Better Than Running at Night Page 12

  "She must've thought you were totally lame."

  "Probably," I said. "She explained that he was from the Doors and that her friend had been a roadie for him, and that this friend had given her all sorts of tour photos, including the signed one. I remember her holding the picture up to the light and saying she hadn't seen it in years."

  "Yeah, right," Nate said. "She was probably sneaking peeks when your dad was away."

  "I doubt it," I said. "But once we'd sorted out who the guy in the picture was, I was almost disappointed. I asked her if this meant Dad's my dad. That's when she stopped smiling. 'Well, he's your dad,' she said, 'but he didn't father you.'"

  Nate looked at me expectantly. "And then?"

  "And then I flat out asked her who did. 'That I don't know, El,' she said. 'That even I do not know.'"

  One Thing Left

  The next night, Nate was grumpy.

  We were sitting across from each other at my table.

  Sloane was now getting more compliments than he was. Fritz had called her "fearless," "sensual," "an uninhibited modern woman." He never said anything about the quality of the painting itself.

  "That should make you feel good," I said. "He doesn't suspect your stunt."

  Nate was tapping his heel like an overanxious drummer. The vibrations traveled through the floorboards to my foot.

  "But her work sucks! She can paint her awful kindergarten crapola and Fritz won't call her on it. The girl is going to get graded based on my skill. I'll bet you anything she gets a better grade than me!"

  "Maybe Fritz knows what you're up to. Maybe he thinks you shouldn't use homework as an opportunity to hit on girls."

  "But I'm not hitting on her!" he said, slamming his hand on the table. "I'm messing with her mind!"

  "Okay, maybe he thinks it's wrong to be messing with her mind in class."

  "Well, it's none of his business. Even if I was hitting on her, it would be none of his business. That's between me and Sloane."

  "What's between you and Sloane?"

  "Nothing!" He stood up. "Ellie, don't even try to take this conversation in that direction because there's nothing between me and Sloane, and it's not because there couldn't be, but there just isn't."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means there's nothing and that's it."

  He stared vacantly at the drawing of me and Billy.

  "Next week is my last chance. I've got to do something good. Something that'll make her regret she ever went along with this game to begin with."

  Then suddenly his face brightened and he jumped to his feet.

  "There's only one thing left to do," he said. "And it's risky, but I only have one more shot anyway."

  He decided to sleep at home; he had to plan out the next painting.

  That night my muscles felt like stretched rubber bands about to snap.

  Reflection of Romance

  The next night he stayed over.

  We were lying under the covers in the dark with our legs entwined.

  "I see art as a reflection of romance," he declared after we'd split a bottle of wine.

  "How do you mean?" I asked, giggling. Ever since we'd opened the wine, everything he said seemed funny.

  "No, I'm serious," he said. "This isn't a joke. I don't usually talk about this stuff with people, but I know you'll get it."

  "Okay, so how is art a reflection of romance?" I asked, keeping the corners of my mouth from curling upwards.

  "Every mark, every gesture an artist makes is an expression of the lover inside him. We make images we like, we become attached to them, it's hard to see the errors, we fall in love with our creations. We're trying to create the perfect lover."

  "I don't think I do that." I imagined myself in bed with Ivan the Terrible.

  "It's not something you can control. We all do it."

  "What if you're painting morbid scenes? What if you're portraying murder?"

  "Love isn't always pretty," he said mournfully. "Sometimes people prefer the rough, untamed side of humanity." He yanked the covers over our heads and wrestled with me in the tangled sheets.

  "Well what kind of lover do you think I'm trying to create?" I asked when he finally let me pin him.

  "You?" He ran his fingers along the side of my face. "Your work is very careful. Your marks are deliberate. The rhythms in your line quality seem to say something. The subtlety of your modeling somehow affects the viewer—it's hard to tell at this stage, since all I've seen are classroom exercises. But you'll figure it out someday."

