A Work of Art (3 page)

“Is that you?” he asked.

“Do you like it?”

“Hmm.” He leaned back and tilted his head. “You'll get better.”

His hand flashed across the paper. A sharp rip and the page came out. Like pulling a loose tooth. Quick hurt and then it was over.

The thick pad of special paper went back in his bag. So did his pencil, but not the one he had let her borrow. That one she kept under the table. Maybe he'd forget to take it back.

He
did
forget. He forgot her drawing, too. But that didn't matter so much. Her heart felt excited when she looked at what she'd done. A self-portrait.

She pulled it closer. Maybe later she'd get an eraser and fix it. Maybe later her dad would hang it on the fridge.

I stood on the porch, numb. The police cars were gone. Haley was gone too.

And Dad. What was happening to him? They were taking him to jail, and I had no idea what to do. Would they let him go once he explained? Would Mom and I have to bail him out? Did Mom and Dad even have enough money for something like that? And who were we supposed to call to make things happen?

I shivered in the cool breeze. A squirrel dashed up the porch steps. It stopped, its tail rippling, and then it was off, leaping for the nearest tree. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a child shrieked with laughter. And somewhere in a police car, Dad sat in handcuffs, on his way to jail.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I should have told them it was me in the drawing. Me in the photo.

If the photo even existed. I thought it was long gone.

I should have explained how it happened, and now it was too late.

Someone came up beside me on the porch. I opened my eyes. Mr. Stewart. He looked up at the darkening sky with his arms folded. Finally, he spoke.

“Do you need anything, Tera?”

I did, but already he'd seen too much. I was so embarrassed that I couldn't look at him. If I didn't speak, maybe he'd go away.

He waited another few seconds. “All right then.” He started down the porch steps, stopped and looked back. “I'm sorry this happened to you.”

I pressed my lips together and nodded, afraid of what noise I might make if I opened my mouth.

• • •

Mom sat at the table with two bottles of pills and a glass of water. Back in the day, she was pretty, but now she looked old and worn-out. I knew she couldn't help the way she was, but sometimes I got sick of tiptoeing around her moods.

And today wasn't a day to call her out. I needed her to stay calm. She had to take back whatever she told the police. They had to know—whatever she thought Dad did—it wasn't a big deal.

I sat across from her at the table, tried to smile. “You look like you're feeling better,” I said. Which was true, even though her hands shook as she lifted her glass.

“I have a new doctor,” she said. “We're trying something different.” Mom was always trying something new for her depression and her “panic attacks,” as she called them. New pills, mostly. Most of them didn't work. Either that or she quit taking them.

“That's good.” I took a breath. The air inside the house felt sweaty. “Mom, you need—”

“Stop.” Her glass thumped to the table.

“What am I doing?”

“You're not listening, that's what. I tried to get you to leave before they got here, but you never listen to me.”

Suddenly I wanted to grab her glass of water and throw it in her face. I was sick of her mental excuses.
She
was to blame for this. They arrested Dad because
she
called them. And if this whole thing was about that photo—if it even existed—then she was mostly to blame for that, too. Because of her, I had to practice drawing nudes in secret.

“You don't make any sense,” I said. “That's why I don't listen to you.”

“So you're taking his side.”

“Someone has to.”

Outside, the wind picked up. Another spring storm. I stood.

“Where are you going?”

“To get my laptop.”

“Your laptop's gone.”

And then I remembered. The police took it. I sank into my chair. Now what? My antique phone didn't have Internet, and I had no idea how to get Dad out on bail.

“Did they leave a number for the jail?” I asked.

“You can't bail him out, if that's what you're thinking. You're too young, for one thing. And they're not going to let him go.”

“You don't know that!”

“You'd be surprised what I know.”

“So you won't even try?”

She took a sip of water. So smug, now that she thought she'd won. “He can rot in there for all I care.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance. I clenched my hands into fists, tried to think. Maybe I could get someone else to bail him out.

Her fingers tapped her glass. “You think I wanted this to happen, don't you?”

I stared out the window. The sky was thick with gray clouds. Tornado weather. “I think you're jealous,” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Dad and I get this big article written about us, and you can't stand it. You want to punish him. You hate to see me happy.”

“You know that's not true.”

“Then why, Mom? Tell me why you go against everything Dad does.”

“It's not like that.” She bowed her head, her fingers squeezing the glass. “I found something on his computer.”

So she
did
find it. The photo of me naked. A gust of wind sent a branch scraping against the window, like nails on a chalkboard.

“Mom, I know what you're thinking.”

Her voice turned vicious, and she jabbed a finger at me. “Don't tell me you know anything about this! Don't tell me that!”

I blinked, startled by the sudden force of her anger. “I won't. I wasn't going to.”

“Because I can't deal with that right now.”

“Fine.” I clenched my jaw to keep from yelling at her. For every second we sat here fighting, Dad's nightmare got more real. Would they strip-search him? Take away his belt and shoelaces? I forced myself to breathe, to think.

Would they let him go if I told them it was my fault, that I did it to practice drawing the human form?

Her voice cut into my thoughts. “You can't help him, Tera.”

“That's not true. I'll go visit him. Find out what to do.”

“They won't let you see him without a parent. You're not even eighteen.”

“You can take me.”

She picked up one of her pill bottles and pretended to read the label.

“Mom, you have to take me. I need to talk to him. He needs to know.”

“Know what?” A growl of thunder vibrated the table. “That you follow him around like a puppy dog? That you'll do anything he wants you to do?”

“That's not true! You're just making shit up!”

She slammed the pill bottle on the table. “Then tell me! Tell me what you think he needs to know.”

