A Work of Art (11 page)

Wednesday promised to be a good day. Charlotte Gross was meeting my dad for the first time. I was going out with Joey that night. Haley was absent from World History. And I had a folder of sketches to show Mr. Stewart. My ideas for the art contest.

I wanted Mr. Stewart to like them as much as I did, so I was nervous when I took the manila folder up to his desk after class. He was jotting something down in his grade book.

“Mr. Stewart?”

“Tera.” He eyed the folder and slipped his pen into his blazer. “You have something to show me?”

“If you have time.”

“For you, I always have time. Let's move over to the window.”

I clutched my folder and followed him to the window where a patch of weak sunlight fell on a long table. One by one I laid out what I'd done. A profile of a gorgeous guy, rain droplets falling from his hair. A portrait of that same guy leaning against a brick wall, his face turned up to the falling rain. A wide view of him walking in the rain, water splashing around his shoes.

Mr. Stewart straightened each sketch. I waited as he lined them up in a perfect row. He was thinking of what to say.

“Hmm,” he began, but didn't add anything. He touched the corners of each drawing.

“What do you think?” I finally asked. “I have my favorite. The one with the brick wall. I like the way you can see the rain splashing on his face.”

“Yes, that's probably the best of the three.” Mr. Stewart scratched his nose. “And you did these recently? After we talked about the contest?”

“Yes.” Why would he ask that?

“I'm sorry, Tera.” He turned his head my way but didn't make eye contact. “The rain concept is there, I guess, but I'm not seeing what you want me to see.”

I bit down on my lip. Hard, to keep it from shaking. “He's a guy I met. I felt inspired, just like you talk about.”

“Yes, I get that. So he's some kind of bad boy?”

“What?”

“Never mind. What I meant to say was . . . When I look at these, I don't feel inspiration or love or infatuation. Whatever it is you're going for here, I'm not feeling it.”

Anger swept over me. Mr. Stewart was old, in his thirties. He didn't get it. I fought to keep my voice level. “Okay.”

“Can I be honest?” he asked.

I nodded. Much safer than trying to talk.

“These look more like pictures from one of those teen magazines.
Tiger Beat
maybe? I don't know all the names.”

Tiger Beat?
I didn't even know what that was. “He's not from a magazine,” I said. “He's a real person.”

“I understand that, and I get that. I'm not taking away from what you're feeling for him. I just think they're . . .” He swept his hand over the row of sketches. “Trite.”

Such a smothering word, like a rag stuffed in my mouth. I tried to breathe. Got nothing.

“I'm sorry, Tera.”

I stared at my sketches, tears biting behind my eyes. When I'd drawn them, I'd felt excited, hopeful. But Mr. Stewart thought they were trite.

“You can go deeper,” he was saying. “These sketches don't capture your muse. They don't capture your innermost self, that part of you that's been hurt, that's suffered. You have so much pain inside and—”

“I wasn't going for pain.” I shuffled the drawings into a pile. “Not everything has to be about my dad.”

“I know that, Tera. That's not what I'm saying.”

“You talk about good artists defying expectations. Well, that's what I'm doing and suddenly that's not what you want.”

“You misunderstand. I want you to extract what's inside. That's what people want to see.”

Of course they did. Haley, Ellen, everyone in the hallways who stared at me or asked me what was up with my dad . . . They all loved to see me squirm. I shoved the sketches back into the folder, not caring how the paper bent and tore. “So my life is a freak show.”

“That's not what I meant.”

I knew it wasn't—he was trying to help—but how do you tell someone you don't want to go digging around inside yourself because you're afraid of what will happen? If I went digging, a piece might rattle loose, and then another and another, and before I knew it, my whole self would start to crumble.

Mr. Stewart lowered his voice. “Is something else going on, Tera? Did something happen?”

Yeah, something happened. I met a guy. He made me happy. And now you're ruining it.
“Nothing happened,” I said.

“All right.” He looked around like he was searching for what to say. “This contest. You have it in you to win it.”

