Screw You Van Gogh

By Jeff Howard

Screw You Van Gogh is a powerful story of two unlikely friends brought together by change and an unworldly connection neither one can explain. Together they navigate teenage relationships, dysfunctional families, self-discovery, the terrifying impact of teenage mental health, and, ultimately, the choice to live. Cassidy Towers, a cynical girl made smart by a tough life, finds herself in a new school with no friends, no hope, and an attitude to match. That is until Tommi Bounds, a tall fast-talking redhead with no filter decides otherwise and sets out to reinvent Cassidy. Enter a cast of characters: Tommi's cute cousin Patrick, obsessive compulsive Jules, hippie throwback Tina, a country music-quoting mom, and a quirky but well-meaning school counselor. Screw You Van Gogh takes you through an intense, authentic look into the emotional lives of today's teenagers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350927115

Book preview

Chapter 1

I s there any way you will at least try to make this work? Cassidy ’ s mother asked as she draped her arms over the steering wheel. Stacy Towers had been driving for six hours straight and was getting tired of the road. Cassidy slouched against the passenger side door, large-framed sunglasses hid her tear-reddened eyes but not the anger she felt toward her mother for what she was putting them through . . . again. Cassidy was sixteen years old and had lived in five different places since she was nine. Now they were on their way to another.

You never try to make friends anymore, her mom kept going, and you’re smart, but you don’t care about school. I don’t know. She threw her hands up but kept her elbows on the wheel. "If you don’t do something, you’re going to wind up just like me, ‘always moving but going nowhere.’»

Always moving but going nowhere? Really, Mom? said Cassidy. You’re talking country again.

Whenever she was nervous or negotiating something, her mom reverted to her native Texas drawl and talked in the metaphors of the country-western songs she listened to.

Well, you never seem to take anything I say seriously, and until you do, ‘I’m your ride or die baby, I’m your crazy, you’re my cool.’ Her mom giggled at herself for being witty. Cassidy rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses.Cassidy and her mom had just picked up and left Omaha, Nebraska and were on their way to Masonville, Iowa—a small, unnecessary town only worth two internet hits when Cassidy googled it. The first website was from the Masonville Chamber of Commerce that promoted the town as having character and four seasons. The other site was a real estate company page featuring farmland acreage and small rambler homes.

In Cassidy’s mind, people should be moving from small towns to bigger towns and eventually to big cities—not the other way around. Big cities meant more things to choose from, a better job for her mother, a nicer house, and maybe a place they would stay for more than a year or two.

When they had moved to Omaha, Cassidy had finally had enough. She was tired of leaving places, saying goodbye to friends, and having her heart broken. So she decided to protect herself, and her heart, by never letting anyone into her life again.

In school, she became known as the weird girl. She said little and sequestered herself from anyone who attempted to reach out to her. She didn’t care what other kids thought. She and her mom would soon be packing their meager belongings back into their worn-out minivan once again anyway.

‘On the road again,’ her mom would say to perk them up.

The sun was beginning to set as they finally slowed down past a colorful sign that said,

Welcome to Masonville, a Town of Character.

Exit Here.

They turned off the highway and went the last mile to Masonville on a narrow tar road. As they drove, the rays of the lowering sun flooded everything around them with a red glow. The gently waving fields of corn, beans, and hay stretched away like a lighted ocean. Neither spoke as they were caught up in the surreal scene of light that surrounded them.

In Masonville, the tree-lined streets and simple, neat homes were bathed in the same soft, red light. Even Cassidy, with her crabby attitude, was taken by the peace and tranquility of the small town settling in for the night. She stole a glance at her mother. Her face was relaxed, and she had a dream-like look that played about her features. She seemed, for the moment, like she did not have a care in the world.

On they drove with the windows down, the soft evening air wrapping around them. Cassidy reached her arm out the window and let the wind play her hand back and forth. She pictured herself in slow motion, gliding down the street and smiling as her hair blew about her face.

They passed through the downtown area of businesses with classic four-story storefronts and the post office next to the city hall. Masonville was a picture postcard town of Americana. As they neared the end of downtown, the streets once again became residential. Everything was in its place as if the people of Masonville jointly agreed that everyone had to keep their yards immaculate. It was a town with pride, a town of character.

