Chapter Six

By the time I get home, Dad has dinner from Taco Shack spread out on the table. I thank him and gather up the white wax paper holding my burrito to carry it up to my room.

Dad puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. “Come on, Ror. I never see you anymore.”

“You sure you don’t want me to pee in a cup first?” I widen my eyes and lean in close. “Want to check my pupils?”

He looks away, and I almost feel bad. Then I remember him being a damn cheater and want to hurt him even more.

He says, “I got you your favorite: a Chili Davis Burrito.”

“I can enjoy it just fine up in my room.”

His expression hardens. “Kelly?” he calls to the dog, who is, of course, parked right at his feet. She looks up at him, tail wagging. He asks her, “Would you like Rory’s burrito for your dinner?”

“Come on, man.” The burritos smell delicious. “You wouldn’t really do that.”

“Try me,” Dad says. “That dog’s ass can blow spicy gas into next week for all I care.”

With a growl, I pull out my chair, fall into it, and bow my head slightly as Dad blesses the food.

Trying to ignore Dad’s disgusting mention of dog farts, I attack my enormous Chili Davis. It’s a perfect blend of cheese and meat and beans and fiery goodness, and a small groan escapes as I chew because the thing is just that good.

Of course, giving in to eating with Dad has a cost. Pretending to be nonchalant about it, he starts to interrogate me about my summer.

“Overcast today,” he says. “Many people up at the lake?”

“Some.” I shrug.

“You’ve been putting in some serious hours lately. How do you like it?”

“Okay.” I hide any trace of enthusiasm.

His seemingly benign questions continue, and I answer with growing hostility that gets hotter and hotter until I finally snap, “Want to know what shade of brown my shit was this morning too, Dad? How about the scent of my farts.” I half stand and wave my hand behind me as if offering him a waft from my butt.

I sit back down hard, and his ears turn red, but he finally quits talking to me. We both chew our food in silence.

It is completely his fault that we hate each other. He wasn’t quite this awful before things went bad with Mom and he turned into a total dick.

He claims that he had to ban me from making art because I need to learn that relationships are more important, but he has no idea how to even have a relationship with me.

I know he’s capable of being a decent father because he used to be. But that was before he stopped trusting me. And long before that day he busted me carrying pot, the kill shot on our relationship.

The fact that he turned our family pet into my snitch was only one of the many messed-up things about the whole incident.

I’d come home and flung my backpack on the stairs as I grabbed a snack from the kitchen. I was only gone a moment. When I crossed back through the living room, Dad was blocking my way to the steps.

“I have a few questions, young lady,” he said, holding up the condemning sandwich baggie filled with herb.

Kelly, the traitor, stood beside him as if she had a few questions of her own.

I’ll admit, my response of, “It’s just a little weed, Dad,” was a pretty poor opener, but it was only a dime bag I was holding for a friend, and I wasn’t expecting him to treat me like I was some sort of depraved drug addict who’d just come in off the street.

Of course, he refused to believe the weed wasn’t mine. Cops always want to think the worst about a person, even when that person is their own daughter.

That weekend, he actually made me sit through some stupid Scared Straight program at the nearby Ossining prison. It’s basically this thing where a bunch of inmates take turns yelling at bad kids in an attempt to freak us out and turn us into good kids.

The inmates with their spittle-filled screams had some compelling arguments for staying out of jail.

Of course, instead of finding myself scared straight, I made friends with a cute stoner from High Falls who’s about five inches shorter than me who got busted dealing chronic.

The two of us couldn’t stop laughing the whole time and we hooked up after our big “release from prison.”

I’m sure word got back to my dad that I didn’t take the exercise all that seriously.

After that, it was clear that he saw me as a completely different person—like I wasn’t even related to him.

Finally, he resorted to banning me from my artwork and tried to put me into some dumb therapy group for teens who are unhappy. It was total bullshit.

Dad will never understand art, and I only pretended to go to his stupid group until he finally caught on that I was ditching and gave up.

If anyone in this household needs therapy, it’s him. I still can’t believe he’s been having a freaking affair.

And now I’ve lost my appetite.

Wrapping the paper around what’s left of my burrito, I stand. “Gotta go.” I head for the kitchen with my leftovers.

“Rory, wait, please. Can we talk?”

“Sorry, Dad. I have to cover a closing shift at Danny’s tonight.”

I walk out of the room and into the kitchen. I’m putting my rewrapped burrito in the fridge when I hear what is most likely his fist pounding hard against the dining room table.

I glance over to the counter, thinking of Mom. I can’t help but smile at his rage.

Got ’em, I think, and head upstairs to put on a pair of jean shorts and get the hell away from this house.

• • •

Okay, so, I’m not technically on the schedule to work at the art store tonight, but I enjoy Kat’s company way more than my dad’s.

After I get dressed, I head straight over to Danny’s since I wouldn’t put it past my dad to check up on me. I doubt he’d push things by showing up here at work after our disastrous dinner, but it’s probably best I stick close to where I’m supposed to be.

