A Work of Art (7 page)

“How old were you when you did the drawing?”

“Nine, I think.”

“And how old are you now?”

“Seventeen. Almost eighteen.”

She nodded, wrote something on her pad. “And you were nine years old in the photo?”

“Yes.” I waited for her to finish writing. “Can you help him?
Will
you help him?”

She leaned back in her chair. “You understand that nothing is a sure thing.”

“I understand.”

“But I'm sure we can resolve this so it makes sense. Whatever tack I take, I want you to feel confident that your dad is making a good decision.”

“Okay.”

She tapped her pen against her chin. “Do you want to talk money now?”

“Yes.” My stomach tightened. What if I didn't have enough?

“This is a felony charge. You understand that, right?”

I nodded.

“In this type of case, my retainer would be eighteen thousand dollars. If the case goes to trial, that amount would increase significantly.”

I actually breathed a sigh of relief. I had enough. I'd even have two thousand dollars left over to start up my Paris fund again.

“Okay,” I said. “I can do that.”

“You need to be sure, Tera. If your father changes his mind—if
you
change your mind—the money is still spent.”

I'd already made my decision. I was Dad's only hope, and I had to do this. “I understand,” I said. I pulled out my checkbook.

“Your dad has to agree. He has to sign the papers.”

“I know.”

She handed me a pen, one of those fancy designer ones, heavy in my hand. “I won't cash your check until we have your father's signature.”

I'd written only one other check in my life—for the application fee to the Paris Art Institute—and it wasn't anywhere near eighteen thousand dollars. I remembered how I felt when I wrote that check. Excited and hopeful. I knew I should feel hopeful writing this check, too. I was saving my dad. But to do it, I was giving up the thing that had kept me going for so long. The one thing I looked forward to when I woke up in the morning.

My hand started to shake as I wrote the amount, so I tried to pretend I was painting. The fancy pen seemed to call for big, flowery letters, and when I got to the last part, the part where I signed my name, I used fast, flourished strokes, like I was signing my name to a work of art.

I thought my dad would like that.

Tera huddled on the couch, her hands pressed to her ears. It didn't help. She could still hear them fighting in their bedroom.

“What were you thinking?” Her mom's voice. Shrieky. “She's only nine years old!”

They were fighting about her. Mostly her mom did all the yelling, but her dad had a way of saying things that dug in deep and hurt for a long time.

“. . . mature for her age,” he was saying. “. . . more talent than . . .”

Tera uncovered her ears and sat very still. He sounded proud of her. She moved off the couch and crept her way up the hallway, stopping outside their bedroom. Shadows flashed beneath the door.

“. . . can't believe you think this is okay.” Her mom's voice, still loud. “What else are you teaching her?”

Her dad laughed. “You should see yourself, Connie. I can't believe you're getting this worked up over a nude model.”

“She's too young! There's something wrong with you if you don't see that.”

“If you were an artist, or bothered to know anything about what your daughter is interested in, you'd know it's not a big deal.”

“It
is
a big deal. You're turning her into your little disciple. And she won't listen to me because you tell her I'm crazy.”

He laughed again. “I don't have to tell her that.”

“Fuck you, Tim!”

Tera flinched as the door flew open and her mom barreled out of the room. Her mom almost walked into her before she looked down.

Disgust, plain on her face. She had a book under her arm. The
Drawing Nudes
book. She must have found it under Tera's bed. Almost, it felt good to not have the secret anymore. Some secrets were fun, but this one didn't feel right.

“It's just the human form, Connie.” Her dad called. He was lounging on the bed. “You're turning it into something dirty, and it's not.”

“Then why was she hiding it?” She shoved the book at Tera's face. “If it's just a book, why were you hiding it?”

Tera swallowed. “Dad said—”

Her dad interrupted. “Because she knew you'd act like a lunatic if you saw it.”

“Did he tell you to hide it?”

