Sweet Nothing(21)

“And I did the charcoal sketch,” Vi says loudly, flicking a deliberately messy fishtail braid over one shoulder. “which could be worth like twenty grand.”

“And how did you get to that figure, exactly?” I shouldn’t tease her. Anyone with the potential to drum up twenty grand at the moment is doing better than me.

“Mr. Poulos has this software where you can upload an image and it will search the Internet for similar images. At school, we set it up so all of our images get scanned.” She waves me over to Luke’s computer and jiggles the mouse. “See? My sketch is just as good as this guy’s in Denver. And he sold it for twenty grand.”

“Just don’t forget us little people when you’re rich and famous.”

She blinks. “I’m already rich.”

“Famous, then,” I sigh, wondering if I ever acted this spoiled at 17. Knowing I probably did.

“Okay, people. If I could have your attention for just a second.” Luke taps the side of his solo cup with a plastic fork, which makes the girls giggle. Students and teachers cluster around him. Apparently, I’m not the only one who finds him magnetic.

“I want to thank everybody for coming out to support our summer session artists. You guys did some amazing work. So take a look around, check out the kinds of things your colleagues are creating. And if you’re interested in buying any of the pieces, check with me.”

The guys nod, the girls golf clap, and Vi emits a high-pitched “Ow ow!”.

I spend the rest of the reception sipping ginger ale and milling around the chapel. Luke plays host, taking pictures of the kids with their artwork and extending trays of mini quiches to the other teachers. The details in this space are exquisite, and a little worn, which gives the place character. There’s an old wooden pew against the back wall—probably an original—that serves as a display shelf for a row of black and white photographs of churches, mosques, and synagogues. Stacks of books on different world religions are stuffed beneath the pew. The curtains are hanging woven tapestries that border the stained glass.

And then there are the kitschy-cool pieces: an antique tricycle parked near the kitchen. A wooden desk with a record player and earphones. A hula-hoop hanging on the wall. A globe nightlight plugged into the wall by the door. A painted wood checkerboard on the coffee table.

I trace the squares with my index finger, wondering if Luke used to play checkers with his father, too. And then, just like that, I am back in the library, sitting across from my father.



—What do you mean, ‘it’s over’, dad? I’d asked, fear pulsing through me. He’d always been strong; in charge. Seeing him like this had made me feel exposed. Unprotected.

—All of it. And it won’t be long before people figure everything out.

—My blood had turned to ice.

—What do you—I don’t understand. What did you have to do with that couple’s death? I couldn’t catch my breath. My heart pounded in my ears. Was my father telling me that he was a killer? Suddenly, the room around me felt distorted and unreal. This had to be a nightmare.

—Does Mom know?

—You know, it’s funny… Dad’s eyes were glassy. In a way, I’ll be relieved when it’s over. There’s nothing more exhausting than living a lie.



I feel a weight next to me on the couch, drawing me back.

“Freshen your drink?” Luke dumps the contents of his solo cup into mine. I’m suddenly aware that our bodies are touching: his strong arm pressed against my shoulder, his hip nudging my side. His body is comforting. Weighty, when the memory makes me feel like I’m going to float away.

“Thanks.” I force a smile. I wish I could tell Luke about my day, about my defunct bank account and Aria and everything else I worry about with my insane, broken family. Holding everything inside like this makes me feel like I’m going to explode.

“Wait.” I glance around the chapel. It’s empty. “Where is everybody?”

Luke’s laugh is warm. “Uh, they left. Like twenty minutes ago. You’ve just been sitting here daydreaming, so I thought I’d better not interrupt you.”

“Twenty minutes? Oh, God.” He thinks I’m a freak. Correction: I am a freak. A freak who has flashbacks in the middle of a perfectly good reception.

“No, not twenty minutes, weirdo.” He elbows me in the side. “The kids left a few minutes ago. Last I heard, Vi was telling everybody about a, and I quote, kick ass party in South Beach. So the place cleared out pretty quickly.”

“Oh.” I slap his leg, feeling relieved and idiotic at the same time. “So, basically, you got ditched for a better party.” He’s so close, his scent envelops me. He smells clean and salty. Warm. Safe. I let myself breathe him in.