“
This is an excellent way to train your eye to look for large shapes. Try not to get caught up in details, just draw your impressions,” Mr. Miller described, moving his hand in the air to demonstrate.
I missed the first several poses as I was busy getting my paper on the easel and my charcoal pencils ready. My mind was preoccupied as I rehearsed the conversation I would need to have with Mr. Miller at the end of class. I worried that he would suggest I go to the school on Monday when a custodian could let me in; that would make it impossible for Conner to sneak in and get the file. I had to convince Mr. Miller that I needed the portfolio tonight, a difficult sell since I’d been without the dang thing for nearly two months.
Conner looked over at my agitated expression, and gestured with his head toward the paper. I inhaled deeply to center myself, and looked up at the model, really seeing her for the first time. She was obese, and I’m not saying that to be catty or mean, I think obese would be the clinical term. Her body was covered in roll after roll of pale white flesh. Her pendulous breasts hung down like two heavy sacks on either side of her enormous stomach. Her vagina disappeared beneath a flap of flesh below her belly button and between her two punching bag shaped thighs. What took me by surprise was not her mass, but how lightly she moved under it all. She was graceful, like a dancer, almost as if she was moving under water.
I began to sketch furiously, trying to keep in mind what Mr. Miller had said about big shapes;
big
being the operative word. I could hardly get through drawing a quarter of her figure before she changed effortlessly into another pose. After fifteen minutes or so of these rapid poses, Mr. Miller instructed the model to sit for a longer pose.
“
Now class, I want you to keep the idea of large shapes in mind. Keep your pencils moving on the paper. Avoid becoming attached to any particular part of your drawing. This is an exercise in form, not detail.” The words sounded like white noise in my ears.
Art class had become a time to escape my cluttered mind, to become completely immersed in the task at hand. Unfortunately, that night my mind was drowning in thoughts. Each time Mr. Miller passed my work space, I was filled with anxious jitters as all the gaping holes in my little ill-advised file heist flooded into my head. I took a step back to consider my drawing and found that it looked like I was barely ready for kindergarten; it was practically a stick figure. I scowled when I glanced at Conner’s sketch and found his to be as inspired as ever. Conner had managed to find the beauty in her rolls of flesh. He’d drawn a close up of the area just above her hip, where her waist curved in ever so slightly, giving her the appearance of the pagan goddess instead of my blob of misshapen marshmallow. Damn him and his Zen like concentration.
When class finally ended I swiftly put my drawings away so as not to attract the scorn or pity of my fellow classmates. We then loitered around the classroom waiting for Mr. Miller to be alone. Conner nudged me when Mr. Miller started shutting the blinds.
“
That was a great class,” I said, attempting to sound casual. Mr. Miller stopped what he was doing and looked at us, smiling.
“
I’m glad to hear you say that Chelsea, I thought you seemed a little distracted.” Crap
.
“
Yeah. You know how it is sometimes,” I mumbled, “Hey, Mr. Miller. I was hoping I could ask you a really massive favor.”
He looked at me thoughtfully, “Sure. What is it?”
“
I’ve been thinking about how helpful it would be for me to have my portfolio from Montecito for this class,” I paused, “Is there any way you could let me into your classroom on your way home tonight?”
“
Sure, I need to get a couple things from my room anyway,” he said pulling down the last of the blinds.
“
Really? Thanks so much! You’re a superstar Mr. M,” I said with way too much enthusiasm.
“
My pleasure. You want to just meet me over there in about fifteen minutes?”
“
Yeah. Great!” Conner pulled me out of the room before I started hugging Mr. Miller out of joyous relief.
Conner followed me in his truck over to the school. The plan was for him to park on a side street and walk over to the art room. He was going to hide in the A-4 breezeway until he heard me and Mr. Miller enter the classroom. He would then sneak through the supply closet and into the main office. Conner would find the file and hang out there until he heard us leave. He’d count to a hundred and then slip out of the door. We would meet at my house to go through our contraband.
I sat in my car in the Montecito parking lot waiting for Mr. Miller. I thought about the last time I had been there on the last day of school. Kids had happily streamed out to their cars, exuberant with the promise of three months of freedom. The lot now sat abandoned, dark and lonely, with no sign of life.
How different my life had been the last time I’d crossed the cracking asphalt to my car. I had been overcome with grief at Hannah’s impending departure. I didn’t know how I would survive without her constant presence. I certainly had never imagined it would be like this. That was before I’d ever laid eyes on Levi, my heart still belonged to me. My decisions were not controlled by the overwhelming need to keep Levi from ever leaving me, to never feel the crushing pain of his rejection.
The last time I had laid my eyes on the expansive sprawl of my suburban high school, I hadn’t met Conner either. I hadn’t had a clue that such a caring and compassionate soul could live within the skin of an adolescent boy. I could not have imagined that such a deep friendship was even possible with a person of the opposite sex.
I was certain that if Hannah hadn’t moved away my life would look completely different. I wouldn’t be sitting in my car contemplating doing something that could potentially end in disaster. I wouldn’t be scared out of my mind that my foolish actions may have led to the disappearance,
or worse
, of Toby Fanning. But would I take any of it back, including Hannah’s move, if it meant not knowing Levi? This was the question that was torturing me when Mr. Miller tapped on my window.
We walked to his classroom chatting about the weather. It had been so hot, the drought was a real problem, the reservoirs were low, blah blah blah. Why is it that adults are always talking about the weather like it signifies the end times?
He unlocked his classroom door. I made a unnecessarily loud comment about how clean it looked without students, as a signal to Conner that we were inside. The art portfolios were kept in a large rack against the wall opposite to the supply closet. My heart was beating like a rabbit’s foot scratching a flop ear, as I fumbled through my fellow classmate’s work. Thankfully, Mr. Miller was immersed in something at his desk, his back to the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Conner dashing, soundlessly through the room and to the open closet. I breathed a silent sigh of relief.