Cassidy had taken off her sunglasses and was sitting up. Is our place around here? she asked with a touch of hope.

We’re getting there, said her mom. She gave a nervous sideways glance at Cassidy. Maybe out of town a little ways.

And then it changed. As they drove out of Masonville, the warm red light began to fade to orange, then yellow, and then into a pale, colorless twilight. Cassidy’s hope dimmed with the evening glow. The dusky fields and brushy plots were no longer inviting but looked cold and foreign. Then up ahead, they saw a battered reflective fire number sign that read C1014.

Here we are, Cass, her mom said as they turned into the driveway. This is our place. Cassidy could hear hopeful anticipation in her mom’s voice, but she wasn’t buying into it.

The beams of their headlights swept down the long dirt driveway and lit up a small stucco farmhouse. Her mom stopped in the yard. In the lights, they could see large cottonwood trees wrapped with twisted vines leaning over the little house. Tough, rank weeds grew along the foundation and up through the crumbling sidewalk. The wood trim around the doors and the porch windows was flaky with peeling brown paint. Chunks of stucco hung from the sides.

Beyond the van lights was blackness, except for a single yard light on a shed that struggled to cast a small circle of light on the ground below. At the edges of the light, they could just make out abandoned machinery and rusty farm implements scattered about. The cottage, their new home, remained dark and foreboding.

Her mom turned off the engine but left the headlights on. They both got out and met in front of the van. Their shadows stretched out before them like strange, unworldly aliens. They stood there for a long time, staring at their little house and saying nothing. Then Cassidy sighed and leaned against her mom. Stacy wrapped her arms around her shoulders and pulled her close.

‘Life’s about changing, nothing ever stays the same,’ Stacy breathed.

Chapter 2

Ithink I ’ m supposed to be in a bad mood , thought Michael Burns as he walked toward school, but I ’ m not . Which was an odd thing because today was the first day back on the job after summer vacation. Burns was the school counselor at Roosevelt High School, where he had diligently served the students for the last five years. A popular joke amongst his colleagues was that the three best things about their jobs were June, July, and August.

But going back isn’t so bad, he thought. Summers were great with laid-back, sunny days, soft sultry nights, and the freedom to enjoy them any way he wanted. But Burns could only kickback for so long. Without a direction or purpose, the novelty of idleness did not fit him. Burns sought consistency, and school put his life in order.

He often parked his car a few blocks from school just for the walk down the tree-lined sidewalks to the front doors. It was a classic, early fall morning, the kind that cleared his mind for the day. The air was cool and brisk but foretold of a balmy, sunny afternoon. The leaves on the maple trees were just starting to show a tinge of color. Their leaves would soon be crimson, the oak leaves bronze, and the birch trees yellow. It was the kind of morning that got his day started in the right direction—an important thing for a high school counselor.

Roosevelt High was an old building in a modern world. The school was built in 1934 in the midst of the Great Depression. Despite the fact that the people of Masonville were broke back then, they had invested what they had in the future of their children. They had prayed their offspring would not have to go through what they had. And they felt the best way to do that was to make their children smarter than themselves. So they built a school—a very nice one.

When deciding what to call their school, they named it after the man who pulled America out of the depression dumpster.

Its exterior was classic brick with massive curved windows and church-like steeples. The grounds had thick green lawns shaded by towering oak trees. Inside, the halls and stairwells were paved with stone cut from a quarry just out of town. The classrooms had high ceilings, dark wood trim on plastered walls, and ornate lighting fixtures. Student lockers lined the halls, and while they were small, they had housed the possessions of the town’s kids for four generations.

Burns walked through the reception area to his office and unlocked the door. He loved his office. The walls were covered with dark hardwood paneling halfway up, and the rest was a calming pale green color. His wide desk was topped with matching polished wood. It was an environment he hoped inspired the students but maybe intimidated them just a bit. He sat down behind the desk and let the familiarity wash over him.

It’s like we never left this place, a familiar voice came to him from outside his door One moment you’re packing up stuff to take home in June, the next, you’re unloading the same stuff on your desk in September. But you never touched it all summer. It was Janey Sullivan, Burns’ fellow counselor.

