A Work of Art (13 page)

“I have to come over?”

“Well, yeah.” I looked at my hands. “That's where all my stuff is to paint. I guess I could bring it to your place, but . . .” He didn't have a “place.” He and his dad were living in the basement of a bar.

Joey slouched on the futon and leaned his head back. “Sure, I'll come over.”

“Really?”

“Is this going to make me famous?”

“Famous?” I laughed. “It might be published somewhere, but I have to win first.”

“And you think you can win.”

“My art teacher thinks so, too. Can you come over Friday afternoon?” I had school and work on Thursday. Friday would be the soonest I could do it. “Around four?” I said. “Because I really need to get started on this.”

“Yeah, sure. Friday. Whatever you want.” He set his beer bottle on the floor. “But right now, I want to give you a massage.”

“Okay,” I said. I wanted to make sure he knew how important coming over was, but I didn't want to nag him about it.

“Close your eyes,” he said. “Lean your head back.”

I did what he asked. As soon as he touched me, all thoughts of the contest went out of my head.

I trembled as his hand trailed down my spine. He moved closer, his warm lips on my neck, his fingers tracing the V-neck of my sweater. His hand moved lower, between my breasts and down my stomach.

“You like that?” he murmured in my ear.

I couldn't talk. I could only shudder.

He moved up beside me, slowly turned my face toward his. And then his lips were on mine. He pressed into me, and I leaned back on the futon, let him lower himself on top of me. His lips on my mouth, my throat, his hands sliding down my chest, clutching my breasts like he couldn't get enough. I wrapped my legs around his hips and pushed against him. He moaned in his throat, and all I wanted was to hear that sound—proof that he wanted me like I wanted him.

So when his hands pulled off my sweater, I didn't stop him. And when he fumbled with my bra, I helped him with the clasp. The lacy red straps lay loose on my shoulders. He grabbed the bra in his fist and tossed it.

And there I lay. The goods. Exposed and shivering.

He leaned back on his heels and watched me with hooded eyes, his mouth slack, his face flushed and sweaty.

Like his dad. He looks like his dad.

Cold, I crossed my arms over my chest.

“It's okay,” he said.

And it
was
okay. I let him nudge my arms to the side while my mind struggled to remember: This was
Joey
, the guy I lay in bed and dreamed about. But in my dreams, he didn't have that look. Greedy. Like a pig. And in my dreams, he didn't make that sound. Panting. Like a dog.

I forced my eyes closed, clamped my mouth shut.
Don't say it! Don't ruin this!

But out it slipped, the word I didn't want to say.

“Stop.”

And then another, this one even worse.

“Please.”

And before I knew it, I was sitting up and crying.

Tera covered herself with the blanket and waited for her dad's knock. She tried to imagine she was waiting for the doctor like she'd done a few months ago for her fourth-grade physical. This was no different—better even, because this time she had a comfy blanket to huddle behind instead of a scratchy paper sheet.

The knock came. Her dad poked his head into the room. “You ready?”

“I think so.”

He stepped in. The door clicked shut. “You have to take the blanket off.” The camera hung from a strap around his neck.

Suddenly this was a lot scarier than being at the doctor. She pressed her arms to her sides like she was plunging down the waterslide at the public pool. Maybe her dad would see how scared she was and wouldn't make her do it. Or maybe he'd push her like Haley had pushed her down the slide so the other kids could have their turn.

“Come on, Tera.” He sat at the foot of her bed. “You said you were ready for this.”

“I know.”

“And now you're scared?”

She nodded.

“You think Rembrandt was scared when he did it? You think van Gogh was? You say you want to be a great artist, but you're scared to follow in their footsteps.”

He was mad, she could tell. But moving the blanket . . . She couldn't make herself do it.

“I know you're scared. I was scared, too, the first time I drew myself nude. Only in my day we didn't have digital cameras.” He held the camera up so she'd see how lucky she was.