That I don't blame him. That I'm out here trying to help him.

But I didn't say that. I didn't say anything while the first raindrops of the storm splattered the window. It's not like she would have listened.

I took the phone book to my room and closed the door. The number for the county jail was listed in the “important numbers” section. I copied it into my notebook and checked my watch. Dad had been gone for almost an hour.

It took a few minutes to get through the jail's automated voice system, but finally I got a live person. She sounded old. “Central Intake,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“Um.” Where to start? “My dad got arrested, and I was wondering what I need to do to bail him out.”

The woman on the phone must have felt sorry for me.

“When was he arrested?” she asked.

“About an hour ago.”

“So that means he hasn't been processed yet.”

“How long does that take?” I asked.

“Well, it varies. An officer will put his information into a computer. He'll see a nurse. He'll be fingerprinted.”

“So this could take hours.”

“It usually does. And he'll have his photo taken, too.”

“You mean like a mug shot?”

“That's right. So after the whole booking process, he'll have his arraignment hearing. But that won't happen till tomorrow.”

“I'm sorry.” I had to be trying her patience. “What's an arraignment hearing?”

“That's when he stands before the judge and the judge decides on a bond.”

“A bond?”

“The amount it'll take to bail him out.”

“Oh.”

“Some crimes have a standard bond attached to them. What'd they bring him in for, hon? I might be able to tell you the amount before he sees the judge.”

“Do I have to say it?” There was no way I could say it.

“You don't have to say anything. Just wait till he's arraigned tomorrow and call back. They'll tell you how much the bond is.”

“Okay. And what's, like, a standard bond amount?”

“It depends on what they brought him in for. It could be ten thousand. It could be a lot more than that.”

“Ten thousand
dollars?
”

“I know. It sounds like a lot. But if you can't come up with the cash bond, call a bail bondsman. They put the money up, and you pay them a percentage. If your dad doesn't appear at his summons, the bail bondsman is liable for the bail amount, so sometimes they ask for collateral.”

“So I don't have to come up with the bail money myself?”

“Not if you use a bail bondsman. You pay the bondsman a percentage. It's usually fifteen percent of the bond amount.”

I did some quick math. I'd be looking at fifteen hundred dollars if Dad's bond was ten thousand. I couldn't imagine it being more than that.

“Can I visit him before he sees the judge tomorrow?” I asked. “Are there, like, visiting hours?”

“How old are you, honey?”

“Seventeen. I'll be eighteen in two weeks.”

“You're a minor. You'd have to be accompanied by a parent or legal guardian.”

So Mom was right.

“Call tomorrow,” she said. “Find out what his bond is and then have your mom or someone who's of legal age call a bail bondsman.”

“I can't call myself?”

“You're not an adult, honey. So you have two choices. Choice number one is to pay the cash bond yourself. If you do that, the courts will pay you back after your dad shows up for his summons. Or choice number two: Get an adult to contract with a bail bondsman.”

“Okay.”

“Any other questions?”

“I don't think so. Thank you for your help.”

“That's all right, honey. Good luck.”

After she hung up, I looked down at my notebook where I'd written only one thing:
Night in jail.

I tore out the sheet and crumpled it into a ball. My room had gotten dark. Was Dad's jail cell dark, too? Were people being rough with him? Was he as scared as me?

I looked at the clock. On a normal night, I'd be finishing my homework. Instead, I kept reliving the nightmare: how the police had held my dad's elbows and shoved him out the door. Dad bent forward with his head down, me following behind, my mouth flapping as I pleaded with the cops. Dad casting a look back at me, stumbling a little. Me holding my stomach and hoping I'd wake up.

And in the back of my mind was another worry, slowly eating its way forward.

Haley saw. How long would it be before she blabbed to the whole school?

This had to end. I had to bail him out. And it wasn't like Mom would hand over her ATM card—not that my parents had any money to spare.

But I had money, thanks to Dad. The twenty thousand dollars he gave me so I could go to a good art school. I could use some of it to pay the bail bondsman. And then I could start working again at my old job. I'd have almost six months to replenish my bank account before I went to Paris.

But first I had to find out how much the bond was. And then I had to find someone who'd be willing to go to a bail bondsman for me. I turned eighteen in less than two weeks, but Dad couldn't wait that long.

Obviously, Mom wasn't going to help, and Dad didn't have any family besides us. He didn't have any friends, either, at least none that I knew about. He worked freelance, so it wasn't like he saw people at the office every day. And if I called one of his editors, they might end his contract over something like this. So who did that leave?

As much as I dreaded asking him, Mr. Stewart seemed like the only choice. I'd spent the last four years of high school trying to impress him, and the last year bragging to him about my dad's success. So asking him to bail out my dad from jail would have to rank in my top two most humiliating experiences—right behind him seeing my dad get arrested.

I told myself that now wasn't the time to be proud.

• • •

When I left for school the next morning, the air outside was thick with the odor of mud and earthworms. I waited at the top of my driveway for the bus, staying out from under the trees so the leaves wouldn't drip on the painting I carried. Mr. Stewart left yesterday without taking any of my artwork for the magazine. Bringing him one of my paintings gave me the perfect excuse to talk to him about my dad.

I peeked under the drop cloth I'd thrown over my painting and let myself imagine, just for a second, how it would look on the pages of
ArtWorld
. I had painted it a few months ago, an impressionist-style piece called
Gray Day.
It showed a girl at a playground on a rainy day, her coat unbuttoned, her hair wet and straggly. All around her, kids in rain boots and raincoats laughed and chased each other, but she stood in the shadow of a towering metal slide, gazing at her own warped reflection in the mud puddle at her feet.