He smiled. He had missed Janey and her witty sense of humor over the summer. But mostly, he had missed her advice; she was as good a school counselor as there ever was. Hundreds of teenagers had been steered the right direction through her compassionate, yet firm guidance.

Burns had been taught that school counselors should be willing to get counseling themselves, and he had made frequent trips to Janey’s office over the years. Burns was convinced his world was better when she was in it.

Janey walked into his office. She had a coffee mug in her hand that had COUNSELORS MAKE IT HAPPEN printed across the front, and she sat down across from him.

She was a lovely woman. The older boys in school would flirt with Janey by asking if she had a younger sister. Now Janey was tanned and fit. Her blonde hair was almost white after being in the sun all summer. She wore hiking sandals and nylon outdoor pants, the kind with legs that would unzip into shorts. Her stylish cotton blouse was light blue and had short sleeves.

Janey had never been married. Everyone suspected she had to get out of town if she wanted to find an available guy. It was the price she paid to stay in Masonville—a nice town, but not a scene for singles. Even though he was available and not too bad looking himself—or so he assumed—Burns had never asked for anything but a professional relationship with his colleague. He didn’t tell anyone, but he had more than a little crush on her.

So was your summer incredible? she asked.

Not really, replied Burns. Went out west in July and did some sightseeing in Colorado and Utah. Other than that, just did a bunch of stuff I never have time to do during the school year. How about you?

About the same. Went to visit my mom in Los Angeles in June, spent most weekends with friends, and then laid out on my deck the rest of the time and read some trashy novels. It was great, and now here we are.

Yes, here we are, he agreed. Open the doors and let ’em in.

Janey gave a knowing smile and sipped from her cup. So, do you know if we have many new students starting this fall?

I know of one. She’s coming in this afternoon. A young lady moving from Omaha. The usual story: single mom, moving all the time, been to who knows how many schools and probably missing credits. I hate telling kids, ‘Welcome to Roosevelt, and guess what? You’re already behind in credits.’

Poor kid. Instead of thinking about teenage stuff like dating, friends, and Friday nights, she wonders when she’ll eat next or what town she’ll wake up in the next morning. I don’t know how they do it.

You know, I’ve thought about that this summer. I have an idea, Burns said, suddenly more enthusiastic. This whole anxiety-stress thing with kids is so out of hand. I want to do something that will encourage them to get past the stigma that if you go see your counselor, you must be weird. Give them something to do, maybe some sort of isokinetic thing on my desk they can play with while they calm down to talk—maybe even have a meaningful conversation.

Oh, a fidget toy, Janey said, like a squeeze ball or a rubber tangle relaxer. Squeeze, squeeze, twist, twist until they’re ready to talk.

You’re being sarcastic, said Burns.

Really, Michael? I didn’t know.

Yeah, right. Anyway, it will be better than a fidget toy. I’m going to have a good old-fashioned jigsaw puzzle on my desk. What person can resist an unfinished puzzle? And while the kids move the pieces around, we talk.

It’ll make you counselor of the year, Janey smirked. But I gotta say, I like it. You pushing puzzle pieces around with a student, discussing grades, school, and the meaning of life is, well, inspiring. Then a look of seriousness came over her. But, Michael, you know what you put yourself through every year. Lots of times, you work harder than the kids. Sometimes they just don’t want an adult trying to figure them out.

Burns didn’t say anything, and Janey appeared to feel guilty as if she was raining on his parade.

But it does sound good, she said quickly. What will this puzzle be a picture of?

I’m not sure, maybe a superhero, he said. Kids love superheroes. We could talk about the flawed lives of epic heroes, overcoming challenges, good versus evil, all kinds of adolescent issues.

I think the puzzle should be of a kitten, something warm and fuzzy, Janey quipped. Or better yet, a teen celebrity who gives social media advice or tabloid wisdom. Then you can tell your kids to do just the opposite, and everything will be okay. I will be anxiously awaiting the results, she said as she got up. Gear up soldier, it’s a new year.

As Burns and Janey settled in their offices, they appeared to ponder the upcoming year. Each school year was its own—no two years were the same—each with its own ups and downs and joys and disappointments. Now, sitting at their desks, both had a feeling of uncertain anticipation, an unsettling sense that this year would be different. But neither one dared guess what exactly that meant.