As usual, once I’m hanging around Danny’s, I can’t help but pitch in anyway. I genuinely love this art store.

Tonight, I’m using Sharpie pens to make a colorful sign that calls attention to our vast selection of Sharpie pens.

Kat is leaning against the counter, watching me. “You do know that Ken will take credit for this, right?” Ken is the store manager, and he loves to let the owner think every new display idea came out of his prematurely balding head.

“I don’t mind.” I tilt back to inspect my handwriting on the bright sign. Grabbing a fresh marker, I start adding thick shadows to my letters.

“Well, obviously you don’t mind. Heck, you’re not even getting paid to be here right now, but it really grates my cheese. If it wasn’t for you and me, this place would have absolutely zero character.”

“So, Ken gets to be the manager. Who needs that level of responsibility?”

Kat spikes up her short, red hair with her fingers. Tonight, her lipstick matches the shade perfectly. “Did you know he and I got hired the same week? We trained together.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

“It’s just so annoying that my clear lack of a nut sack is what cost me that promotion.”

I turn and look at her. “You’ve got lady balls to spare, my friend. Ken just knows how to schmooze with the customers better.”

To emphasize my point, I nod toward the two young women who have been studying the knitting section for the past ten minutes.

Kat rolls her eyes. “I know, I know.” She grudgingly moves out from behind the counter and makes her way over to the yarn girls.

My phone buzzes just as I hear Kat give an artificially cheerful greeting and ask if she can help them find anything. I smile while I check my phone.

When I read the text, my smile drops and my blood pressure soars. It’s from Hayes.

I have a proposition for you.

I stand, staring at the phone for a moment. I’ve experienced my share of booty calls from boys. Usually, I know just how to respond based on an intuitive algorithm that factors in my opinion of the guy who sent it multiplied by my handful of daddy issues and divided by how lonely I’m feeling at that moment.

But I don’t know how to respond to this.

And right now, I hate the way my heart is drumming to a rhythm I’ve never heard before.

“Hey, Kat,” I call. The knitters are talking to her animatedly, but she abandons them to see what just made my voice go all weird.

Leaning over my shoulder, she reads the text. “Who’s it from?”

“That guy, Hayes, who was in the other day.” She looks at me blankly. “The guy with the wet hair who you said was everyone-with-a-pulse’s type.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Hotness. I thought you weren’t interested.”

“Yeah, well, he can be quite convincing.”

“So you’ve been seeing him?”

“I have seen him. That’s all I’m willing to say.”

Kat looks at me. “Yeah. The look on your face right now says all it needs to. What’s the problem?”

“Things have gotten…weird and complex. He might be more intense than I can handle.”

“Intense can be good.” She arches a pierced eyebrow.

“I’m freaking out over a simple text from the guy right now,” I say. “This is not good.”

“Okay, okay. Just ask yourself: Is a proposition from this guy something you feel interested in?”

I roll my eyes. “You met him. Of course I’m interested in messing around. But I’m not interested in a relationship and he seems to think that’s, I don’t know…part of it.”

“So, he wants a relationship and you don’t?”

“Actually, he’s not looking for a relationship either. At least not until he does some sort of AA homework. Like I said, it’s weird and complex.”

“Maybe he just wants to hook up.”

I smile. “Yes. Maybe it’s just a hookup.” I type back: What sort of proposition?

He writes back right away: Two words. Ice. Caves.

Kat reads his text out loud and says, “Nice and kinky, but not very convenient. Does he know the ice caves are open to the general public? There could be children present.”

I shake my head. “He doesn’t want sex. He wants me to take him on an actual tour of the ice caves.”

“Oh. Are you sure? I mean, this exchange could be interpreted in several ways.”

“No, I’m sure.” I wonder if he’s agreeing to help me with my project and this is the cost, or if he’s simply continuing to blackmail me as his own personal tour guide for the whole Hudson Valley area.

I type: What are you offering in return? I hope his response isn’t something like “secret keeping,” but he quickly writes back.

All that lies beyond the wardrobe.

Of course it’s a nerdy Narnia reference. Kat wrinkles her nose and says, “Beyond the wardrobe? Is this him promising to take you clothes shopping, or is he saying he wants you naked?”

“I don’t know. It’s weird and com—”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s complex. I get it.” She heads back to sort out the yarn girls who are now pawing through a rainbow of wool. Over her shoulder, Kat calls to me, “Just be careful the two of you don’t get caught.” She turns and walks backward a few steps so she can admonish, “And try not to melt all that ice.”

I laugh as I text Hayes, letting him know I’m free to take him to the caves tomorrow. It seems like putting ourselves on ice is the best thing the two of us can do right now.

• • •

Mom is giving me a pep talk about the importance of staying dedicated to my art no matter what, and she has me feeling like a total slacker. While listening to her, I’m sitting at the kitchen counter, doodling lions in my sketchbook.

“You need to trust the little voice inside your head that tells you that you can do better, that prodding to try harder. It’s the harsh, cruel taunting that will push you to make great art, not that gentle whisper that looks at your work and says, ‘Hey, that’s pretty good.’”

