A Work of Art (9 page)

“Oh, honey, is that what you think?” Ellen gave a wide-eyed blink. “I told Haley she was wrong, but maybe he
does
have you brainwashed.”

“I'm not brainwashed,” I snapped. “You have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Probably true,” Justine mumbled.

Ellen ignored her friend, her eyes still on me. “Haley told me what happened.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “When you were kids.”

A chill prickled my scalp. What kind of lies was Haley spreading?

“She said you drew her naked. She said your dad
wanted
you to draw her that way.”

Tears burned behind my eyes. “That's not true.”

“Come on, Ellen.” Justine tugged on her friend's arm. “Leave her alone.”

Ellen let Justine pull her to the door. “If you change your mind,” she called back, “call my dad's office. You want the number?”

I didn't bother answering.

• • •

The bathroom door closed behind them, shutting out the noise of the hallway. All those kids rushing to class. All those normal lives. I was about to join them, to resume trying to fit in, when my phone vibrated in my purse. I thought I recognized the number. My dad's new lawyer. I could only hope it was good news.

I flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Tera? Charlotte Gross here.” She sounded breathless, in a hurry. “I set up a meeting with your father. For Wednesday.”

Two days from now. I closed my eyes for a second, relief flooding over me. Dad would sign the papers, and she could start working on getting him out. “Thank you so much.”

“Don't thank me yet.” A rush of wind. She was probably in her car. “We have a long road ahead of us.”

“I know. It's just . . .” I didn't know why I felt so grateful. I was paying her to do this. “Thanks for keeping me in the loop.”

“Of course.”

“So have you figured out why the police arrested him? What they have as evidence?” I knew they had the drawing, but Chase Hardy never confirmed whether or not they had a matching photo. I got rid of the print, but the digital copy might still exist. Why else would they have taken his computer?

“Like I said, I only just set up a meeting. He has to sign the fee agreement, and then I'll be on the case.”

The bell rang, but I ignored it. “I wanted to ask you,” I said. “Do you know what I have to do to visit him? I turn eighteen next week. Can I just show up at the jail?”

“If he wants you to visit, he puts your name on a list,” she said. “They won't let you in if you're not on the list.”

Dad might be so humiliated that he wouldn't want me to see him. “Can you tell him to put me on the list?” I asked. “I don't have any way to reach him.”

“I'll tell him Wednesday when I see him. But you should call the jail before you visit, just to make sure.”

“And you'll call me after you meet with him on Wednesday?”

“If he wants me to communicate with you, I will. Remember, I'll be working for him.”

Of course he'd want her to keep me in the loop, especially after what I did for him.

I heard honking in the background. A distant siren. I wanted to keep her on the line—she was my only connection to Dad—but I couldn't think of anything else to ask.

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

She hung up, but I kept the phone to my ear. Just for a second, so my only connection to Dad stayed with me a little longer.

• • •

The next few hours went by without anyone mentioning my dad, but I had a feeling that was about to change. I got to World History right before the bell rang so Haley wouldn't have a chance to corner me. Haley was already seated at the desk in front of mine. She watched me come in but didn't say anything.

I spent the entire class staring at the back of her head, waiting for the moment when she'd turn around and try to talk to me. But she didn't look back at all. Maybe she'd gotten in trouble for posting about me on the school forum. Maybe she was under strict orders not to talk to me.

Art was next, my last period of the day. All through high school, Art had always been my favorite class. But now I couldn't look at Mr. Stewart without feeling embarrassed by what he'd seen go on at my house.

He spent most of the class lecturing about three-point perspective, and I spent most of the class looking at my watch. Finally, the bell rang. Finally, I could go home and get ready for work. I grabbed my backpack and headed for the door.

“Tera, hang back a minute,” Mr. Stewart called.

I swallowed a sigh. I could think of only two reasons why Mr. Stewart would want to talk to me after class. Either he wanted to talk about my dad or he wanted to talk about the art institute. Neither was a subject I wanted to touch. Mr. Stewart didn't care enough to help me bail out my dad, so he probably didn't care whether I went to Paris in the fall either.

