A Work of Art (10 page)

He didn't need to know all that, though. He didn't care.

Did he?

• • •

It all came back to me. Taking orders. Typing them into the computer. Remembering refills on drinks, remembering to bring extra napkins. I shadowed Sadie at first, but an hour into my shift I started taking my own tables. We weren't slammed, but I was busy enough that I didn't think about my dad or mom or how I might still get to go to Paris for the spring semester if I won the art contest. I didn't see much of Joey, either. His job was to make pizzas. Mine was to give everyone exactly what they wanted.

The dinner rush was over by eight o'clock. I knew I hadn't made a lot in tips, but it felt good to stir the five- and one-dollar bills I'd stuffed into my apron pocket. I finished bussing my tables while Sadie filled a plate from the salad bar. We met behind the server station.

“You hungry?” she asked. “We don't usually get a sit-down break, but Mr. Barnes doesn't mind if we grab something. You can have Joey make you a pizza.”

“That's okay.” The last thing I wanted was for Joey to see me stuffing my face.

“I heard my name.” A shivery thrill buzzed up my spine as Joey came up behind me and grabbed a glass from the rack. “She's talking about me, isn't she?”

“You caught me,” Sadie said. “I can't get you out of my head.”

“Because I'm such a stud.” Joey grinned at me as he filled his glass from the beer tap. He poured out the foam and took a sip. “Want some?”

I shook my head, hoping he couldn't see how flushed my cheeks were. Was he even old enough to drink?

“You sure? Mr. Barnes never notices.”

“I'm not crazy about beer,” I mumbled.

“I'm like you,” Sadie said. “Wine is much better.”

Joey took another gulp. “What is it with women and wine?”

“It's called culture, idiot. Women are cultured.”

Joey snorted. “Tera might be cultured. But you, Sadie?” He refilled his glass from the tap. “You're cultured like bacteria.”

Sadie rolled her eyes. “I'm surprised you know what bacteria is.”

“Third-grade science. I'm smarter than I look.”

“Good thing.”

Joey caught me smiling. “You sure you don't want a taste? Loosen you up?”

“No thanks.”

Sadie pointed her fork at Joey. “Why don't you stop guzzling so you can take Tera home. She had to take the bus here.”

“Why can't
you
take her home?”

I turned away to straighten a pile of napkins.

“Liz is picking me up. We're going to Cruisers after this.”

“Can I come?” Joey asked.

“You're not allowed.”

“Right.” Joey laughed. “So do you live close by?”

I glanced up. He was talking to me now. “Not really,” I said. “It's about twenty minutes on the bus.”

His eyes scanned my body, sending a trail of goose bumps up my arms. “Don't worry,” he said. “I can take you home.”

My insides sparked, but I kept my voice lazy. “You're sure you don't mind?”

He cocked a smile over the top of his glass. “I'll even stop drinking this amazingly crappy beer, just to keep you safe.”

“Wow.” I flashed him a smile, the flirty kind, I hoped. “You must really like me.”

• • •

I wanted to paint Joey. Take this memory while it was still good and capture it forever.

Joey didn't know anything about me. With Joey, I was free to be someone else. Not the Tera with no friends. Not the Tera whose dad was in jail. And not the Tera who'd dated Alex Young.

Alex. I still cringed when I thought of him. I was a junior, and he was a senior. We had the same psych class, but I didn't even know his name until he asked me out.

He wasn't cute, not even close. But it felt good to be liked, so I found things to like about him. His long eyelashes. The way his jeans hung low on his waist. His shoes.

He took me to the two-dollar movie in Taylorville. A half-hour drive on the highway so he could save a few bucks. That was fine, I told myself. He kissed me when we got back to the car, pushing his tongue as far into my mouth as it would go. I kissed him back the best I knew how. It didn't feel good, but I kept going. His hands hurt, the way they squeezed my breasts like stress balls. But I let him do that, too, because I wanted him to like me. Then his cold fingers tried to dig under my bra. That's when I pulled away.

“What?” He sat up, breathless. “You don't like that?”

I shook my head. The windows of the car were foggy.