Chapter 3

Cassidy looked at herself in the mirror. She ’ d read there was a desired ratio of the sides of a triangular measurement between a girl ’ s eyes and her nose. If you had the right ratio, you were a supermodel . And if you don ’ t , Cassidy thought, you ’ re probably me . She leaned forward and looked closely at her reflection.

Her eyebrows were heavy and needed some work, but they arched gracefully over her eyes—eyes so dark one couldn’t tell where her iris ended and her jet-black pupil began. Her cheeks were full but not unpleasantly so. Her hair was deep black, and it fell down over her shoulders. If she did anything with it, she put it up in a casual pony. People close to her told her she had a nice, oval-shaped face that made her pretty. That didn’t mean all that much to Cassidy. She was glad she could be attractive when she wanted to, but she didn’t try very often.

Cassidy had adopted her withdrawn, private-person façade not only to keep others at bay but also to show she was not like her mom, who was all southern charm and a pretty face. That woman could woo her way into the heart of anyone she chose. Cassidy suspected some judged her mom to be a cute but naive country sweetheart. They didn’t know her mom had her skills and used them masterfully.

Try as she might, Cassidy could not hide the fact that in one way, she was just like her mom—she was a survivor. Her mind was quick, and she analyzed everything rapidly. Her school skill assessments identified her as nearly off the charts in reading, writing, and comprehension. But back in Omaha, she decided to do just well enough in her classes to fly below the radar and keep teachers off her back. No attention, no expectations, no sweat.

Sometimes, in a reflective moment, Cassidy wondered if being a recluse was the right thing to do. But when others judged her by her unapproachable looks and sober affect, Cassidy would get angry and become even more determined. She did not fret over the possibility she was a stubborn and, soon to be, bitter, lonely person.

Today she was going with her mom to meet with the school counselor to enroll in classes. Looking at herself in the mirror, Cassidy contemplated her options. She had practiced with her mom’s eye shadow, mascara, and eyeliner and found that with her startling eyes, she could create nearly any image she wanted. She could make people think she was mysterious, inviting, or hard to reach. More often, she chose a keep your distance look or wore no makeup at all. Sometimes, in her girlish inexperience, Cassidy could land anywhere between garish glamour and boring plainness. Her mother never knew from one day to the next who was going to step out of the bathroom—Cassidy, the beauty queen, or Cassidy, the homeless waif.

She decided, today, she would come out strong with the image that she was aloof and better off left alone. Cassidy wasn’t absolutely sure what that looked like, so she carefully drew the eyeliner brush below her eye, leaving a bold, smooth border.

So far, so good.

Above her eye, she applied another smooth, curved line that made her oval eyes jump from her face. But rather than stop there, Cassidy dragged the brush out a bit to extend the line beyond her eyelid. It looked like a feathery wing above her eye.

She liked it.

Cassidy dipped the brush and stroked the line again, drawing out the wing even longer and fuller. It looked even better, making her appear more confident and self-assured, but unapproachable. She stepped back to take it all in. It was the look she wanted.

She realized, though, that what was on the outside did not stop the butterflies and stomach knots on the inside. Enrolling in new schools was not new to Cassidy, but this was different. The nervousness and anxiety she felt was intense. And the fact that Cassidy could not figure it out was making her all the more distraught.

Cassidy walked down the hall into her bedroom. Even though the small house had little to offer, Cassidy had done her best to create a certain feeling in her room. She wanted it to be a place she could hide in, a place that was always the same. That’s how she coped in almost all of the places they had lived—by using the same posters, the same dresser, and the same shelves filled with books and assorted knick-knacks. Over her window, she draped heavy, dark curtains that could shut out the world. All of it helped her pass the many long nights she was left alone.

She had a few pictures out. On her shelf was a photo of her grandparents, Robert and Marjorie. They had both passed away when Cassidy was quite young, but she remembered living with them the first few years of her life. Even as a little girl, Cassidy sensed her grandparents were not entirely happy with the fact that their daughter was living in their home with a fatherless child—their granddaughter. But they were good at providing, and it was the most stable part of Cassidy’s life she could remember.

