A Work of Art (12 page)

And he shared it with me.

As the last chords faded, Joey loosened his grip. “I love the orgasm of that song.”

I smiled. “Since when do songs have orgasms?”

“Since always. You never noticed? The orgasm is the part where everything explodes. The part you have to crank up.”

The part where Joey had grabbed my hand. Once he took it away, my hand felt cold. “I get it,” I said. “I think that's my new favorite song.”

“Awesome.” His tone was edged with pride. “So what
used
to be your favorite song?”

“I don't know.” Did I have one? “Maybe the U2 version?”

A slow smile. “Most people wouldn't know that.”

I didn't tell him how I grew up listening to U2 because my mom had all their songs. There were a lot of things he didn't know about me. Like how important art was to me. I needed to tell him about the contest. I needed to ask him to sit for me as my live model so I could paint him. But now didn't seem like the right time. I'd only come off sounding awkward.

He popped the CD out of the player, handed it to me. “Here. Take it home.”

“Really?”

“I'll burn another one.”

I slipped the disc into my purse, hoping I wouldn't scratch it. Should I ask if he had a case? Better not push my luck.

“So do you play something?” I asked. “An instrument?”

“Bass.” Again, that tinge of pride. “I'm in a band.”

“I knew it! I
do
have ESP.”

“I guess you do.” He rummaged through a pile of CDs on his dashboard and fed one into the player. “This is my band. We're called The Wake.”

A mesh of guitar and drums pumped from the speakers. Screaming vocals. I tried to pick out the bass line but couldn't find it.

“Only problem is . . .” He turned the volume down. “We lost our drummer. It's hard to get gigs without a drummer.”

“What happened?”

“Rehab. They won't let him out.”

“Was he in an accident? I mean . . .” I realized too late he was talking about drug rehab.

Joey gave me a sidewise glance. “He OD'd. That means overdosed. I keep forgetting how innocent you are.”

And then his hand reached over and stroked my thigh, a warm caress that jolted my insides, made me gasp. He looked over with a little smile.

I didn't need ESP to know what he was thinking:
Innocent, yes, but not for long.

Or maybe that's what
I
was thinking.

• • •

Maroa, population 1,601. We passed two churches, a trailer park, and a grain elevator. Just behind the convenience store sat a low-roofed building made of white concrete bricks.
Johnny's
in big black letters was painted on the side.

Joey led me across the gravel parking lot. A woman came out the door, tottering on her high heels, trying to balance her cigarette and wine glass while she talked on her phone. I felt her eyes on me as we went inside.

Joey said it was a restaurant, but it looked more like a bar—the room dark, the few scattered tables made for standing around, not eating. Eighties music pumped from a jukebox. My parents' favorite.

Joey put his mouth close to my ear so I could hear him. “Let's say hi to my uncle.”

I followed him to the bar. I could have sworn the guys were checking me out, and by
guys
I meant men my dad's age. No one seemed to be younger than forty. Joey hooked a stool, and I sat at the bar. He put his hand on my back. Then he draped himself over the bar like a lazy cat and waved his arm at the bartender. “Hey! Uncle Johnny!”

Joey's uncle was big—muscular big, like a wrestler. A tattoo of a snake curled up his neck and over his shaved scalp. He plunked a drink in front of a laughing woman across the bar, then grabbed an empty mug and started filling it from the beer tap. He nodded at Joey. “About time you showed up. Your dad's been looking for you.”

I felt invisible while they continued their conversation.

“I told him I was going out,” Joey said.

“Well, he don't remember much of what you tell him.” His uncle set the full mug in front of Joey before flicking his eyes to me. “Who's this?”

Should I introduce myself? I sat on my hands and pretended to study the colorful bottles behind the bar.

“She works at Papa Geppetto's,” Joey said. “She's new.”

“And you let him take you out?”

It took me a second to realize he was talking to me now. I tried to come up with a witty response, but all I could do was shrug.

“Can you get her a drink?” Joey asked.

“What do you like?”

