A Work of Art (16 page)

“Oh yeah?” The words slipped out like I'd been practicing cool all my life.

He gripped the back of my neck, pulled my head toward his. Then he kissed me, his tongue gliding over my bottom lip.

“You taste good,” I murmured. Had I just said that?

“How're you feeling?” he asked. “Still cold?”

“Huh-uh.”

He stood up. “Finish your drink. I'll be right back.”

He disappeared into another part of the house. I heard a door opening and closing. Po'Boy barked three times. Then he was quiet. Poor dog.

I drank, sucking the vodka from the ice cubes.
Buzzed.
That was the word I'd heard everyone say.
I'm buzzed.
Buzzed was a good way to describe it. Everything vibrated with a little more intensity.

Joey came back and leaned in the doorway. “You want to try something cool?”

“Sure.” Maybe.

He laid a pill on the table. “It's safe.”

I stared at it. White and small. Tiny even. “Safe?”

“As in, it wasn't made in someone's trailer. You know what you're getting. Just a little high. A little—” He cut himself off. “You'll like it.”

“That's okay.” I shook my head. Would he be mad at me for saying no?

“You sure?”

I bit my lip. “It's not really my thing.”

He swept the pill off the table and popped it in his mouth. “You don't mind, do you?”

“Huh-uh.”

“Maybe you'll try it next time when you see what it does.”

Next time. He was talking about a next time.

“Come with me.” He held out his hand to pull me up. “Since you're into art, I want to show you something.”

I felt a little dizzy as I stood up, but his hand on my arm steadied me.

“It's in my uncle's bedroom. I always thought it was pretty cool.”

I followed him to the bedroom at the end of the hallway. Above the bed was a wall poster of Salvador Dalí's
The Persistence of Memory
, with its melting clocks and strange, mutated creature in the center. The creature was supposedly some kind of self-portrait.

Joey waved at the painting. “It's cool, right?”

“Very cool.”

Joey grinned. “One time I stared at this thing for, like, five minutes. Come here for a second.” He climbed up to stand on the bed so his face was at eye level with the poster.

I scrambled up after him.

“Careful.” He put his hand on my back. “Look at this.” He pointed to the hands on the different clocks. “They all show different times.”

“Like for different memories.” All the times I'd seen this painting, and I'd never noticed that. I liked how Dalí's memories seemed warped.

Our eyes met. A buzzy thrill spiraled through my core.

Joey traced the outline of my jaw. “I tricked you in here, you know.”

“It was a good trick.”

“So now that we're here . . .” He drew me down so we were kneeling on the bed.

“Your uncle won't come home?”

“He's closing the bar.”

I got lost, then, while Sadie's music caressed my senses. Joey's mouth against mine, his tongue, the hunger of it. His body grinding against mine, his need. We didn't move apart to undress, just groped and gasped while first his shirt came off, then my sweater and lacy black bra. They were my hands groping at his zipper.
My
hands pulling down his jeans.

He tugged up my skirt and peeled down my tights and underwear till they sagged at my knees. His hips toggled my legs apart. At the last second, I thought the word
condom
, but interrupting things in that moment would have been so typically me in all my awkward glory. He hovered over me, his attention focused on steering himself to the right place. He pushed. I gasped. And then the dog barked.

And didn't stop. Po'Boy's deep woofs vibrated the walls. Joey kept going. I bit my lip and gripped the edges of the bed. It didn't hurt exactly, but I couldn't concentrate on anything except Po'Boy. The barking turned to howling, and that's when Joey pulled out.

“Shit,” he gasped. “Stupid fucking dog.”

Was he finished? I didn't think he'd finished. “We forgot a condom” was all I could think to say.

“Yeah.” He was still breathing hard.

My skirt was bunched up at the waist. I pulled it down. “I think he's lonely.”

Joey's jaw tightened. He dropped his chin to his chest and looked down at himself. “Maybe you can quiet him down. He doesn't like me.”

I found my sweater and pulled it on. Stripped off my tights and underwear but left my skirt on. “Be right back,” I said.

