A Work of Art (4 page)

I covered the canvas again when I heard Haley and her mom leaving their house. I looked across the street. Mrs. Sweeney was digging in her purse, but Haley waved to me and smiled. Like we were still best friends. Like she hadn't told me back in fifth grade to get away from her and stop following her around.

Haley left her mom to wait by their Audi and hurried over to me, her long hair billowing. I looked up the street, hoping to see the bus rounding the corner. No such luck. I braced myself.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her eyes wide with fake concern. “I saw the police here yesterday.”

“I'm fine.”

“Well, what happened? With your dad?”

I knew she'd ask. I knew what to say. “It was a mistake.” I shrugged. “He's coming home this afternoon.”

“A mistake? You mean, they arrested the wrong person?”

“I don't know.” Still no bus in sight. “I'll find out more today.”

“But what'd they arrest him for?”

The sun rose above the rooftops. I had to squint to see her. “Drugs,” I said.

“Your dad's a druggie?”

“I didn't say that. I said it was a mistake.”

She pursed her lips together. A prissy smile. “I guess it could have been worse.”

What did she mean by that? Did she know what they were accusing him of?

“Haley!” Mrs. Sweeney called. “Time to go!”

“Just a minute! I'm talking!”

I smiled at Mrs. Sweeney. To let her know how everything was fine and normal at the Waters household. She didn't smile back.

Haley smoothed her hair from her forehead. “If you ever want to talk . . .”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know where you live.”

“Seriously, Tera.”

“Yeah, okay.” As if I'd really open up to her, after the way she ended our friendship.

“Haley, come on!” Her mom again. “You're making me late!”

Haley rolled her eyes. “I have to go. Good luck with your dad.”

I hugged my painting to my chest and watched her jog across the street to her mom. Mrs. Sweeney looked pissed. She said something I couldn't hear.

But Haley's voice was loud. “I'm not bothering her,” she said. “I'm allowed to talk to her. And you're always nagging me for . . .” The roar of the bus engine drowned out the rest of her words. Her hands sliced the air as she talked.

Haley was still complaining when her mom passed her the car keys. Didn't she know how good she had it?

• • •

I loved the art room. I loved the smell of paint and turpentine and paper. I felt at home there, where every surface of every wall was covered in student art.

Mr. Stewart didn't have a class until second period, so I knew he'd be alone that morning. He stopped rummaging in his supply cabinet when he heard me come in.

“Hey, Tera.” He studied my face. Cautious. “What's on your mind?”

“You left yesterday without taking anything for the magazine.” I held up my painting. “So I brought you
Gray Day.
It was all I could carry on the bus.”

“Oh.” He took a long time closing the supply cabinet door. “About that.”

“You don't like it?”

“You know I do. It's one of my favorites. It's just . . .” He took the painting and propped it against the wall. “I don't know if the article will see print.”

I'd been looking forward to that article for months. When they interviewed me, I felt like a real artist, someone with a future. Disappointment stabbed me in the gut. “Why not?” I asked.

“Well, because . . .” He frowned.

“Because of what happened with my dad? The whole thing was a mistake.”

“That may be, but it's about perceptions. I doubt the editor would take the risk.”

“But that's not fair!”

“It might be that she'll postpone the article, just until this thing with your dad gets cleared up.”

“But did you talk to her? The editor? How would she even know?”

He scratched his neck. “I thought it best she know all the facts about what she's getting into.”

I tasted anger. Like biting down on foil. “The facts? There are no facts. My dad didn't do anything.”

“I just . . . The editor's my friend, Tera. I can't let her publish something that might hurt her magazine.”

“But that's stupid! It's not going to hurt her magazine!”

“Well, you're probably right, but it's her decision. If, like you say, it gets cleared up, we can call her.
I'll
call her. Tell her it was a mistake. Then I'm sure she'll go ahead with the article.”

I lowered my head and clenched my teeth, trying to bite back anger. I couldn't be angry. I still needed his help.

“Does that sound fair, Tera?”

I nodded, swallowed, lifted my chin. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Okay.” Again that caution.

“You asked me yesterday if I needed anything.”

He nodded.

“And I need you to go to a bail bondsman. For my dad. You have to be eighteen or I'd do it myself. But I have money to pay his fee—all the money for my apartment in France. And then, once this is cleared up, it'll be like nothing happened. No trouble to you except going to the bail bondsman.”

Already, he was shaking his head. “Tera, I'm sorry. You know I can't do that.”

“But it's really easy. I'll give you the money. The woman on the phone said—”

“Not because of the money, or because it's too difficult. I can't get involved in this. It's not . . .” His eyes searched the room like he was looking for the right word. “Appropriate.”

Something came between us then, sliding down and rattling shut. We weren't friends. We weren't mentor and favorite student. We weren't anything.

Heat pulsed from my cheeks. “I shouldn't have asked.”

“I'm glad you trust me enough to—”

“I have to go. I'll be late.”

He didn't try to stop me.

• • •

I spent most school lunch periods holed up in the girls' restroom on the second floor. I liked the quiet, the emptiness. I liked how no one could see me eating alone.

That day after my dad's arrest, the bathroom seemed colder, lonelier. I flipped open my phone and punched in the number for the jail. If Mr. Stewart wouldn't go to the bail bondsman, I'd have to find someone else.

I gave the woman on the phone my dad's booking number. “He was supposed to see the judge this morning.” My voice echoed in the stillness of the bathroom. “I need to find out how much his bond is.”

“Give me one minute.”

I waited. This was a different woman from yesterday. This woman already sounded impatient.

“Okay, here it is. He was arraigned this morning.” Computer keys clacked. “No bond.”

A chill crawled up my arms. “What did you say?”

