Contessa (11 page)

“
He
’
s really nice, too,
”
I tell him.

“
You
’
ve mentioned that, and I should hope so. I don
’
t want your first date to be with a jerk.
”

“
So I can go with him?
”

“
Well, what did you have in mind, Liv? Did you talk about what you wanted to do?
”

“
No,
”
I tell him.
“
I
’
d just found out he wanted to go out with me five minutes before we got home. We weren
’
t entirely sure you
’
d say yes.
”

“
Well, he wanted to take you to some place in Greenwich Village. Some inordinately fancy restaurant, actually.
”

“
Really? Where?
”

“
I said no, Liv.
”

“
What?
”
I ask him, glaring at him.

“
Eyes on the road, Tessa. Watch the traffic.
”

Frustrated, I turn my attention back to the road.
“
Why can
’
t I go out with him?
”
I glance briefly at him, waiting for an answer.
“
I
’
m gonna be sixteen, Dad. That was the rule. You can
’
t go back on that.
”
I look at him again, and he
’
s got this smug smile on his face.
“
This isn
’
t funny!
”

“
Livvy, calm down.
”
He squeezes my shoulder and I shrug away from his hand.
“
Watch it, Livvy. I
’
m not going to spend the day fighting with you. We can go back home now.
”

“
I
’
m driving now. We
’
re not going home.
”

“
Liv–
”

“
It
’
s not fair, Dad!
”

“
Livvy, will you just listen to me for a minute? Keep your eyes on the road. And breathe, okay? It
’
s not good to be so agitated.
”

“
Well then why are you pissing me off?
”

“
Language, Livvy.
”

“
Sorry, but–
”

“
Livvy!
”
His voice is stern, and I bite down on my lip to stop myself from saying more.
“
Are you going to listen to me now?
”

“
Yes,
”
I mutter.

“
Watch your speed.
”

“
I am.
”
I let off the gas pedal a little.

“
I don
’
t have a problem with you going out with him, Tessa. I
’
m just not going to let him take you there for your first date, that
’
s all.
”

“
Really?
”
I ask him meekly.
“
Well, what did you decide?
”

“
He
’
s going to have dinner with us the Saturday before your birthday so your mom and I can get to know him a little better. And then, after you turn sixteen, maybe I
’
ll feel a little more comfortable letting you out of my sight with him.
”

I clap excitedly.

“
Hands on the wheel, Livvy,
”
he reminds me.

“
Sorry, Dad.
”
I grip the steering wheel at ten and two, like Mom reminded me to.
“
And thank you.
”

“
You
’
re welcome. Maybe you two could watch a movie or something downstairs after dinner.
”

“
That sounds okay.
”

“
Good. And you
’
re right, Livvy, he does seem like a pretty good kid.
”

“
I think he is.
”

“
I trust your judgment. Now take this exit,
”
he tells me.

“
This isn
’
t the way to Grandma and Grandpa
’
s.
”

“
I know, we
’
re going to make a stop first. We
’
ll meet your grandparents for dinner.
”

He directs me to the art museum Mom had told me about, and I act surprised like I promised her I would. The studio is amazing. He stays a step or two behind me as we look at all the different works of art on display. He asks me what I like about the paintings, or what I don
’
t like, and attempts to follow my pattern of thinking. I can tell he
’
s really trying, and for the first time in awhile, I start to drop the barrier I
’
d had up just a tad.

We go into an adjoining section, a brighter, dome-shaped room that has large paintings of all shapes and sizes carefully strung with thick wires from the rafters. On a pedestal beneath each canvas is a card with information about the piece of art and the artist. I quickly realize we
’
re in the New York artist exhibit, and I
’
m amazed at the array of styles that the people of one city–
my
city–can create. It inspires me, and makes me remember the conversation I had with my mother about finding my aesthetic.

Again, my dad pays attention to the pieces I linger at longer, and he asks what stands out to me. I
’
m mesmerized with one particular abstract piece, and when I look at the placard beneath it, I know why.

