Toxic Bad Boy(20)
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?”