Dad wouldn't want her to tell the truth, but she always got caught when she lied. Instead of answering, she stared at her mom's feet. The
Drawing Nudes
book had a whole section on drawing feet. Maybe she should tell her mom that.

“He did, didn't he? He told you to hide it.”

Tera looked up. Her mom held the book, her fingertips touching the woman's breasts. Tera dropped her eyes to the floor, embarrassed.

“You can't look at it, can you? Well, now you don't have to.” And then she tore off the dust cover and ripped it into pieces. The pieces scattered at Tera's feet.

Her dad watched the whole thing from the bed, shaking his head and laughing. “Unbelievable,” he said.

Tera imagined she was a turtle pulling herself into her shell. She put her head down, scrunched in her arms and legs.

But her mom wouldn't let her hide. “Do you understand how wrong this is?” She grabbed her arm and yanked her up. “Do you?”

Tera's teeth rattled as her mom shook her. She tried to talk, but she didn't know the right answer.

“Leave her alone, Connie.” Her dad's voice. Quiet and calm. “You're the one turning this into something.”

Tera snuck a look at her mom's face. Her eyes were closed, her forehead wrinkled, like she was thinking really hard. She gave Tera's arm a shake, and Tera almost cried out because her mom's fingernails were so sharp. Then her mom let go and stomped away.

She rubbed the red marks on her arm. Her dad came up beside her. “You okay?”

She looked at the ripped paper scattered at her feet and thought of Humpty Dumpty.
All the king's horses and all the king's men . . .

“I'm okay,” she said.

Her dad put his hand on her chin and lifted her face. Checking for tears, maybe.

Tera made herself smile, glad her eyes weren't wet. Nothing to give her away. Dad didn't like it when she acted sad.

As soon as I walked in the door to Papa Geppetto's Pizzeria, the yeasty odor of rising dough brought back all the bad memories of working there. How the smell stayed trapped in my hair and skin. How I'd scurry around trying to make everyone happy and still have customers yell at me because I wasn't fast enough.

I stood by the counter and looked around. The restaurant was empty. No customers. No employees that I could see. The lunch rush had ended, but the dining room was still a mess. Straw wrappers and spilled Parmesan all over the green carpet. Tables stacked with dirty dishes. Dressing and sesame seeds splattering the salad bar.

Footsteps echoed behind me in the stillness. I turned to see a guy coming around the corner from the kitchen, a guy about my age, with tousled sun-brown hair and dark lashes. He had a lazy, confident walk. He looked like the type who could date any girl he wanted.

Which meant he'd want nothing to do with me.

He stopped when he saw me, like I was some kind of surprise. Slowly, his eyes scanned my body, a cat's tongue on my skin. My neck tingled.

“Is it just you?” he asked.

For a second, I didn't know what he meant. “No,” I said. “I mean, yes. It's just me. But I didn't come here for a table. I'm looking for a job.”

He had beautiful eyes. Hazel, flecked with green and yellow. I read his nametag.
Joey.
“So you need an application?” he asked.

“No, that's okay.” I was glad I had a reason to stand there. Otherwise, I might have turned and run. “Is Mr. Barnes still manager?” I asked.

His smile reminded me of a fox. “You mean Dick?”

“Um, I think he goes by Richard.”

Joey leaned across the counter, close enough for me to smell the mint on his breath. “I think he likes Dick better.”

I blinked and drew back. Was that a slam at Mr. Barnes for being gay? “Maybe I'll just call him Mr. Barnes,” I said.

“Probably smart.” Joey studied me. “So you know him?”

“I used to work here.”

“Then you know he's a cool guy.”

“Yeah, I know.” I scratched my arm. So, not gay bashing?

“Don't move,” he said. “I'll go get him.”

I made a point of
not
following him with my eyes. Guys like him expected girls like me to watch them. Instead I grabbed a take-out menu off the counter and stared at it. A minute passed. Then I heard voices from the back room, drawing nearer.

“I didn't get her name,” Joey was saying. “You want me to tell you what she looks like?”

“Never mind, Joey. I'll see her in a second.”