  "Am I looking to create you?" I asked, giggling again.

  "You don't have to look," he said. "I'm right in front of you."

  Our laughter melded as he rolled on top of me and kissed my nose.

  "Oh," I said. "I guess I just couldn't see you because the lights are out."

  The Art Piñata

  Sunday afternoon there was a graphic design student-opening at the admissions building. Ryan Brakee was going to do a performance piece. I had never met Ryan, but I'd heard that he was the most daring of all NECAD's performance artists. Once he cultivated maggots in his kitchen, then invited the entire student body over for a dinner party.

  At the graphic design show, he'd be presenting the Art Piñata. So said the flyers plastered all over campus. I wasn't sure what a performance piece could have to do with graphic design, but I figured the only way to find out was to go.

  When I got to the show, people were flocking outside. I decided to stay where the action was and to see the artwork later.

  Just before sundown, a circle formed around the courtyard below the balcony of the building, where Ryan stood tying up loose ends. It smelled like someone had died.

  People shivered and blew heat into their hands and hollered at Ryan to hurry up. He kept working, never acknowledging the crowd.

  When he finally got his act together he raised a huge sack made from an orange tarp. It looked like there was a human body inside. The crowd stepped back, leaving a wide space in the courtyard.

  Ryan placed the sack on the railing and shoved it off, so it would land in the center of the ring we'd formed. When the sack hit the ground it exploded with a loud pop.

  Candy skidded across the slate.

  Limbs went wild, rushing and fumbling for Tootsie Rolls, Milky Ways, and Snickers. After a few minutes someone yelled, "Hey, there's more!" Everybody stopped and looked back up to the balcony.

  Ryan hoisted up another sack.

  The sun had just about set, so it was hard to see what he was doing. The crowd spread once again, poised and ready to lunge at the next treasure.

  We all stood silent and still as if we were in freeze-frame mode.

  But this time the sack hit with a deflated thump. Nobody moved except for Ryan, who flew down the stairs cursing. He swooped down on the looming orange lump and tore at the strings. When he got them untied he whipped the flaps open, grabbed a corner of the tarp, and ran away from the crowd. As he dragged the tarp, its contents tumbled out.

  A pile of dead raccoons.

  But I was struck by the overwhelming odor before I could identify the creatures. People were gagging, coughing, hiding their faces in their shirts like turtles. It was like a cross between curdled milk and how I imagined pickled cow manure would smell. I don't think I'd ever smelled death so distinctly.

  People fled.

  Most of us hadn't even gone inside to see the exhibit. But it was clear we couldn't stay in the vicinity of the admissions building for the rest of the evening. Or maybe the rest of the week. I'd never heard of an art show where one of the participants purposely sent an audience away.

  I clutched my stomach and suppressed the lunge that was sure to make it through my throat at any second.

  The All-Curing Remedy

  On my way down the hill, Sam caught up with me.

  "Hey," he said. "You don't look so good."

  "I think I'm gonna puke."

  He told me I could take it easy in his r
oom if I wanted. He lived in the freshman dorms right next to us. I took him up on it.

  I lay on his bed with my legs raised on some pillows. He sat in the chair at his desk, beside my feet.

  "That was pretty rad, huh?" Sam said.

  "You liked it?"

  "Yeah," he said. "It was like death was let loose out of a bag. And we were supposed to want it like candy. But the smell was so strong we ran away. Like we were too chicken to even go close." He pulled on the brim of his cap.

  "I don't know," I said. "I think that guy was just trying to prove something. There was nothing but shock value."

  "Yeah, I guess you're right," he said. "You're smart."

  "Right now I just feel ill."

  I looked at Sam and he looked away. I turned my head to face the cinder block wall at the end of his bed. It was covered with Phish and movie posters. One of them was from The Shining, when the Jack Nicholson character is sticking his face through the hacked-up bathroom door. I turned to look at Sam again. Same reaction as before.

