The Casquette Girls (21 page)

I gazed at the figure and
then back down at the blank page, trying to figure out where to start. I had only drawn three lines before my father came over and changed the position of my pencil in my hand.

“It feels awkward now,” he said, “but once you get used to it, you’ll have more control over the amount of pressure you’re applying.”

He repositioned Isaac’s pencil, too, and then sat down across from us with this own sketchpad.

When the timer buzzed, my father put down his pad, but neither Isaac nor I did. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that my father had not only sketched the entire figure but had already moved on to shading it. Isaac seemed to have finished the outline of the dancer. I was stuck on the feet.

“Pencils down. Don’t worry if you aren’t finished. I probably should have given you a bowl of fruit, but, ya know, there isn’t a piece of produce within fifty miles of this place.” He stood behind me and looked over my shoulder. “Nice job for a first try, especially given the time constraint.” My father was good at turning a critique into some kind of backhanded compliment. “You need to work on proportion. See how your dancer is elongated?”

“Commentary on the emaciated state of ballerinas?” Isaac joked.

I shot him a dirty look. Just because I let him stay did not mean I was interested in his critique.

My father moved on to Isaac’s pad.

“Nice job with the form, especially the slight arch of the back. Capturing movement is one of the hardest parts of drawing.”

I tried not to get into a competitive mindset, but I was definitely annoyed that Isaac was already head of the class. As I listened to my father give him advanced tips, my attention moved to the pile of drawing tools on the table in front of me. I could swear the pile was
moving
.

My nose inched closer – an X-Acto knife was vibrating, causing the pile of charcoal pencils to shake. I blinked a couple of times, and the knife bounced.

I quickly slapped the tool down on the table and reached for its safety cap, causing them both to look up at me. I smiled, and they went back to the critique.

The knife continued to vibrate on the table. Even capped, the little blade made me nervous. I rested a book on top of it.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” my father asked with a quizzical look.

“Mm hmm.”

It rolled out from under the book and onto the floor.
Out of sight, out of mind.

“Okay, we’re going to repeat the exercise.” He turned the statue upside down and leaned it in between two stacks of books so she stood on her head. “But this time I want you to try to forget this is a ballerina. Forget you know she’s a woman and that she’s wearing a tutu. Forget she’s wearing a mask. I want you to look at the object like a newborn baby would, and draw what you see. A series of lines and curves. Groups of shadows and highlights. Try to draw each line exactly as you see it, and replicate each area of negative space as it relates to the boundaries which create it.”

“Why are we doing this, Dad?” I asked, genuinely interested in the process.

“Our minds are trained to call on experiences we already know. Since you know you are drawing a ballerina, your memory informs you what a ballerina should look like. Turning the statue upside down will help you to draw what yo
u
se
e
instead of what yo
u
kno
w
. Fight your intuition; draw what feels instinctual.”

After staring for a couple of minutes, my mind eventually let go of the image of the upside-down ballerina
, and I began to draw lines and shadows as if it was natural. When the timer went off, we both put down our pencils and eagerly flipped our pads around. I expected to see a crazy tangle of graphite, but, to my surprise, a ballerina was staring back at me – feet and all.

“Whoa.”

“This is crazy,” said Isaac.

I looked over at his two sketches. The second was nearly perfect. “Nice job.”

“You both did a nice job,” my father said. “Sometimes, being an artist is about forgetting the constructs society has been instilling in you since birth.”

“Oh my God, Dad, you sound like…”

“What?”

“You sound like an actual teacher.”

He laughed. “Is that so shocking?”

“Well, yeah, kind of… it’s just that teachers are old and bald, and you are… I don’t know, not that.”

“What are you saying? You think I’m cool?”

“Well, no, you are still my dad.”

“On that note, I’m going to quit while I’m ahead. That’s it for the day.”

“Thanks, Mac. That was awesome.”

Does he mean that, or is he just sucking up?
My day around the student body of Sacred Heart had me questioning everyone’s motives.

My dad turned the miniature statue upright and asked, “So, Isaac, how long have you been in town?”

“We arrived from New York about forty-eight hours after the Storm hit, since my father was consulting for the Feds on the initial damage assessment—”

“How exactly did you get in from New York that soon after the Storm hit?” I asked.

“We flew to Jackson, Mississippi, and then drove down to Stennis Space Center. The National Guard took us to the city limits in a giant Hummer, transferred us to a boat, and sent us downriver to the French Quarter. It was pretty surreal. We thought we’d be here for a couple of weeks, but you know how the story goes.”

Isaac came down on a rescue mission? Seriously?

“So, how do you like New Orleans, despite everything?” my father asked.

“Well, to be honest, sir, I haven’t really seen much of the city. I have to get up at four-thirty a.m. to be on site by five. Plus, the curfew.”

“That’s very admirable, son.”

“Thanks. I would really like to see the city, though. It seems like a pretty special place.”

I struggled not to snap my pencil in half. I could see where this was going.

“Well, I’m sure Adele wouldn’t mind showing you around. Right, sweetheart?”

“Dad!”

“What? You know so much about the city from all of those books you read, and you can explain how everything is supposed to look. How it will be again, once everything is rebuilt
—”

“I would love that,” Isaac said, trying to look innocent.

Trickste
r
,
I thought, fuming.

