The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(25)

Besides all this, I wasn’t sure I wanted to chance running into my mom on another unplanned shift break at home, mainly because I’d have to lie when I explained that, no, Jack had nothing to do with graffiti in the museum, and gee, I’m not sure why I failed to mention that I’d met him on the Owl bus in the middle of the night when I was sneaking off to do something I was specifically warned not to do.

I don’t like disappointing her, so I disappointed Jack instead. Not that I was conceited enough to assume he’d planned to throw me down on my front steps and kiss me like there was no tomorrow. But it was pretty obvious that I’d hurt his feelings when I wouldn’t let him walk me the measly block and half from the Muni stop.

“It’s not because I don’t trust you,” I told him before I left, but I don’t think he believed me. And that made me feel kind of rotten, especially when I turned around at the bottom of the street and saw his silhouette standing below the fog at the stop, watching me. I waved, but he didn’t wave back, and my rotten feeling slipped into a general all-purpose melancholy.

When I made it back home, I discovered that Heath was out with Noah. Good thing I didn’t need him to utilize Jack’s driver’s license, because not only would it be hours before he even noticed I was gone, but the photo I texted him was so out of focus, I couldn’t read half the information on it. Still, I remembered Jack’s street name and searched for it online. It was on the western side of Buena Vista Park, and the houses there ranged in price from five hundred thousand to several million.

I wondered which one was his.

We used to live in a nicer place in Cole Valley, back before my dad took off. He was VP of academic affairs at the university hospital. That’s how my parents met. So, yeah, he made a crap-ton of money and couldn’t be bothered to pay child support. Heath and I pushed Mom to take him to court, but she went ballistic and screamed at us about how she didn’t need a handout from a cheater and a liar. Hey. No need to tell us twice. We never brought it up again, not even on the occasions when both Heath and I had to pitch in our own money to pay an extra-high electricity bill, or whatever. It wasn’t often—maybe a couple of times a year. And the three of us are all living here together, using the electricity, united in our stance against taking handouts from liars and cheats. So I didn’t complain.

I just wasn’t quite ready to look at Minnie again, so after stashing my sketchpad, I stripped out of my clothes and dug out the artist’s mannequin. Dad might or might not be a bigwig VP anymore, but this thing wasn’t cheap. I turned it over in my hands and thought of everything Heath had told me about the card he found in the trash. Heath couldn’t remember the Berkeley address, but it was surreal to think that after not seeing my dad for years, he might be an hour away, just across the Bay.

I flipped over the hanging tag. Telegraph Wood Studio. A quick Internet search pulled up the contact information, including an email address for inquiries. I doubted artist mannequins sold like hotcakes, and surely whoever carved it would remember the name of the client. The studio might even have an address on file. What harm could it do to ask?

Before I lost my nerve, I sent a quick email.

There. Either they knew Dad’s address, or they didn’t. And if they did? Well, I’d cross that bridge later.

It was past midnight when I climbed into bed, mulling over everything that had happened that day. My session in the anatomy lab. The aftermath. The calm and patient way Jack had coached me to breathe. How warm his leg had felt pressed next to mine …

My phone buzzed with an incoming text message. Jack. Already? I halfway expected him to follow the usual pattern—that is, I wouldn’t hear back from him for days.

Msg from Jack Vincent, received 12:33AM: *taps mic* Is this thing on?

Me: Maybe.

Jack: Just wanted to make sure you got home okay.

Me: Safe and sound. You?

Jack: Safe but not sound. Still sorry about earlier.

Me: If you apologize again, I’m going to have to shiv you with a pencil.

Jack: Yes, ma’am. Hey, Bex?

Me: Yeah?

Jack: Despite the vomit and face full of tea, was still the best night I’ve had in a long, long time.

I pressed a grin into my pillow before typing an answer:

Me: I’ll be back at the anatomy lab on Thurs. Bring bottled water?

Jack: Okay, but this time I get to keep YOUR wallet.

Me: Deal. Good night, Jack.

Jack: Good night, Bex.

He didn’t text me again that night, or on Wednesday. By the time Thursday afternoon rolled around, my brain was once again conjuring crazy reasons why. Like, maybe when he said he couldn’t stop doing the Golden Apple graffiti, it was because he was being forced by the notorious local Westmob gang to spray-paint inspirational words around the city to antagonize their rivals, Big Block.

Or maybe that Sierra chick really was the girl he was visiting in the hospital. And even though he said they were “just” friends, now I couldn’t stop thinking about her “more than” correction and what exactly that might mean. I had a vivid imagination, and the more vivid it got, the more jealous I became.

On the train ride to the anatomy lab, I texted him the building number and the time of my drawing session. But he didn’t respond. Not then, and not after I got off the train and headed along the same pathway we’d walked two nights earlier. But halfway down the path, I spotted his lithe frame striding down a sidewalk that crossed mine.