“Artists today have it easy,” he said. “You take a few pictures in the privacy of your own home, and
voilà
! Instant reference material. How do you think artists who don't have nude models learn to draw the human form?”

He waited, but she didn't have an answer. Her mom said she was smart, but sometimes she had straw for brains. Just like the Scarecrow.

“You have to see yourself in the nude,” he said. “And to do that, you need photos to study.”

“Can't I take the picture myself?” Maybe it wasn't the camera that scared her, but him behind the camera.

“Go ahead.” He sounded friendly, but the way he whipped the camera from around his neck, she knew he was mad. It weighed more than she expected, with all kinds of buttons and dials. She almost dropped it when the blanket slipped. Her hand scrambled to cover herself.

“Not so easy, is it?” He grabbed the camera and looped the strap around his neck. “I thought you were ready for this, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe you're not a real artist.”

“I am.”

“Prove it, then. Three easy steps. Step one: Let go of the blanket.”

She'd already done step one by accident, so doing it again should've been easy. Still, she had to concentrate to make her fingers let go. She focused on the flowered wallpaper, let the blanket slip to her waist. She tried not to notice how her bare chest moved up and down with every breath.

“Okay,” he said. “Now take off the blanket. All the way.”

Was this step two? She kept her eyes on the wallpaper as she peeled the blanket down her legs. When it reached her toes, she scooted into the corner of her bed, her legs out stiff.

He squinted at her. “You look like a mannequin. Give me something more natural.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember those nude figures in that book? They weren't sitting there like naked Barbie dolls. Stretch yourself out. Imagine you're a cat.”

“I never had a cat.”

He rolled his eyes. “A dog, then. Imagine you're a dog.”

He was losing patience. Still, she couldn't move.

“You don't know what a dog looks like? Are you really that stupid?”

“Is this step three?”

“What?”

Should she remind him about the steps? Not now. He was getting fed up.

She bent her wrists to her chest like she was begging for a doggie treat.

Disgust scrunched his face. “Jesus Christ, Tera.” He pushed himself up from the bed. “If you won't do this right, I might as well leave.”

“Don't leave.” She hugged herself, fingers digging into her neck. “I don't know what you want me to do.”

“I want you to stop acting like a scared little baby! I want you to get on your hands and knees like a goddamn dog!”

She didn't move,
couldn't
move. What was wrong with her that she couldn't move?

He shook his head like he didn't want to be around her anymore. “I thought you were a real artist. I thought you were my protégé.”

“I am.”

“Show me then.”

This was her last chance. If she didn't show him, he'd get up and leave. Maybe forever.

Her body stiff like the Tin Man, she crouched before him on her hands and knees, her heart pounding in her chest. Not the Tin Man, then. The Tin Man didn't have a heart. More like the Cowardly Lion.

She snuck a look at his face. Was this what he wanted? He had that look like he was staring at a great work of art.

He pointed the camera. The lens zoomed in. She imagined drawing herself this way and thought she might cry. But she didn't. Tears would rust. At the last second, she turned her head toward the wall.

At least then she wouldn't have to draw her face.

My tears came like a flash flood, sudden and fierce and draining. I couldn't remember the last time I'd cried. But there I was, in the basement of his uncle's bar, bawling like someone had died. What was wrong with me?

Joey reeled back, his hands in the air like he'd been caught stealing. And as suddenly as my tears had come, they stopped. I sat there on the futon with my arms crossed over my naked chest, staring at the cement floor. “I'm sorry,” I mumbled. “I don't know why I'm crying.”

Joey looked around like he was searching for an escape route, his eyes landing on my bright red bra. “Here.” He snatched it up and tossed it into my lap. “I'll take you home.”

“You don't have to.”

“Then what? You want me to call a cab?”

I shook my head.

“Then what's with you?” He sat on the futon a good two feet away and rubbed his forehead like I was giving him a headache. “I like you, Tera, but I can't handle this mental shit.”

