Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) (8 page)

“This is not good,” Grace said, looking up at the black clouds filling the sky. She pulled her car into the school parking lot, but it was jammed. With nothing else to do in town, every breathing soul had descended on Vashon High in hopes of some Homecoming magic.

“I did mention it was going to rain tonight.” I knew I was being a smart-ass, but it felt good to flip a little back her way. She backtracked to the street and worked on her parallel parking skills.

“Damn.” Attempt number one failed. “Don’t go getting all righteous on me. At least I try to elevate the standards around here.” She managed to squeeze into a much larger spot with her second attempt.

I stepped out of the car, inhaling deeply, the cool autumn air tingling through my nose. “We’ll see how elevated you feel in that mini-skirt after the game.”

She sashayed around the car ending in a catwalk pose. “But, sister, I look good.”

I shook my head, unable to engage any further in the inane conversation. We cut across the grass and joined the flow of bodies making their way to the football field in back.

“Do you plan on telling me what’s eating at you, or should I try and guess?” she asked. “You’ve been hovering in funk land for over a month.”

“I don’t know.” I shoved my hands deep in my pockets, unsure of where I would start or how I could possibly explain something I didn’t understand. Maybe I should just tell her. Speak it out loud. Test the absurdness on someone else. “I’ve been having these strange . . .”

“Seriously!” Grace interrupted me once the packed stands came into view. “The good folks of Vashon really need to get a life. How are we expected to find any students?”

I dropped my chin and mouth behind the folds of my scarf, the sharing moment having come and gone. “Text Dylan.”

She whipped out her phone, her fingers flying over the buttons. His reply was instantaneous.

“This way,” she said before remembering our previous conversation. “What were you saying?”

“Um, nothing,” I said
over the noise of the crowd as we headed up the south side of the bleachers to where Dylan and Avery were already sitting.

Dylan flagged us down as we got close. “Good thing you two got here when you did,” he said, scooting over as I squeezed in next to him.

“These extra bodies are encroaching on our space,” Grace snapped, her bare legs already pumping up and down in the cold.

“No kidding.” Dylan took notice of the quake Grace was causing to our bench. “Didn’t you say African Americans melt in the rain?”

“You. Did. Not!” Grace shot back indignantly. “You did not just call me that. My skin is black, through and through, and I have never once touched a toe to the continent of Africa.”

Nonplussed by Grace’s outrage, Dylan said, “But you do melt, right?” He glanced down at me and winked. I kept my smirk safely lodged in my scarf.

“Only if directly rained on.” Her tone haughty.

“Good thing for you I found seats undercover.”

“Yes, it was a good thing.”

The crowd erupted onto their feet, stomping and cheering as the Vashon Pirates ran their way onto the field. I was not in a cheerleader
kind of mood. My stomach was soured by the realization I was completely alone. In a sea of shivering people gathered under the bright field lights, I was the odd one out. The anomaly.

This was going to be a long game.

“Come on,” Avery said as she leaned over and pulled me up. “You better at least pretend like you’re cheering them on or you might incite a riot.” She rolled her eyes over to Grace who was scanning the field, most likely searching for Sean’s number eight jersey.

The game was close. Painfully close, leading to overtime. When it was all said and done, the Pirates were able to squeak by with a Homecoming victory, and we could finally leave.

“Is everyone still going to the dance?” Grace asked through her chattering teeth as we headed down and out of the bleachers.

“No, I want to go home.” It wasn’t a lie, but the question was stupid. She knew we were all going to the dance. She practically forced it upon us.

“Too bad, since I’m your ride and you will be staying ‘til the bitter end.”

I pounded my fist to my chest, pained by the torture.

Dylan bent over, his warm breath filling my ear. “Don’t worry, Vanderbie. If you want out early, I’ll take you home.”

I smiled at him, breathing a sigh of relief even though I knew he had ulterior motives. “Thanks.”

Righting himself, he raised his voice and said to Grace, “I told Sean we’d meet him in the concession area by the gym.”

Grace jumped down off the last step and into the rain, forgetting that she might melt. “He’s coming with us?”

I knew this was a surprise to her, the rumor of Chelsey still floating around her thick skull.

“Yeah,” he answered, not realizing the impact of the information he’d just delivered. Grace looped her arm through mine, her lightened steps evidence that her mood had been elevated considerably. Maybe it would rub off.

We jostled our way through the bodies exiting the stadium, the atmosphere a mini-stampede. Avery called out from somewhere behind me, “Wait!”

I turned and reached my hand out to her, and I saw him, directly behind Avery. The guy who had been with Evelyn the night of Picasso. Our eyes locked, sending a jolt of electricity through my system. What was his name? Franklin? Fredrick? Felix. Avery grabbed my hand, obscuring my view. I shifted right and scanned the area behind her, but he wasn’t there.
Nothing. I spun every which way, praying my imagination was not working against me.