Po'Boy almost knocked me over making his escape. That's when I caught myself in the mirror. Used up, like a dirty dishrag. I wet my fingers and rubbed at the black smears under my eyes. I left the bathroom door open so Po'Boy could get a drink if he got thirsty.

When I got back to the bedroom, Joey was digging in the front pocket of his jeans, completely naked. He looked better in my fantasies, but this was real life. Life wasn't perfect. Then I felt something wet trickle down my thigh. Blood?

Joey held up a little foil package in the shape of a square. “Your condom.”

Would he be grossed out if he saw me bleeding? “Can I turn off the light?”

“Go ahead.”

I flipped the switch. “Where are you?” I whispered.

He didn't answer, but I followed the rustle of the condom wrapper and groped my way toward him.

• • •

When it was over, he lay on top of me for a few seconds, his face buried in my neck. My hip joints hurt from his weight pressing on me. It felt good when he rolled away, but I wanted him to stay. I wanted to hold his hand. I wanted it to feel special.

We lay side by side. His chest moved up and down as he caught his breath. He reached down, past his stomach. I heard a wet, squelching noise. I was glad for the darkness.

He sat up, slid his feet to the floor. “Be back in a minute.”

When he opened the door, a shaft of light showed me the flattened spill of my breasts. I covered myself with the blanket, felt the tacky wetness between my legs. Would I ruin the moment if I got up to clean myself?

He was gone for a long time. I heard water running. When he came back, he stood in the doorway with a towel around his waist. I pulled the blanket to my chest.

“You look tired,” he said. “I'll take you home.”

I curled the blanket around my fists and glanced at the clock beside the bed.
10:09.
I'd officially turned eighteen an hour ago. Should I tell him that?

His phone rang from the pocket of his jeans. He pulled it out, answered it.

“Hey . . . Yeah, I know.” He glanced at the clock. “Okay. No problem.” He hung up.

We looked at each other. He didn't have to say it.

“I'll get dressed,” I said.

He was already pulling on his jeans.

I picked up my scattered clothes, headed to the bathroom. I heard Po'Boy scrambling around on the other side of the door and realized Joey must have penned him up again. The dog whined when I came in, stuck his nose between my legs.

I pushed him away. “Bad dog.”

He looked at me, wagging his tail.

I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and propped one leg on the toilet to clean myself. Disgusting. The heavy pee odor turned my stomach, and the dog wouldn't leave me alone. He tried to lick my hands while I wiped up blood, and when I shoved him away, he whimpered but came right back and tried to sniff me.

“Stop!” I hissed, but he didn't listen. He whined and panted and nosed for my crotch. Finally, I rapped him on the nose—once, twice—hard enough that he cringed and backed away.

The next day at school, I was hiding out in the girls' restroom to eat lunch when my cell phone rang. Joey had said he'd call, but it wasn't Joey. It was Dad's lawyer calling me back. I'd left another message for her that morning.

“Hello?”

“Tera, it's Charlotte Gross.”

I held my breath, my hand tightening around the phone.

“I got your messages,” she said. “They can't find you in the system because your dad hasn't put you on the approved visitors' list.”

“But why not? He knows when my birthday is. He knows when I'm allowed to visit him.”

“I don't know. You'll have to talk to him.”

“But I can't, not until he puts me on the list. Tell him, please.”

“I will.”

This didn't make sense. Why didn't he want to talk to me? I gave up Paris for him, and now he didn't want to talk to me?

“I had another reason for calling,” she said. “We've had time to examine the evidence. Can you come to my office this afternoon?”

“Um, sure.” She was making me nervous. “Is something wrong?”

“I can fit you in today at two-thirty.”

I'd have to skip Art, but maybe I could get Mr. Stewart's permission. “Okay,” I said. I noticed how she hadn't answered my question.

“I'll see you then.” She hung up.

I threw away the rest of my lunch and went to find Mr. Stewart. If he saw how worried I was—if I explained how important it was that I see the lawyer—he'd excuse me so I wouldn't get in trouble for skipping again.

