Olivia (4 page)

I shake my head. “But he suspects something.”

“
Maybe it’s just our own guilt,” he
argues. I don’t think that at all, but I don’t bother to correct
him. I’d rather not think about it anymore, because doing so
reminds me of the look on Dad’s face. That look makes me want to
cry.

“
Do I look fat in the pictures? Why
would they think I’m pregnant?” We both study the paper intently.
“Wow, that’s some zoom lens.” My body is mostly hidden in all of
the pictures by Jon’s, but one photo is focused on a large close-up
of the ring on my left hand. “So they assume it’s an engagement
ring.”

“
And they assume you must be
pregnant, still in high school and engaged.”

“
Idiots,” I say with no emotion, my
mind focused on the idea that I could be ‘with child,’ as the
article states so eloquently in black and white.

“
Yeah,” Jon agrees, equally as
monotone. When I look at his face, I only see a blank expression,
realizing he’s probably having the same disconcerting thoughts as I
am.

“
Did you finish your breakfast?” I
ask him, bringing him out of his daydream.

“
I’ve lost my appetite.”

“
Yeah, me, too.”

“
That fashion show you like is on,”
he says from the couch just outside my bedroom door. I stare at
myself in the mirror, ready to leave, holding a small canvas under
my arm and my paint supplies in my right hand. It has been three
months since Granna’s funeral. I should be able to do this by
now.

When I blink, one tear escapes. I put my things back
in my closet and kick off the heels I’d just strapped on.

“
You hate that show,” I remind
him.

“
I’m interested in what you’re
interested in,” Dad says to me assuringly as I stand in the
doorway. “Come sit with me.” I smile and walk to the couch, taking
a seat on the plush cushion next to him, letting him put his arm
around me. “You don’t have to go, you know?”

“
I’m not,” I tell him, looking up
to see if he’s disappointed in me. He smiles, wiping the tear from
my cheek and kissing my forehead. Just as I settle back against
him, his phone rings.

“
Em?” He removes his arm from
around my shoulders and leans forward, listening intently. “Just
stay inside. I’ll be right there.”

“
What’s wrong?” I ask him, startled
by his tone and actions.

“
Nothing you need to worry about.
Just a crowd forming at the Art Room. Can you watch Jackson? I’m
going to go handle things.”

“
Yeah. They’re okay?”

“
They’re fine. Some of the kids are
just restless with all the attention. We need to get window
fixtures installed, I suppose. Or maybe we should hire private
security.”

“
I’m sorry, Daddy,” I tell
him.

“
This is not your fault, Contessa.
I’ll be back in a half hour.” I hear his footsteps ascend the
stairs, his keys jingle, and the front door open and then close
behind him.

He’s just being nice. It
is
my fault.

“
Can we watch something else?” my
brother whines, appearing from the game room where he’d been
putting together a puzzle Jon had given him.

“
Nope,” I tell him. “Come here.” He
sulks across the room, holding two puzzle pieces in his hand and
trying to make them fit together. They obviously don’t.

“
Why is that man wearing a dress?”
Trey asks, plopping down beside me and cocking his head at the
television.

“
It’s not exactly a dress. He works
in fashion,” I explain, as if it makes perfect sense.

“
Do you have to be a girl to work
in fashion?”

“
Just because he wears a dress
doesn’t make him a girl, Trey. Men and women work in
fashion.”

“
Is he a dragon queen?”

I burst out laughing, looking at my brother
wide-eyed. He laughs with me. “A dragon queen? Do you mean a
drag
queen?”

“
I don’t know.”

“
How do you know about drag
queens?”

“
Uncle Matty showed me
pictures.”

“
Good lord, Matty,” I mutter to
myself, remembering when my favorite uncle showed me pictures of a
drag show for the first time. My father was very uncomfortable–I
could tell–but Mom was as enthralled as I was, often having a hard
time distinguishing the men from women.

“
Does Matty wear
dresses?”

“
No, buddy, he doesn’t. But a lot
of his acting friends have a lot of fun doing that. Why all the
questions? Did you want to try on a dress?” He looks at me as if
I’ve just said the most preposterous thing he’s ever
heard.

“
I’m a boy!” I roll my eyes,
realizing he hadn’t really understood anything we’ve just been
talking about.

“
I just wanted to ask. They’re just
clothes. Clothes don’t define you.”

“
Why do you wear dresses all the
time now?”

“
I’m a girl,” I answer him, giving
him an equally simplistic response.

“
You used to hate them.”

“
Yes, but Jon likes
them.”

“
Does Jon wear–”

“
Trey, just shut up with the
questions and watch the man in the dress on TV, okay? Jon likes
me
in dresses. And I like it when Jon
likes me.”

“
Is he coming over
tonight?”

“
I hope so.”

“
I hope so, too. I need help with
my puzzle.”

“
I can help,” I offer.

“
I want Jon to help,” he says,
considering him the expert on anything that needs to be assembled
in any way. He’d even brushed off Dad a few times, which I could
tell hurt my father’s feelings. It made me feel like Jon was more a
part of the family.

I like the way it feels.

It’s obvious my father does
not
. He comes home a few minutes after the show ends,
rejoining us both on the couch as we start to watch another episode
of the marathon of my designer competition. “You have fans,” he
tells me.

“
Great,” I say with a frown. “Not
the fans I want.”

“
You’d have to do some more
painting to get the fans you want.”

I don’t respond to his assumption. It’s the first
time Dad has said anything about my lack of painting, but it’s not
something I care to talk about. “What did they want?”