“Don't tell me you're a lesbian.”

That hurt. I'm not sure why, but it did. The way he said it, maybe, like there might be something wrong with me. “No,” I said. “It's just . . .” My voice stopped making words. I didn't have any words. How do you ask a guy to stop and still have him like you?

I was clueless. And of course, he ended up hating me. To anyone who'd listen, I was a boring lesbian who, by the way, was ugly as shit.

Haley was the one who told me all this.

“No one believes it,” she said, cornering me in the restroom. “But I thought you should know.”

Thanks, Haley. Always good to know.

That thing with Alex . . . That was a memory I couldn't paint. It hurt too much.

• • •

Before I knew it, my watch said ten o'clock and Mr. Barnes was locking the door. Mr. Barnes sat at a booth checking off the receipts for the night, while Joey, Sadie, and I tore through our side-work. My job was to roll silverware into napkins and fill the Parmesan and red-pepper shakers.

By ten-thirty, we were finishing up. I looked around for Joey. He was in the back somewhere. Hopefully he hadn't forgotten about taking me home. He seemed like the kind of guy who might forget.

Sadie plunked the mop into its bucket. Her friend was knocking on the other side of the glass door. “My ride's here,” Sadie said. “Would you mind dumping the mop water for me?”

“Yeah, sure.” It would give me an excuse to find Joey.

Sadie waved as she pushed open the door. Her friend took her hand and they headed off. Mr. Barnes locked the door behind them.

“You can go,” Mr. Barnes told me. “Did you have a good night?”

“Pretty good.”

I wheeled the mop bucket down the hallway. Joey stood at one of the stainless-steel counters pumping oil from a plastic jug into pizza pans. He looked up when I came in.

“Hey! It's the woman I gave up drinking for. You ready to go?”

I smiled as I dumped the mop water into the floor drain. “Are you ready to take me?”

“Oh yes.” He winked as he squirted a shot of oil into a pan. The oil splattered onto his hands. He wiped it off on his apron.

“Messy,” I said.

He grinned at me. I smiled back.

So far, so good.

• • •

This was it. Alone in the car with Joey. He drove a red Camaro with torn-up seats. The engine was loud. The ashy smell of stale cigarettes reminded me of Dad's studio. I tried to relax, but my body wouldn't cooperate. I felt like a bad actor—
shy girl tries to be cool.
Maybe he wouldn't notice.

“So where do you live?” Joey shifted into reverse and started backing out.

“Take El Dorado to Main and turn left. Then keep going till you hit Forest Street. I'm almost on the corner of Main and Forest.”

“Got it.”

His hand reached toward me. I tensed. But he was only turning up the radio. Did he really like the song, or was he tuning me out? I clutched my purse tighter. I should say something.

“Thanks for doing this.”

“No problem.” He grabbed his pack of cigarettes off the dashboard. “Want one?”

“No thanks.” Would he like me better if I smoked? Even I knew that was stupid.

He lit up with the car lighter and took a deep drag. I liked the way he held the cigarette between his thumb and index finger. I liked how he cracked the window to blow the smoke outside. “So what are you into?” he asked.

“Um . . .” Not a hard question, but my mind froze up.

“You ever go to any of the clubs around here?”

“Huh-uh. I'm only seventeen. Well, eighteen next week. Don't you have to be twenty-one to get into those places?”

The streetlights flickered over his face as he spoke. “My uncle owns a bar in Maroa. A lot of people know him, so I don't get carded much. And if I do, I have one of these.” He dug into his back pocket and handed me his wallet. “Open it.”

I ripped open the Velcro fastening. In the little plastic window was a driver's license. My own license had a red background to show I was under twenty-one. His didn't have that.

“Pretty good, right?”

I handed the wallet back. “Aren't you afraid you'll get caught?”

“I can't worry about shit like that.” He took another drag off his cigarette. I liked how he squinted to keep the smoke out of his eyes.

So back to his question. What did I like to do? I liked to read. Boring. And of course I liked to paint. Not that boring. A lot of people thought artists were cool. I just needed to say it the right way, so he didn't think I was weird or snotty.

