The Anatomical Shape of a Heart (29 page)

Dad and his new wife, Suzi.

“Hello, Katherine,” he said in his VP voice.

“Lars,” my mom said in her
I want to rip your throat out
overly polite voice.

And before I could filter it, “What the hell are you doing here?” came out of my mouth.

“Your mother invited me.”

Oh. Wait—huh?

Why?

What was going on here? Just the week before, she was biting my head off and crying over the fact that I'd gone behind her back to meet up with Dad. Now, after a three-year Dad-free zone, she was inviting him to things?

“This is Suzi,” he said to us, like she wasn't the woman who'd broken up my parents' marriage. Then again, maybe she didn't. What did I know anymore? Relationships were complicated.

“It's nice to meet you—formally, this time,” Suzi told me. “It was hard to hear over all that screaming your father was doing.”

She smiled at me—like, a real smile. She was teasing. No way. I really didn't want to like her.

“Ah, yes,” Dad said uncomfortably, then quickly changed the subject. “We saw your painting, Beatrix. It's very interesting.”

Interesting.
Yeah, that about summed it up. “Where is it? We just got here.”

“Follow us,” he said, and they began making their way through the crowd like we weren't all sworn enemies.

Mom and I sneaked glances at each other. My eyes said,
Ten dollars her boobs are fake
, and Mom's said,
Not as fake as his smile—why did I marry that jerk, again?
She squeezed my hand and everything was suddenly okay. Good, even.

Until we got to my painting.

If the room was crowded, the area around my painting was packed. I spotted the top of it, with all its bold colors, and my stomach knotted. Maybe this was the worst idea I'd had in a long time. Being grounded and forced into a celibate, Jack-free existence after our single night of spectacular sex had surely rotted a hole in my brain. And speaking of my spectacularly sexy boyfriend, his dark pompadour bobbed above the fringes of the crowd. He spotted me and smiled so big it threw cool water over my roiling emotions.

In a long-sleeve black shirt, he looked handsome and dressed up, but still very, very Jack. He cut around people and came straight to me, while Mom beckoned Noah and Heath, trying to catch them before Heath spotted Dad—which was a good thing, because all I needed was another public blow-out involving my father, if Heath's reaction was similar to (or worse than) mine had been.

But I couldn't worry about that. I just concentrated on Jack. As he approached, his gaze fell to the anatomical heart pendant at my throat, and a blissfully pleased look settled on his face.

“You look beautiful,” he said, dropping a speedy kiss on my cheek. But before I could answer, he quickly murmured in my ear, “I need to tell you something.”

About his mom being there, I assumed. So I whispered back, “I already know.”

“How?”

Before I could answer, the crowd opened up to allow someone important to walk through. Jack's mom, looking stylish in a pink dress, and …

Her husband.

Jack whispered in my ear, “So sorry. He wasn't supposed to be here. Mom talked him into coming. That's what I was trying to tell you.”

This was a total disaster. Why had I done this painting? I could have just made do with what I had of my final Minnie drawing instead of ripping her up in a tantrum. Or I could've re-created her. But no. I chose
now
to do something out of my wheelhouse, something weird and creative and emotional, which
wasn't me at all
. I was all about structure and control. I was black-and-white. Grayscale. This was—

This was not.

And it was too late to take it all back.

Holding my breath, I watched the crowd part like the Red Sea, and Moses himself suddenly stood a few feet away from me. He and Jack's mom were flanked by security and led by several people in suits, who had to be either the organizers or judges.

And when the mayor took his hands out of the pockets of his perfectly pressed slacks and crossed his arms, readying himself to look at my painting, I saw the
exact moment
recognition came. It struck him like a slap to the face. His head jerked back. Body went rigid. Mouth fell open. He worked to move his jaw, but no sound came out. A muscle around his eye jumped.

The span between two heartbeats seemed to stretch infinitely. I glanced up at my painting and saw what the mayor was seeing:

Jillian's round face was painted in quick strokes. I'd copied her hair from old photos, dark and bobbed and swooping over her forehead. Her big eyes were open, and she was smiling shyly. I'd tried to re-create the shape of her shoulders—the painting stopped at her waist—and I'd painted her wearing a T-shirt from her favorite band.

