Abby squeezed our arms. “Remember, you promised to behave yourselves tonight. Act like gentlemen and at least pretend to be interested in the artwork. And don’t go crazy on the food—there’s going to be a lot of people here. Oh, Quentin…”
She reached up and flattened my collar out. “Couldn’t you have at least ironed your shirt?” She said it with a half smile, like she already knew the answer.
“Are you kidding me?” I said. “I have a really good memory and you said nothing about ironing.”
Abby rolled her eyes and gave Rob the once-over. “Nice tie. You might as well get some refreshments—I know you’re dying to—and then meet me over on the far side there. I need to go find somebody first.”
Rob and I waited until Abby was out of arm’s reach before sprinting toward the tables like gentlemen pirates.
The spread was even more impressive close-up. I doubted that the art club had that kind of budget. It made me look forward to the day I was sixty-five-plus. Rob and I sampled from several of the tables as we piled up our foam plates. We ate the goods down to an Abby-approved portion before grabbing cups of punch and heading off to look for her. As an afterthought, I grabbed an extra cup for her and balanced it between my arm and chest.
Abby waved to us from the far side of the makeshift gallery. She stood next to someone I was sure I had seen before in the hallways at school. I figured he was probably an eighth-grader. He was tall, with dark hair and thick eyebrows. He said something and laughed. Abby laughed, too.
“Hey, guys,” Abby said, still smiling. “This is Justin Masterson. He’s in the art club with me.”
“Rob and Quentin, right?” Justin nodded in our direction. “Abby’s told me all about you two. I didn’t think either of you liked art much.”
His tone of voice immediately rubbed me the wrong way. I shrugged. “Who doesn’t like art?”
“Yeah.” Rob nodded. “I mean, I draw sometimes. Doodles. And stuff.”
Justin’s smile didn’t move. He had very white teeth. “Cool. Then I’m sure you’ll like our show.” He motioned toward the nearest wall. “Do you want a tour?” He started forward without waiting for a response.
“Oh,” I said, pushing one of the cups of punch toward Abby. “I got this for…” It was then that I realized she was already holding a drink.
Both of our eyes darted back and forth between the cups.
“Oh,” Abby finally said. “Thanks. Um … Justin brought me some just a minute ago.” She raised her eyes from the cups to look at me. “That was nice, though.” Then she followed after Justin and Rob.
I looked at the two cups and the plate of goodies I was juggling in my hands. With a sigh, I balanced the plate on my forearm and took one of the cups in my free hand. I drained it in a single chug. Grape. Stacking the full cup into the empty one, I followed the group.
“We’ve been studying different modern art movements,” Abby was explaining as I caught up. “And then we tried to copy the style of the artists we’ve studied.”
Justin raised his hand toward the paintings on the wall. “Like this. Our Impressionist paintings.” He took a deep breath, as though smelling the paint.
I looked closer at a painting of a doorway and chair. It seemed blurry, as if it had been soaked in a tub of water. “This one looks like it’s a little out of focus to me.”
“Guess it’s time for glasses, Quentin.” Abby laughed.
Justin didn’t. “That’s the way it’s supposed to be. You know, like Monet. The French painter.”
“Ah. Gotcha.” I turned toward Rob and rolled my eyes. Rob snorted and stuffed a cherry tart into his mouth.
Justin motioned to the wall across from us. “These were done after studying Jackson Pollock. Abstract expressionism.”
I stared at the ten paintings arranged neatly on the wall. Each one had been splattered again and again with different colors of paint. It looked more like an accident than artwork.
Rob stepped forward and poked at one of the paintings. “I didn’t know you had kindergarteners in your club.”
“Rob!” Abby said.
Justin ignored the comment. “This style is a lot harder than it looks to do right. I think the one here at the top is the best.” He took a step to the side and lightly placed his hand on Abby’s back. “Painted by a brilliant artist I know.”
I had a cream-filled pastry headed toward my mouth, but it froze in midair when I saw Justin’s hand make contact with the back of Abby’s dress. I waited for her to swat his hand away, but she didn’t. Sure, it was probably just a friendly pat on the back between artists. Or something. But I still couldn’t believe she was letting him touch her. The guy was clearly an idiot. I put the pastry back on my plate.
Abby shrugged her shoulders up around her neck and smiled her dimpled smile. “I think they’re all very good.”
Even then Justin kept his hand on her back. We all stood there, staring at the splattered rectangles hanging on the wall. Except for me. I tried to distract myself by calculating how much gel Justin must have used to get the wave into the front of his hair. It’s gotta be solid enough to ride a skateboard on, I thought. Then my eyes wandered again to Justin’s hand on Abby’s back. Someone had to save her.
“So what’s in the next room?” I blurted out.
Justin gave Abby a quick smile and a sidelong glance before pushing her gently ahead of him toward the opening between the fake walls.
“This is our Cubism room,” Abby said as we passed into it. There were several other people looking at the artwork across the room.
“Cubism … like Picasso,” I said quickly. I was tired of knowing less than the idiot.
“Very good, Quentin.” Justin said it as though he were teaching an art class. “Picasso, Braque, Gris. They tried to take the world apart and put it back together in a way no one had ever seen before. Revolutionary.”