He braked suddenly and turned the wheel. I grabbed the passenger door to keep from sliding into him.

“Shit, sorry about that. Almost missed the turn.”

“That's okay.” I peered into the darkness, getting my bearings. My street was a few blocks up. “So I'm an artist.” I pulled my purse closer to my stomach. “You asked me what I like to do.”

Joey turned up the volume on the radio. Too loud. “These guys are insane!” he shouted. “Have you heard of them?”

I tried to make sense of the jarring sounds. “Who is it?”

“Strapping Young Lad. The song's called ‘Love.'” He turned the volume back down. “You were saying?”

“Nothing.” More fiddling with my purse. The fake leather was cracking. “Just that I like to paint.”

“That's cool. My mom used to draw a lot.” He blew smoke out in a long stream. “That was before she went to prison.”

My head shot up, my mind on high alert. Why would he tell me that?

“She's an addict.” He flicked his cigarette out the window. “She tried to rob a 7-Eleven. Shot someone.”

Jesus! Was he kidding?

“I just wanted to tell you that before I ask you out.”

Ask me out? I turned to look at him, my heart pounding.

“So you want to go out Wednesday?” he asked. “We both have the night off.”

“Sure.” Inside my head, explosions were going off, but my words came out sounding calm and cool. “Wednesday's good.”

“It doesn't scare you that my mom killed someone?”

Should I tell him about Dad? Would that make him feel better?

The car slowed. “You said Forest Street, right?”

“Yeah.” I waited for him to turn the corner. “That's my house. The green one.”

He pulled into the driveway and stopped. Light shone through the curtains. Mom must be up waiting. I knew I should go before she came outside and embarrassed me.

But I didn't reach for the door handle. Not yet. The air in the car felt charged. I didn't want to mess this up.

He draped his arm over the steering wheel and turned to face me. This was it. Was he going to kiss me? We looked at each other in the dark car, him smiling a little. Me with my heart in my throat. Then he leaned in. I closed my eyes, braced myself.

His lips were soft, gentle. Nothing like Alex's. I felt my back relaxing, my lips moving in response. I pushed closer, breathed Joey in, let him soak into me. A good kisser. Definitely a good kisser.

I wanted to keep going, but he pulled away. Gently. “I've been wanting to do that all night.” Again, the little smile.

“Me, too.” I sounded breathless. I
was
breathless.

“God, I love this song.” He reached past my arm and cranked up the volume, the bass so loud it rattled my teeth. I sat for a second, just in case, but he was busy lighting another cigarette, his head bobbing to the music.

That was my cue. I pulled the handle and got out, waved as I shut the door. He didn't see me, but that was okay. In that moment, everything was okay. I ran up to the house and looked back. Maybe he'd beep his horn, but his car was disappearing around the corner, the thump of his booming bass trailing him like a fading memory.

• • •

Mom wasn't waiting up after all, but she had left the light on for me. I stripped off my work clothes and looked at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. What would Joey see if he saw me naked? Automatically, my brain started filling in the details of how I'd paint myself in the nude. I knew what areas I'd shadow, what body parts I'd turn to the light.

I had to stop myself from going down to Dad's studio to paint. I might start off trying to paint myself beautiful, but with the way I was feeling—all my emotions in turmoil because of what had happened with my dad—I wasn't sure what might come out on the canvas. A girl's shadow, sliced into ribbons by slashes of intruding light. A woman running against a threaded texture of red and black and green and yellow. The inside of a girl's head, a jungle of working gears, with bolts and screws holding things together.

And those ideas wouldn't win any contests. At the school library, I'd looked up the winners from previous years. All the paintings showed happy or touching scenes. Norman Rockwell slices of ordinary life. Nothing like what was in my head.

So instead of painting another self-portrait, I pulled out the giant stuffed lion I kept under my bed and rested my head on its body. This time I pretended the lion was Joey. I imagined I could hear his heartbeat. I imagined Joey's hand tracing the curve of my back, his arm holding me close. I imagined other things, too. And after I was done imagining, I had an idea.

I knew what to paint for the art contest.