The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(13)

When we finally got home, a printed note was stuck to the door from some place named Godspeed Courier. “Sorry we missed you, but we need your signature. We’ll try again ___.” The blank wasn’t filled in, and there was no name.

“Bike messenger?” Mom said, hefting steaming bags of takeout. “What is this, Heath?”

“How should I know? I didn’t order anything. Maybe it’s a birthday present for Bex.”

“Right. Because I have so many friends who use courier service.”

“Probably the wrong address,” Mom said, taking the courier note before heading toward the kitchen.

“Maybe it was meant for Julie.”

“Who knows,” Mom called back. “I’ll ask her about it next time I see her.”

“I can run it up to her,” I said.

“I said I’d take care of it, Beatrix,” she snapped in a very un-Katherine way.

“Sheesh,” I mumbled. “Bossy much?”

I remembered Mom’s late-night phone call. She’d told the person not to mail anything. Was this what she was talking about?

“I thought you were starving. Come help me get ice in the glasses,” she said in a nicer tone from the kitchen before I could read anything more into it.

Besides, I had other things to worry about, like the ding on my phone. One HAPPY BDAY text from Lauren and Kayla in LA (who couldn’t even spare enough time to send separate texts or type the IRTH). While I was at it, I checked my email. Holy freaking alerts, Batman: The photo I’d uploaded two hours ago had been reposted 503 times, which was about five hundred more times than anything else I’d ever posted. Was I the only person who’d snapped a picture?

“Bex,” Mom called again.

“Coming!” Ugh. Maybe posting that photo was a mistake.

My post-museum panicky high faded into a slow buzz after a movie and massive amounts of Pad See-Ew noodles and lemongrassy Panang curry. While Mom was in the kitchen, our doorbell rang. It was almost eight o’clock, which was kind of late for someone to be stopping by. My brain jumped to conclusions and screamed Jack, but when Heath swung the door open, it was a uniformed police officer.

The oh-shit look on Heath’s face was mirrored on my mom’s when she walked into the room balancing a plate of three candlelit cupcakes.

“Evening. I’m Officer Dixon,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt your night, but if you don’t mind, I have a few questions. May I come in?”

Mom’s shoulder’s sagged. “Of course. Heath, close the door and sit down. Beatrix, go to your room.”

“You’re Beatrix Adams?” the cop said.

“Umm, yes?”

“You’re the person I’d like to speak with.”

“Me?”

“Did you post a photograph online from the account BioArtGirl?”

My response was caught in some kind of psychedelic slow-motion filter. “Uuuuuh, yeeees, siiiir.”

I barely heard Mom, who was politely introducing herself and sounding disturbingly calm as she questioned the officer: What photo? And what was this all about? And how did they get her daughter’s address?

Officer Dixon matched her on the supercalm attitude. “We traced the account to an art website and found her Facebook link. Lincoln High was on that profile. Your address is in the school system database.”

Holy crap. All of that was set to private. Wasn’t this a violation of my rights?

“Miss Adams,” he said to me in a firm tone, “can you please tell me what your relationship is with the person who vandalized the Legion of Honor this afternoon?”

“None!” Why was my voice so high? “I just posted it as a joke. It’s my birthday. I saw it and took a picture. It’s my birthday,” I repeated dumbly. Could I sound any guiltier?

The officer was a brick wall. Completely unreadable. “Did you witness the vandalizing?”

“No.” I told him what happened, which was fairly easy because I was actually telling the truth. Mostly. And I thought he believed me, but then he got serious.

“Are you aware of an anarchist art group called Discord?”

“I’ve read about them.”

“Then you know that someone in the group defaced a Rothko painting in the Museum of Modern Art two years ago.”

“That was them?”

“Cost the museum thousands of dollars in restoration damage. That’s a very serious crime. So if you even suspect you might know someone in your art class at school who might do some graffiti now and then, you need to tell me. Legion of Honor isn’t taking this lightly. And if this perp”—Jesus! Jack is now being considered a freaking perpetrator?—“defaces something else, the charges are just going to keep getting worse. Right now, they’re looking at one to three years in state prison.”

Years?

“And trust me, if this person is connected to Discord, he or she won’t be getting mercy from the court, because members of that group are facing felony arson charges, assault on a police officer, rioting—you name it.”

“I only read about Discord last week!” I turned around when Mom made a noise. “I swear, Mom. This is craziness. I just posted a photo.”

“I believe you, baby.”

“Ma’am, did you know that parents can be held responsible, too? You can face fines, jail-time, and up to twenty-five thousand dollars in damages if your daughter is found to be connected to Discord.”