The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(74)

“Hebephrenia,” the mayor confirmed in a flat voice. “It’s another name for disorganized schizophrenia, because symptoms begin during puberty, when schizophrenics are young.”

A few people in the crowd murmured, impressed with the mayor’s seemingly random knowledge about the subject matter.

“Who painted this?” he asked.

“The student’s name is Beatrix Adams.”

I felt Jack’s big hands tighten around my arms, holding me in place, as if he could read my mind and knew instinct was screaming at me to bolt. But I didn’t. I stood still as a solider and watched the mayor turn around. His gaze flew straight to Jack and then dropped until it connected with mine. If he was utterly unreadable the first two times I’d seen him, now his face was a twenty-gallon tank of raw anguish.

I inhaled sharply and suffered his stare, which didn’t last long. He swung back around to the painting, as if he couldn’t bear to look at me any longer. Behind his back, Jack’s mom leaned toward me. Her eye makeup was smudged, and she was blinking a lot. Had she been crying? I couldn’t tell whether she was sad or angry, but she put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

That was good, right?

Before I knew for sure, before the mayor could burst into a tirade or strike me down with the roiling emotions that made him ball his hands into fists, the suit curating my painting said, “This entry created the most discussion among the judges, and its unusual subject matter and creative use of dissection earned it the number two spot in tonight’s competition.”

Applause erupted around us as the woman pulled a red ribbon from the box beneath her clipboard and stuck it to the bottom of the painting’s printed identification label before cheerily directing the mayor and his wife toward the next contest entry of interest.

Second place.

No scholarship money. No boost for my college applications.

I had lost.

31

If I had my way, I would’ve walked out, but Mom forced me to stay through the ceremony and Mrs. Vincent’s speech about the importance of art in school. I stiffened my spine and graciously accepted my prize envelope, which contained museum passes good for a year, and a bunch of vouchers for art supplies.

“Oh, gee,” I said out in the hallway with my support team of Mom, Heath, Noah, and Jack. Dad and Suzi lingered off to the side, talking to someone Dad knew; no one had invited him over. “There’s a fifty-dollar gift card for a chain restaurant. ‘Celebrate your big win on us.’ That’s just peachy.”

Mom took the envelope from me. “I’ll keep this for you, or you’ll likely burn it in some kind of angry ritual.”

“Wrong child,” I said.

Heath shook his head. “My burning days are over. Mostly.”

“I know it doesn’t help,” Jack said. “But even if you’d done what you originally planned, there was no way you were beating Fractal Mitochondria Boy. That was some kind of genius. Plus, you’re just a lady painter, so you’re probably not serious about college anyway. Leave science to the men, whydontcha?”

I leaned my head against his shoulder. “Have I told you how much I like you?”

“Nurse Katherine is two seconds away from murdering me with her eyes, so maybe you shouldn’t. What? Too soon?”

“Smart-ass,” Mom said to him, half-serious, half-teasing. I guess one good thing about losing spectacularly was getting Mom to cool her rage against Jack. “Just because you’re charming doesn’t change anything. I’m still mad at you for putting my daughter in a situation that could’ve gotten her arrested.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Mom,” Heath said.

Jack sighed. “It’s fair. Guilty as charged, but just for the record, I would’ve taken the fall.”

Mom rolled her eyes, but it was obvious she wasn’t really angry. “Your romantic heroism doesn’t impress me.”

A crisp voice floated over her shoulder. “That makes two of us.”

Crap. I immediately jerked my head away from Jack as the mayor and his wife joined our group. “David Vincent,” he said, introducing himself to Mom. “And this is my wife, Marlena. She tells me you’re a nurse at Parnassus.”

“No need to worry, David,” Mom said, like he was just some guy or a neighbor down the street and not the local celebrity with whom she’d fantasized about having a secret love child. “My coworkers are gossips, so I keep family business at home.”

He nodded at her before turning his mayoral gaze on me.

Great. This was it. The universe had apparently decided it wasn’t enough for me to waste my summer pursuing something that amounted to nothing more than a pat on the back and endless refills of soda at a chain restaurant. No, I was going to have to either eat crow and beg for King Vincent’s forgiveness or defend my painting and risk making things worse for Jack and me.

Sweat coated my palms. I licked dry lips and looked him right in the eye—which was hard, because he was about the same height as Jack, and about a gazillion times more intimidating.

“Dad—” Jack started, but his father steamrolled over him.

“Miss Adams,” he said to me, “I’d like to buy your painting.”

Huh? Maybe I’d heard that wrong.

“You…”

“The first-place scholarship was ten thousand dollars. I’d like to offer you the same to purchase the painting.”