the paste and powder together to make the paint, thinning it with a few drops of water. He cautioned me against placing the brush in the water cup too many times, so as not to waste the paint. It was a pale shade, with yellowish undertones, and it had a luminous quality in even the starkest daylight. The paint was quite tacky on account of the glue base, but a bit of water helped it to flow more freely—but not too freely, because then the miniature hash marks on the watch dial would be impossible to paint.

  How strange these newfangled trench watches are! I cannot imagine that men will abandon the pocket watch for one to be worn around the wrist. But Mr. Mills explained how our boys in the trenches are fighting at night and must have a quick and ready way to know the time, even in the dark, to coordinate their movements. So progress has filled a void through the invention of the trench watch and this miraculous powder, this Lumi-Nite as they call it, that can make anything give off illumination.

  I took care to steady my hands when Mr. Mills decided that it was time for me to practice painting. The paper faces seemed so impossibly tiny, with faintly traced numbers that were barely visible. Now I understood why the brushes had so few bristles. Any more, and it would be impossible to paint those miniature numbers.

  I bit my lip and dipped the brush into the paint. After painting the simplest number (the one), I smiled, full of pride, until I realized that the tip of my brush was flattened—ruined! I knew I would have to pay for it before I’d even earned a cent.

  “A little less pressure next time,” Mr. Mills said kindly, and then he leaned very close to my face. “Watch carefully. I’m going to teach you how to tip.”

  He puckered his lips, as if he’d sucked on a lemon, and looked so odd that it took all my composure not to laugh, but I watched carefully as he placed the brush between his lips and—well, here I begin to blush—kissed it so that it took shape again. The damp warmth of his mouth shaped the bristles as if they’d never been flattened.

  I snuck a glance around the workroom and saw the other girls doing the same—painting, then pursing their lips and tipping their brushes. Later, Liza explained that it’s called lip-pointing. The girls who’d had previous jobs painting fine bone china had taught everyone else how to do it. It saves more paint than washing the brush after each application and also saves the step of drying the brush—an advantage since we are paid by the piece and time is of the essence.

  I spent the morning on sample watch faces, soon learning that the six and the eight, with lines as thin as a hairbreadth, are the most difficult to master. By the midday break, I was still struggling with uncooperative blobs obscuring the thinnest part of the eight, and fighting frustration with the paint, the brushes, and myself in equal measure. I was even a bit sullen as I sat next to Liza in the break room so we could share our lunch from the pail.

  But the other girls cheered me with stories of how long it took them to learn. Jennie Mercer told me about painting doll-baby eyes with paint so thin it ran down the doll-baby’s face like tears, and how then she herself started to cry, smearing her own face with paint and tears so that she and the doll-baby were both wet-faced with tears that glowed in the dark. By the time she finished her story, we were all laughing so loudly I nearly forgot my vexation.

  It grew quiet all of a sudden, and then Minnie asked, “Did anyone call at Edna Parson’s last night?”

  The silence deepened until it was quite clear that no one had.

  “I was just wondering how she’s doing,” Minnie pressed on. “I would’ve gone myself, but Eugenie was all out of sorts with disappointment, so I stayed home with her.”

  “What’s ailing Edna?” I asked.

  Liza’s hand fluttered up near her face. “Fevers. And some problem with her complexion,” she said. Her voice
was strange to me.

  “That’s all?” I asked. “Why would she leave her job over a trifle like that?”

  “Because she’s nearly as vain as you are!” Liza teased me. “Truthfully, the spot on her face is hideous. Even Mr. Mills remarked on it once. I can’t blame her for never wanting to come back!”

  “You needn’t be cruel,” Mary Jane spoke up, and even Liza looked abashed. You see, Mary Jane is the oldest of us all, twenty-two and married. Her husband is stationed overseas so I suspect she works to pass the time.

  Liza’s closest friend, Helen, then said, “Lydia, shouldn’t you be practicing?”

  I started with alarm, wondering if trainees were allowed to enjoy a break for lunch, but then she pushed a small jar of glowing paint and a paintbrush toward me. She slapped her hands, palms down, on the table. “Care to do my nails?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “Robert is taking me to the pictures tonight, and I thought I’d surprise him!”