I opened my mouth to order a pop, but Joey beat me to it.

“She'll have wine. You like wine, right?”

“Uh, sure.”

His uncle plucked a wine glass from the rack above his head. “White, pink, or red?” he asked me.

“Pink's fine.”

“Pink it is.” He opened a fridge beneath the bar and pulled out a bottle. The wine glass was small, but he poured it full and set it down in front of me. No ID required.

“Thanks.” I lifted the glass to my mouth. Both of them watched me like I was performing some kind of dare. The first sip went down smooth.

“You like it?” Joey asked.

“It's good.” I took another sip.

“You hungry? You want fish and chips?”

“That's fine.”

“Get her the special,” he told his uncle. “And I'll have another beer.”

While his uncle got the beer, Joey leaned in close so he could talk in my ear. “If my dad shows up and starts bothering you, just ignore him.”

I nodded like it wasn't weird at all that his dad might show up and bother me.

His uncle set a full mug in front of Joey and another glass of wine in front of me, even though I'd only drunk half of what I had. “So you don't fall behind,” he said.

Was he joking? I smiled and took another sip.

Joey looked around the bar. “So where is he?” he asked his uncle.

“Downstairs.”

“Loaded?”

“Sleeping it off.”

I felt like I was eavesdropping on a private conversation, like I wasn't needed there at all.

“Any chance we'll see him in the next hour?” Joey asked.

“He's about due to come wandering around.” His uncle squirted something from a hose into a fancy glass and stuck a straw into it. Then he added a shot of brown liquor. He set the glass in front of a man across the bar. The man looked up and met my eyes. He winked. I looked at my glass.

My glass was empty, the first one at least. I pushed the empty glass to the side and started in on the second. A new song started playing. Kajagoogoo's “Too Shy.” Joey kept looking around the bar, and I kept looking at Joey, waiting for him to make conversation. At least the wine was helping. Slowly, some of the tension evaporated from my shoulders. Joey's uncle smiled at me and poured me another glass.

I was halfway through my second drink when my food arrived. By then, I felt amazing. Relaxed like I'd never been. Smiling. Uncle Johnny set the platter of fish and chips in front of me, but I was having too much fun to eat. My whole body swayed to the music. Joey eyed me with a little smile. Wow.

He said something, but I couldn't hear him over the music. I shook my head, slow and luxurious, like I was moving underwater. He leaned in to yell in my ear. “You look pretty sexy!”

Even my smile felt relaxed. Was this real? Then he kissed my neck, and a flush like a warm bath shivered up my body.

His breath warmed my neck. I pushed closer, felt my stool start to topple. Joey's hand on my arm kept me from falling.

“Careful,” he said.

I laughed, not embarrassed at all.

He pointed at my plate of fish. “Your food's getting cold.”

“I guess I'm not hungry.”

Another glass of wine appeared in front of me.

“Hey, look,” Joey tapped my arm. “My dad.”

I followed his eyes to where a tall skinny guy with a beard was clutching the backs of chairs as he shuffled toward the bar. His chestnut hair was the same color as Joey's, but messy, like he'd just woken up. His messy hair reminded me of my dad's mug shot. I tried to swallow my uneasiness.

“Dad!” Joey waved him over.

I put down my drink as he stumbled his way over. Now I knew how Joey had felt when I'd made him meet my mom.

“Don't worry,” Joey said in my ear. “He won't remember anything.”

Up close, I saw how much Joey looked like him. Besides the chestnut hair, they had the same hazel eyes, the same lips. But his dad's face was puffy and sweaty, his eyes glassy. His mouth hung open. I'd seen old guys stare at me like that before. Greedy.

“Dad, this is Tera,” Joey said.

His eyes shot from my chest to my face. “What'd you say?”

“I'm Tera,” I yelled.

“Oh.” His smile was missing teeth. “I'm Tom. Call me Tommy.” He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. His sweaty hand swallowed mine.

“You finished eating?” Joey asked me.

I nodded. Joey's dad kept staring.

“Want to go downstairs?” Joey asked.

