Sweet Nothing (7 page)

I feel a searing flash of anger toward my father. Hot tears weigh heavy on my lower lashes.

“I don’t know. But I’ll try to figure something out, okay?”

“I’m scared.”

“I know. But it’s gonna be okay. I promise.” Another lie.

“She’s coming.” Aria’s voice drops to a whisper. “I’ve gotta go.”

The line goes dead.

I lean against the brick, trying to catch my breath. Sweat slips down my back; my heart pounds accusingly in my chest. What the hell is happening to me? It’s like I’ve been unraveling slowly ever since that afternoon six month ago, when my father and I played our last game of checkers.

It was a habit of ours, a way for us to reconnect during those rare moments when he wasn’t working and I wasn’t in school. But this time was different. It was a Tuesday, in the middle of the afternoon. Dad should have been at work. Instead, he’d been sitting in the library, staring at the checkerboard when I’d gotten home. It was strange, seeing him that way. He looked sick. Shaky. So when he asked me to play, I did.

—King me.
I’d slid my piece to the edge of the board, searching his face for clues. He hadn’t said much, but something was wrong.

—You’re getting too smart for your old man, you know that?
He rubbed his beard, stubbly and white where he used to be clean-shaven.
Gives me some hope you’ll be alright. Aria, though… promise me you’ll always look out for her, okay?

—Dad? Are you… okay?

—No, Elliot.
I’m not. We’re not.
We’d sat in silence after that for too long. How long, I don’t know. Minutes, hours, years… the waiting was torture.

—Do you remember hearing about that couple’s death on the news last week?

—Of course, dad. But what does that have to do with anything?
And then he’d said the words that had started and ended everything.

—It’s… my fault. And it’s over, baby. It’s all over.

I jump when my phone rings again.

“Aria, I told you I would work something out, but you’ve got to give me time, okay?”

“Elle? Hello? It’s Luke. Poulos. You okay?”

“Oh. Hey.” Just hearing the kindness in his voice makes my eyes sting. “I’m fine.”

“Okay. Well, good.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “I was just calling to see if you were coming tonight. To the opening?”

“Oh. Right.” I can’t possibly go when my life, my family, are crashing down around me. And yet, the only thing I want to do is forget about everything that’s happened today. While I’m wishing, I’ll wish the past six months never happened.

“It’s gonna be awesome,” he promises. “Basically just a showing for all the kids who took summer school this year, and there are some seriously talented kids in this crew. Like, better than the last exhibit I saw at MOCA. Plus, I’m serving mini quiches.”

“That’s amazing. You should have opened with the mini quiches.”

There’s a long pause on the other end. As much as I want to believe I’m a good enough liar to pull off Easy Breezy Elle, I know Luke can tell that something’s wrong. The tears I’ve been fighting so hard to ignore trace salty, winding paths down my cheeks.
It’s just money. Aria will be okay.
I feel stupid; shallow for getting this upset. People have money problems every day. People survive them.

“Okay. Listen.” Luke’s voice is soft. “Sounds like you’ve had a really tough day. Correct?”

“Yeah,” I whisper, my own voice thick with emotion.

“Then as your faculty mentor, it’s my job to make things better. Correct?”

“I don’t think you can fix this, Luke.”

“Obviously, you underestimate the power of the mini quiche.”

I can’t help it: I laugh. “My mistake.” I wipe my eyes with the heel of my hand.

“Rookie mistake. Okay. Here’s the plan. It’s 4:30 now. You have just over an hour to get ready. Dress is artsy-whatever-the-hell-you-want. I’ll pick you up at 5:45 and bring you to the reception where you will have mandated fun and forget whatever’s bothering you.”

Under normal circumstances, it would be hot, having him take charge like this. But tonight, I’m not sure that I can put on a party face.

“But Luke, I—”

“MANDATED FUN!” he practically yells.

I take a long, shuddery breath. “Okay.” It’s worth a shot, trying to distract myself from the disaster that is my life. I’ll deal with everything tomorrow. But tonight, I want to pretend that everything is okay.

Tonight, I want Luke to help me forget.

Elle,

I’m sorry about yesterday. You have your own problems down there and I didn’t mean to dump our shit on you, too. I think it’s awesome that you’re doing everything on your own. I wish I could be more like you that way.