The idiot had apparently memorized whole paragraphs out of his art textbook.
“Okay,” Abby said quickly. “Next room.”
Rob was studying the paintings on the nearest wall. “What exactly did you take apart and put back together?”
The paintings looked like a person, probably a woman, but beyond that it was all brown squares and lines to me. I read the title under one of the paintings. Abby by the Pool.
Abby waved us toward the adjoining room. “I think you guys will like this next one.”
“Is that really a picture of you, Abby?” Rob asked.
“We needed a model for these paintings, and we managed to talk Abby into it,” said Justin. “She had some great definition in her swimsuit, so she was perfect for it.”
“You modeled for everyone in your swimsuit?” I probably said that louder than I needed to. I remembered the days when Abby wouldn’t go down to the river in anything but shorts and a T-shirt. Last summer, to be exact.
Abby held up her hands. “No, it wasn’t like that! Well, I mean, we went swimming afterward. It was a pool party, with a little painting at the beginning. Everyone was in their swimsuit.”
Still, for some reason I had a hard time picturing Abby’s art club gathered around staring at her as she lounged in front of the pool. I glanced over at Justin, who looked more than a little well-built in his thick sweater and slacks.
Abby’s cheeks flushed pink. “Can we please move to the next room now?”
As she headed off, Justin leaned over to me. “You know, in college art courses, they use nude models for this kind of thing.” He winked at me and followed Abby.
I glared at his back. For some reason, I felt like taking him apart and putting him back together in a way he hadn’t seen before.
“Hey, Quentin, are you going to eat the rest of that?” Rob pointed to my plate. I handed it to him and followed Justin.
The next room took me by surprise. Instead of pictures on the walls, there were … things … around the room. An old corded telephone stretched out, holding up laundry. A pair of canvas shoes with dood
les all over them. And in the center of the room, on a shallow pedestal, was a white porcelain toilet bowl—filled to the top with M&M’S.
A man and his wife were on the other side of the room, nodding and smiling, as if sharing a joke. Two ladies with white hair and shawls also wandered through the room.
“What the heck is this?” Rob asked, half a cupcake in his mouth.
“Dadaism,” Justin said. “Anti-art. It made fun of all the rules that the art world lived by. There was this guy named Duchamp who turned a urinal upside down and named it Fountain. I wanted to try something kind of like that.” He patted the shiny white toilet tank. “I call it Candy Dish. Pretty cool, eh? I found the toilet out at the scrap yard, and then stuffed the bowl with newspapers and cardboard so I wouldn’t have to fill the whole thing with M&M’S.”
Rob reached down and grabbed a handful of candy.
I stared at him. “Rob. You just took those out of a toilet bowl.”
He popped a few into his mouth. “Weren’t you listening? It’s not a toilet bowl, it’s anti-art.”
Justin grinned. “Awesome, man. That’s the spirit of it. Most of us in the group really got into Dadaism, but Abby says we’re crazy.” He slipped his arm around Abby’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “I still think we can win her over.”
After he finished speaking, Justin’s hand didn’t move. It just sat there, like it was superglued to Abby’s arm. Again, I waited for Abby to do something, but she just glanced down at his hand, and then looked up at me, biting her lip. I felt sorry for her. She was obviously uncomfortable with this guy’s paws on her, but she was too shy to say anything about it.
A voice came over the intercom, asking the art club kids to come to the front for a brief presentation.
Abby ducked out from under Justin’s arm. “Why don’t you two take a look at the rest of the artwork before our presentation? It won’t be very long, I promise.”
As she started toward the front of the hall, Justin offered her his hand. She hesitated slightly, and then placed her hand in his. Together they disappeared into the maze of moveable walls.
My eyes stayed focused on the exit long after they passed through.
As I stood there, the two old ladies stepped up beside me to stare at Justin’s candy dish commode.
“Well, I have to say, that looks like a toilet full of candy to me,” said one.
“Better than a toilet full of something else,” said the other.
They both cackled.
After that, I didn’t really feel like looking at the other works of art. Rob went back to the refreshment tables for a refill, and I managed to find my way outside for some fresh air. After all, it was crowded in there.
I stood on the front lawn of the community center, surrounded by senior citizens flashing their dentures at one another. All I could think about was Justin standing next to Abby, laughing. And Abby standing next to Justin, laughing back with a dimple in her cheek.
I felt a little dizzy, like my stomach had just dropped a foot or two.
Must have been something in the punch.
Chapter 6
The next day I walked home from school by myself, since Abby had art club again and Rob was running an errand for his mom. The community center looked strangely empty as I passed it. Of course, that was probably because it wasn’t packed with two hundred old people in ties and cuff links. But seeing it—even without the crowd—reminded me of last night, something I was trying hard not to think about.
I distracted myself by counting the number of steps between fire hydrants, and by thinking about my history paper, and about asking Mom for money for our biology field trip to the fish hatchery, and about what I was going to have for an afternoon snack.
And about why on earth had Abby worn shoes with heels last night.
Clearly, distracting myself wasn’t working.