Other kids jostled me as I made my way toward his desk. He waited until we were alone before speaking.

“So your mom called me last night.” He took off his glasses and pinched the red marks on his nose. “She said you paid for a lawyer.”

I shook my head, confused. Mom called him? Somehow I hadn't thought she was capable of such a simple thing. And why would she do that? Was she hoping he'd yell at me for being stupid? Or maybe she told him so he could talk me out of it. That didn't make sense, though. Last night she'd acted so cold, like she didn't care what I did.

“I was going to tell you,” I said.

“I knew you'd get around to it.”

I stared at the paperweight on his desk. The Eiffel Tower encased in glass. “I have to help my dad.”

“And now you can't go to France—this year, at least.”

I shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal. If I acted like I didn't care, maybe I could fool myself into believing it. Mr. Stewart was an artist, though. He studied faces. And my face was shredded.

“Okay then.” He heaved a breath, blew it out. “After your mom called, I did some digging on the Internet and found this.” He pulled a paper from his drawer and turned it toward me.

Attention High School Students! Win $10,000 to Put Toward Your Higher Education in Art

Hope flickered, but I tamped it down quickly. Whatever he was showing me was too good to be true. “A scholarship?” I asked.

“More like a contest. It's a cash prize for art students. The money can go toward tuition, room and board, whatever you want. I think you have a good chance of winning.”

“It's not enough,” I said, not willing, yet, to get my hopes up. “Ten thousand dollars isn't enough.”

“No, but your mom said you're working. Maybe when all this stuff with your dad is over. Maybe then you can start saving. By the spring semester, if you win this contest . . .”

“I could have enough.” His excitement started to rub off on me. My scholarship was still good for the spring semester, even without a deferral. If I won this contest, I'd only end up missing one semester.

“France is still waiting.” He swept the room with his arm. “The landscapes, the culture, the amazing professors . . .”

Could it be true? Could I help my dad and still go to the art institute next spring? My eyes scanned the printout. The topic for the contest was “rain,” however the artist wanted to interpret that. Any style except digital art was fair game. Contestants could upload up to three pieces to the contest website. The deadline was three weeks away.

Mr. Stewart slid the paper across his desk to me.

“Thank you.” I folded it and tucked it into my purse. It felt good, knowing it was there. “You didn't have to do this.”

“I wanted to.” His smile was tiny and sad, but encouraging, too.

I smiled back. Maybe this would all work out. Maybe it was okay to hope.

I shook water from my umbrella and sank into the seat behind the city bus driver. Rain pelted the tinted windows, slid down the glass in sheets. I didn't mind, though. Rain was the topic for the contest. And Mr. Stewart had once told me that rain inspired deep emotions. I looked out the window and thought about what to paint.

My mind sketched a girl on a bus, staring at her reflection in the rain-streaked window.

A man sitting in a prison yard while rain pelted his face.

The bus took a corner. I grabbed the metal pole to keep myself steady. The girl in the window held on, too, while the bus sprayed sheets of water over the sidewalk. The grating hiss of air brakes reminded me of Mom's voice.

A girl and her mother sitting on opposite ends of the couch while a storm raged outside the window.

A child standing in the rain, trying to keep her sketchbook from getting soaked.

The bus lurched. I squinted through the foggy window to see where we were. Papa Geppetto's was around the next corner. Suddenly I was nervous about my first day on the job. Would I mess up? Would I fit in? Mostly I was nervous about Joey.

A girl's face hidden in a storm cloud.

A gorgeous guy stepping into the rain to hand a girl her purse.

I pulled the cord for my stop, my stomach doing flip-flops. The rain was slowing, but I still needed my umbrella. Wet pavement, the spray of rain in my face, soaking puddles, and running footsteps. Papa Geppetto's was just across the street, but it felt like a mile. The wind caught the door when I pushed it open, blowing me inside like the swirling leaves at my feet.

Crap. And I wanted to look good for Joey.