I was thinking… what if I took some time off after this year? Came down to Miami to hang with you?

Love you for infinity,

A

“What a cool space,” I breathe, stepping through a high, arched doorway. Luke nudges me over the threshold, his fingertips grazing the back of my peach silk maxi-dress. Heat from his touch pulses through me. I pinch the hot pink piping around my waist. “Feels almost like a church.”

“It used to be.” He pulls the heavy wooden door closed behind us. “A chapel, really. It was abandoned for a long time. I’m surprised somebody didn’t snap it up sooner; knock it down. South Beach is just a few blocks away.”

“It’s the perfect place for an art show.” I step into an open space with vaulted ceilings and pristine white stucco walls. The floors are a worn hard wood covered in colorful, patterned area rugs. There’s a sitting area with a retro yellow couch and two leather armchairs, plus a long, reclaimed wood dining table surrounded by mismatched chairs. A rickety white staircase leads to a lofted area. “How’d you get the owner to let you use the place?”

“It’s… mine, actually. I’ve been renovating it for the last few years.”

“You did all this yourself?” Long, thin stained glass windows cast hazy rainbows over Luke’s chiseled jaw and defined chest.

“It’s been fun,” he says lightly. “Treating the place like one giant piece of art. Hey. Speaking of, take a look at these.” He leads me to one side of the room, where canvases and photographs of various sizes are arranged on long wooden shelves.

“Student art?”

He nods. “This is the reason I teach this stuff. So much of the time, I think we go through the day just lecturing at our students. We don’t give them credit for being actual people, for having something real to say. If we just give them the space and materials, it’s crazy what they can express, you know? It’s cool just to be a part of the process.”

I stare at him, wondering if he’s real, or the Universe’s idea of a sick joke. A smart, sensitive guy who looks this good in jeans doesn’t seem genetically possible.

“I’m rambling. You probably don’t care about this stuff.”

“No. Stop. I do.” I reach out to shove him playfully, and my hand lands on his chest. It’s rock solid, the kind of chest that makes me want to drop to my knees wherever the altar used to be and give thanks. I can feel his heart beating beneath his t-shirt. Neither of us pulls away.

“I get kind of carried away sometimes.” His eyes find mine, and suddenly I’m not sure if he’s talking about art or work or the insane energy buzzing between us.

“I love how much you love your job.”

“It’s just that after… the accident, art was the thing that saved me. People get really uncomfortable when you tell them you’re sad, or pissed, or whatever. But with art, you can say what you need to and it’s okay.”

A lump forms in my throat, and I nod. I want to take away the pain I see in his eyes. But I recognize that kind of pain; know it well. And I know that there’s nothing I can do to wrestle him from its grip.

“What up, Mr. Poulos?” The door flies open, and Vi Miller prances in, followed by a gaggle of mini dress-clad girls. Who look less like girls and more like women on their way to a Real Housewives casting call. They teeter in on too-high stilettos. It’s stupid, but suddenly my flat Grecian sandals don’t feel like enough.

Luke coughs and takes a giant step back. “Come on in, folks. There’s soda and snacks in the kitchen. What can I get you?” As he passes me he whispers
sorry
, his lips nearly grazing my ear, which does zero to ease the tension in my body.

I hang by the art wall as small groups of students arrive, plus a few art teachers I haven’t met. Apparently, this isn’t a school-wide event. So Luke really did want me here, after all. In his house. My eyes follow the staircase to the lofted room above, where a king-size mattress rests beneath a huge mobile, probably six feet wide, made of colored glass and bits of broken pottery. I can picture Luke stretched out beneath it, diluted color rinsing his body. I can picture my mouth on him.

“Care for a cocktail?” Suddenly, Luke is next to me, carrying a red solo cup splattered in pink paint. I inhale a sharp breath. “Ginger ale, with a twist of lime.”

“Sure. Just one, though.” I smile and take a sip. It really is straight ginger ale, which makes me laugh. “More than one of these, and who knows what could happen.”

“Ms. Sloane! Pretty cool for a party with no booze, right?” Vi Miller invades our space, followed by a few other girls from my first period class. Part of me is irritated, the other part grateful. As much as I want to be alone with Luke, I know it isn’t a good idea.