“
How do you know Conner?” Mr. Miller asked. My heart jumped to my throat, I’m sure I almost chomped on an artery. Did he see him?
“
We met at a party,” I stammered, too nervous to look up.
“
He seems like a really cool person,” he observed casually. I relaxed a bit; he had just been making conversation.
“
Yes. He’s very
cool
,” I replied, mimicking Mr. Miller’s attempt at teenage vernacular.
“
Are you guys going steady?” he asked uncomfortably.
“
Oh come on Mr. M, you can’t be old enough to have really used that expression?
Going
steady
?” I exclaimed. Mr. Miller couldn’t be much older than my sister.
“
True,” he laughed, “It just seemed like the adult way to ask the question.”
I laughed at him for a moment, “Well you sound like an ancient relic. But no, we’re not together. Totally Platonic-ville.” I finally pulled out my portfolio and sat down on a table to wait for Mr. Miller to finish at his desk.
“
How come he’s only a friend?” he asked seriously.
“
Well for starters I’m seeing some else,” I answered indifferently.
“
Anyone I know?”
“
Are teachers aloud to be this nosey?” I joked, “His name is Levi Bennett. He goes to St. Jacobs.”
“
Is he one of the seven sons?”
“
The seventh. How’d you know?”
“
I went to St. Jacobs with the third son, Steven Bennett. Strange family.”
“
So I’ve heard. Were you friends with Steven?” I asked curiously.
He thought about it for a while, “We hung out, but I can’t say we were friends in the traditional sense.” Mr. Miller looked lost in thought for a moment, “Anyway, I hope his little brother is different, I wouldn’t want to think you were mixed up in anything dangerous,” he grabbed a couple papers off his desk, “Ready?”
We didn’t say anything as we walked out to the parking lot. I thanked Mr. Miller profusely for helping me get my portfolio, and got into my car, feeling thankful to be done with the deception. Mr. Miller waved good-bye with an expression of unease on his face, which I knew was directly related to my connection to the Bennett family. I could have asked for an explanation, but I was beyond curiosity about what made Levi Bennett dangerous, I already I had a pretty good idea. Or at least I thought I did.
I drove to my house, nearly running two stop signs as I checked my rearview mirror for Conner’s truck. I knew I wouldn’t be able to totally relax until both Conner and I were safely locked away in my room.
He arrived about five minutes after I did.
A huge smile stretched across his face as he bounded up the stairs toward me.
“
I had no idea what a rush a life of crime could produce,” he said as a greeting.
“
Well, just promise me you won’t make a habit of it,” I said snatching the file from his hand.
We went to my room and I locked the door, just to be safe. I opened the file and a card fell out on to the floor. As I picked it up eleven images of Toby stared up at me. Each school photo, starting in kindergarten and moving straight through to tenth grade was represented on the card. I looked at each carefully, remembering the photos from a similar, if larger, display in his parent’s hallway. My stomach sank as I looked at the two empty squares intended for his junior and senior years. Would they ever be filled?
Conner thumbed through the report cards, and personal information documents that bulged from the file. He finally stopped and held a sheet of triplicate paper out to me, “Looks like this is the most recent form with information about his father. It’d an emergency contact list from the eighth grade.”
“
That makes sense because Toby’s mom married his step dad the summer after eighth grade, so maybe they were on better terms when she had to fill this out before school started,” I reasoned.
According to the card, Toby’s father’s name was Raymond Higgins. He had an address at an apartment in San Diego. I studied the number as Conner passed me my cell phone.
“
Do you think it’s too late to call?” I asked, partially because it was after ten, but mostly because I was afraid to have my worst fears confirmed.
“
It’s Friday night, I’m sure it’s fine,” Conner reassured me, “Plus won’t you sleep better if you know Toby’s alright?” But how will I ever sleep again if he’s not? I thought morosely.
I dialed the number and listened breathlessly as the phone rang, one, two, three, four times. An answering machine picked up: “Hi, this is Ray. Leave a message,”
beep
.
“
Hi,” I said into the phone, “My name is Chelsea Mallory. I’m a friend of Toby’s. It’s really important that I talk to him. Can you have him call me? Or if you could just let me know he’s with you,” I quickly recited my number, “Thanks,” I hung up and flopped back on to my bed.
I turned on the TV and began flipping the channels aimlessly, while Conner looked through my art portfolio. It says a lot about how much I trusted Conner that I would let him look at the soulless work that I had produced last year.
My mind was spinning with worries. I had stopped my channel surfing on an infomercial about a dog brush that removes buckets full of fur. I didn’t care what I was watching; I was too consumed by the inevitability that I would have to go to the police with the tale of the masked men. So it didn’t even register in my cloudy brain when Conner flipped off the television.
“
Hey Chels,” he said, looking at me seriously, “I heard Mr. Miller ask you about us tonight.”
I crinkled my eyebrows at him, not sure what he was talking about.
“
He asked if we were…”
“
Going steady,” I quoted in my best Mr. Miller voice, “Yeah, that was funny.”
“
What do you think it would be like between us if Levi wasn’t in your life?” he asked, his eyes carefully measuring my expression.
I didn’t say anything for a long time. Of course I had thought about this question on many occasions. I loved Conner and I knew that he would make a perfect boyfriend, and to top it off I thought he was very cute, and not only in that boy-next-door kind of way, more, way more. But even with that awareness, it was Levi that I yearned for with every fiber of my being. Levi, whose eyes, when affixed upon me in just the right way, made me feel more alive than I had ever experienced in my sixteen years. He was all I wanted or could imagine wanting. How could I tell Conner this without hurting his feelings, or worse, poisoning our friendship?