“Thanks,” Avery panted as she sidled up next to me, grabbing hold of my arm. “I thought I was going to lose you guys.”

“We wouldn’t ditch ya, girlfriend,” Grace chipped as she grabbed her other arm and we broke free from the crowd, my tired body wrestling with my slipping mind.

The concession area outside the gym was packed. Semi-wet students lined up to hand money over to someone’s mom so we could step into the gym. A place we were required to be in every other day of the week. The noise in the small area was grating, fraying my already frazzled nerves.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Sean yelled, strutting his way over to us. “Now tell me that wasn’t a game.”

“Something like that.” Grace was downplaying. Obviously so. “Now let’s see what kind of stamina you really have. I vote you pass out after the first dance.”

“I’ll take that bet.” He grabbed her hand and bee-lined for the door.

“I guess we’re going in now,” Dylan noted as we sheep followed suit.

I braced myself for the mayhem I could hear oozing out the door. “So it seems.”

We moved in strobe light motion through the gym. The humid air hung heavily, forcing my lungs to work twice as hard. A mass of bodies were already bending and swaying to the high-pitched wails coming from the speakers.

“Come on,” Grace yelled after we ditched our coats, motioning to the dance floor.

I was too tired to argue. We followed her and Sean, right into the middle of the ever-shifting amoeba. Dancing. Song after song. The sound waves bouncing off us. Sweat dripped like it was raining inside.

The physical release of the dancing felt freeing, the strobe light flashing like a camera, swaying us in slow motion. I closed my eyes and wallowed in the temporary relief of the noise. The grating sound filled every crevice inside of me, leaving no room for thought or memory. The light penetrated through my closed eyes. Flash after flash after flash, until they hit.

Tingles.

Painfully surging.

Up my neck.

Over my head.

Releasing a relentless flow of brilliant color before merging into a rerun of frightful images. I spun — my body, my mind — as I tried to catch the racing scene.

It was the dock.

The small wooden boat thrash
ed in the water, no longer anchored to the shore. A silhouette clung to the edges, trying not to be thrown as the water battered down the sides.

My arms shot out, trying to balance my leaden body through the frenzy of images. The light continued to strobe under my eyelids, turning the scene into a slow motion nightmare while the blaring music taxed my already strained senses.

My stamina was peaking. I worked to shake free from the images, but darkness surged in and dropped me to the ground. Toes and heels were everywhere. Kicking. Jabbing. Inflicting unabating pain up the side of my body.

Unable to lift myself up, I curled my body in on itself, crossing my arms tightly over my face. Time stretched on, unstoppable, before I felt hands grab hold of me and pull me up from the darkness. Dylan and Sean stood on either side, holding me steady.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Dylan asked, puzzlement ringing in his voice as he shouted above the music.

“I slipped,” I choked out, trying to contain the pain and fear building inside of me.

“Do you want to sit one out?” Grace asked, but I knew she didn’t want to relinquish her time on the dance floor with Sean.

“Or do you want to go home?” Dylan blessedly asked.

“Yes. Please. Will you take me home?” I held tight to the dam that threatened to break inside me. It happened. Again. And he wasn’t here.

“Sure.”

I walked out of the gym as normally as possible. Searing pain shot up my legs and lower back, screaming out — reminding me of just how normal I wasn’t.

“Wait,” Grace yelled, running after us. I turned and waited. “You’re really leaving? Are you sure? Do you want me to drive you home?”

“Don’t worry about it,” my strained voice tried to assure her. I could tell by the look in her eye she was suspicious, but Sean waiting for her to return was working in my favor. “I’m just tired. Enjoy. I’ll call you in the morning.”

She bent over and hugged me, the squeeze inflaming my bruised body.

We quietly walked through the rain to Dylan’s old Honda before he asked, “Tired?”

I carefully lowered myself into the passenger seat. “Yeah, I guess.”

I was in no mood for small-talk. I watched the night pass outside my window, trying to keep my fear at bay. It happened. Again. And without Quentin. It was me. All me. Quentin had nothing to do with it, other than being subjected to my freakishness.

I couldn’t think about it. Not now.

“Any other plans for the weekend?” Dylan tried to ask casually. The air shifted, like the nervous energy of someone trying to add electricity to the current.

“Not much.” I leaned my head against the cool glass. “Homework and stuff.”

He turned his car into my driveway and stopped near the garage, the engine idling, waiting for one of us to make a move. I reached for the handle and opened the door. The harshness of the overhead light cast a gloomy yellow hue over us, highlighting the indecision playing out on his face. “Good night,” I said, stepping out into the heavy rain coming down, making the decision for him.

