Night Owls (6 page)

Howard Hooper would probably wet his pants if he even daydreamed about doing something as ballsy as vandalizing a museum in broad daylight.

Where are you, Jack?

When I finally got so frustrated I couldn’t handle it anymore, I decided to throw caution to the wind and posted the pic I took at the museum. I added the vaguely troll-rific comment
Golden Apple Vandal wishing me a happy birthday.

Once I’d hit send, I had a minor panic attack. There it was in my feed, for all 167 people who followed me to see. Okay, almost none of those people actually knew me, so maybe I was
overreacting. Besides, I really only wanted one person to see it, because hey, you just can’t make an epic public declaration like that and then walk away as if nothing happened.

When we finally got home, a printed note was stuck to the door from some place named Godspeed Courier. “Sorry we missed you, but we need your signature. We’ll try again ___.”
The blank wasn’t filled in, and there was no name.

“Bike messenger?” Mom said, hefting steaming bags of takeout. “What is this, Heath?”

“How should I know? I didn’t order anything. Maybe it’s a birthday present for Bex.”

“Right. Because I have so many friends who use courier service.”

“Probably the wrong address,” Mom said, taking the courier note before heading toward the kitchen.

“Maybe it was meant for Julie.”

“Who knows,” Mom called back. “I’ll ask her about it next time I see her.”

“I can run it up to her,” I said.

“I said I’d take care of it, Beatrix,” she snapped in a very un-Katherine way.

“Sheesh,” I mumbled. “Bossy much?”

I remembered Mom’s late-night phone call. She’d told the person not to mail anything. Was this what she was talking about?

“I thought you were starving. Come help me get ice in the glasses,” she said in a nicer tone from the kitchen before I could read anything more into it.

Besides, I had other things to worry about, like the ding on my phone. One
HAPPY BDAY
text from Lauren and Kayla in LA (who couldn’t even spare enough time to send
separate texts or type the
IRTH
). While I was at it, I checked my email. Holy freaking alerts, Batman: The photo I’d uploaded two hours ago had been reposted 503 times, which was
about five hundred more times than anything else I’d ever posted. Was I the only person who’d snapped a picture?

“Bex,” Mom called again.

“Coming!” Ugh. Maybe posting that photo was a mistake.

My post-museum panicky high faded into a slow buzz after a movie and massive amounts of Pad See-Ew noodles and lemon-grassy Panang curry. While Mom was in the kitchen, our doorbell rang. It was
almost eight o’clock, which was kind of late for someone to be stopping by. My brain jumped to conclusions and screamed
Jack
, but when Heath swung the door open, it was a uniformed
police officer.

The oh-shit look on Heath’s face was mirrored on my mom’s when she walked into the room balancing a plate of three candlelit cupcakes.

“Evening. I’m Officer Dixon,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt your night, but if you don’t mind, I have a few questions. May I come in?”

Mom’s shoulder’s sagged. “Of course. Heath, close the door and sit down. Beatrix, go to your room.”

“You’re Beatrix Adams?” the cop said.

“Umm, yes?”

“You’re the person I’d like to speak with.”

“Me?”

“Did you post a photograph online from the account BioArtGirl?”

My response was caught in some kind of psychedelic slow-motion filter. “Uuuuuh, yeeees, siiiir.”

I barely heard Mom, who was politely introducing herself and sounding disturbingly calm as she questioned the officer: What photo? And what was this all about? And how did they get her
daughter’s address?

Officer Dixon matched her on the supercalm attitude. “We traced the account to an art website and found her Facebook link. Lincoln High was on that profile. Your address is in the school
system database.”

Holy crap. All of that was set to private. Wasn’t this a violation of my rights?

“Miss Adams,” he said to me in a firm tone, “can you please tell me what your relationship is with the person who vandalized the Legion of Honor this afternoon?”

“None!” Why was my voice so high? “I just posted it as a joke. It’s my birthday. I saw it and took a picture. It’s my birthday,” I repeated dumbly. Could I
sound any guiltier?

The officer was a brick wall. Completely unreadable. “Did you witness the vandalizing?”

“No.” I told him what happened, which was fairly easy because I was actually telling the truth. Mostly. And I thought he believed me, but then he got serious.