I tear out my page of doodles and crumple it into a ball.

Beginning with a clean sheet, I bear down on my pencil and draw more deliberately now. Must focus. Envision each stroke magnified, that water tower lion coming to life.

“If you are not willing to sacrifice everything for your art, you have no right calling yourself an artist.” Mom’s voice rises. “Art costs. Always. The greater the art, the greater the cost. Sometimes, the cost seems more than you can imagine. More than you feel you can bear to give. But if you don’t flinch or falter, you might one day create something great.”

She smiles to herself and I’m mesmerized for a moment by how beautiful she is. Her features are much more delicate than mine, but I’m glad I at least have her eyes.

Her brow collapses. “Of course, when you do create something truly great, the masses will rise up to label you a phony or a hack or, worst of all, unoriginal.”

I flinch at that last word. The word that crushed her.

I was about seven years old when Mom finally felt ready to share her artwork with the world. I still remember how she agonized over which galleries to submit to, carefully writing the perfect artist’s statement and cover letter, putting her heart on the line. She got rejected again and again, and each time she would be devastated for days. Anyone reading through her rejections could see that she was so, so close but she took each one so hard.

It was clear all she needed was more time to really break through. But an artist can stay stuck at so, so close for many, many years. It can become a scorching desert of hopeless wandering.

Finally, after almost seven years of rejections, a small gallery in New York City agreed to host her exhibit. When she got the phone call with the good news, it was a euphoric day for all of us—the happiest I’d ever seen her by far. Almost as happy as she looks in that old photograph on my dresser.

Mom worked night and day for weeks on her installation. When it was finally time for the opening reception, she bought a new dress, and we all went into the city, and she announced that everything was finally beginning.

Dad and I hung back in a corner, watching her blossom before our eyes. She wasn’t ours anymore.

Everyone raved over what she had created. A guy came from some big prestigious art magazine and took pictures. Everything was great, and even though the article was shorter than we’d hoped and the exhibit eventually had to make way for the next new, exciting breakout artist, Mom was walking around like a brighter, shinier version of herself.

If only she’d never googled her name.

“That guy had nothing to lose,” I say quietly. “He wasn’t even using his real name; it was easy for him to be careless and cruel.”

She knows who I’m talking about. An anonymous poster on a popular online discussion forum about local artists who pointed out some minor shortcomings in Mom’s big exhibit. I mean, minor, perceived shortcomings in his humble, fucked-up opinion.

He had the nerve to call Mom’s work unoriginal.

She couldn’t get out of bed for a week after reading his comments.

“I don’t know if anyone can appreciate how hard it is for an artist to put their work out there.” I can see Mom’s eyes are welling up with tears now, and my throat clenches as she goes on. “Why continue creating when someone can just come along and, metaphorically yet very publically, shit all over you and your work?”

I know she’s given so much for her art, and with a tug, my mind turns to all I’ve sacrificed for her art. All the small neglects. The losses that can never be regained, time she spent locked away from me where I wasn’t allowed, while her art kept her distracted and made her whole.

My mom’s art is amazing and moving, and I know that it is genuinely great, but it has been a selfish sibling to grow up with.

Not all my sacrifices have been small.

Just then, I hear Dad’s car pull into the driveway. The engine cuts off, and I scamper quickly upstairs.

As his footsteps move into the kitchen, I can hear Mom’s voice getting high with sorrow. “Art is all that matters. Art is my breath. It’s my life. If I can’t make art, I am nothing.”

Before I hear Dad’s response, I close my door quietly. And when he comes upstairs to check on me, I pretend to be asleep.

I hear him shuffle to his bedroom, probably getting to bed early, so he’s fresh for the semicolon that’s set in his calendar for tomorrow morning.

That blasphemous punctuation means he’s obviously meeting that woman again; I just wish I knew where. I need to put an end to this. He wouldn’t meet her anyplace local, and I haven’t figured out a way to track him down and confront him.

Our electronic devices are connected through an app that lets us find each other on the map, but using the app makes the device that’s being traced beep loudly. It’s not exactly a stealthy way to track a person down.

I’m actually pretty grateful for that loud beeping feature, since without it, Dad would be able to find me anytime he wanted. I’d hate my life even more if I had to worry about my father tracking me all around New Paltz by my phone without my knowledge. I pull the covers tight against my neck at the thought.

I should really get up and brush my teeth, but it’s been such a long day, I don’t want to move. I let the tiredness wash over me a moment, then force myself to go quietly to the bathroom and get ready for bed.

While flossing, I think back to what Mom was saying about art and sacrifice. I’ve gotten soft lately, reaching for satisfaction outside of my creating, seeking comfort when I know that the life of an artist is not meant to be comfortable.

I need to get moving on painting my giant lion. If Hayes isn’t the right person to help me, I’ll find someone else, but if I don’t continue moving forward, making better art, I’m doomed to stay stuck forever.

Dad might never understand, but Mom and I are so connected, we’re like the same person. I know that she gets it. Absolutely.