Toxic Bad Boy (8 page)

The judge should let me
out of here early for my self-sacrifice and I should be nominated
for sainthood. Surely some priest would be awed by the miracle
which just occurred. I
must
be a god damn saint to have encouraged my
girlfriend to go to prom with another guy.

The thought of his hands
around her waist, the front of their bodies touching as they danced
or him taking her out to a nice restaurant beforehand, had me
wanting to punch a wall.

As much as I’d been
tempted to demand she stay home that night, I knew Gianna going to
prom was a big step in her recovery. In a twisted way, I
reluctantly felt gratitude toward Gage for convincing her to
attend.

I phoned Gage every Monday
afternoon to get an update on my girl. During the calls, he
answered any questions I’d thought up. Even when I acted like a
stalker, asking what she wore that day or what she’d eaten. Despite
talking to her most weekends, I had a desperate need to know
everything she’d been up to and whether or not she seemed to be
improving.

According to both her and
Gage, life for Gianna had been drama free. Gage claimed she seemed
happier and less introverted at school since he’d started there.
I’d called him out on his feelings for her a couple of times,
threatening him with bloody harm. The guy swore only purely
platonic feelings existed on both sides. On release from juvie, if
there were stars in Gage’s eyes when he looked at my girlfriend,
I’d make sure those stars moved above his head when I knocked his
ass out.

So far the guy was a good
investment of Ian’s money.

Gianna had visited me
several more times since February. Each time, she appeared less
uncomfortable around me. But that could be wishful thinking on my
part, because she was nowhere near like she used to be. The old
Gianna had always been ready to throw down verbally with me at the
smallest provocation. Maybe I wasn’t the same as I used to be
around her either.

Each time she left, it got
harder to let her go. Not that I had any choice. The end of
visiting time was like everything else in my life right now,
totally out of my control.

It was embarrassing and
emasculating for Gianna to see me like this, not even in control of
when I ate or showered. Dictated to on how much I was allowed to
touch my girlfriend.

If I was a selfless
person, I might have set her free to find someone more deserving of
her, a guy who wasn’t a loser locked up in juvie. However, I was a
selfish bastard and I’d never willingly let her go. She was my
girl, the only girl I wanted, and when I got out of here I could
reinvent myself into the kind of guy who deserved her.

A glance at the caged
clock above the door told me I had thirty minutes before my mom
would arrive for visitation. For awhile there, I’d wondered if my
parents were getting back together. With so many joint visits, I’d
had reason to suspect. When my dad told me a couple months ago that
my parents were going to start taking turns visiting me, I’d ruled
reconciliation out. At least they seemed on friendlier terms than
they’d been since their divorce.

The Saturday before my
birthday in March, both my parents and Gianna had visited me on the
same day. It was the first time my mom had seen her since the
attack and she’d started crying, making Gianna the encounter
awkward. My dad had skillfully diverted my mom’s attention, saving
Gianna from further tears.

For Gianna’s birthday in
April, I’d asked my mom to have a huge bouquet of flowers delivered
to her house. The following Saturday Gianna had visited in a upbeat
mood. At that time, I’d presented her with a self-portrait of me
which Ms. Singh had instructed me to paint.

Getting to my feet, I
motioned through the open doorway to the guard that I was finished
and left the private room designated for phone privileges. The same
guard accompanied me to the art room, where I grabbed my most
recent paintings and piled them carefully on top of each other. For
months I’d spent all my free time in here, painting dozens of
works.

My painting frenzy had
been an outlet for the anger and resentment coiled tight within me.
I knew my sentence was coming to an end, but even the three
remaining months seemed never-ending. Whenever allowed in here, I’d
taken advantage. The solitude of painting was cathartic, especially
when I had the room to myself. It calmed the demons clawing at my
insides.

With the stack of
paintings, I made it back to my cell just as they called my name
for visitation. Following the two other guys with family visiting,
I hauled my heavy load. The female inmates with visitors were
already seated at tables. A girl with hard eyes, a recent addition
to the facility, sat with an elderly woman who cried into an old
school handkerchief.

I empathized with the old
woman. Youth corrections sucked and it was especially unfair to the
inmates’ loved ones.

In June, Gianna’s ballet
academy would perform for several nights. It pissed me off I
wouldn’t be there to see her dance because I was a locked up
degenerate. She’d said it wasn’t a big deal and that she hadn’t
gotten any of the leads, but I felt inadequate as a boyfriend
because I couldn’t be there to support her.

I was sure
Gage
would be there.
Douchebag Jared, too, since Cece actually would dance one of the
leads.

My mom sat at a table at
the back of the visitation room, her expression one of excitement,
as if she were about to spring out of her chair. I set down the
paintings on the table between us. “This is all of the finished
paintings since the last time.”

She quickly raised the top
one to get a better look then perused the rest of them. “These are
great, Caleb. A few more and there’ll be enough for an
exhibit.”

“
Exhibit?” I asked warily,
identifying the source of her excited energy.

Putting down the painting
she held, she reached out with both hands to grab onto my forearm,
shaking it lightly. “Yes! I didn’t want to say anything until
things were more definite, but I showed the gallery director
everything you’ve done up until now. He says with more pieces, he’d
be willing to give you your own show!”

It took a moment to digest
the absurdity of her words. “Why the hell would anyone want to buy
my artwork?”

Giving me an exasperated
look, she explained, “Because you’re very talented and the
paintings are wonderful.”

Mimicking her expression,
I told her, “You think so because you popped me out. All of my
paintings are about my friends, Gianna or this fucked up
place.”