“Are you aware of an anarchist art group called Discord?”

“I’ve read about them.”

“Then you know that someone in the group defaced a Rothko painting in the Museum of Modern Art two years ago.”

“That was them?”

“Cost the museum thousands of dollars in restoration damage. That’s a very serious crime. So if you even suspect you might know someone in your art class at school who might do some
graffiti now and then, you need to tell me. Legion of Honor isn’t taking this lightly. And if this perp”—Jesus! Jack was now being considered a freaking
perpetrator?—“defaces something else, the charges are just going to keep getting worse. Right now, they’re looking at one to three years in state prison.”

Years?

“And trust me, if this person is connected to Discord, he or she won’t be getting mercy from the court, because members of that group are facing felony arson charges, assault on a
police officer, rioting—you name it.”

“I only read about Discord last week!” I turned around when Mom made a noise. “I swear, Mom. This is craziness. I just posted a photo.”

“I believe you, baby.”

“Ma’am, did you know that parents can be held responsible, too? You can face fines, jail time, and up to twenty-five thousand dollars in damages if your daughter is found to be
connected to Discord.”

My future fantasy life in the Mediterranean flashed before my eyes. Jack swore he wasn’t affiliated with them. Did I believe him?

“The graffiti isn’t connected to her birthday,” Mom said. “It was a coincidence.” Now she was getting mad, and I would appreciate her anger a heck of a lot more if
I deserved her defense. “My daughter is a talented artist, not a troubled teen.” Oh, Lordy. “She takes AP classes. She works a steady job twenty hours a week.”

“She won an attendance award for not missing a day of school last year,” my brother said from the hallway. “She’s a total nerd.”

Thanks, Heath.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” Mom added.

The officer handed me a business card. It said he was in the SFPD Graffiti Abatement Program. “If you think of anything or remember something about one of your classmates, give me a call.
Sometimes I’ve been able to mediate a solution between the property owners and the perpetrator. Believe me, I’m a good friend to have.”

I gripped the card as he walked to the door with my mother, but I could hardly feel the paper. My hands and feet had gone numb. The door closed, and after my mom bolted the lock, she turned
around and stared at me with her eagle eyes. The silence was choking me. Even Heath was quiet, a sure sign of damnation.

“Please tell me it was a coincidence,” Mom finally said in a low voice.

I tucked my feet between the couch cushions and hugged myself. “All I did was take a photo.”

She nodded, but the doubt wafting off her hung around my head like cheap perfume. And why was I feeling so guilty? I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not like I
asked
Jack to
do it. I didn’t even know his last name, for Pete’s sake.

“Don’t worry, Bex,” Heath said. “If anyone’s going to jail in this family, it’ll still be me.”

I tried to smile, but my heart wasn’t in it.

“Oh no,” Mom mumbled, rushing over to the forgotten cupcakes. Only one of the candles was still lit, and half the frosting had melted and dripped down the black-and-gold bakery
paper. She set the tray down on the coffee table. “Hurry up and make a wish.”

I groaned and leaned over the table. As I blew out the flame, I wished I could see Jack one more time . . . just so I could boot him in the balls.

AS IF A PANIC-SOAKED BIRTHDAY WASN’T A BIG
enough pie in the face, the next morning I got an email from Dr. Sheridan’s assistant. In the
coldest, most banal language possible, grad student Denise wrote that I would “unfortunately” not be allowed to draw inside the Willed Body classroom. But she noted that Dr. Sheridan
hoped I’d consider taking anatomy classes there in the future.

I was devastated. And because Heath had already left for work—he’s the front-desk guy at a vet office in Cole Valley—I had no one to unload on. I told myself I’d figure
something else out. An alternate plan. But at that moment, it felt like the end the world.

It didn’t help my black mood that Mom was checking up on me online, reading everything I hadn’t disabled after the cop left. Not like I had a cache of boozy party pictures or
anything that would get me in trouble, but still. Mildly violating.