“These sketches were done from memory,” I said. “If I had a live model, they could be a lot better.”

“I don't doubt that. You can try it. But try some other things, too, okay? Play around with the rain concept. There's still time.”

“I know.”

“Just dig deep, okay?”

“I have to go,” I said.

• • •

I stumbled outside into the sunshine. Strange, after months of winter, to feel warmth soaking into my skin. My phone vibrated in my purse as I waited to cross the car lane. By now, I recognized the number.

Take a moment. Breathe.

“Hello?”

“Tera, it's Charlotte Gross. I met with your dad.”

A car honked, close enough to make me jump. Haley sat in the car queue behind the wheel of her mom's Audi. She rolled her window down and waved her arm at me. A queen in her chariot.

I turned my back, pressed the phone to my ear. “Thanks for calling. Did he sign the papers?” She couldn't start helping him until he signed the papers.

“Tera!”

I tried to ignore Haley's shout, tried to concentrate on what Charlotte Gross was saying.

“He signed, but he wasn't happy about it. You should probably talk to him.”

“Tera, get in! I need to talk to you!” The car behind Haley's beeped its horn. She was holding up the line. I plugged my other ear. I had no interest in sharing the details of my life so she could blab them to the whole school.

“He knows I can't visit him yet, right? Not until I turn eighteen.”

“He knows.”

Haley's car rolled past me. I wanted to ask Charlotte Gross something else, something important, but I couldn't think.

“I have to go,” the lawyer said. “I'll be in touch.”

A tick of silence.
Wait!
Haley's brake lights blinked on, then off. Traffic swelled in behind her.

“Hello?”

Too late. The line was dead.

Shit. I wanted to ask if Dad had put me on the visitors' list yet. And I wanted to ask how he looked. Was he scared? Did he seem hopeful?

Of course Haley ruined that for me.

Joey was late. Seventeen minutes and counting.

Mom paced the living room. Like it mattered to her if he showed up. I sat on the couch, my purse clenched tight. I tried not to check my watch.

“Are you sure you have the right night?” Mom said. “Maybe he changed his mind.”

A moment of panic.
Did
I have the right night? “You're not helping, Mom.”

“I'm just saying what you're thinking.”

“Then don't say anything. Please.”

“I've dated before, Tera. Believe it or not.” She bumped my leg as she paced. “How old did you say he was?”

“Around my age.”

“Still in high school?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?” She stopped in her tracks and turned to look at me. “How can you not know that?”

A car engine outside. Loud and getting louder.
Please let it be him!

Headlights flashed across the picture window before turning into the driveway. I took a breath. Relief. Fear. They felt the same.

Mom pulled back the curtains and looked out. “Tell me he's not driving a motorcycle.”

“Stop, Mom, he'll see you. It's just his car.”

“I don't care if he sees me. Are you sure that's a car?”

“It's old.”

“Where's he taking you?”

“I don't know. Please get away from the window.”

“You don't know?”

The car honked. I jumped from the couch. “I have to go.”

“No way.” She stepped in front of me. “He's coming inside after making you wait like that.”

“Mom, that's stupid.”

“You're not a dog that comes when he calls.”

My jaw ached. Everything about her exhausted me. If I ignored her, she'd chase me outside like a lunatic. “Fine,” I said. “I'll go get him.” I managed not to slam the door behind me.

Joey's red Camaro sat idling in the driveway, seeping light and smoke like some kind of alien ship. I shielded my eyes against the glare of headlights. Cold air needled my skin.

The passenger door swung open. Warmth and music flooded out. Joey leaned across the seat, his hand on the door. “You ready to go?”

“Uh.” I felt like a little kid to have to say it. “My mom wants to meet you.”

“Yeah, okay.” No sigh. No flicker of annoyance. I tried not to stare as he glided out of the car. Jeans and a t-shirt never looked so good.

“I feel like I should warn you,” I said.

“About what?”

“My mom can be a little . . .”
Tense
didn't begin to describe it, so I went for the truth. “Crazy.”