  "Are you afraid of eye contact?" I asked.

  His eyes darted to one side, then the other. Finally he looked me in the eye. "Um, no," he said. "Eye contact is cool."

  I laughed and it made me more nauseous. "Do you have anything for upset stomachs?"

  "Yeah, I think I do."

  He went digging through his sock drawer and came back with a bowl. Not an eating bowl, but a smoking bowl.

  "The all-curing remedy," he said, this time sitting on the edge of the bed, next to my legs.

  "Will that really help?"

  "It'll make you forget," he said. "That's better than helping."

  "I don't know," I said. "I'm not really into drugs."

  "Don't tell me you've never smoked up."

  "I've never wanted to," I said. "Do you think that makes me a wimp or something?"

  "No way," Sam said. "I didn't mean to embarrass you. I'm not a good talker." He held the pipe up to his lips. "Do you mind if I take a hit? It'll make me relax."

  "Go ahead."

  He held the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds before blowing it out through his nose.

  I closed my eyes and held my belly.

  "I really think this would make you feel better," Sam said. "I'll teach you how, if you want."

  "Maybe it's worth a try," I said reluctantly. "Anything to forget that dead raccoon smell."

  Sam handed the pipe to me. "You hold it and I'll light it."

  I sat up and steadied the stem between my thumb and forefinger. Sam kneeled beside me and struck the lighter over the bowl. The pot glowed like a miniature fireplace.

  "Take a drag," Sam ordered.

  I inhaled. Then I had a major coughing fit.

  "It's okay," Sam said, laughing. "The same thing happened to me my first time." He placed his arm on my back. His arm, hand, and fingers functioned as a single unit. Like a rake.

  We passed it back and forth a couple of times, but I took smaller amounts. Then Sam put the bowl on his desk.

  "How do you feel?" he asked. His eyes were bloodshot and his words were more drawn out than usual.

  I couldn't tell the difference from being sober. And my stomach felt worse. Plus, I was getting a killer headache. "I still feel sick," I said.

  "Man, it usually works for me," he said. "Maybe it doesn't work the first time."

  "Maybe."

  His knee was bouncing fast. "Is your name really Ladybug?"

  "It really is."

  "Cool," he said. "Wicked cool."

  He scooted closer so our legs were touching. The way he moved felt so forced. I stretched my legs out as an excuse to inch away from him.

  "Sometimes I try to picture your face," he said. "And I can't. You know how that is?"

  "I guess so." He was kind of creeping me out. I had never tried to picture Sam's face when he wasn't around.

  He put his paperweight hand on my knee.

  "I was thinking about how you said I don't let people into my mind and you're right. I think you understand me better than most people do. Most people just don't understand me."

  For the next hour Sam smoked intermittently. I declined his offer for more. As we talked, he kept moving closer and closer to me until I was up against the wall at his bed's headboard.

  "You're a really groovy girl," he told me during a long smoky exhale.

  "Thanks," I said. "I'm really sort of involved with someone right now."

  My head was pounding like I had a heartbeat in my brain.

  He coughed. Well, it was a cough or a laugh. "Oh, I didn't mean it that way," he said.

  "Sorry," I said. "I was being presumptuous."

  He started raving about the raccoons again, but I wasn't paying attention; all I could think was, How do I get out of here without being rude?

  It must've been my turn to talk because Sam had gone silent. We didn't look at each other. I sat there, minutes ticking by, fishing for an exit line. I could try something like, Hey, it's been fun smoking your pot and lying on your bed, but I'd rather feel sick in my own room. Or maybe a simple Gotta go! would do.

  As it turned out, I didn't need a clever line. Sam was snoring. He had smoked himself to sleep.

  I got up to go to the bathroom, which made me dizzy. By the time I made it to the toilet my nausea had returned for a surprise visit. I was glad it hadn't come out on Sam's bed.

  I left him there without a note, his arm flopped above the empty imprint on his comforter where I had been.