“
Exactly.” She smiled, her
face animated as my crudeness was ignored in favor of her buoyant
mood. “That’s what makes you so unique. Not many artists go through
the experience of youth corrections. The critics will admire the
grittiness and reality of your work and the buyers will love to say
they own a piece created by a teenage delinquent.”

I spoke slowly to
emphasize my next words, “So, what you’re saying is that I’ll be a
novelty?”

She nodded her head.
“Yes.”

“
But I’ll be a well-paid
novelty?”

“
Yes.”

Slapping my hands together
and rubbing them, my mood got much better. “Alright, bring on the
green. If a bunch of art weirdoes want to hand over their cash to a
delinquent, who am I to complain?”

Her elated smile
disappeared. “You need to take this seriously, Caleb.”

“
Mom, I can fake serious
if I’m getting paid enough.”

She shifted in her seat
and rubbed her forehead nervously. Her fidgeting worried me.
“What?”

“
Well,” she began
hesitantly. From her grimace, I was sure I wouldn’t like what she
was having trouble spitting out. “You see, the gallery director has
one request.”

“
Yeah?” I asked, wondering
what could be causing her anxiety. A nude self-portrait?

“
He wants you to paint the
night of the attack.” Her words were so fast I had to pause to
grasp them.

“
Hell no!” I shouted,
bumping against the table as I came up out of my seat.

Reaching up to grab my
arm, she yanked me back down. “Shh, Caleb! You’re going to get in
trouble!”

Grudgingly, I sat down,
crossing my arms over my chest. “No way in hell.”

Her face softened in
understanding. “I know, honey. I wouldn’t actually expect you to,
but he wanted me to ask, so I did.”

“
Do I still get the show?”
The idea of making money off my art had never occurred to me. My
mom sold one of her paintings every once in awhile, but she worked
as an interior designer to pay the bills.

“
Yes, you do. Although, if
you decide to do the piece, the gallery director would be pleased.
He wants to place the paintings in chronological order. Obviously,
he feels a piece about the incident would be important in
explaining later events.”

“
Too bad.”

“
I’m sure Jim will
understand, but if you change your mind before the show, he’ll
welcome the piece.” Handing me a grocery bag with all the goodies
she regularly brought for me and Ian, she continued, “He’s not sure
if the show will be you by yourself or if he’ll have a joint
showing of you and an urban realist painter he’s considered
exhibiting. It all depends on the interest he receives in your
work.”

I shrugged, not caring
either way. “Whatever. I’m okay with sharing the
spotlight.”

Her eyes flew wide and she
leaned forward. “Oh my god! I almost forgot! I spoke with your
lawyer yesterday about petitioning the judge for early
release!”

“
And you’re just barely
telling me this now?” I shouted. At her hurt look, I lowered my
voice. “What did he say?” Only my mom would have considered an art
show more exciting than a possible early release.

Her face smoothed before a
smile spread. “He says you have a shot of getting out of here up to
a eighty days early. At least, he’s asking for eighty days to be
cut from your sentence. He thinks you may have a shot.”

“
Damn, this is good news.
When do I go before the judge?” I asked eagerly, hoping it would be
soon. “What about Ian?”

Her smile disappeared.
“Caleb, from what you’ve told me, Ian hasn’t exactly been a model
prisoner.”

He’d had a few arguments
with guards and had been involved in several fights over the past
seven months. He really should have thought before he’d acted out.
While I spent time in the art room, Ian had a lot of free time to
misbehave. It probably didn’t help that his juvie record was longer
than mine.

As guilty as I’d feel at
leaving him behind, I needed to get the hell out of here. “Yeah, I
see what you mean.”

She latched onto my hand,
squeezing lightly. “I can’t wait for you to come home.”

My mom tended toward
optimism and I knew she was already counting on the early release.
“First we have to convince a judge to let me out.”

She sat up straight. “We
could show him your paintings!”

“
Yeah,” I said cynically,
“Because a judge is really going to give a crap about what some kid
paints.”

“
Caleb!” my mom
reprimanded in a tone that hadn’t worked since I was in elementary
school. “Art speaks to people in ways words do not.”

I didn’t want to get into
the debate again about communicating through art. I might have the
skills of an artist, even the drive to create, but my mom had the
soul of one. I was a little too much of a realist for the fanciful
bullshit artists liked to spout.

“
I think we’ll stick to my
lawyer’s arguments,” I told her.

“
I’m sure Gianna will be
thrilled to hear about this.”

“
Mom, don’t tell anyone
about this and tell Dad not to let anyone know either. If I don’t
get out early, she won’t be disappointed.” My words were stern
enough to get it through her head. In my mom’s mind, it might be as
good as done, but in my mind it was a big
maybe
.

“
Fine.” Her disappointment
was apparent, but I wouldn’t waver in my decision to keep it quiet.
“When you come home, we really need to start looking into art
schools. You’ll want to apply to the best across the
country.”

“
I’ll be going to the same
college as Gianna.” This separation would be the last. In my head,
I was already planning on how to spend the money I received from my
paintings, if the gallery showing happed. We would probably spend
our first year of college in the dorms, but by sophomore year we’d
get an apartment together.

“
I’m sure you don’t have
to go to the
exact
same school,” my mom said. “I mean, Gianna will most likely
go to a state college. Although state universities have art
programs, where you really need to be is an art school. You’re
talented, Caleb, but your talent is still raw. You need to learn
technique. Maybe even look into other forms of
expression.”

“
We’ll see,” I replied
noncommittally. “So, the divorce is almost final?”