The Anatomical Shape of a Heart (11 page)

“Jack,” I called out to his back. When he didn't stop, I jogged closer and called him again.

He turned his head in both directions. He looked dazed.

“Hey,” I said, stopping in front of him. “I texted you a little while ago.”

“Bex.” His voice was shot to hell and back. Crap, his eyes were red, too. Either he'd developed a very un-Buddhist-like drug habit or he'd been up all night. “My phone died yesterday, and I haven't been home to recharge it.”

“What's the matter?”

He shook his head back and forth several times and scrubbed the crown of his head, mussing his hair worse than it already was. That's when I noticed how wrinkled his clothes were, and that he had the faint shadow of unshaved whiskers darkening his jaw and chin.

“Jesus, Jack. What's going on?”

“It's going to be … I think the worst is … I don't know. I haven't slept, and I need a shower. I wanted to call you, but no one needs this level of heaviness in their life and—”

“Why don't you let me be the judge of that? Tell me what happened.”

“I—”

A deep voice bellowed behind me. “Jackson.”

I swung around to see a middle-aged man in a slate overcoat approaching. He might've been handsome, but it was hard to be sure with the dark sunglasses and black baseball cap pulled low and tight. The only thing I knew for sure was that his clothes cost more than everything I had in my rickety wardrobe.

“The car's waiting,” the man said, giving me the briefest of glances. Brief enough to let me know that I was inconsequential.

“Dad—”

“Now.” He put a hand on Jack's shoulder and urged him along.

“Jack!” I said.

“I'll call you,” he answered over his shoulder, giving me a pained look. A few seconds later, they were yards away, heading toward the drop-off area near the parking garage.

What in the world had happened?

12

Sketching Minnie was a million times worse that night, partly because I knew what to expect, and partly because I was worried about Jack. But I didn't try to hero-up this time: I excused myself halfway through the drawing session to walk around and breathe, using the same in-and-out pattern Jack had shown me. It helped. I managed not to get sick all over the bushes again.

When I didn't hear back from Jack that night, I told myself that whatever he was going through, it was clearly serious. And if he really hadn't slept in that long, I hoped that's what he was doing.

The next day, I sent a text telling him to talk to me as soon as he could, no pressure. He texted back immediately:

Msg from Jack Vincent, Received 1:30PM:
I'm not ignoring you. Promise.

Me:
Are you okay?

Jack:
Better. But I have to go back to the hospital in a few minutes.

Me:
Is there anything I can do?

Jack:
No. I just wish things were different. I'd like to say this is unusual, but it's just my screwed-up life.

Me:
I'm here if you need to talk. But I can't help if you don't tell me what's going on.

Jack:
I have to go now. I'll prob be out of commission for a while. Believe me, it's better this way.

 

 

I'm not sure why I thought that meant hours, or even a day, but after a week passed, I couldn't take it anymore. It's not like I spent the entire time moping or anything. I dutifully sneaked off to my drawing sessions with Minnie. I worked four shifts at Alto Market. I checked my email to see if the wood-carving shop in Berkeley that made the artist's mannequin had responded. And I did my best not to worry about Jack.

Until ENDURE popped up.

Maiden Lane is this alley in Union Square. It used to be filled with sleazy brothels before the 1906 earthquake leveled it—which is sort of funny, because now it's a fancy-schmancy street filled with high-end boutiques and restaurants. It's also a pedestrian-only deal in the daytime. There are these gates that close to block off traffic until 5:00 p.m., when they open up to allow cars through at night.

However, “somebody” closed the gates late last night after the shops closed, and while the street was blocked off, that somebody painted the word ENDURE in fifteen-foot-tall gold letters down the middle of Maiden Lane. The letters were designed to look like an old-timey Western saloon sign.

My heart squeezed when I saw the word glittering across our TV screen on the morning news. A reporter interviewed the owner of a caf
é
whose tables were set up around the gigantic
E
. Using it as a chance to advertise, he said he “rather liked” the graffiti and encouraged the public to come check it out in person and buy a latte.

