Angry God

I drove him crazy, because he was driving me insane. I wanted to fight him, to hurt him for what he was doing to me. Bite him. Taste him. Feel him.

I often snuck into the house as he was leaving, tired and dirty, his hair a disheveled mess. He would climb into his beat-up truck and frown at me silently, as if trying to squeeze answers out of me telepathically.

“Lenora?”

I heard a soft knock on Poppy’s door. Dad must’ve heard my voice coming from this room.

“Come in, Papa.” Poppy quickly wiped the remainder of her tears with the tissue I’d given her and straightened her back, plastering a rather creepy smile on her face. She never wanted to upset our father. One of the many sacrifices she’d made since we’d lost Mum. Poppy was the epitome of a considerate daughter, while I wore morbid clothes and bit boys who pissed me off.

My father stood in the doorway, his long, gray, curly hair spiraling atop his head like an eccentric Elton John hat, his beard almost reaching his round, Buddha belly. Papa looked like a Harry Potter character—a softhearted wizard professor who seemed big and intimidating, but wouldn’t hurt a fly. He loved Mum and us, I knew, but I always had the distinctive feeling we came right after his art.

Mum hadn’t wanted him to open Carlisle Prep—he still did.

Mum would kill him if she were alive to see that he’d ripped us from England to America for his project. He couldn’t resist a good challenge.

Papa knew I never wanted a life outside of art, and he never pushed me for more—not to date boys, not to make friends who weren’t Rafferty, not to live life.

The list went on, naturally.

“What are you girls up to?” He glanced between us with an apologetic smile. That was the sort of relationship we had with Papa. A bit too formal for my liking.

Again, he cared—didn’t miss one parent-teacher conference, and always made sure we were provided for and did something fantastic over the summer. He planned elaborate trips—admiring the wild architecture of Valencia, museums in Hong Kong, galleries in Florence, the pyramids of Egypt. Being a father, however, did not come as naturally to him as being an artist.

It was the Vaughns of the world he found a common language with.

“Oh, nothing much. Just gossiping. How are you, Papa?” Poppy sing-songed, springing to her feet and smoothing her pajamas. “You must be starving. Shall I put some leftover lasagna in the microwave for you?”

I tried not to stare at her too bewilderedly. I wondered what it felt like to cut your feelings off with scissors, like a broken marionette. In trying to be so strong, she weakened herself. I hated to see her hurting.

“That’d be grand, Pop. Cheers. Lenny, may I have a word with you?” He reached his giant, cracked palm in my direction.

I took it and silently stood up.

It was unlike Papa to initiate a serious conversation. Had Vaughn told him something? Did he snitch on me? Tell him I was seeing boys? Not that Papa would care. If anything, he would encourage it.

What the hell was it?

“In the studio.” Papa tugged my hand, leading me to the attic where he had a small studio—in addition to the one in our backyard where he kept some of his unfinished work. The attic was more intimate.

I followed him, racking my brain for what was to come. My father and I chatted all the time during dinners and when we were watching the telly. We talked about the weather and school and Poppy’s busy schedule and his work. The only thing we didn’t talk about was me.

Even when I’d given him my final piece for the internship assignment last month—a human-sized skull made solely from vintage tin cans—I’d quickly averted the conversation to something else, careful not to catch any disappointment or boredom he might be feeling toward my art.

I was expecting the results about that any day now, but in the form of a formal letter. I knew better than to expect my father to bend the rules and break the news to me in person.

We climbed up the narrow, spiraling stairs to the attic. The white wooden floor creaked under our weight as we entered the roof-shaped loft. The aroma of shaved stone, the coldness of the marble and granite giants, and clouds of dust did nothing to disguise the unique scent of Vaughn Spencer that immediately crawled into my nostrils—delicious, formidable, and full of danger. I tried to ignore it, and the shiver it brought along.

He was here tonight. I had heard their voices drifting through the opened window of the attic only ten minutes ago.

“Gentle with the chisel, now, lad. Do not cock this one up. It’s too precious for both of us.”