“Uh.” I wasn't sure what was downstairs, but it had to be better than getting ogled by a guy who looked like he'd crawled out of the gutter. “Sure.”

As soon as I stood up, my head started spinning. When I tried to walk, my legs wobbled. Joey seemed to know I was having trouble. He didn't let go of my hand as we weaved between tables toward a little alcove at the other side of the bar. A cigarette machine stood between two doors labeled
Dudes
and
Chicks.
Across from the restrooms was a third door that said
Employees Only.
Joey pulled it open. A narrow staircase led down.

“Go ahead.” Joey held the door for me.

I felt my way down like a blind person. “I think I'm drunk,” I announced, and Joey laughed. Then I almost rammed my face into a closed door at the bottom of the stairs.

Joey reached around me and pushed open the door. Dark inside. Music from the bar vibrated the walls. It smelled like a basement. It
was
a basement. He groped the wall for a light switch, and suddenly I could see. Boxes were stacked ceiling-high on metal utility shelves that ran the length of the room. Shoved against the far wall was a futon, and on the arm of the futon was an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. A mini-fridge squatted beside the futon. Was his dad sleeping down here? Did he
live
here?

“What is this place?” My voice sounded way too loud.

“My dad's flophouse.” Joey rubbed the back of his neck. It was the first time I'd seen him look embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said. “We can leave. I didn't realize how this must look.”

“That's okay.” This was awful, but it wasn't Joey's fault. “So you don't live with your dad?”

“Not really.”

What did that mean? Was Joey homeless?

“It's temporary,” Joey explained. “Until we can find a place.”

He
was
homeless. Oh my God. I longed for the right words, something to let him know I didn't judge him.

“My dad's in jail,” I blurted.

That surprised him. He blinked at me like maybe he hadn't heard me right.

“He hasn't been convicted or anything, but . . .” My voice trailed off. I waited for him to ask what my dad had done—what he had been accused of doing.

“No shit.” A slow grin spread across his face. “I knew there was something about you.”

“I was going to tell you earlier, but . . .” I shrugged.

“Don't let it bother you. My dad's a total fuckup, but it's
him
fucking up, not me.”

He was right. I didn't have to feel embarrassed by my dad. But I still did.

Joey moved the ashtray from the arm of the futon onto the floor. “Sorry I don't have a better place to take you. You want to go back?”

Back home? Back upstairs? All I wanted was to be with him. He made me feel pretty. He made me feel special. “No,” I said. “I'm fine.”

“You want to sit?” He gestured to the futon. “At least we can talk.”

“Talking is good.”

He led me to the futon and we sat, our legs touching. He reached over, traced the outline of my lips. A sudden flush warmed my body, made me brave enough to meet his gaze. I stared at him, marveling at how absolutely gorgeous he was. His face so perfectly proportioned. Hazel eyes, straight eyebrows, and long, dark lashes.

“I drew you,” I blurted.

“That's cool. How'd it turn out?”

“Good,” I said.
Trite.

“Can I see it sometime?”

“Sure.” So did that mean he wanted to see me again? “Actually,” I said. “I was wondering if you'd model for me.”

“You mean for a photo shoot or something?”

“For a portrait. So I can paint you.”

“Seriously?”

“It's for a contest. First prize is ten thousand dollars, and I need to win it so I can go to art school in Paris. I already have a scholarship, but I need money for an apartment and food and a plane ticket and all that.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You're really that good?”

“They already accepted me.”

“I mean, are you really good enough to win ten thousand dollars?”

“I don't know. Maybe. I think so. But I need to paint something really amazing. It has to have something to do with rain. And the deadline's less than two weeks away.”

“And you want to paint me.”

“I'd have to get your hair wet. Your clothes, too.”

He laughed.

“Don't laugh. I think it'll mean something.” It
would
mean something.

“I just think you're funny. But in a good way.”

“So you'll let me paint you? You'll sit for me?”

He took a swig of his beer. “Yeah, sure.”

“Can you come over to my house in the next couple days?”