“Good night,” he replied, hesitation still lingering. “I hope you’re not too bruised from your fall.”

The bruises were the least of my worries. “Bruises heal.” I closed the door and walked into the house, not looking back.

The house was tranquil. A glow of light spilled from the kitchen door, producing swathes of shadows that reached out and clung tightly to the furniture, trying to pull them out of darkness. I shrugged out of my wet coat, hanging it next to the key rack by the front door. Gingerly, I followed the lure of light to where my dad still sat awake behind his computer.

I cautiously stepped into the room and glanced at the kitchen clock. Eleven thirty-seven. “I didn’t think you’d be up.”

“I was paying bills.” His computer nicely read him the information he needed to know. “As a matter of fact, I was going over your cell phone bill.”

The uptake was slow, but my heart dropped with the pit that landed deep in my stomach.

“It seems there’s a new number you’ve been calling and texting over the past month. I would ask you to tell me who it is, but I called the number myself.”

“You c
alled the number?” I spat out, shocked. Anger boiled up painfully in my body. “You had no right . . .”

“I have every right,” his raised voiced cut me off. “You lied to me. You both lied to me.”

“I can’t believe you called him. I haven’t talked to him since the day he came to the house. He probably thinks I’m some prudish freak having my dad call his cell phone.”

“I only got his voice mail, but it doesn’t matter. You have a lot of explaining to do.”

“No. I. Don’t,” I yelled back, unable to stop my pain and frustration from spewing out. “It doesn’t work this way. You can’t just decide you’re going to start butting into my life after being an absentee father since Mom died.”

“And you can’t
run around with older guys behind my back.” He stood up, bracing himself on the table, his eyes unable to find me. “Especially ones you know nothing about. Something’s not right about him.”

“Not right about
him?
Are you kidding? Not right. About. HIM! You have no idea what I know and don’t know,” I countered furiously. “You don’t know him. You don’t know me. And you sure as hell don’t deserve to . . .”

I couldn’t finish. I was pissed. I stomped from the kitchen, fury igniting with every painful step across the living room. Without thought, I grabbed my car keys off the key rack and ran into the rain — away from my dad. Away from the painful life he represented. I revved
my car to life and tore out of the driveway. Aimlessly I drove, up one street and down another, barely seeing through my tears and the constant fog that covered the front windshield.

How dare he play Dad after abandoning Foster and me, leavin
g us to drown in our own pain. Alone, scared, with no assurances that a new day would rise. Mom would never have done that to us, no matter the circumstances. She would never have lied to us about her own family.

No longer able to see through the thick fog on the windshield, I pulled my car into the ferry commuter lot.
As I reached in the back to feel around for a rag to wipe the windows, the horn of the approaching ferry startling me. I gave up the search and leaned my head on the headrest. The horn blared again, inflaming the spaces of aggravation in my mind.

The sound of cars unloading caught my attention, and before I could formulate a plan, I jumped out of my car and ran through the rain to the waiting ferry. A haven. Something to carry me away from this god-forsaken place.

I stepped aboard and walked heavily up the stairs, keeping my tear-swollen eyes pointed down. I bee-lined straight to the bathroom. Disinfectant cleaner swirled sharply through my nose, jarring me as I caught sight of myself in the mirror. A painful reflection of the truth, calling me out for what I was. A freak. A freak with wet, limp hair, and streaks of black eyeliner, preparing me for a part in the side-show.

“That’s me,” I muttered. “The freak in the side-show.”

Out of nowhere,
Que Sera Sera
began to spin its melody through my head, the same way my mom used to hum it as she worked . . .
the future’s not ours to see
. . . The tinkling sounds of the piano reminded me of caramel covered apples and carousel rides. But my head bent the notes. Warped them. Distorted them. Forcing the carousel to spin off-kilter with no intention of ever stopping.

I pushed on the faucet, cupped my hands under the sputtering spray, and prayed the cold water would shake away the pain of the warped song. Of the night. That the splash would wash away the disappointed look that hung from Dad’s face before I ran out.

I grabbed a wad of paper towels and wiped the eyeliner off my cheeks, the dock reflecting back in my eyes. The little boat. Someone clinging for dear life in the night.

I shook it off. Panic building. Walls caving. I wanted to give into the exhaustion seeping into my arms and legs, to shut down and curl up on the cold, smelly bathroom tiles and end my own private torture, but the horn blasted, forcing me to move. It was a slow, painful movement from the bathroom to the front of the boat.

With my head down, I wrapped my arms tight across my chest and clamped my teeth together to keep them from clattering as I made my way to where the passenger bridge was being lowered into place.

A bridge leading to no one.

To nothing.

To nowhere.

I followed the path of least resistance and moved with a small group of people crossing through the terminal and out to the breezeway. But the group quickly disbanded, leaving me to forge my own path.