Abby had been a regular part of my life for years. I didn’t have to spend a lot of time thinking about her. She was always there. One of the guys. But since the art show, every other thought was about her. Abby with her cup of punch. Abby laughing. Abby standing next to Justin with his arm around her.
My stomach knotted up.
Why did that bother me so much? Abby was my best friend. Like a sister.
That was it. I’m kinda her protective older brother. Of course I don’t want to see some guy’s arm around her. Especially not an idiot supreme like Justin. Abby deserves better than that.
I arrived home lost in thought. I let myself in, dropped my backpack on the couch, and headed to the kitchen. I started rooting around for something to eat, when I heard Mom’s voice coming from her room. I hadn’t noticed her car down in the parking lot, but I hadn’t been looking for it, either. She usually left for work before I got home. I paused, scooping out a glob of peanut butter, to listen.
“Of course I wouldn’t, Ethan. You know me better than that.” Mom’s voice sounded thin and frustrated. “No, that’s just it. We can’t afford the rent. We’ll be thrown out onto the curb within a month.… It won’t help if I’m late for work.… No, I appreciate your support, you know I do.… All right. Love you, too.”
I heard the beep of the phone and then Mom’s footsteps. I tried to look really interested in my sandwich making.
“Oh, hey, honey. I didn’t hear you come home.”
I glanced over my shoulder. She was in her coveralls and white baseball cap. I almost expected to see tears running down her cheeks or something. But she looked as normal as ever.
“Hey, Mom.” I tried to keep my voice steady.
“You staying in this afternoon or coming by Mick’s?”
“Um…” I tried to form a complete sentence, but my head felt fuzzy, the echoes of the overheard phone call with Uncle Ethan ricocheting in my skull. We can’t afford the rent. We’ll be thrown out onto the curb within a month.
“I’ll, uh, be there in a few. I’m doing homework with Rob.”
“Okay. See you there.” She grabbed her keys off the hook and rushed out the door.
Mom never really talked to me about money. She always gave me a few dollars a week for pocket cash if I helped keep the apartment clean, but other than that I never paid attention to our financial situation. It’s not like I was completely clueless—I knew we didn’t have much. But I always assumed we had enough.
Had our landlord raised the rent?
Were we broke?
A sickly feeling settled at the bottom of my stomach as I pushed aside my unfinished peanut butter and jam. Not being able to afford rent would mean not having a place to live. We already lived in the cheapest apartment complex in town. Maybe Mom would get a second job, which would make her even more tired. Maybe I would need to get a job.
It was a slow walk to Mick’s, as the weight of the world seemed to press a little more onto my shoulders. And then the anger started oozing out of me, like jelly from the edges of my sandwich. Anger directed toward Anthony Chinetti.
My dad.
In the seven years since he’d left, I’d never really thought about him. Or rather, I’d tried not to think about him. I’d tried so often that my mind automatically deflected thoughts that might lead in his direction. Father’s Day wasn’t on my personal calendar. I avoided playing Little League because someone’s dad was always the coach. I’d even dropped out of Cub Scouts back in the day because my Pinewood Derby car always looked pitiful compared to the kids who had fathers with jigsaws and sanders.
It wasn’t that I hated the man, or resented him, or missed him. Mom still had a photo of him somewhere, but if I allowed myself to try, I don’t think I could even picture his face.
He was just a gaping hole in my life.
But as I kicked at the sidewalk on the way to Mick’s, I shot angry fireballs into that gaping hole. Taking care of the family is the father’s job. The man is responsible for making sure everyone has enough to eat, that they have clothes on their backs …
That the rent gets paid.
I took up my place at the picnic table, but didn’t even bother to open my books. I looked over at garage bay three, where Mom had started working on an old Grand Am. Shocks replacement. She looked up and waved.
I waved back. I couldn’t see the worry on her face from where I sat, but I knew it was there.
It wasn’t long before Rob showed up and plopped down beside me. “Dude, Quentin, you were supposed to have your homework done by now so I could copy it.” He pulled a binder from his backpack, along with a bag half-full of Golden Wok fortune cookies.
“Chow mein last night?” I asked as I reached for a handful.
“No. Potstickers with meat inside. And fried rice.”
“You have it tough.” I broke into the cookies, tossing the paper fortunes into my backpack.
“Are you kidding? Fighting Marcus for the leftovers he brings home is no easy job. I never even get a taste of the moo shu pork. Are we waiting for Abby?”
“She’s at art club.”
“Oh, yeah. Hey, that Justin guy sure had his hands all over her last night, didn’t he? Seems like they might be more than just art club buddies.”
The thoughts that had trailed me for most of the day suddenly reappeared. I sighed and crunched another cookie. “You noticed that, too?”
Rob snorted. “Yeah. Hard not to. I mean, I hear it happens sometimes, eighth-graders hooking up with seventh-graders—”
“Should we start with English?” I dusted the paper fortunes off my folder and pulled it out of my backpack.
Rob glanced at me. “Um, sure.” He flipped open a textbook. “Hey, Ricky Mitchell told me he set up a new bike jump over at Lincoln Hill Park. Says you can get some sweet air time. We should go check it out today.”
The Heartbreak Messenger Page 3