  Sneaking

  I couldn't wait to see Nate, after having spent so much awkward time with Sam. But Nate had said he'd be busier than ever with this last painting. He couldn't risk fucking it up.

  As I walked home from Sam's dorm, exhausted and empty from puking, I spotted Nate's hair a few blocks down on Artist's Row. He was standing still, looking up at an apartment building. The same one he'd been staring at before. I thought I'd sneak up on him from behind. Maybe he was done working, and we could hang out.

  When I got closer, I saw that he was mesmerized by a window on the top floor. I was doing a good job of being sneaky; he didn't even glance in my direction.

  I wanted to know what was in the window, so I stayed on the opposite side of the street from him. I hoped he wouldn't turn around, because I had to stand under a bright street lamp in order to see.

  I looked up.

  In the window was a silhouette of a busty girl undressing.

  I'd gotten there just in time to see her remove her bra and toss it behind her, as if to say, Who cares about this flimsy thing? I couldn't see who she was because the only light came from a room behind her. But those breasts couldn't belong to any other girl at school. They had to be hers. Still, I couldn't tell if they were real or fake.

  She went to draw her shade. Then she paused and it looked like she blew a kiss out the window. But it was hard to tell from just a silhouette.

  I tiptoed to the corner, then sprinted home.

  Bonding Moment

  Monday in class I avoided looking Sam in the eye. At lunch I directed my attention toward Ralph.

  "This is the best assignment Ed's given us," Ralph said. "It's the only thing that has the potential to be worn!"

  Sam gave me his standard eye roll, and I pretended not to see.

  That evening the three of us were in the studio, working on our projects.

  Ralph was making a hollow life-size papier-mache tree—in honor of me, so he said. He was wearing an apron, and had just started laying the papier-mache on his wire structure.

  "This stuff is so gloopy!" he squealed.

  "Better get used to it," I said. "You've got a long way to go."

  Sam was making a ladybug out of corrugated cardboard. He was cutting small shapes from a huge cardboard sheet, painting them red, and sticking them together with a glue gun. Like Ralph, he'd started with a wire structure. The degree to which Sam's ladybug blueprints resembled my rib cage blueprints was unsettling. It almost made me want to change m
y project, but I was too far along to stop now.

  I was carving my rib cage out of slabs of blue Styrofoam. First I had glued the Styrofoam pieces together to make a rectangular hut. Then I'd sawed the corners to begin rounding them off. In the end, I wanted to faux-finish it to look like actual bones.

  That night I'd been sanding the inside to make the walls smooth. I had to wear a respirator while I was working. Periodically, I would lie down, shut my eyes, and feel the walls for imperfections.

  It was like a foam igloo.

  Once, while I was checking for lumps, my hand hit something soft. I opened my eyes.

  It was Sam's hat.

  He was on his hands and knees, leaning into the structure.

  "Hey," he said. "This is really cool."

  "Thanks." The respirator muffled my voice.

  "Can I come in?"

  "Yeah, I guess."

  He crawled in with a Dunkin' Donuts bag and lay on his back. He pulled a doughnut out of the bag. "I got this for you," he said, handing it to me.

  Boston cream.

  I removed my respirator and took a bite.

  Sam's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "I didn't mean to freak you out yesterday," he said quietly.

  "You didn't."

  "I did," he insisted. "I don't want things to be weird between us. I just want us to be friends."

  "Okay."

  "What's going on in there?" Ralph shouted.

  "Nothing!" I yelled back with doughnut in my mouth.

  "I feel like I'm missing out!" His keys jangled as his footsteps got closer.

  He crouched at the opening.

  "Hey, it looks like fun in there!" he said. "I'm coming in too! Wait, first I have to rinse this stuff off my hands."

  He hurried over to the sink.

  "Don't worry," I whispered to Sam. "You didn't ruin anything."

  "Make room for me!" Ralph shouted as he pushed my legs in Sam's direction.