Minnie's dissected arm and half-chest were superimposed over Jillian. But instead of looking like the dead flesh I'd originally drawn, I'd painted it to look like the dissections were doors opening to reveal her muscles and organs—like the back of a clock removed to show the cogs and wheels.

On Jillian's arm, where the penciled dissection cutaway replaced her scars, I gave the veins and arteries life, painting them in rich red and vibrant blue, extending them into the negative space behind her, where they curled and stretched like the whorls of smoke that floated around her head as she sat at the window, posing for me.

And in place of the usual anatomical diagram markers to identify the names of bones and muscles, I substituted words from Jillian's ramblings.

Memories of her childhood cat. Her first boyfriend. Her favorite book.

Names she'd given the demons that occasionally spoke inside her head. Things that stressed her out. Regrets.

Hundreds of words. They filled the space around her, connected by diagram lines and curling veins. They were as precise and neat as I could make them, and lettered with a black paint pen. Jack would've done far better, but I liked that they flowed and curved this way or that.

It wasn't perfect. And apart from my recycled pieces of Minnie, it wasn't anatomically accurate. But it looked like Jillian. I knew it. Jack knew it.

And both Mayor Vincent and his wife knew it.

“What is this?” he murmured to her in a low voice.

“This was done by a senior at Lincoln,” one of the suits offered before Jack's mom could answer. The suit stood next to my painting like a museum guide, holding a flat box beneath a clipboard. Reading whatever was attached to the clipboard, she said, “It's acrylic and pencil on canvas and paper, and it's called ‘Hebe Immortalized,' which I believe is a reference to the Greek goddess of youth.”

“Hebephrenia,” the mayor confirmed in a flat voice. “It's another name for disorganized schizophrenia, because symptoms begin during puberty, when schizophrenics are young.”

A few people in the crowd murmured, impressed with the mayor's seemingly random knowledge about the subject matter.

“Who painted this?” he asked.

“The student's name is Beatrix Adams.”

I felt Jack's big hands tighten around my arms, holding me in place, as if he could read my mind and knew instinct was screaming at me to bolt. But I didn't. I stood still as a solider and watched the mayor turn around. His gaze flew straight to Jack and then dropped until it connected with mine. If he was utterly unreadable the first two times I'd seen him, now his face was a twenty-gallon tank of raw anguish.

I inhaled sharply and suffered his stare, which didn't last long. He swung back around to the painting, as if he couldn't bear to look at me any longer. Behind his back, Jack's mom leaned toward me. Her eye makeup was smudged, and she was blinking a lot. Had she been crying? I couldn't tell whether she was sad or angry, but she put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

That was good, right?

Before I knew for sure, before the mayor could burst into a tirade or strike me down with the roiling emotions that made him ball his hands into fists, the suit curating my painting said, “This entry created the most discussion among the judges, and its unusual subject matter and creative use of dissection earned it the number two spot in tonight's competition.”

Applause erupted around us as the woman pulled a red ribbon from the box beneath her clipboard and stuck it to the bottom of the painting's printed identification label before cheerily directing the mayor and his wife toward the next contest entry of interest.

Second place.

No scholarship money. No boost for my college applications.

I had lost.

31

If I had my way, I would've walked out, but Mom forced me to stay through the ceremony and Mrs. Vincent's speech about the importance of art in school. I stiffened my spine and graciously accepted my prize envelope, which contained museum passes good for a year, and a bunch of vouchers for art supplies.

“Oh, gee,” I said out in the hallway with my support team of Mom, Heath, Noah, and Jack. Dad and Suzi lingered off to the side, talking to someone Dad knew; no one had invited him over. “There's a fifty-dollar gift card for a chain restaurant. ‘Celebrate your big win on us.' That's just peachy.”

Mom took the envelope from me. “I'll keep this for you, or you'll likely burn it in some kind of angry ritual.”

