Cassandra Kemper enjoys writing poems and stories. She is aiming to improve her writing ability as well as strengthen her perseverance in this field. It is her dream to write for Pixar.

Painter Girl (August 20, 2011. Issue 30.)

The very first time she had heard about the Painter Girl, she hadn't been paying any attention. She had been taking a long, soothing sip of the coffee her boyfriend had made her. The hot beverage was gentle as it traveled down her throat to warm her stomach, and she couldn't help but smile at how relaxing the sensation felt. And then her smile widened when she pictured her boyfriend taking the time to create this heavenly beverage for her. Uncharacteristically, she started to feel giddy.

"Can you believe that?"

Shirley's eyes snapped open. Her boyfriend, who had been unemployed and unmotivated to wear anything but his underwear at the time, was leaning back in the chair across from hers, a newspaper limp in his lazy grip. Luckily, the glossy table between them prevented the gray pages from slipping to the hardwood floor.

"No," Shirley blurted thoughtlessly, quickly glancing down at the article her boyfriend was gaping at.

She was a child psychologist, a profession that forced her to be an attentive listener. She normally didn't get so lost in her thoughts, and it wasn't like she had grown bored every single time her boyfriend read the paper aloud…well…okay, maybe she had….

In any case, the wonderful, loving gesture that was her coffee had distracted her, and she was unprepared when Kirt directly involved her in the paper-reading part of his morning ritual.

"Whoever this guy is, he's going to be a millionaire someday," Kirt commented, eyes still glued to the printed words before him, "or maybe he'll get his own reality TV show."

Shirley wasn't very skilled when it came to reading upside down, and Kirt had refused to be generous when it came to his beloved paper. Despite these fallbacks, she did manage to make out words such as "masterpiece" and "Hilton's wall" from the article. Comprehending that the Hilton had been vandalized by some wannabe-artist, Shirley stretched out her neck to view the large photo of the graffiti/artwork.

"Wow," she had mumbled, surprised that the work of vandalism impressed her so much.

She was usually indifferent to the graffiti that emerged about her city of San Francisco. It was just a part of her life, a part that neither disturbed her nor fascinated her. This beautiful painting of the bay, however, was marvelous. It belonged in a gallery, not a brick wall.

"Maybe I should do that," Kirt pondered aloud, taking a sip of his green tea.

Shirley cringed.

For well over a year, news of the "Mysterious Artist," became background noise in Shirley's life. It was interesting noise, mind you, but nothing she was willing to give significant time to listen to. Besides, when she finally obtained the sense to kick her mooch of a boyfriend out, she canceled the subscription she had made for his stupid newspapers, and thus heard less of the ever famous "Mysterious Artist." That is, until a particularly intriguing session she had with one of her patients; a ten year old named Jessica Hammersmith.

"I talked to the Mysterious Artist," Jessica had claimed soon after her mother excused herself to the waiting room.

Honestly startled by the loud statement, Shirley raised her eyebrows.

"Really?" she questioned politely.

Jessica remained as motionless as a portrait, save for a reserved nod. She looked a little uncomfortable, sitting so professionally straight on the large, light blue couch that was meant to be laid upon. Jessica was normally rather fidgety, wanting to glance at everything twice while subconsciously pulling at the furniture's seems. But that day she didn't even notice the large bowl of skittles sitting on the small flower-table next to her.

Rather than question the child's credibility, Shirley gave a kind, inviting smile and asked with sincere interest for details. With a nervousness that came with being vulnerable, Jessica began to tell her story.

"I ran away from home last Tuesday," the girl admitted sheepishly, "for about an hour. When I came back home, my mom was really mad."

"I can imagine," Shirley responded sympathetically, "If you don't mind me asking, why did you run away?"

"She was busy that night," Jessica replied quickly, averting her gaze, "and I was mad. So, I decided to run away to Coit Tower."

"Why Coit?" Shirley asked curiously as she paraphrased the girl's words in her notepad.

Jessica shrugged, eyes locked with a nearby window.

"I don't know. It was far away and I could see it. Seemed like a good idea."

Shirley nodded, finishing up an annotation.

"There are a lot of stairs to just get to the…" Jessica began motioning with her arms, trying to convey what words would not give her.

"base?" Shirley offered.

"Yeah. There are a lot of stairs just to get to the base. After I got up like three thousand steps or something, I ended up in this secret town hidden by trees. It was really pretty and I was really tired, so I decided to just stay there instead of going to the Tower.

I was sitting by this rock fence, when I saw her."

"The Mysterious Artist." Shirley clarified.

"Yeah," Jessica confirmed, her tense shoulders relaxing. For the first time since the session started, the girl smiled, "It was really dark, and she didn't even have a flashlight, but she was painting this bench—"

"Wait," Shirley blurted, her understanding eyes changing emotion in a second, "you ran away at night? Jessica, that is very dangerous. Running away in itself is dangerous, but at night?"

Jessica's shoulders tensed once more and her face contorted into a defensive expression.

"I was fine," she snapped, stiffening her arms, "I don't need a lecture, I just need someone to talk to."