I almost ran into Mr. Stewart coming out of the faculty lounge, right on the heels of Principal Meyer. Mr. Stewart kept walking even though I knew he saw me. I started to go after him, but Principal Meyer blocked my path. He smiled and looked down at me.

“Hello, Tera.”

I murmured a hello. Since when did the principal stop to chat?

“How are you holding up?” He cleared his throat. “What I mean is, how are you doing?”

“Fine.” I glanced behind him. Mr. Stewart was getting lost in the crowd of students.

“Are you sure? You seem distracted.”

“Sorry. I just really need to talk to Mr. Stewart.”

He frowned and looked behind him to where Mr. Stewart was disappearing down the hallway. “Mordecai!” he called.

Hearing his name, Mr. Stewart stopped in his tracks.

Principal Meyer's chuckle sounded forced. “Let's make sure he doesn't get away.”

I followed the principal to where Mr. Stewart had backed himself against the wall. He kept his head down, didn't look at me, almost like he didn't want to be seen with me. Maybe Principal Meyer yelled at him for playing favorites.

Principal Meyer smoothed his tie. “This young lady needs to talk to you.”

“Of course,” he murmured.

“But stop by my office later,” Principal Meyer told him. “We'll finish our conversation.”

Mr. Stewart watched him go. “What is it, Tera?”

Was he mad at me for something? Is that why he wouldn't look at me? I was the one who should've been mad at him, for refusing to help bail out my dad, for calling my drawings
trite.

I shifted my backpack to the other shoulder. “My dad's lawyer wants me to come by this afternoon.”

“And?”

“So I have to miss class.”

Kids brushed past me. Someone bumped me.

“Is your mom excusing this absence?”

“Well, no. I haven't told her I'm seeing the lawyer.”

“Then I still have to mark you absent.”

“But then I'll get detention.” I couldn't deal with that right now. I had enough to deal with.

“I can't play favorites, Tera.” He looked at his watch. “I have to go.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said as he walked away. “Sorry to keep you.”

• • •

I caught the bus to the lawyer's office, so nervous that I felt sick. Charlotte Gross had said she'd examined the evidence. I wanted so badly to hear good news.

She was ready to see me as soon as I got there. She wore a gray pantsuit and white blouse with lots of ruffles. A thick gold bracelet dangled from her wrist.

“Tera.” Her handshake was firm. “So nice to see you again.”

“You, too.”

“Please have a seat.”

I perched on the edge of a cushy chair in front of her desk and clenched my hands in front of me. The tighter I clenched, the easier it was to breathe.

“So how have you been?” she asked.

“Fine.” I swallowed. Enough with the chitchat.

“I spoke with your father about the allegations, and he gave me permission to speak to you.”

“Okay.” That was a good sign. He had nothing to hide.

“Let's start at the beginning,” she said. “Your father is being charged with possession of child pornography, which has a minimum sentence of five years for each count.”

I nodded. This was nothing new.

“You mentioned to me in our previous meeting that you thought a sketch they found was drawn by you.”

“To practice,” I said.

“To practice.” She nodded. “But the fact remains that the drawing was in your father's possession. Remember, he's not being accused of drawing it; he's being accused of possessing it. Do you understand the difference?”

“Yes, but the drawing was in the trash—not really in his possession.”

“It was in his office.”

“But—”

“There's good news here. The prosecution has to prove to a jury that a sketch is obscene. Otherwise, it's protected under the First Amendment.” Her voice softened. “I saw what you drew, Tera, and it's my strong belief that a jury will fail to find it obscene.”

I tried to make sense of her words. My drawing wasn't the problem. But something else was?

“I don't believe the prosecution will try to prove it's pornographic because any reasonable jury would find that it does
not
portray sexual conduct in a patently offensive way.”

“Okay.” That sounded like good news, but somehow it wasn't. “What—”

“Let me finish. I just want to stress that none of this is your fault. You understand that, right?”