ENDURE. Did it mean anything? Was he expressing something about whatever he was going through? Was it a sign that he was ready to communicate again?

Later that afternoon, while Mom was taking a shower and getting ready for her shift, I heard footsteps bounding down the basement stairwell, and I made the instant decision to get some unbiased advice. So I tugged on fluffy socks and headed downstairs to Laundry Lair.

A door to the right led to the garage. The one on the left led to Heath, and it was closing as I called out, “Hey!”

Heath's head popped around the doorframe. “Yo.”

“How was work?”

“Umm, fine. What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay, then why are you asking about my day like some 1950s housewife?”

“I need your advice about something before Mom gets out of the shower.”

He held the door open and waved me inside. “That'll be in thirty seconds, so you'd better talk fast.”

I strolled into the room as he closed the door behind us. Huh. Laundry Lair was … surprisingly clean. His single bed was pushed up against a wall, and it was unmade, sure. But normally the floor was covered with clothes (which was ironic, since the washing machine and dryer were
literally
four steps away from his bed), and his curtained-off clothes rack was filled with empty hangers. Today, however, everything was put away, and the stuffed chair in the corner wasn't piled with books and video-game cases. I curled up on it while he changed shirts.

“What happened to the brimstone wall?” That's what we called the painted cinderblock above the laundry-folding ledge, where a thousand metal slash punk slash indie band and bar stickers formed a giant collage of fiery, hellish logos. At least, they'd been there a few days earlier. Not anymore.

“I gave it a funeral. Mom was right. Everything was peeling, and all the sticker residue was covered in dust. It was sort of disgusting.”

“O-
kay
. Since when did you start caring about being neat?” Because he was the messiest guy I knew.

“Are you here to give me a hard time? Because I thought you wanted my advice.”

I sighed. “So, let's just say I met this guy on the Owl bus one night when I was coming home from the hospital, and we hit it off, but I found out he was on his way to commit a crime.”

“He sounds like a winner.”

“Hush, it was a really minor crime.”

“Minor like scoring an ounce of weed, or minor like illegal parking?”

“Somewhere in between?”

Heath pulled a T-shirt over his head and stared at me, mouth open. “Stealing a car?”

“What?” I practically choked. “That's ten times worse than buying drugs.”

Heath snickered. “Okay, what, then? He was robbing a gas station, but it was because his grandmother needed the money for surgery? Or was it just something stupid, like egging someone's house?” When I didn't answer right away, his eyes widened. “Hold on. Not egging, but something like it? TPing? Oh, shit!
No way.
Are you kidding? The thing at the museum?”

The blood drained from my face.

“Holy freaking…” he murmured. “It really
was
for you?”

“Heath—”

He pointed an accusing finger. “That text you sent of the blurry driver's license—that's him? You're seeing the Golden Apple street artist guy?”

“That's insane,” I said weakly. “It was the egging thing.”

“You are the worst liar in the world.”

“Oh, crap,” I whispered, covering my face with my hands. “You have to promise me not to tell Mom. Swear on your life, Heath.”

“I swear. Jeez, Bex. When you do something, you really go for it. One minute you're holed up in your room being all existential and throwing out your paints, all ‘I'm done with color,' and the next you're running wild with notorious street artists.”

I glared at him over my bent knees. “Do you want to hear, or are you just going to guess the entire story?”

“Fine, go on and tell me your revolutionary story, Patty Hearst.” He glanced up at a pipe squeaking in the ceiling. “But talk fast. The shower's off, so we've only got fifteen minutes of blow-drying and makeup.”

He could hear everything down here.

In a rush of jumbled words, I told him the whole story. Well, half of it. I left out the parts about me swooning and lusting over Jack, and I didn't admit anything else about the Golden Apple stuff, because I felt guilty enough as it was that I'd failed as secret keeper. But I did tell Heath about Sierra bursting into the tea lounge and about Panhandler Will saying Jack had a lady friend at the hospital. And about the last time I saw Jack, when he was with his father.