Shirley sighed, setting the pad and pen aside and leaning forward.

"I know you don't need a lecture," she assured her patient, watching as the girl's posture remained unchanging, "I'm sorry I interrupted. I just get worried when it comes to kids going out at night. I guess it's a maternal thing."

"A what thing?"

"Maternal. It means I feel like a mom sometimes, even though I'm not."

"Oh," Jessica said thoughtfully, examining her psychologist for an intense moment, "So…if you were my mom, would you ground me for a month too?"

Shirley laughed.

"Sweetie, I'd ground you for a year."

Jessica chuckled, but she clearly wasn't amused as her psychologist was over the hypothetical situation. When her chuckles died down to a silent frown, Shirley started to feel an uncomfortable weariness settle in her gut.

"You said you saw the Mysterious Artist," Shirley reminded her patient.

"Yeah," Jessica said quietly, staring down at her lime green shoes, "She ran away too."

"You talked to her?" Shirley questioned, quenching the worry in her voice before it could come out.

The girl shook her head.

"No, she doesn't talk. She painted the words in my notepad. That's how she talks. Wanna see?"

"Sure," Shirley replied, waiting patiently as the girl ran outside to the waiting room where her backpack rested at her mother's feet.

When Jessica returned, she had shown her the crudely painted words in her spiral. She had explained what the Mysterious Artist was responding to with each painted phrase, turning the pages with a delicate hand. This encounter, whether it had been real or imaginary, meant the world to Jessica. Shirley didn't believe she had hallucinated anything, nor did she consider the girl a pathological liar, but the story sounded a little farfetched. For example, she had claimed the Mysterious Artist was a 14 year old girl who was born in Vietnam and rode a dragon to California. She very excitedly pointed out the lumpy purple "14" and equally lumpy green "Vietnam" on one page of her spiral, and then she turned to the page where an impressive painting of a dragon resided.

After the session, when Jessica's mother came into the office for a quick summary of what had been discussed, she had already heard Jessica's story of meeting the Mysterious Artist. She played along with Jessica's claims, somewhat like Shirley had, but she didn't believe it either. It had been Shirley, after all, who warned Mrs. Hammersmith that Jessica may become an active daydreamer in the wake of her grandmother's sudden death as a way to cope with the tragedy. It wasn't necessarily a poor quality to have, it just tended to make it more difficult to differentiate between memory and fantasy.

And Shirley probably would have left it at that—and did to a certain extent—if the little dragon painting hadn't been so…well, good. Shirley was no artist, but even she could tell the painting outshined the notebook paper it resided on. Though Jessica was a talented girl, and though it was possible that Jessica herself painted the "14" and "Vietnam" in her spiral, it was very improbable that she was responsible for the dragon painting. And that made Shirley reevaluate the girl's story again, again, and again. It had been four weeks later when Shirley finally admitted to herself that she was obsessed with this Mysterious Artist, or, at least, what Jessica claimed the Mysterious Artist was: a fourteen year old, Vietnamese, dragon-riding girl.

During the next six months, and after subscribing to a newspaper again, Shirley gathered newspaper clippings regarding the Mysterious Artist—or "Painter Girl," as Jessica referred to her as. What she didn't obtain from newspapers, she obtained from the internet, and what she didn't obtain from the internet, she obtained from Jessica during a few of their sessions. How much of the information her young source gave was accurate, Shirley would have to discover through her own research. However, as time passed, Jessica grew bored with the Painter Girl and eventually refused to even mention her artificial name.

The Painter Girl didn't grow boring for Shirley though, and she couldn't understand why. Her curiosity of this person did seem rather unhealthy.

"Maybe you should see a therapist," her assistant, William, suggested one day.

Shirley scoffed at him.

"What? You think you're too good for therapy," William challenged, a knowing smirk calling her out.

Instead of answering his question, Shirley went to a therapy session.

"You said you see your patients as your children," Dr. Garcia stated, crossing his legs and leaning back in his leather chair.

"Most of my patients, yes," Shirley clarified, staring at a bizarre-looking model of the brain Garcia had on his desk.

"Perhaps you see this 'Painter Girl,' as one of your lost children," Dr. Garcia suggested, "because she was mentioned during one of your sessions."

Dr. Garcia was a fine therapist, but his suggestion was so ridiculous Shirley didn't even consider going to another session. She didn't view the Painter Girl as a daughter, or as any relative for that matter. She felt no real connection to this person, only that she needed to find her. What she would do after that, Shirley didn't know. In all honesty, she hadn't really expected to find this Painter Girl, let alone confront her. It was a possibility she later wished she prepared more for.

It had been another month later, and Shirley's interest in the Painter Girl was finally beginning to fade. A week prior, she had gone in search for the Painter Girl on foot, having been inspired by new information and her own classic deductive reasoning. About thirty minutes into her walk, common sense finally began to penetrate Shirley's mind.

What if Jessica did make up those stories?

What if this fourteen year old girl is really a fifty year old man? With rabies?

What would I say to her/him?