He liked me—he'd said it himself. And here I was screwing it up. What could I do to make him stay? Should I scoot next to him? Pick up his hand and put it on my breast? But I couldn't bring myself to do anything except sit there with my head down. Afraid to look at him.

Joey watched me while he rubbed his eyes. I could see his patience wearing thin.

“It's just . . .” My fingers dug into my arms. “I've never done this before.”

“Yeah, I kind of got that.”

“And it's stupid, I know, but . . .” I stared at the bra in my lap. Why did I pick red, of all colors? Red was for confident girls.

“But what?”

Good question. My mind whirled as I turned to slip my arms into the bra straps. Why would I suddenly burst into tears when I wanted him so badly? Then it came to me—what I could say. Something that might make sense to him.

“I promised myself I'd wait,” I said. “Until I turn eighteen. My birthday's so close. Next Sunday. So to get this close and screw it up . . .”

As I blurted all this out, I almost believed it. When I turned eighteen, I'd be a grownup—at least technically—and maybe that would make a difference.

Silence. I fumbled with my bra clasp. Maybe he'd reach out and help me.

“You could have just said that.”

“I know.” I finally got my bra fastened and turned to face him. My sweater was in his hands. He held it out to me.

Another long silence as I pulled it over my head. All the sweaters I'd tried on, and I'd chosen this one because it hugged my chest. Stupid.

“You ready?” he asked.

To go home, he meant. My sweater was on, so I guess I was. I stood.

At least he didn't seem mad anymore. I stole a look at his face. Eyes narrowed, mouth a straight line. Did he still like me? Even a little?

My legs wobbled as I followed him up the dark stairwell, and not because I was drunk. When we surfaced into the bar, I kept my eyes on Joey's back, afraid to wave goodbye to his uncle, afraid to catch a glimpse of his dad. Surely everyone in the bar was staring.

Outside, I lowered my head against the cold as I followed him to the car. If only I could rewind the night. We could be resting on the futon, my head on his chest. He could be stroking my hair. We could be laughing.

The song on his stereo picked up where it left off when I was still happy. He turned the sound down with an impatient flick of his fingers. I was about to apologize again, anything to break the awkward silence. But then he twisted in his seat to look at me, his eyebrows raised.

“So you want to try this again?”

My heart jumped. Did he want to go back inside? Have sex in the car? Did it matter? I knew my answer should be “yes” before he changed his mind.

“What I meant was . . .” He shook a cigarette from his pack and lit it. “We could go out for your birthday. Unless you have other plans.”

I struggled to sound casual so I didn't look too eager. “Nothing definite,” I said.

Which was a joke. With Dad in jail, I had
no
plans for my birthday. Mom's birthday duty started and ended with making a cake, and I'd be lucky if she remembered even that. Dad was the one who tried to make things special. When I was little, he took me to Chuck E. Cheese's. And when I got older, we'd get pizza delivered and eat it in front of the television with Mom's cake waiting for us on the coffee table. Up until a few years ago, I had this ritual where I'd paint a watercolor of the day so I'd always remember it. I kept the paintings in a special scrapbook decorated with ribbon to make it look like a present. Sometimes I took it out and looked at it.

Joey tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “So your birthday's on Sunday, right? I'm trying to remember if I work that day.”

I knew for a fact he didn't, but I wasn't about to tell him I'd memorized his schedule. I held my breath, watching him rub the stubble on his chin.

“I'll switch with Cam if I have to,” he said. “Are you up for that? For going out on your birthday?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”

“We'll go somewhere nice for dinner. Somewhere special.”

Tears welled up, but I froze them in place. I didn't realize, until that moment, how afraid I'd been to spend my birthday alone.

• • •

Mom was sitting on the couch when I got home. Not watching TV, not reading, just sitting there. Her pills sat on the coffee table next to a glass of water.