Make Me Yours(3)

“I guess somebody never watched Kill Bill.”

“Or The Amazing World of Gumball.”

We do a low five, and I follow her to the door.

“Ruby, wait!” Ms. Hughes hurries to give me a business-sized envelope. “I want you to give this to your parents tonight. Have them sign it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” A knot tightens in my throat.

I wish people wouldn’t jump to conclusions.

Unless they need the exercise.

Drew and I walk our regular route home from school. We live in the same neighborhood, but developers have been adding to it so long, it’s more like three neighborhoods connected by long, winding streets.

Her family’s historic mansion is in the oldest part of Oakville Estates. It was one of the first homes built here. My family’s house is on the other, newer end. It’s not a mansion, but it’s still pretty big.

We reach the fork in the sidewalk, and she hesitates, looking in the direction of her house. Since her mom died, all her daddy does is drink, and her brother Danny gets in trouble all the time.

“If your dad hates art so much, why’d you pick him for your portrait?”

“Daddy issues.” I joke, kicking the grass with the toe of my shoe. Neither one of us really wants to go home.

“Seriously?”

“I don’t know. His face was in my head.” I squint up at her. “Why’d you pick Danny?”

She shrugs. “Same reason.”

She opens her large portfolio, and we both study her portrait. It doesn’t look like Danny at all. It looks more like his best friend Gray. Our eyes meet, and I laugh again.

“That’s the face in your head?” Her cheeks flush, and she doesn’t have to answer me. Drew and I know each other better than anybody in this town. “See you tomorrow, Drew-poo.”

“Don’t call me that, banana brains.”

I give her a push, and she pokes me in the ribs. Our pretend-wrestle turns into a brief hug. “Good luck.”

“You, too.” She waves and marches slowly toward her house.

I wonder if a drunk dad is better or worse than an absentee jerk. Either way, I can’t put off the inevitable any longer.

Dad’s stuck at the hospital and won’t make it in time for dinner again. Ma and I sit together eating kimchee and spicy dumplings with chopsticks as she recites the events of her day.

Her neat beige dress stops at her knees, and a thin black belt is around her waist. Her dark hair is smoothed back into a low bun at the nape of her neck, and her shoes are sensible black pumps. A neat strand of pearls is at her neck, and her lips are a pale shade of pink. My mother’s skin is flawless.

She is the very model of a small-town church secretary.

I’m dressed in ripped jeans and a graphic tee, and my hair is styled in a fluffy bob that ends right at my ears. While I do look more like her, thanks to my Anglo dad, my hair has a little wave in it, and my dark eyes are slightly rounder. It’s clear I’m half-Korean, but I appreciate these little perks from the man with whom I otherwise have nothing in common.

We finish eating, and Ma goes to the bar separating the kitchen from the dining area. “What is this?” She picks up the envelope I left behind.

“Ms. Hughes wants you to sign and return it.”

Ma opens the letter and her dark eyes quickly scan the page. “It says you’d leave school early? To draw pictures?” Her brow furrows. “What about your science class? Your math? You should leave school early to take accounting.”

“It’s just a recommendation, Ma. I don’t have to do it.”

“Your father will not like this.”

No shit. I don’t say that part out loud. I don’t want her putting soap on my tongue again.

“What won’t I like?” Dad’s stern voice makes my insides jump.

Ma jumps as well. “Kenneth! Welcome home.” She steps over to peck his cheek. “I saved you a plate. Sit.”

He goes to the wet bar at the window, and ice clinks in a crystal tumbler as he pours his daily scotch. “Ruby?”

My stomach clenches. “Yes, sir?”

“What is your mother saying I won’t like?”

Blue eyes fix on me, and I wonder how he can make me feel so cold with just a look.

“We had an art assignment at school. My teacher sent home a note.”

His brow lowers, and my frozen insides splinter in painful shards. “A reprimand?”

“A recommendation.” I speak fast. “She wants me to take this art program. I told her I wasn’t interested.”

He goes to the letter my mother left on the table and scans it even faster than she did. “Art.” His perfectly straight nose curls. “What gets into these teachers? What kind of job would you get with a degree in art?”

Swallowing the pain in my throat, I nod. “I know, right?” My voice sounds too small.

“What’s this?” He reads out loud. “See portrait. What portrait?”

“It’s nothing.” I stand, collecting my plate. The last thing I want is to continue this conversation.

“Ruby Banks, what portrait?”

Depositing my plate in the kitchen, I go to where I left my school things in the mud room. My art folder is in the back of the long cubby behind my raincoat. I take it out and carry it slowly to the dining room where he now sits at the head of the table, holding his scotch.