A Work of Art (22 page)

Sadie came up behind me. “Good to look at,” she said. “Not so good to touch.”

I smiled, distracted.

She popped a piece of ice in her mouth. “He does have a nice ass, though.”

“Too bad his personality doesn't match.”

“He looks pissed,” Sadie said. “I'd stay away.”

Not pissed. Scared. I studied him from behind the server station. He had his phone in an iron grip and was staring at the screen with a slack-jawed expression. Like how my dad had looked when the cop handed him the search warrant. Huh.

My shift ended at five o'clock. I was in the break room, getting my stuff out of my locker, when Sadie's voice drifted from the hallway. “What the hell, Joey? I told you no.”

A second later, she burst into the break room. She pulled a cigarette from her apron and lit it with one angry flick of her lighter.

“What happened?” I asked.

She sucked in smoke before answering. “The prick's trying to borrow money from me. Like I have extra money to throw away on his drug problem.”

“Joey?”

“Who else?” Smoke gusted out of her mouth. “Shoot me in the face if I ever again try to give you guy advice.”

I thought about Joey taking something off the table and putting it in his pocket. That was Sadie's table. If Joey was stealing tips, I should tell someone. But what if it was a book of matches? Or a lighter? It could have been anything.

“How were your tips today?” I asked. “I got stiffed a few times.”

She shrugged, crushed out her cigarette. “Okay, I guess. I have to get back. You taking the bus home?”

“Yeah.”

“If you want to wait, I'll give you a ride.”

“That's okay.” I didn't want to be around Joey any longer than necessary. “Thanks, anyway.”

As I walked down the hallway, I caught Joey watching me. He scowled. My first instinct was to look away, but I made myself hold his gaze.

“What are you looking at?” he sneered.

“Nothing much,” I said. “Have a good day.”

• • •

When I got home from work, Mom was on the couch—not lying down, but sitting. Without the TV on. She had a gardening magazine in her lap. Was she actually reading? The magazine looked brand new.

“How was work?” she asked.

“Fine.”

She closed her magazine. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

I wanted to tell someone, but there was no way I was going to share with her what happened between Joey and me. “No,” I said. “I'm just tired.”

“You want me to fix you something to eat?”

“I ate at work.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. I knew she was trying.

“But thanks anyway,” I said.

The phone rang from the end table by the couch. Both of us jumped. Mom stared at the caller ID, but I was too far away to see it.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“No one.”

It rang a few more times and then stopped.

“Was it the lawyer?” I asked.

She shook her head. “A bill collector. Nothing you have to worry about.”

Of course I didn't believe her.

Then it rang again. This time I picked it up. “Hello?”

A woman's automated voice came on. “This is Liberty Bell. You have a collect call from . . .” A pause, and then my dad saying his own name: “Tim Waters.”

The sound of his voice made me panic. I almost dropped the phone before I hung up.

“Is it him?” Mom asked.

Then it started ringing again. Mom and I stared at each other. She didn't know I'd gone to visit him. She didn't know I wanted nothing to do with him. After the second ring, she reached for the phone. “Give me it,” she said. “He can't keep calling here.”

It rang again. She reached for the phone, but I moved away from her. I was the one who had to tell him not to call. I held the phone to my ear, pushed the Answer button. “Hello?”

The same automated message: “This is Liberty Bell. You have a collect call from . . .”

“Dad,” said the voice.

“If you would like to accept this call, press zero now.”

I pressed zero.

The line crackled. My dad cleared his throat. “Tera, it's me. Don't hang up.”

I held my breath.

“I . . . I want you to know I'm sorry for . . . for what I said.”

I stayed silent, waiting.

“I never meant to hurt you. You know that.”

For years, I'd told myself that same thing. Because he'd stopped doing it. He'd stopped after I cried and kicked. So I made myself believe what he wanted me to believe: That he didn't know any better. That he had never meant to hurt me.

But he
did
know better. And he didn't care if he hurt me. As long as he got what he wanted.

“I don't want to talk to you,” I said. “Don't call me again.”

“But I ca—”

My thumb stabbed the Off button.

Mom stared into my face, her hand covering her mouth. “You know he's guilty, don't you?”

I nodded.

“His lawyer told you?”

I put down the phone before answering. “She told me they found photos on his computer. She said he could have downloaded them by accident. And then I went to see him, and he . . .” I rubbed my arms. “He didn't deny anything.”

“Good.” She let out her breath. “Then maybe he won't fight it.”

But he
was
fighting it. I had paid for a lawyer so he could do just that.

“You should have told me what you found,” I said.

“I told you I found something on his computer. I didn't know how else to say it. I didn't want you mixed up in it.”

“But I
am
mixed up in it.”

She pressed her knuckles to her chin. “I always told myself he'd leave you alone because he loves you so much.”

“You knew what he was?” I squinted at her, my voice cracking. “How long did you know?”

“I swear to you. I only found the pictures on his computer a few days before the police came.”

“And you didn't think anything was going on before that?”

“I didn't have proof. He was careful. And whenever I confronted him, he made it sound like
I
was the one being unreasonable.”

I clenched my teeth. Yes, he was good at that.

“I kept going back and forth,” she said. “Was I the crazy one, or was he? And you always stood up for him, so I figured he hadn't done anything to you. You were like hallowed ground to him. He always protected you.”

I couldn't believe what she was telling me. “Mom.” I waited for her to look me in the eye.
“You
should have protected me.”

She slumped. Her hands covered her face.

Maybe I should have felt sorry for her, but she'd been such a shitty mother. It felt good to see her cry.