These thoughts were as intriguing as they were troubling, and Shirley found herself slowing in her pursuit as these thoughts increased in numbers. Plus, when a new man entered the picture, Shirley's focus shifted more towards him than anything else. In fact, she was with him the night she finally found the Painter Girl.

They had spent the evening at Pier 39 and by nightfall they were on the dock next to Pier 35. The ocean wind had a soft strength against her skin, relaxing her overrunning veins. The sky was blotched with gray clouds that tainted the night's dark effect, but Shirley found peace with it all the same. Besides, her eyes were on the massive ocean before her, watching it as it gently swayed toward her as much as it swayed toward the black pieces of land miles away. The lights on Pier 39 made the area bright and alive during the sleeping hours, but where she and Owen stood, the light was a gentle glow that accepted their stillness. The people around them kept moving, kept talking, but her and Owen were standing perfectly still, and staying perfectly quiet.

It was one of the best moments of her entire life.

They probably would have remained that way for a while longer, had a sudden jarring movement not caught Shirley's attention.

Really, in the city of San Francisco, a jarring movement was not uncommon. People, animals, vehicles—anything, honestly—was always in motion, and a lot of that motion was made unexpectedly. Shirley had grown accustomed to being startled in such a busy city, and had grown to the point of overlooking rapid movement in her peripheral vision.

This time was different though. She saw a bright red color against a dark gray surface blurred by the quick movement of a hand. She turned her head to the right, feeling a stronger wind wrap her long hair around her face.

"What is it?" Owen questioned next to her.

Too preoccupied with her instincts, Shirley ignored him. She glanced about her until she saw a dark gray sweatshirt with a red blotchy stain on the hood.

Paint? Shirley thought, approaching the sweatshirt and the body it warmed.

Another strong wind assaulted those on the dock, and Shirley saw hands shoot up from the sweatshirt's arms and yank the hood farther down over the wearer's face. The body shivered, but leant against the wooden railing to gaze upon the dark ocean.

"Shirley?" Owen said.

Shirley shushed him, but it was already too late. The mysterious person startled and snapped her head towards them.

She really was just a fourteen year old girl. Her face was covered in a layer of dirt and had obtained a faded smudge of, what appeared to be, green paint. The pure terror in her eyes iced Shirley's core.

And then the girl went sprinting off the dock. Shirley kicked off her heals and ran after her.

"Shirley!" Owen called out fearfully, and Shirley could hear his footsteps as he pursued her.

Even if Shirley considered answering him, the breath to do so was constantly being ripped from her lungs. As much as the cold air and the adrenaline rush was numbing her physical senses, she could still feel the sharp agony that spiked up her leg through her heal every time her feet made contact with the cement below her. The girl in front of her was like a triathlete or something, and it was all Shirley could do not to fall over and die.

It only took a few minutes before Shirley lost all sights of the girl. She had snaked around groups of people and disappeared into the dark corners of the city.

Defeat had never felt so horrid. It had combined all of the most painful emotions she had ever felt—despair, fear, guilt, anger—and overtook her entire body. She finally did fall over, only to have Owen catch her and hold her up.

"Shirley? Shirley, what's going on?" Owen asked, his own voice choked with worry as Shirley sobbed into his jacket.

"I—I was supposed to save her," Shirley cried out, burying her face into his shoulder.

"Save who?" Owen asked, trying his best to understand.

"H-her."

"Who?" Owen asked again, but Shirley wouldn't specify.

Within minutes, they were curled up against a clay-white wall of a large building, and Shirley continued to sob into Owen's jacket. Only a few bystanders dared to glance at them.

"Why were you supposed to save her?" Owen asked gently, rubbing circles in Shirley's back.

Shirley sniffed, gagging on her own snot before swallowing it.

"I…I was the only one that was going to," she choked out, her heavy head finding rest upon Owen's chest, "She needs help."

Owen rested his own head on top of Shirley's, silent with his own introspection.

"It doesn't matter why," Shirley blurted, an anger resonating through her bones, "It doesn't matter."

"I know, Sweetie," Owen assured, kissing the top of her head.

"She needs help. That matters. That's enough."

Shirley was too overwhelmed by her own broken heart to notice Owen's heart breaking with hers.

"I know, Sweetie," Owen repeated, sighing out restrained pain, "I know."

Shirley never saw the Painter Girl again. She told police about the child, but their search for her apparently scared her off, for the beautiful artwork that seemed to grow from the city's walls ceased in creation. It made Shirley ache with worry, and fear often erupted into panic when she pictured all the awful scenarios that could have happened to that poor girl.

She blamed herself, despite her better judgment. Shirley knew she made the best decisions that she could under the circumstances, but the guilt of losing the Painting Girl never really evaporated from her conscience. She had been so close to bringing that girl salvation, or, at least, the hope of it. Defeat, when so adjacent to victory, could never be forgiven so easily.

"What do you think she's doing right now?" Owen asked her on their fourth date.

Shirley had pondered the possibilities, but all seemed to come out negative. Despite this, she smiled at her new boyfriend and held his hand.

"Whatever she's doing," she said, staring into Owen's intuitive, gentle eyes, "I hope she's safe and happy."

He smiled too, and it was enough to make her believe her hopes possible.