He laughed. “You forget. I have one of those, too.”

Something in common. We both had screwed-up moms.

Our shoes crunched on the gravel. I watched my stretched shadow, jealous of how it bobbed along without a care in the world. When we reached the door, I stopped to take a breath.

“Don't worry,” Joey said. “I've done this before.”

Of course he had. I turned the knob, squinting in the glut of yellow light. Mom sat on the couch with her legs tucked up, a gardening magazine in her lap. She must have snatched it from the pile next to the couch. She looked up like we'd surprised her.

“Mom,” I said. “This is Joey.”

“Hey,” Joey said.

“I'm Connie.” Then she corrected herself. “Mrs. Waters.”

“Nice to meet you.” Joey offered his hand. Mom shook it.

This was going too well. I had to get him out before things blew up. “So,” I began. “I'll see you later, Mom.”

“Just a minute.” She aimed her smile at Joey, sweet, like rotten fruit. “Where are you taking her?”

Oh crap. Here it came.

“I thought we'd go to a movie,” Joey said.

“Really?” Mom looked down at her magazine, still smiling that overripe smile. “Which movie?”

Joey hesitated, glanced at me.

My mind whirled, got nothing. “We're still deciding.”

“I see.” Her smile dissolved. The magazine slapped shut as she speared Joey with her stare. “And did you plan on feeding her first?”

Jesus, Mom!

Joey tried to laugh. “Yeah, of course. My uncle owns a restaurant.”

“And which restaurant is that?”

“It's called Johnny's.”

“Sounds like a male strip club.”

This was getting bad. “Mom, we have to go.”

She coiled her magazine into a cylinder, gripped it like a stick. “Maybe you wouldn't be in such a hurry if your boyfriend could get here on time.”

“Uh.” Joey rubbed the back of his neck. “I had car trouble.”

“Mom, we're going.” I grabbed the doorknob, shoulders hunched as if to make myself a smaller target for Mom's abuse. Joey was right behind me.

“Enjoy your night,” Joey said, and I caught a glimpse of her face as I closed the door. Scared. She looked scared.

Don't think about her. Don't let her ruin this.

Cool night air washed over us. I filled my chest with it.

Joey laughed. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I'm so sorry.”

“It's not your fault.”

He led me to his car, opened my door. I climbed inside, my body rigid in the empty silence. When he slid in beside me, his smell filled the car. Soap and tobacco, his hair wet from a shower.

He dug his keys from the pocket of his jeans. “You look great.”

“Thanks.” I studied my hands, made sure they weren't shaking. He thought I looked great. Was that something guys said out of habit? He couldn't know how I'd tried on all the clothes in my closet before settling on my one pair of A&F jeans and a purple sweater.

“So you want to go to my uncle's place?” He started the car and twisted in his seat to face me. “It's kind of a drive.”

“Maroa, right?”

“Did I mention that?”

“I forgot to tell you. I have ESP.”

“Awesome.” His fingers traced paths over my temples. I wanted to draw those fingers, stick them in my mouth and taste them. “So what am I thinking now?” he asked.

I closed my eyes, trying to dial the right words. Something clever, flirting. Anything but silence.

“Come on, girl.” His voice teasing.

“Um.” I opened my eyes. Sometimes the words came easy. Most of the time they didn't.
“
You're thinking you're hungry?” I asked.

“Hmm.” He cocked a smile, his voice like a rumble. “Close enough.”

• • •

We sped toward Maroa, his stereo blasting. He told me about all the different bands on his mix CD: Sleigh Bells, Cage the Elephant, Death Cab for Cutie. The music made things easier. No awkward silence, no struggling for the right words. I leaned my head against the seat and watched how his head weaved to the music, how his lips murmured the words.

The soaring beat of Jack White's “Love Is Blindness” hit me hard. The rawness of the guy's voice. The melody. Joey must have felt it, too. His hands gripped the steering wheel. His head swayed with the chords. Near the end of the song, he reached across the seat and grabbed my hand. Intense. I felt the beauty of the song. The pain.