“Inappropriate, Vi,” I say dryly, smiling at the girls. “By the way, I saw your dad’s latest listing in the paper this morning. Not bad.”

“Right?” she grins.

After what my roommates have come to call the Santiago Setback, I’ve made it my mission to know what each student’s parents do/own/govern, to avoid any more mishaps. This morning, Waverly had informed me that Mr. Miller was an independently wealthy real estate agent who showed one, maybe two houses a year. His latest: a cozy little place on Star Island with a price tag of approximately 22 million. Mrs. Miller didn’t need an occupation, other than being married to Mr. Miller.

“So tell me which of these pieces are yours,” I say to the girls.

“Mine is the still life,” Priya (Father: Raj! Botany professor at the University of Miami! Mother: Banhi! Ball-busting litigator!) nods shyly at one of the canvases on the wall.

“Awesome use of color,” Luke praises her. Priya’s cheeks turn pink. “Vibrant.” I like the way he talks to his students: caring, but still authoritative. He’s not one of those teachers who tries to be popular. But he is.

“And I did the charcoal sketch,” Vi says loudly, flicking a deliberately messy fishtail braid over one shoulder. “which could be worth like twenty grand.”

“And how did you get to that figure, exactly?” I shouldn’t tease her. Anyone with the potential to drum up twenty grand at the moment is doing better than me.

“Mr. Poulos has this software where you can upload an image and it will search the Internet for similar images. At school, we set it up so all of our images get scanned.” She waves me over to Luke’s computer and jiggles the mouse. “See? My sketch is just as good as this guy’s in Denver. And he sold it for twenty grand.”

“Just don’t forget us little people when you’re rich and famous.”

She blinks. “I’m already rich.”

“Famous, then,” I sigh, wondering if I ever acted this spoiled at 17. Knowing I probably did.

“Okay, people. If I could have your attention for just a second.” Luke taps the side of his solo cup with a plastic fork, which makes the girls giggle. Students and teachers cluster around him. Apparently, I’m not the only one who finds him magnetic.

“I want to thank everybody for coming out to support our summer session artists. You guys did some amazing work. So take a look around, check out the kinds of things your colleagues are creating. And if you’re interested in buying any of the pieces, check with me.”

The guys nod, the girls golf clap, and Vi emits a high-pitched “Ow ow!”.

I spend the rest of the reception sipping ginger ale and milling around the chapel. Luke plays host, taking pictures of the kids with their artwork and extending trays of mini quiches to the other teachers. The details in this space are exquisite, and a little worn, which gives the place character. There’s an old wooden pew against the back wall—probably an original—that serves as a display shelf for a row of black and white photographs of churches, mosques, and synagogues. Stacks of books on different world religions are stuffed beneath the pew. The curtains are hanging woven tapestries that border the stained glass.

And then there are the kitschy-cool pieces: an antique tricycle parked near the kitchen. A wooden desk with a record player and earphones. A hula-hoop hanging on the wall. A globe nightlight plugged into the wall by the door. A painted wood checkerboard on the coffee table.

I trace the squares with my index finger, wondering if Luke used to play checkers with his father, too. And then, just like that, I am back in the library, sitting across from my father.

—What do you mean, ‘it’s over’, dad?
I’d asked, fear pulsing through me. He’d always been strong; in charge. Seeing him like this had made me feel exposed. Unprotected.

—All of it. And it won’t be long before people figure everything out.

—My blood had turned to ice.

—What do you—I don’t understand. What did you have to do with that couple’s death?
I couldn’t catch my breath. My heart pounded in my ears. Was my father telling me that he was a killer? Suddenly, the room around me felt distorted and unreal. This had to be a nightmare.

—Does Mom know?

—You know, it’s funny…
Dad’s eyes were glassy.
In a way, I’ll be relieved when it’s over. There’s nothing more exhausting than living a lie.

I feel a weight next to me on the couch, drawing me back.

“Freshen your drink?” Luke dumps the contents of his solo cup into mine. I’m suddenly aware that our bodies are touching: his strong arm pressed against my shoulder, his hip nudging my side. His body is comforting. Weighty, when the memory makes me feel like I’m going to float away.