The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(72)

Yeah. Bet they were.

It took me several moments of panic to connect the dots to Jack’s “devious and brilliant” plan to attend the show. He had put her up to this! Did she even know I was entered in the contest? Because she definitely didn’t know that I’d painted Jillian.

Would she recognize her own daughter hanging on the wall? Would she be shocked? Angry? Had Jack even thought this through? He’d seen the photo of the painting, for the love of Pete! He’d merely said it was “perfect,” which already made me nervous enough because he didn’t elaborate, and what if he really didn’t like it but he couldn’t tell me because he’s my boyfriend and he didn’t want to hurt my feelings and this is so different than any other artwork I’ve done over the last couple of years and why in the world did I think it was a good idea to do something so weird for a scientific art contest … and, and …

OH, GOD!

Slow breath in through the nostrils, long breath out through the mouth …

I abandoned the idea of jumping into oncoming traffic and calmed down about the same time Mom found a parking space. Nothing I could do about this now.

Time to face whatever awaited me.

The show was being held in a building with several floors of private art galleries, and they were all open late for some once-a-month open house. A guard sat behind a desk in front of four elevators, where signs and a map identified the student exhibition gallery. We wove though stilettos and plastic champagne glasses (private gallery openings) to join the Converse and Sprite crowd (the student exhibition).

The gallery was pretty big: one room split into three sections with white walls, wood floors, and black track lighting focused on the artwork. A small area at the far end had been set up with a microphone and chairs—for the judges, I assumed. They’d already picked the winners before the show, but the judges were around there somewhere, mingling. I scanned the room for Jack or his mom. Nada. But I did spy someone beefy and muscular and smiling: Noah.

Heath waved him over, and we all greeted one another.

“How long have you been here?” I asked him.

“Long enough to see all the entries. You’re going to wipe the floor, Beatrix.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Saw a couple of the judges looking at it,” he said. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

Had Noah seen Jack’s mom? He knew better than to mention this in front of my mom, right? Had my fall from grace come up during their pillow talk? I imagined it had, and my brother’s shifty eyes confirmed it.

Heath quickly elbowed Noah and cleared his throat. “Show me where Bex’s painting is, then tell me everything,” Heath said as he pulled Noah away.

“Good luck,” Noah told me over his shoulder.

I checked in with one of the organizers and got an artist badge with my name and school listed. Crap. There were more than a hundred entries? When I’d turned in my painting, the person who took it said there were fifty. That was twice as many people to compete against.

“It’s loud,” Mom said near my ear. “More like a party than an exhibition.”

“Heathens,” I agreed, eyeing other people with artist badges. They were all boys. Like, nearly every single one. And the artwork was exactly as I imagined: magnified cells, astronomy, close-ups of flowers … oh, and one dissection: a frog. It was actually pretty good.

“A frog?” Mom mumbled. “Please. Amateur.”

I blinked at her in shock.

She smiled at me conspiratorially. “Give me some credit,” she said, linking her arm through mine. “I might not be happy about all the crap you’ve pulled this summer, but it doesn’t mean I’m not a proud mama. Where is yours, anyway?”

I pushed back chaotic feelings and straightened my posture. “Must be in the middle section.” Even wearing heeled boots, I had to stand on tiptoes to peer around the room. When Mom suggested we cut around a group of parents, we turned together and ran straight into the last people I’d ever expected to see.

Dad and his new wife, Suzi.

“Hello, Katherine,” he said in his VP voice.

“Lars,” my mom said in her I want to rip your throat out overly polite voice.

And before I could filter it, “What the hell are you doing here?” came out of my mouth.

“Your mother invited me.”

Oh. Wait—huh?

Why?

What was going on here? Just the week before, she was biting my head off and crying over the fact that I’d gone behind her back to meet up with Dad. Now, after a three-year Dad-free zone, she was inviting him to things?

“This is Suzi,” he said to us, like she wasn’t the woman who’d broken up my parents’ marriage. Then again, maybe she didn’t. What did I know anymore? Relationships were complicated.

“It’s nice to meet you—formally, this time,” Suzi told me. “It was hard to hear over all that screaming your father was doing.”

She smiled at me—like, a real smile. She was teasing. No way. I really didn’t want to like her.

“Ah, yes,” Dad said uncomfortably, then quickly changed the subject. “We saw your painting, Beatrix. It’s very interesting.”

Interesting. Yeah, that about summed it up. “Where is it? We just got here.”