“You want to see the town?” I asked sweetly. “Meet me in front of the Cathedral at seven.”

“It’s a date,” he replied, with a look of concern at my sudden change in mood.

“It’s not a date,” my father corrected. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

“I mean, not a
dat
e
date—”

“If she’s not back by curfew, I can assure you, there will never be another nondate. Is that clear?”

“You’ve got room to talk,” I muttered.

“What
was that, sweetheart—?”

“Yes, sir,” Isaac said. “You don’t have to worry.”

“I’m serious, Isaac. I get that you’re from New York City, but crime’s different here. If I hear that she leaves your sight, it will be the last time you hang out.”

“Dad!”

“No problem, sir. I completely understand, Mr. Le Moyne— I mean, Mac.”

“
I’ll
make sure I’m back by curfew, not Isaac,” I snapped. “Don’t talk about me as if I am not here!” I began to yawn uncontrollably. I tried my best to fight it, but the sleepless night was catching up with me. “I need to take a nap if I am going to make it through our date tonight.”

“It’s not a date, Adele!” my father insisted as I left the table.

“Uh huh.” I hoped it made him sweat. That was the least he deserved for inadvertently playing matchmaker.

“I’ll see you at seven in front of the Cathedral,” Isaac said. I turned back from the door – he tried not to smile while he packed up his things.

“Don’t be late or the deal’s off.”

I could have
easily slept through the night.

Yawning, I cranked the Victrola and forced myself into sheer turquoise tights and a black sweater-dress from Paris. If I was late meeting Isaac, my grand plan wouldn’t work out.

I quickly reapplied the day’s makeup, stealing a few seconds to add a little smoky eyeliner – there was a decent chance we would run into my father down at the bar, and I hoped my appearance would make him think twice before putting me into this position again. Spritz of perfume. His behavior had surprised me. Normally, he did anything he could to keep boys away. Especially boys with long hair and attitudes. Accessorized, I reknotted the loose bun on top of my head and skipped out the door just as “Ziggy Stardust” wound down.

* * *

The sun was setting; a breeze pricked my legs through the tights – the temperature had dropped since I’d last been out. I debated going back for a jacket, but didn’t want to risk being late.

Jackson Square felt creepy without the fortunetellers, artists, and street performers that usually littered the pedestrian streets late into the night. I was surprised but happy to see a few other people standing around the old town square. Isaac was sitting on the steps of the gated park in front of the Cathedral. When the click of my ankle booties against the slate came within earshot, he looked up.

“Hey.” The relief in his voice didn’t escape me.

“Did you think I wasn’t going to show?”

“No, but I guess I kind of deserve to be stood up.”

“Yeah, don’t ever pull anything like that again.”

“Just say yes the next time I ask you out and I won’t have to.” I immediately wanted to smack off his curt smile, but before I could fire back, he quickly added, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight on our first date.”

“It’s not a date, remember?”

“Call it whatever you want. I’m just glad I managed to get you here.”

“It’s not like I really had any say in the matter.”

He ignored the comment. “So what are we doing here, anyway?”

“
Ma bébé!”
That was exactly the booming voice I wanted to hear. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

I turned around, straight into a crushing hug. “Ren… ribs… can’t breathe.”

His eyes were fixed on Isaac before he even set me down. “Hmm, curious…”

“Ren, Isaac wants to learn about the great city of
La Nouvelle-Orléans
, so I thought, what better way to get to know the city than on your walking tour?”

“I see.
Oui, oui. Bienvenue
.” He looked Isaac up and down, as if assessing his heckler-likelihood.

Isaac leaned close to me and lowered his voice: “Nice one.”

I tried my best to contain my extra-wide grin.

“Laissez les bon temps roule
r
!
” Ren yelled, accepting the challenge.

Isaac looked to me. “Are you going to give me a clue?”

I laughed. “In Louisiana at least, it means, ‘Let the good times roll.’”

“Gather around, everyone,” Ren called out to the few people lingering in the square. “So glad you all decided to brave the nightfall. I’m sad to say this tour is going to be cut a little short thanks to the Parish-wide curfew, but don’t worry, you’ll still get all the tales because we won’t be making any drinking pit stops. Unfortunately, everything is closed. Everything legal that is, er—” He cut himself off when he saw the inquisitive look on my face. “But please feel free to partake in your own libations if you brought them.” He lifted his coat to reveal his flask. “It is perfectly legal to drink here on the streets of
La Nouvelle-Orléan
s
.”

The tour hadn’t even begun and already people were enthralled by Ren. “I wonder if he dresses like that all the time?” one of them whispered. I chuckled. Ren was in full gear tonight, somewhere in between the gentleman pirate Jean Laffite and the vampire Lestat.

A quick round of introductions told us that five out of the eight other people on the tour were recovery workers from various organizations and one couple was visiting to help relatives clean out their house. The last person, a blonde woman, offered no real information about herself. Her hair, which flowed down her back in beautiful, wild waves, was so bright it glowed white, and despite the temperature she wore a skintight tank top and a gauzy pink skirt that blew when the breeze picked up.
How is she not freezin
g
?

I looked at Isaac, who was just in a white T-shirt. “Aren’t you cold?”

“No, I’m a New Yorker, remember?”

“Right, how could I have forgotten?”

The woman looked at me, her lips puckering daringly. Chills swept up my spine. I looked away and crossed my arms.