“So now I have no idea what's going on,” I finished.

“He told you his dad's some rich corporate guy who doesn't give a damn about his family, but why was he at the hospital with your boy?”

“I don't know.”

“Maybe something happened to the mother.”

Crap. Jack did say that his mother was “pretty high up there” in his dad's priorities—it was only Jack who wasn't. “What if his mom has cancer or something?”

“The university's cancer treatment center is across town at Mount Zion,” Heath reminded me. “But it could be something else. Maybe she was seeing a doctor at Parnassus for regular appointments, and that's why Hobo Bill saw your boy all the time.”

“Panhandler Will,” I corrected sourly. Heath had talked to Will just as much as I had over the years; you'd think he'd know his name by now. Regardless, Heath might be onto something about Jack. It was the only thing that made sense. “If Jack's relationship with his dad isn't great, his mother's probably the only person in the family he can depend on. It would definitely explain why he was so frazzled when I saw him.”

“Well, you've got
that
in common, at least. Shitty fathers, strong maternal figures hanging out at the hospital. There's hours of conversation right there. You're like two peas.”

“Look,” I said, sitting next to him on the edge of his bed, “these are the last texts Jack sent me. Don't scroll up past here.”

“Why? Are you sending each other dirty photos?”

“We're not all you, Heath.” And no, that self-portrait on
Body-O-Rama
didn't count.

He read the texts and handed my phone back. “Sounds bad.”

“I know, so what do I do? ‘Believe me, it's better this way.' What does that mean?”

“Sounds like he doesn't want to drag you into his messy family life. That's how I'd feel if it was Noah, especially if it was my fault that a cop showed up at his door.”

Heath hadn't been going out to clubs this week. He hadn't been going out, period. “Are you and Noah—”

“We aren't talking about me and Noah. But if we were, I'd be telling you he's coming for family dinner tomorrow night.”

I smiled. “We finally get to meet Saint Noah? That's a bigger sign of the apocalypse than the fall of the brimstone wall.”

“It's no big deal,” his mouth said while the anxious foot rocking over his crossed legs shouted
Biggest Deal Ever!
“Anyway, back to your crisis. By the way, I hope this Jack looks better in person than he does in that photo on the ID.”

“He does, and you're an ass.”

“Lighten up, silly rabbit.”

Ugh. He used to call me that when we were kids, because of the Trix breakfast-cereal TV commercials. That's about the time I decided I
never
wanted to be called Trix or Trixie (but if I ever decided to ask Dad for a job at his new wife's strip club, at least I had a backup name).

I fell onto the bed with a groan and threw one arm over my face to block out light from the fluorescent workshop lamp hanging from the ceiling. “If you were struggling with something or going through a bad time, and you told Noah to stay away, would he?”

“Are you kidding? Noah's a better person than both of us put together. If he thought I needed help, he'd just show up. And even if I didn't realize it, not only would he know what was wrong but he'd just”—Heath spread his hands like a stage magician—“make everything better.”

I lifted my elbow for a moment to peek up at him. “Oh,
really
?”

“Hypothetically.”

“Mmm-hmm. You're a lucky guy.”

“I am, indeed. But as far as your little vandal boy, I don't know what to tell you. He's in some serious trouble if he gets busted, Bex. And God only knows what's going on with him now. Do you really want to put yourself in the middle of all his garbage? I know I tease you a lot about being bad, but this guy sounds like trouble you don't need. Maybe it's better for both of you if you just back away and let him go.”

Mom says you should never ask for advice you aren't willing to take. I wasn't sure I agreed. Having an unbiased pair of eyes point out a sensible solution was helpful. But sometimes the sensible thing and the right thing weren't always the same choice, and no one but you could truly understand the difference.