  Everyone cooed in the way girls do when one is talking about her sweetheart. I picked up the brush but hesitated for a moment. “Are we allowed?” I asked. “To use the company’s paint?”

  I was embarrassed when the others laughed, but Liza was kind and protective as only a sister can be. “Hush,” she said to them. Then, to me: “You wouldn’t think it, but ARC considers it practice to improve our skills.”

  Well, I was eager to continue my practice, even in a task as frivolous as painting Helen’s nails. It was a relief to work with a larger brush, and there was certainly less pressure without Mr. Mills hovering over my shoulder, waiting for me to err.

  I finished the day with yet more practice watch faces, to my chagrin, but I am determined to succeed, and perhaps tomorrow Mr. Mills will give me a real watch face to paint. It must happen eventually, I know, if I am to keep my position.

  Now I must end this letter, so I may help Mother and Charlotte with the laundry. My days are full, as they should be, and yet they seem to pass so slowly, with all the waiting and wondering I am doing, while I miss you and hope that you are well and safe—wherever you are and whatever you’re doing.

  As always, I send my greatest hopes that the Almighty will protect you.

  And my fondest affection,

  Lydia

  Chapter 5

  Lauren and I met up the next morning at Lost & Found. Andrea Spinelli, the owner, grinned when she saw us. “Welcome back,” she said. “Just browsing today, ladies, or is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Actually, yeah,” I replied. “Do you have any more paintings like the ones I bought?”

  “Sorry, hon,” she said, shaking her head. “I just took the best two. He did bring some other things—mostly World War One memorabilia. You might be interested in this…”

  Andrea unlocked a case behind the counter and pulled out an old wristwatch. The leather band was deeply cracked, with a scorch mark on one side, and despite the protective cover of a brass case that resembled a birdcage, the glass face was pretty scratched.

  “Cool,” I said. “Kind of steampunk.” But the watch wasn’t a painting, and despite the damage, it cost three hundred dollars, so I carefully handed it back to her.

  “I want to see,” Lauren complained, pushing past me to take the watch. “I like it. What do you think, Jules?”

  I shrugged. “It’s got that dirty metal feel,” I replied. “Would you really want to wear it?”

  “What if I took it apart?” she asked. “I could make, like, a found objects collage. I bet it has cool gears inside.”

  You don’t have to buy every single thing that’s for sale, I thought with a flicker of annoyance. But all I said was, “That seems like a lot of money to pay for something you’re going to destroy.”

  Then I turned back to Andrea. “Did you say the best two paintings? Are there more?”

  “Oh yeah, there were at least five or six more,” Andrea said. The skin around her eyes crinkled, like she thought the whole thing was funny. “Why? Did you find part of a treasure map or something?”

  I forced myself to laugh. “No. I just like the style. I’m, um, redoing my bedroom, and I was hoping to get a couple more. So…if you don’t have them, do you know who does?”

  “I only take what I’m sure I can sell,” Andrea explained. “Otherwise, I’m wasting everybody’s time. But not everyone in the consignment business is as choosy as I am. I couldn’t tell you where those paintings are, but if he tried to sell them here, I’m betting he tried to unload them elsewhere.”

  “He?” Lauren spoke up. “He who? Do you know how we could contact this guy?”

  Andrea paused. “It was an older gentleman who brought them in,” she finally said. “But I can’t share his contact information with you. That wouldn’t be right.”

  “Do you have his name?” I asked too eagerly. “Or know how we could get in touch with him? I just want to ask him some questions—”

  Andrea’s look was piercing. “I just told you that I can’t share his contact information. I have to respect my clients’ privacy. If I start violating their trust, they’ll stop bringing me their treasures.”

  “Did he pick up his cut?” Lauren said.

  “No. Not yet,” Andrea said after a moment.

  “Then could we leave a message for him?” continued Lauren. “So he could, like, get in touch with us if he wanted to? See, we’re going to Parsons in the fall, and one of the techniques used in those paintings is really impressive, and we just wanted to ask him some questions about it. For our studies.”