Joey grinned at me as he came around the corner. Again, his eyes moved over me, slower this time. I stood there like a statue in a museum. Part of me wanted to cross my arms over my chest. Another part wanted to straighten my spine.

Mr. Barnes held his arms out. “Tera Waters! I thought maybe it was you.”

“Hi, Mr. Barnes.” I glanced at Joey. Still staring. “You said I could come back anytime I needed a job?”

“I did say that.” Mr. Barnes made a shooing motion to Joey. “Go finish the dough. And then do something about that salad bar.”

Joey pushed himself off the counter. A lazy ripple. “Yes, Mr. Barnes. Sir.” His eyes caught mine. I glanced away.

“I can start whenever you need me,” I said.

“How about this week? One of my waitresses quit.”

“Yeah, sure.” I watched Joey disappear around the corner. “I'm still in school, but I can do the dinner shift.”

“Perfect. Let me go get the paperwork.”

So I had a job. I'd either use the money to keep paying the lawyer, or I'd put it in the bank so I could go to France next year.

Mr. Barnes came back with the tax forms, and I sat in one of the booths to fill them out. I could hear Joey singing an old Beatles song in the back room. “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” His voice was good. Maybe he was in a band. I could picture him playing guitar.

Mr. Barnes returned after a few minutes. “If you're finished, you can come back to my office and I'll put you on the schedule.”

I grabbed my purse and followed him past the prep table to his tiny office at the end of the corridor. No Joey in sight.

Mr. Barnes took the schedule off the wall and laid it on his desk. He picked up a pencil. “What days
can't
you work?”

I scanned the schedule for Joey's name. He worked the evening shift on Monday and Tuesday. “I'm free all week,” I said. “Any evening you need me.”

“Let's see. Sadie's working on Monday. She can retrain you. How about Monday, Thursday, and Saturday?”

So only one day with Joey. “Okay.”

Somewhere down the hall, Joey was singing again. I watched for him as I made my way back to the front. I didn't see him, but I told myself it didn't matter. He'd never go for someone like me. No one ever went for me. Dad said it was because I intimidated them. Dad said a lot of things.

Dad.
And suddenly it hit me again, the ugly truth spreading like a mushroom cloud.
My dad is in jail.

A head rush clouded my vision, made me hang on to the door. Probably at that moment Dad was sitting on a lumpy cot staring at steel bars, thinking how alone he was, how everyone in his life had ditched him. And here I was getting distracted by some guy who I imagined was flirting with me, who probably forgot about me the second I left his sight. Guilt weighed on my shoulders.

I'm trying, Dad.

I was halfway out the door when Joey's voice called me.

“Hey, Tera! Wait!”

I froze, turned. Joey sauntered toward me. He had something under his arm. My purse. I
never
forgot my purse.

He stopped and held it out. My hand closed around it, but he didn't let go. Our fingertips touched. Our eyes locked. And something stirred inside me. Something physical and deep.

“Thanks,” I heard myself say.

He let go. I could have taken a step back, but I didn't. “You should be more careful,” he said.

I groped for something to say, but all my words got snagged in a swirl of emotions. Only one thing to do. I lowered my eyes, clutched my purse, and started walking.

“See you Monday,” he called.

I turned. He waved. I think I waved back.

I don't remember crossing the parking lot or walking down the sidewalk. I don't remember the clouds or the rain or the puddles. Only when I was under the shelter of the bus stop did I realize I was soaking wet and that Joey knew what day I was working. I wasn't sure if that meant anything, but as I rode the bus home, I caught myself
not
thinking about Dad again. This time I had to work harder to make myself feel guilty.

• • •

Mom sat on the couch like a lump of dirty laundry. She wore the same faded t-shirt and torn sweatpants she'd slept in.
Dr. Phil
blasted on the television.

“Where were you?” she asked. “You've been gone all day.”

I almost lied to her, but what was the point? She'd find out eventually. I took a seat on the edge of the couch. “I got a job.”