“Timothy H. Waters. It says right here, bond was denied.”

“So I can't bail him out? That can't be right. Why would the judge do that?”

“Lots of reasons. He could be a flight risk. He could be a threat to civilians. But I don't know. If I knew, I'd have a bigger paycheck.”

“But . . .” I tried to focus through a spreading haze. “I don't even know where he is, how to talk to him.”

Her voice softened. “As of this morning, he's been moved to county. To the Samuel L. Mast facility. Here's the address.”

I wrote it down. As long as I wrote, I didn't have to think.

“And here's the website.” She rattled it off. “You can check it for visiting hours.”

Easier said than done, since the police had my laptop. “What about a lawyer?” I asked. “Won't he get a lawyer?”

“The court appointed him counsel. You want the name? The counsel probably won't talk to you.”

“Why wouldn't he talk to me?” But she didn't answer, just gave me the lawyer's name and number. She told me to have a nice day and hung up, and I leaned against the wall and stared at what I'd written.

For a few seconds, I couldn't move, couldn't think. Then the lawyer's number came into focus and I remembered Mom saying something about letting Dad's lawyer handle it. The lawyer would know what to do. I dialed the number, but an automated system kicked me over to his voice mail.

“You've reached Chase Hardy. Leave a brief message and a number where you can be reached.”

“Um.” I stumbled over my words. I should have planned what to say. “My name's Tera Waters. I'm the daughter of Timothy Waters. Who I guess you're helping? It's really important that you call me back because I think I know why he got arrested. I'm pretty sure it's my fault, so if you could call me back and tell me what's going on, I'd really appreciate it. I think I can help him.” And then I left my number.

The bell rang. Lunch was over.

At the locker beside mine, Ian Walker cursed and pulled on his combination lock. It didn't open.

“It's fifteen, twenty-five, three,” I reminded him. Our lockers had been beside each other's since freshman year, and he was always forgetting his combination.

“Thanks.”

I felt his eyes on me as I dialed my own combination. I glanced over. Did he know?

He tried to smile, but it came out looking sad. “There's something you should see,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Someone posted about you on the school forum. I don't even know who did it.”

At first, I let myself hope that it had nothing to do with my dad. Maybe Mr. Stewart had made some announcement about my scholarship to the Paris Art Institute. I'd beat out hundreds of other applicants, so it was a pretty big deal.

But that had happened months ago. He wouldn't be posting about it now. This had to be about Dad.

“Can you show me?” I asked, already dreading what I'd see.

Ian pulled up the forum on his phone and scrolled down to a posting from RubyQueen15. “I don't know who this is,” he said.

I didn't either. I could guess.

The post was short and sweet.

Everyone should know about this in case someone was planning on studying at Tera Waters's house.

And she was helpful enough to add a link:
BUSTED.com/illinois/decatur/timothy-h-waters
.

The post already had a few comments.

Sad. My heart goes out to Tera.

Stay strong girl.

So scary!!!

Whoever posted this should get a life. Who's monitoring this forum!?

Ian pointed to the last comment. “That one's from me.”

I swallowed. “And the link?” I didn't want to see it, but I knew I had to.

Ian touched the screen. A man's face appeared. He looked like a typical thug. Blank stare. Expressionless mouth. Hair sticking up like razor wire. A mug shot of my dad.

And a caption to go with it.

3:27
P.M
. March 12—Arrested: Timothy Henry Waters, 47, of Parker Lane, Decatur, Illinois. Charges: possession of child pornography.

Child pornography.
Right there, for everyone to see.

Humiliation crawled up my back, clamped over my throat. I covered my face with my hands.

“It's okay,” Ian said. “I'll make sure it gets taken down.”

But it was too late. Now the link was out there. My own personal car wreck for everyone to rubberneck.

I felt naked, on display. All the kids in school would think I let my dad do things to me. They'd feel sorry for me. Tweet about me. Wonder what was wrong with me.

Ian kept talking, but nothing made sense. Some distant part of me heard shoes squeaking, lockers banging, shouting and talking and laughing. All of it so normal. All of it a strange fog I had to walk through to get to my next class.

“No giggling, Tera.” Her dad frowned from across the kitchen table. “If I see you giggling, it tells me you're not serious about this.”

Tera clamped a hand over her mouth and tore her eyes away from the book. The book made her nervous, and she always giggled when she was nervous.

“It tells me you're not ready, that you're not old enough.” He leaned back in his chair. “Is your mother right?”

She shook her head. Her ponytail whipped her shoulder. “I'm old enough.”

“Then look at it. Tell me what you see.”

“I see . . .” She felt a giggle coming, but she swallowed hard and it went away. “A book. I see an art book.”

“Is that it?” He sounded disappointed.

“I see a book called
Drawing Nudes.
”

“I didn't ask you to read the title.” He pushed his chair back from the table like he was fed up. “I asked you, what do you see?”

“I see . . .” She squinted and pulled the book closer, knowing she had to give him the right answer so she'd be worth his time. It was one of those giant books with thick pages. It had a glossy cover, and on the cover was . . .

A naked woman, not covering herself at all. The woman's breasts made Tera want to cross her legs like she had to pee. She knew she was being stupid and immature. A real artist wouldn't feel weird like this. A real artist would see lines and curves and shades.

“I see beauty,” she said.

Her dad snorted. “You're nine years old and you think the sight of a naked woman is beautiful? Not gross? Not intriguing? What the hell planet are you from?”

“But . . .” Sudden tears welled up behind her eyes. She'd told him what he wanted to hear, what a real artist would say.

“Listen, Tera, I'm not trying to trick you. I just want you to be honest and tell me what you see.”

She swallowed hard to make the tears go away. “It makes me embarrassed,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Now we're getting somewhere.”