“
A glimpse of you. Your autograph
on one of their blown-up pictures of you on the beach.” He sighs,
annoyed. I hated the pictures that had been printed from our summer
vacation just as much as he did, and neither of us liked to discuss
them. “Why is that man wearing a dress?” Dad asks. I have to laugh
to myself a little. My brother is certainly my father’s
son.

As
soon
as we hear the front door open a few hours later, Dad and Trey race
one another up the stairs to meet my mom. I stay on the couch,
having become used to the routine by now. Over the summer, my
parents had come to trust me and Jon a little more, allowing us to
spend time with one another in the basement. My bedroom was still
completely off-limits–not that we’d do anything in there anyway.
Had I painted at all over the summer, he probably would have been
allowed in the studio side of my room, but that opportunity never
presented itself since I hadn’t picked up a paintbrush in
months.

Jon sets his heavy bag on the ground by the coffee
table and kicks off his sneakers, leaning over to kiss me in the
process. It’s familiar and comfortable.

“
Hi,” he says when we
part.

“
I’m sorry,” I tell him. He nods
understandingly and sits down.

“
You could have called
me.”

“
I was on my way out the door, but
I just... couldn’t.”

“
I know. Jack said he tried to
convince you to go.”

“
He said that, huh?” That’s not at
all what happened. It wouldn’t surprise me if Dad took advantage of
my reluctance to go to the Art Room to keep me away from Jon. That
knowledge almost makes me want to go next week, just to spite him,
but I know myself better than that. I don’t think I’ll be able to
go then, either.

“
He did when he came by to handle
the crowd. You missed the paparazzi.”

“
I wouldn’t say I
missed
them.” He laughs a little. “So maybe it’s a
good thing I didn’t come.”

“
Good for whom?” he asks quickly.
“For the kids? For you? Certainly not for me.” He leans into the
billowy back cushions of the sofa, closing his eyes as he relaxes.
He doesn’t flinch at all when I touch my cold fingers to his
forehead and run them through his hair. I kneel up and kiss his
cheek, feeling his arm wrap around my back.

“
Did you miss me?” I
ask.

“
Yeah,” he admits, opening his
tired eyes. “It’s one of the nights we get to spend together... and
beginning next week, when school starts again, we’ll have much less
time together, you know?”

“
I know, but you get to come here
after class on Thursdays.”

“
I never have enough time with
you,” he admits.

“
I know.”

“
And I’ll probably have homework to
do...”

“
I know,” I repeat.

“
I was just looking forward to
doing this with you. We’ve been planning this class all
summer.”

“
I
know
,
Jon, but I just can’t. We knew this might be a problem.”

“
I wish you’d try. Oh,” he says,
leaning over and grabbing something out of his messenger bag.
“Here.”

It’s a card with my name on it. Intricate swirls and
birds drawn in fine-point black pen surround it. “Jordan made this,
huh?” I’d know his style anywhere.

“
He’s got a bit of a crush,” Jon
says.

“
I hope you put him in his
place.”

“
I’m not the heartbreaker, Olivia.
I’ll leave that to you.”

“
Hey!” I argue playfully. He
tickles my sides, making me squeal loudly.

“
Shhh...” he cautions me, watching
the wall for a shadow of one or both of my parents. None appears. I
move one of my legs over his and settle back on his knees. His
hands slide tentatively up my outer thighs. We stare at one another
for a few seconds before my lips find his again. “Are your parents
still going out of town?” he asks softly.

“
Yes.”

“
Let me help you on Saturday
morning,” he pleads.

“
No, I can do it myself,” I tell
him.

“
Are you sure?” he asks.

“
Of course.” I massage his scalp as
his thumbs knead deeply into my legs. I watch the muscles in his
forearms flex and release with his motions.

“
No,” he says, lifting his right
hand and putting his finger under my chin to angle my face to his,
“are you sure you want to do
this
?”

I swallow before answering. “Of course I am, Jon. I
love you.”

“
We don’t have to. There are no
strings attached here, baby.”

“
Sure there are,” I tease him,
wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling myself into him. “I
couldn’t get away from you if I tried.” I kiss the stubble on his
chin before moving my tongue to the hollow beneath his
ear.

“
You know what I mean,” he says,
his voice strained. He has to push me back before he can continue,
unable to focus on speech when I’m kissing him like that. He’d made
that clear many times over the summer. “I love you, too, but I can
wait.”

“
I don’t want to wait anymore,” I
tell him, all joking gone from my face. “I want you.”

He grins–clearly liking my admission–then pulls me
back into him, turning his head to the side so I can continue what
I’d started while he watches for anyone coming down the stairs.

The guest room door across the apartment on 5th
Avenue stays closed. Every Saturday, I spend minutes–if not
hours–staring at it, knowing I can’t cross its threshold. Behind
that door is the painting I started. I remember the portrait of
Nate, and the empty space on the wall next to it.
Would James even still want this painting that Granna asked
for?
It doesn’t matter. She asked for it, and I want to
finish it for her–for principle, if nothing else.
Just because she’s gone–

“
I’m going for a walk, Mom.” I make
sure not to look directly at her, hiding my watery eyes from her.
I’m so tired of her asking about my feelings. If I’d wanted to
discuss them with her, I would have done it long ago.

“
Want company?” she asks, setting
her laptop aside tentatively.

“
I’d rather be alone.”

“
Okay, sweetie. I’ll be here.” She
settles her computer back in her lap and continues her
illustration. “Be careful.”

“’
Kay.” I pull on my jacket,
anticipating the cool fall air that’s set over Manhattan earlier
than normal.

In the lobby, I nod to the doorman, Francisco,
before pulling out my cell phone.