It felt good for only a second.

I put my arm around her shaking shoulders. “It's okay,” I whispered, even though it wasn't. I kept saying it, though, and she kept nodding her head. Like if we agreed everything was okay—if we said it over and over—we'd make it come true.

“Dad! Look at this!”

She had her phone out, ready to show him. A comment on Facebook from an art professor in California. He had called her a prodigy.

She slipped, almost stumbled down the stairs. Her new phone—a gift for her thirteenth birthday—slipped out of her hand. It bounced down the basement stairs. Breathing hard, she held the railing with one hand and picked her way down. Her phone lay in pieces at the bottom of the stairs. She'd had it for less than two months. Dad said if she lost or broke it, not to bother asking for a new one.

“Tera, is that you?”

“Yeah, it's me.” She scooped up the pieces of her phone and shoved them in her pocket. Maybe she could fix it before he found out.

“Hold on a second,” he called. “I'll be right out.”

She heard him moving around in the little room at the back of his studio. His archive room. He didn't like her going in there, so she wandered over to his desk. On top was a pile of pen-and-ink drawings that looked like all his other stuff: lizard people and dog people and heroes with big muscles. Then something else caught her eye. She pulled it from the stack and stared.

It was her—a comic-book version of her as a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old. A big bald man with clenched fists came at her from the opposite side of the page. In the first panel, she glared at him with narrowed eyes. And in the next, she aimed a karate kick at the bad guy's face. The thought bubble floating near the man's head said,
Shit . . . I got more than I bargained for.

“What are you doing?”

She jumped. She hadn't heard his footsteps. “Nothing.”

“Snooping?” Her dad plucked the drawing from her hand.

“Just seeing what you're working on.”

“And what do you think?”

She shrugged. “It's cool.”

“But?”

“I don't know karate.”

He rolled his eyes. “It's not supposed to be real life.”

“You're making me into a comic book?” she asked.

“It's a graphic novel, not a comic book . . . And no. Sorry to disappoint you. No one would buy a graphic novel about a little girl beating up bad guys.”

“Oh.”

“So what'd you want to show me?” he asked.

She could still tell him about the art professor's comment on Facebook without showing him on her phone. But being called a prodigy didn't seem as exciting as it had a few minutes ago. Now she was thinking of something she'd been trying to forget for a long time. The problem was, she couldn't forget it till she knew for sure it was gone.

So it was best just to ask, while they were kind of on the topic.

“You don't have that photo of me anymore. Do you?”

He sucked air through his nose, the sound he made when she was getting on his nerves. “What do you think?”

She shrugged.

“You got rid of it yourself,” he said.

“But it was on your computer.”

He squinted at her. “What makes you say that?”

“It had to be on your computer if you made a print of it.”

“God, Tera. That was so long ago. I only did it to help you get better. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“So why dredge it up? Is it because of this?” He held up the drawing of her doing the karate kick. “I can't draw my own daughter?”

“You can draw me.”

“Then why are you acting like this? Jesus Christ, you always—”

“But don't draw me like that.”

He blinked like she'd flicked him in the face. “Like what? You don't like being a hero?”

“It's not that.”

“You have something against karate? It's not karate, by the way. It's tae kwon do.”

She hesitated, not sure what it was about the drawing that made her nervous. He'd never sketched her before as far as she knew, so why was she freaking out now?

“Don't turn into your mother, Tera. I have high hopes for you.”

And then it came to her. She knew why she wanted to tear the drawing into little pieces.

“Did you hear what I said?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then tell me what I said.”

“You said, ‘Don't turn into your mother.'”

“Glad to see you're listening. Now go back upstairs. I need to get some work done.”

But she needed him to understand, and it seemed important enough to risk making him mad. “And did you hear what
I
said?” she asked.

“No, I must've missed that.” He looked amused. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Don't draw me like that.' Draw me the age I am now, but not like that.”

His face changed, his smile blowing away like a balloon with a rip in it. “And what do you find that's so wrong with it?”

“I don't like it,” she told him. “I don't like being a little girl.”

Monday in Art class, Mr. Stewart had us working with clay. He encouraged us to get to know the clay by squeezing it, pinching it, tearing it apart. Most kids were making cups or bowls, but I wanted to get Mr. Stewart's attention, so instead of a bowl, I decided to sculpt a dog.

Mr. Stewart walked the aisles between our tables, smiling and encouraging, giving pointers. But when he got to me, he didn't stop. I was supposed to be his favorite student, and he didn't stop.

The clay was cool to the touch, pliable and soft. Just like me in my dad's hands. Dad had said it perfectly. He was the sculptor, and I was the clay. All those years he spent mixing and shaping and chipping away at me. Until finally I turned out exactly how he wanted. His little sheep. His loyal dog. His blind follower. No wonder he got pissed when I gave up the art institute to help him. I was his lifetime achievement, his sickening work of art.

I shaped the clay to form the dog's legs, my hands like clumsy paddles. Mr. Stewart reached the end of the aisle and turned back. His eyes fell on me, darted away. One of my dog's legs broke off and plopped to my desk. This was pointless. I closed my hand around my clay dog and squeezed it in my fist until the sculpture became a shapeless mass.
Tabula rasa.

That's what I wanted to be. A blank slate.

After class, I stayed sitting at my desk. Mr. Stewart had his nose buried in his grade book, pretending not to notice me. When the room emptied out, I scraped my chair against the floor.

He glanced up from his papers, his glasses slipping down his nose. “You need something, Tera?”