The humid smell of yeast buried me like it always did. I made myself breathe it in, swallow it. In a few minutes I wouldn't notice it anymore.

Only one waitress was working the floor. A tall girl around my age. She slid a plate of spaghetti in front of a scrawny little boy whose parents didn't look up from their phones.

The kid stared at the plate like he wanted to throw up on it. “Meatballs are gross.”

“Sorry,” said the waitress. “It comes like that. I can take them off.”

“I want a new plate,” the kid said.

“Sure thing.” She smiled without showing her teeth, rolled her eyes as soon as she turned away. Then she saw me. The smile came back. “I'll be right with you.”

“That's okay,” I said. “I'm looking for Mr. Barnes.”

“You're the new girl?”

I nodded.

“He's in his office. You can go back there if you want.”

“Thanks.” I followed her behind the counter. She stopped at the big garbage pail and plucked the kid's meatballs off with her fingers. “Want one?”

“No thanks.” Her nametag said
Sadie
. This was the girl who was training me. Suddenly I didn't feel nervous anymore. At least about the job.

Joey. That was another story.

My gut told me Joey couldn't possibly be interested in me, but my brain didn't want to listen. Joey knew nothing about me. For all he knew, I was a cheerleader with tons of friends. So why
couldn't
he like me? I kept replaying the few minutes I'd spent with him—how his eyes scanned my body, how his fingers lingered on my hand when he gave me back my purse, how he knew I'd be working tonight . . . He'd been flirting, definitely flirting.

I looked for him on my way to Mr. Barnes's office, trying to remember when his shift started. I thought the schedule said four o'clock. So where was he? Did he call in sick?

I heard him before I saw him. Heard him singing. Then the walk-in door swung open and there he was, right in my path. Everything inside me froze up—my heart, my gut. All the words I'd thought to say.

“Tera, right?”

I tried to move my mouth, managed to blink instead.

“I met you,” he said. “You remember?”

Oh yes, I definitely remembered.

“You look lost.”

“A Little Girl Lost.” Wasn't that a William Blake poem where a girl meets up with a boy behind her father's back? Blake's art showed a wind-blown tree with branches like tendrils. The father's reaching fingers?

“I'm . . .” I made myself breathe. “Looking for Mr. Barnes.”

“He's in his office.”

“Okay, thanks.” He eyeballed me as I moved past. I should have brushed my hair before I came in. I should have painted my lips with gloss.

Mr. Barnes looked up from his tiny desk when I poked my head in his office. “Hey, Tera. Good to see you.”

“You, too. I forgot to ask for a uniform.”

“They're in the dry storage room. You remember where that is? Go ahead and change and then I'll introduce you to Sadie.”

I found my size and went to the restroom to change. Gray uniform pants, pink blouse, and a black apron. Not the most flattering outfit, but it could have been worse. At least my hair was dry, and the rain gave it some pretty waves. I stuffed my wet clothes into my backpack and glanced at my watch. Ten more minutes until my shift started. I thought about what my dad was doing right then. Did he eat in a cafeteria with other prisoners? Did they bring his food on a tray and slide it into his cell?

No sign of Joey when I came out of the bathroom. Mr. Barnes waved to me from the cash register. “Put your stuff in one of the lockers.”

I took the lock and key he handed me and made my way to the back room. Joey was at the prep table, making a pizza. He didn't say anything, but again, I felt his eyes following me. Did he like what he saw? Would he still like me if I opened my mouth?

I passed him again on my way back to Mr. Barnes.

“So wait a minute,” Joey said.

I stopped.

The ladle he held dripped sauce on the floor. “Is your name
Teera
, like you're crying tears? Or
Teara
, like . . .” He grinned. “Like a tear in the fabric of the universe?”

“It's
Terra,”
I said. “Like the earth.”

“Got it.” He turned back around.

I kept walking, replaying the conversation. Should I have explained more? With the last name
Waters
, my mom thought it would be cool to name me for the land. Only she mutated the spelling so no one knew how to pronounce it. Her gift to me.