Chapter Four

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FOUR

The refreshments table goes on for miles. Deli platters all fancied up with endive. A tiered cupcake server. Plastic bowls of M&Ms. Sushi that looks like it’s been rolled in Rice Krispies. Immediately following the awards ceremony, I walk out of the cafetorium to hide in the hall behind the food. I can’t face my parents or Nona or anyone. Martha included.

At the far end of the table there’s some cheese and crackers. I grab a little paper plate and heap it with Ritz and mottled squares of Swiss and Colby. Goosebumps have sprouted on my arms. The red dress is too summery. I’m chilled.

My homeless guy and dog has been replaced by Martha’s Mount Hood. I don’t know what they did with my sketch. People are trickling out of the ceremony, like recently chastised grade school kids; they all walk with their heads down.  Then, out in the hall, they become art patrons. They back up a bit, as though in a museum, stroking chins and clearing throats. My family is still making its way down the aisle. Martha seems to have disappeared.

My heart is beating fast. Why am I so upset? Why does my head and heart feel like they’ve just been smashed with a wooden club?

Ms. Bowerman is walking toward me. Quick, but trying to seem not quick. She looks right, left, over her shoulder, then grabs me and pulls me into an empty classroom. World History. There’re colorful posters of Egyptians and a papier mâche Sphinx on a table near the window. Outside, it’s dusk. Purple and rosy sky. A dark gray bank of cloud on the horizon. Something that would come out nice with an iPhone camera. Especially if you had one of those panorama apps.

“I tried calling you, Brady. Several times. I’m so sorry,” says Ms. Bowerman.

The red dress clings to my thighs. I wish I had a sweater to cover my boobs.

“It’s a legal thing, Brady. Ridiculous.”

“A legal thing?” I’m in some parallel universe here. I have no idea what my art teacher is talking about.

“Counsel advised that offering you the prize would look like a bribe. Given the circumstances of your parents’ pending lawsuit. But that’s not what they told Cupworth.”

Outside the door, the low conversations, some laughter, a saxophone starts up. Ms. Bowerman sees the puzzled look on my face. “The company line is, Brady Wilson is on academic probation, and is therefore ineligible.”

“I am? On academic probation?”

“It doesn’t help that you’ve been skipping class, Brady. And Mr. Garrison says he saw you getting high in the parking lot.”

The retired-cop-hall-monitor guy? Saw me with Connor? “I don’t really care about the damn scholarship. It’s just, my parents. My grandparents. Putting them through this embarrassment. It’s not fair.”

Ms. Bowerman covers my scantily-clad self with an arm-over-the-shoulder. A hank of dreads scratches against my collarbone. “I know, Brady. It really sucks.”

She whispers conspiratorially, “Giving the award to Martha? She’s not a fraction the artist you are. I guess that’s what bothers me more than anything.”

Martha painted that picture from a postcard. The sort you can buy at the Japanese Garden gift shop. I remember that she wanted to get together with me afterwards. “Did she know?”

Ms. Bowerman doesn’t want to tell me. She sighs, then says, “We had to make sure she was coming tonight.”

Given that my heart feels like a million little needles just punctured it, Voodoo Doughnuts would be the perfect place to be right now.

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