Avoiding the massive downpour, I turned west and descended under the viaduct, an eye-sore that blemished the entire downtown shoreline.

The damp air seeped under my skin, sending quakes of chills through my body. My nerves worked feverishly to keep surveillance on my surroundings. Every ounce of flesh stood at attention, questioning the wisdom of my swift decision to travel Seattle by foot, without a coat, without a purse, without a phone.

A small group of people popped out of a dark alley, our paths nearly colliding. My heart lurched into my throat stopping the air from escaping, tumbling me anxiously as they moved on, laughing, oblivious of my presence.

I backed up against a brick wall. My breath stilted. What was I doing?

Tears rolled down my cheeks. I needed to bolt, to get back on the ferry, but the lack of motion caused my legs to buckle and I slowly slid down the wall, my descent unstoppable. As were the harsh tingles and ravaging images that once again took control of my body.

The dock.

The boat.

The thrashing water threatening to topple the shadowy figure that clung desperately to the sides.

I tried to push them back, to gain control of my mind and move my legs back underneath me, but the resistance in my head
caused my decision making to lag.

Open your eyes and stand,
I told myself, refusing to pass out in the dark. Alone.
Open your eyes and stand.

I forced my eyes open and focused all my energy to my legs, using the wall to brace my punishing progress. I had to find a phone. A way out of here.

I looked around the dark viaduct, my eyes locking onto the glow of a small neon sign.

OK Hotel.

My eyes focused on the “OK,” my painful gait praying it would be as I limped toward the door where a large man dressed in black was checking ID.

“You’re not twenty-one,” he said brusquely.

“I know. I just need to borrow a phone”

“You need to be twenty-one.”

Desperate pleas tumbled from my mouth. “I’m stranded and really need to call a friend to pick me up.”

“You can’t go in the club,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously. After a lifetime of seconds, he reached in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “You’ll stand right there. You have one minute.”

I had to keep myself from throwing my arms around him in relief. “Thank you.”

I turned my back and dialed his number. The rings were endless until his voicemail kicked in. I couldn’t believe it. “Quentin. It’s Cee
. I’m down near the OK Hotel and could really use a ride.” I hung up, hating the sound of my helpless and pathetic voice.

I handed the phone back to the bouncer. “Thanks.”

“Friend on the way?”

“Um, yeah. Should be here soon,” I lied, moving my exhausted body away from the door. Away from yet another person looking at me like I was a freak.

I wandered in and out of the parked cars that stretched on as far as the eye could see, the muffled ferry horn blowing in the distance. I couldn’t go back. I had no money. No nothing. I had no idea where to go. Minutes stretched forever.

“Miss? Are you okay?” I heard a male voice ask, but assumed he was talking to someone else.

I continued to weave in and out of the cars.

The voice grew closer. “Miss? Do you need help? Have you lost your car?”

I turned around. A guy in his mid-thirties, dressed in khaki’s and a blazer was pointing at me, closing the gap between us. The dark reared up, causing a fine layer of sweat to break out over my freezing body. “Um, no. I’m fine.”

“I can help.”

“I don’t need help,” I said, trying not to be crippled by the frenzy of fear inside me.

“Everyone needs a little help now and then.” He moved closer. Close enough to pinch down on my shoulder. I instinctively came out swinging, and backhanded him across the face. He shook off the sting and gripped my arm like a vice.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he hissed. The stench of his alcohol laced breath set off my gag reflex.

“She’s with me.”

I turned as Quentin stepped from the shadows, his dark clothes blending perfectly with the night. My body flooded with relief at the sound of his commanding voice, while my eyes drank in his beautiful, severe features.

“I think this one can talk for herself,” the man said indignantly, letting go of my arm with a push. My bruised legs collapsed under me. “And I believe she’s with me.”

Quentin’s reply came in the form of a right hook to the man’s jaw line, followed by a left one to the gut.

The guy doubled over writhing in pain.

“Hey!” someone behind me yelled, stirring up a commotion in the parking lot.

Before I could grasp what was happening, Quentin squatted down and scooped me up, moving us away from the small gathering of night owls.

I twisted my head over Quentin’s shoulder and watched the man stand and stumble. His confused features had replaced the bravado of his masculine prowess.  “Quentin, shouldn’t we call the police or . . .” I began to ask.

“Hold still.” His tone was harsh in my ear, which my body responded to and froze. I clung to his black coat, shivering. Greedily inhaling his musky scent. The man’s shouts becoming a distant tirade.

My body relaxed into his as he carried me to his car and deposited me down on the passenger seat. He slammed the door closed, jarring my senses.

He silently climbed in and turned over the engine, tearing out of the parking lot and into the rain.