Her grandpa wasn’t around much, but Grandma was always bringing home frilly dresses, hair bows, and toys for her grandbaby. Grandpa never even got the chance to retire before he died of massive cardiac arrest. Grandma never seemed to be able to recover from her husband’s death and seemed to waste away until she too died.

The other pictures were of Cassidy and her mom in happy moments—them at the Mount Rushmore monument, another of them at a beach on a pleasant afternoon. But that was it no photos of cousins, pets, or girlfriends. All Cassidy wanted was for her room to always be the same, never changing, and something she could count on.

Are you about ready, Cass? her mom called from her bedroom.

Cassidy walked out of her bedroom and into the hall, almost running into her mother.

I’m ready, she said as she ducked around her mom to go into the living room.

Whoa, there. Her mom stopped her and took her by the elbow. That’s interesting eye makeup.

Cassidy turned her head away from her mom and rolled her eyes.

I’m not sure I like it, it makes you look like . . . you’ve been around. And those ratty jeans and hoodie. Really, Cassidy? Her mom sighed and rolled her own eyes. But there’s nothing we can do about it now, or we’ll be late.

Mother and daughter could not have been further apart as they walked to the van. Stacy wanted her daughter to be happy and get on with school. Cassidy wanted to skip the whole school thing. What they didn’t know was neither one was going to get what they wanted that day.

Chapter 4

Stereotyping is a nasty thing, definitely not something—especially a school counselor—should do, thought Burns. But how do I not? Cassie and her mother sat across the desk from him. Ms. Towers wore a short denim skirt and a too-tight t-shirt with a herd of wild mustangs racing across the front. Most would agree she was a very attractive woman—possibly a little rough looking, but in an alluring way. Cassie was quiet—aloof would be a better way to describe her. She wore flip-flops, jeans with a few too many tears in them, a tank top, and an unzipped black hoodie. She kept her heavily made-up eyes focused on her lap, where she fidgeted with the drawstrings of her hood. Burns wished he felt better about how this was going to go.

How are you two this morning? he asked cheerfully.

Very well, how about you? Ms. Towers replied, smiling brightly. Cassidy said nothing, apparently considering the question answered by her mom.

Welcome to Roosevelt High. We’re always glad to have new students. We’ll talk about school and classes in a bit, but is it okay if we get to know each other a little first?

Sure, said Ms. Towers. This school is beautiful, right Cassidy? She lightly touched her daughter’s arm as if to encourage her to respond. Cassidy’s shy, and we’re ‘just a little bit country,’ ya know. Cassidy looked away as if she wanted to distance herself from her mother.

Mr. Burns laughed lightly at what he thought was Ms. Towers attempt at being funny. It was maybe a bit out of character for a school official, but he didn’t care, he really did think it was funny.

So you’re coming from Omaha to our little Iowa town, he said. Do you mind if I ask what brings you here?

We needed a change, said Ms. Towers reaching over to brush Cassidy’s hair out of her eyes. ‘Life can be good, life can be long. It looks like a little bit of the good life is comin’ on strong.’

Again, Burns laughed a bit. Okay, are you working? Have a place to live? Do you—?

Why do you live here? Cassidy suddenly interjected, catching everyone off guard.

Burns didn’t know what to say. Cassidy’s abrupt question seemed completely out of character. He looked at her for a moment and said, That’s a fair question. Cassidy held his eyes, then glanced down briefly, but looked right back up at him.

I’m from Iowa City. I went to high school there and college at the university. I started as a high school English teacher and worked in one of the suburb schools for three years. Burns was suddenly aware that his life sounded very unexciting, especially considering Cassidy’s file showed they had lived in Texas, Oklahoma, Nebraska, and now Iowa. He laughed lightly. Sounds kind of boring, doesn’t it? Ms. Towers laughed a little too loudly, and Cassidy . . . nothing, she just continued to look at him.

He studied Cassidy right back. This is a very interesting young lady, he thought, and then continued. I always liked what I saw school counselors doing, so I took online classes for a couple of years and got my counseling license. And here I am.

Burns adhered to the basic rule of counseling that sessions should largely be questions to the student. So far Cassidy hadn’t answered a single one, but after five minutes she knew more about him than any other student in the school. Burns didn’t know what to think of that, other than this young lady was a little more clever