Because of all this, I wasn’t in the best frame of mind when I clocked in at Alto Market later that afternoon. I’d already deleted the CELEBRATE photo, and in honor of my craptastic
day, I posted a new one of my name tag, to the bottom of which I’d added a sticker the backroom workers use for pallets of dented cans:
DAMAGED GOODS
. Ms. Lopez made
me take it off the second I got on the floor, but at least I finally got to talk to someone about the rejection.

“Can’t you try another medical college?” she suggested. Today’s ladybugs dangled from earrings that peeked between strands of her shoulder-length hair when she moved.
“After all, a body is a body on the inside, yes?”

“I suppose I could try.”

“What about a veterinarian office?”

Dead cats. Ugh. I’m not squeamish, but drawing someone’s deceased pet was miles different from a formaldehyde-preserved frog in a bag. “Veterinarians don’t dissect for
teaching, and they have to follow laws about disposal.” I knew that because of Heath’s job.

Ms. Lopez made a face. “What about your mother? Maybe you should just come clean and talk to her about it. If you explain how important it is, perhaps she’ll change her mind and help
you out.”

“No way. She doesn’t like to make waves at work, so she’d never pull any strings for me. And I really don’t want her to. I want to do this on my own.”

When I sighed, she patted me the shoulder. “You’ll think of something.”

We got a mad rush of customers in the early part of the evening, which helped get my mind off things. But sometime after eight, business slowed to a crawl. I decided to occupy myself with
cleaning the magazine racks, so I pulled out stacks of
Food and Wine
and
Organic Spa.
Then I knelt on the floor and started cleaning.

“You missed a spot,” a low voice said behind me.

My muscles turned to stone. I stood up and slowly turned around to face Jack, who towered a mere foot away from me. He smelled like fabric softener, and his retro-rockabilly hair curled over one
eye. He was buttoned up in a short, fitted black peacoat, the wide collar pulled up a little in the back.

He was beautiful. I’d forgotten just how much. Not only that, he was flat-out
happy
. Glittering dark eyes. Chest rising and falling, as if he’d just sprinted uphill.
Enormous grin splitting his face, with that single perfect dimple studding his cheek like a beauty mark.

And what? Now I was smiling right back?
Get control of yourself, Beatrix.

My shoulders hit the magazine rack. Crap—I’d backed up into it? Maybe he hadn’t noticed. “How did you find me?” I said in the calmest voice I could muster.

He pointed to my nametag. “Only two Alto Markets, and this one is on the N-Judah line.”

“And you just happened to be in the area.”

“Oh, no. I went well out of my way to find you.” He knocked the toe of my shoe with the toe of his boot. “I believe your Damaged Goods photo said, ‘Summation of my sucky
day.’ Why are you having a bad day?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because a freaking cop showed up at my house last night to question me about the vandalizing inside the Legion of Honor.”

“What? Are you joking?”

“Does it look like I’m joking?”

He glanced behind him—nothing but a rack of dehydrated vegetable snacks and Mozart raining down from the speaker above—and swiped a hand over his hair to push it out of his eyes.
“Shit. Because of the photo you posted?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That your name is Jack, you’re seventeen, you’re a Buddhist, and they should talk to Panhandler Will for your whereabouts. I also provided a sketch so they could identify
you.”

He stared at me blankly while his mouth made a little O shape.

I swung around and spritzed the empty magazine rack. “That’s what I
should
have told Officer Dickwad. But I didn’t.”

“Jesus and Mary, it’s hard to tell when you’re joking.”

Spritz. Spritz. Spritz.
“The cop threatened me
and
my mom with jail. He’s in charge of the vandalism department, and he thinks you’re part of
Discord.”

“I swear to you on my life, Beatrix. I’m not.”

Oh, don’t think I didn’t notice my name on his tongue. I shot him a look.

“Sorry. Miss Damaged Goods.”

I grumbled to myself, sighed, and said, “Adams.” If the police could track me, what was stopping a professional criminal like Jack?

“Adams,” he repeated. “Beatrix Adams.”

“Bex,” I corrected, because apparently I’d temporarily lost my mind.

Two roselike spots bloomed over the apples of his cheeks. “Bex Adams,” he said in a softer voice. “It’s so strange that I don’t know that already. I feel like I
should.”

I concentrated
superhard
on wiping away my spritzes.

“Vincent,” he said, bracing one arm on the rack beside me.