“
The artist,
”
I answer my dad
’
s question.
“
That
’
s what stands out.
”

“
Someone you know of?
”
he asks, looking down to read over my shoulder.
“
Wow.
”
He takes a few steps back to take in the large painting.
“
Nate
’
s, huh?
”

“
It
’
s amazing, isn
’
t it?
”

“
You know, I
’
ve never really understood the abstract thing. Like, tell me what you like about this one.
”
Of course he wouldn
’
t understand the texture of the brush strokes, the strong movements he would have had to take to create such emotions in this particular painting... and then the tiny nuances of tones that add a subtle depth that I
’
d never seen captured by another artist. Combine that with his use of scale and perfect choices of color, and it was the most masterful thing I
’
d ever seen.

“
It
’
s just really good,
”
I tell him.
“
I mean, even to your untrained eye, you should be able to see the conflict in this,
”
I tell him with an air of superiority.

“
Do you think it
’
s pretty?
”
he asks me, wanting me to explain in more detail.

“
No, it
’
s not
pretty
, Dad. It
’
s complicated and... I don
’
t know, hostile? Primal? It
’
s angry. He was mad. That
’
s what he was trying to convey. I mean, does it
look
pretty to you?
”

“
No,
”
he tells me simply.
“
That was my question. Shouldn
’
t art be attractive?
”

“
Absolutely not, Dad,
”
I tell him.

“
Explain that to me,
”
he says, not letting my patronizing attitude affect him.

“
Art should make a statement. It should pull you in and make you feel something that the artist felt.
”

“
Is that why you
’
re mad at me right now?
”
I
’
m caught off-guard by his question, but consider it.

“
I
’
m not mad, Dad,
”
I tell him.
“
It just frustrates me that you can
’
t see that, you know? Everything has to be beautiful to you. Anything less isn
’
t art to you, and I don
’
t know. I don
’
t relate to that.
”

“
But Livvy, everything you
’
ve done is beautiful. Your art is beautiful.
”

“
You always say that,
”
I tell him.
“
What if I painted this?
”

He stands back again and analyzes Nate
’
s painting.
“
You know, Tessa, I bet I would find it to be beautiful, because I know it came from somewhere deep inside of you. That
’
s what I love about what you do.
”

“
That
’
s biased, then. That
’
s not objective.
”

“
I don
’
t care if you think I
’
m biased, honey. I admire the talent you have, and it makes me so proud to know that you can speak to people through art. You
’
re
right;
I don
’
t understand art like you do or like your mother does, or like Nate obviously did. But I understand the confidence and courage it takes to put your heart out there, and I
’
m in awe of what you do, Livvy. But that
’
s as objective as I can be where you
’
re involved. If you just painted a big puddle of black ink, I
’
m sure I
’
d look at it differently than if Nate here had painted it.
”
He gestures flippantly at the spectacular piece of art in between us. His motion offends me, but I continue to listen.
“
I
’
d be worried about you, and I
’
d wonder what I could do to help you, but I would be so proud that my daughter was brave enough to
bare
her soul to the world in such a way. And to me, that
’
s beautiful. That
’
s what beauty is to me. It
’
s seeing you become this significant person not just in my world, but in
the
world.
”

I consider what he
’
s just said to me, and actually am moved by it, but I
’
m not really sure how to respond. I give a faint smile and move on to the next painting, turning my back to him. I hear him walk out of the cavernous room, leaving me to my thoughts.

Looking around the room slowly, none of the other pieces speaks to me like Nate
’
s does. I go back to it and study it closer, committing to memory some of the techniques he used.

Dad comes back in the room as another family enters. He stands behind me, delivering to me a small gift shop bag, then puts one hand on my back. I open the bag to find postcards of all the paintings that I
’
d told him I liked–except for Nate
’
s. I
’
m impressed that he took note of the ones I found most compelling, but am irritated at his obvious omission.