“Wrong child,” I said.

Heath shook his head. “My burning days are over. Mostly.”

“I know it doesn't help,” Jack said. “But even if you'd done what you originally planned, there was no way you were beating Fractal Mitochondria Boy. That was some kind of genius. Plus, you're just a lady painter, so you're probably not serious about college anyway. Leave science to the men, whydontcha?”

I leaned my head against his shoulder. “Have I told you how much I like you?”

“Nurse Katherine is two seconds away from murdering me with her eyes, so maybe you shouldn't. What? Too soon?”

“Smart-ass,” Mom said to him, half-serious, half-teasing. I guess one good thing about losing spectacularly was getting Mom to cool her rage against Jack. “Just because you're charming doesn't change anything. I'm still mad at you for putting my daughter in a situation that could've gotten her arrested.”

“Don't be dramatic, Mom,” Heath said.

Jack sighed. “It's fair. Guilty as charged, but just for the record, I would've taken the fall.”

Mom rolled her eyes, but it was obvious she wasn't really angry. “Your romantic heroism doesn't impress me.”

A crisp voice floated over her shoulder. “That makes two of us.”

Crap. I immediately jerked my head away from Jack as the mayor and his wife joined our group. “David Vincent,” he said, introducing himself to Mom. “And this is my wife, Marlena. She tells me you're a nurse at Parnassus.”

“No need to worry, David,” Mom said, like he was just some guy or a neighbor down the street and not the local celebrity with whom she'd fantasized about having a secret love child. “My coworkers are gossips, so I keep family business at home.”

He nodded at her before turning his mayoral gaze on me.

Great. This was it. The universe had apparently decided it wasn't enough for me to waste my summer pursuing something that amounted to nothing more than a pat on the back and endless refills of soda at a chain restaurant. No, I was going to have to either eat crow and beg for King Vincent's forgiveness or defend my painting and risk making things worse for Jack and me.

Sweat coated my palms. I licked dry lips and looked him right in the eye—which was hard, because he was about the same height as Jack, and about a gazillion times more intimidating.

“Dad—” Jack started, but his father steamrolled over him.

“Miss Adams,” he said to me, “I'd like to buy your painting.”

Huh? Maybe I'd heard that wrong.

“You…”

“The first-place scholarship was ten thousand dollars. I'd like to offer you the same to purchase the painting.”

I didn't know what to say. I think I might've gasped—or maybe that was Mom. I glanced up at Jack to see if he'd put his father up to this, but he was just as flabbergasted.

“Um…” I cleared my throat. “Can I ask why?” Was he so ashamed of Jillian that he'd do anything to make sure no one ever laid eyes on the painting again?

He inhaled deeply and took his time answering, head down, brows knit, hands in pockets, as if it were a struggle to come up with the right words. Almost laughable, really. The man who'd given a hundred and one speeches in front of TV cameras and stadiums filled with people was now tongue-tied?

When he finally lifted his head, his face was calmer. Something unguarded and honest softened his eyes. “Because,” he said softly as he looked at Jack, “it made me realize I don't see my daughter as much as I should.”

Oh …

I scratched the side of my neck. “I don't know what to say.”

“Say yes, and I'll write you a check for it right now.”

He was totally serious. I looked at him, and then at his wife, who was definitely brushing back tears (and trying to smile at the same time). Next to her, Mom crossed her arms and gave me a cautionary look. I imagined that the penny-scraping side of her, who wanted me to walk away with something to help my future, was at war with the proud side of her, who'd refused child support from Dad. Standing behind her, my brother had fewer moral hiccups; Heath was mouthing Say yes and waving me in as if I were a plane descending toward a runway and there was a pot of gold at the end.

Then I glanced at Jack, and he was just looking at me the way he always did. like I was the only person in the room who mattered. Like he trusted me to make the right choice on my own and would stand behind any decision I made.

So I made one.

“I'll give you the painting for free if you promise not to send Jack away to Massachusetts,
and
if all of you agree to let Jack and me see each other.”