  This is not your thing! I thought, wishing there was a way to tell Lauren to back off. Instead, I nodded like everything she said was the simple truth.

  “Oh,” Andrea replied. “Why didn’t you say so? You girls go ahead and write that note. I’ll be sure to give it to him when he comes in.”

  Lauren and I crouched in the corner of the store as we composed the message, finally settling on this:

  Dear Sir,

  I am an aspiring art student who bought the two paintings you sold through Lost & Found. I have some questions about the technique used in these paintings. Would you please call me as soon as you can?

  Sincerely,

  Julie Chase

  I added my phone number, gave the note to Andrea, and said, “Thanks so much for passing this on. I know it’s kind of weird.”

  “Weird?” She laughed. “Listen, I run a consignment shop. You would not believe the weird that has come into this room. Good luck with your school stuff, girls.”

  “One more thing?” I asked Andrea. “If he comes back and has more paintings, would you put them aside for me? I’ll buy them all.”

  Andrea nodded, but from her smile, I could tell she was humoring me. “Sure thing, hon. Leave your number so I can call you if he brings anything else.”

  We were halfway to the door when she called after us: “Wait!”

  I spun around.

  “I almost forgot,” Andrea said as she crossed the store. “There was one more thing…a diary…”

  I tried not to get too excited. I mean, maybe the diary was connected to the paintings. But there was no guarantee.

  The book Andrea gave me was slender, with a cover the color of garnets. It looked almost new. I scanned the first page and read:

  8 March

  Charlotte has given me this diary with her first paycheck as a pastime for my convalescence, which shows how little she truly knows me. I’m sure she feels very important to have some spending money of her own now, though why she’d waste it on blank books and inkpots, I can’t explain. Do I sound quarrelsome and ungrateful? Good, because that’s how I feel.

  I turned the book over in my hands, pretending to examine the endpapers when I was really looking for the price tag. It was seven dollars—worth it, I decided, just in case it was connected to the artist. Seven dollars: what a small price to pay for the opportunity to read someone’s most secret thoughts.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll take it.”r />
  While Andrea rang me out, my phone buzzed with a text from Jazmine, one of the assistant managers at Bed Bath & Beyond. I crossed my fingers, hoping for an extra shift…but no such luck.

  Julezzz. I think I left my thumb drive at work, and it’s got a paper on it that’s due today. Can you bring it to me?

  no prob. where are you?

  you are the best. ever. admissions office, Newark University. work-study job

  gotcha. on my way.

  “Who are you texting?” Lauren finally asked.

  I looked up. “Sorry, Laure. I have to go. My manager left something at the store, and I need to bring it to her at Newark University.”

  She scrunched up her face. “No! We’re supposed to hang out today!”

  “What can I do?” I said, holding up my hands. “She’s my boss.” The truth was I would’ve done it anyway, but Lauren didn’t need to know that. “You can come with me, if you want. It shouldn’t take too long.”

  “I don’t know,” Lauren said slowly. She glanced warily at the sky. “Do you think it’s going to rain? Because I’d go to the beach, but not if it’s going to rain.”

  I shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Maybe I’ll risk it,” Lauren said. “When’s your next day off?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Well, whenever it is, you’re hanging out with me, got it? We’ll shop for more paintings.”

  “Got it,” I replied as I slid into my car and started rolling down the windows. I watched Lauren cross the street and climb into her gorgeous SUV, adjusting the air and messing with her phone. She already had everything, but it wasn’t enough. Now she wanted to glom on to my painting project too. It was hard—really hard—not to feel jealous. But that wasn’t the kind of friend I wanted to be.

  It took an hour to swing by the store, find Jazmine’s thumb drive at the bottom of her locker, and drive out to NU. I hadn’t been on a college campus since all those tours last summer, and the thought of how much had changed since then was enough to kick off a parade of unwelcome memories: the desperate deep cleaning of the house when Mom suddenly realized that selling it was her only option, the hope for a magical buyer who never materialized, the excruciating conversation when she told me that the bank was going to take everything, the way turning over my college account was a choice that never felt like one.