Boomerang (15 page)

“Drinks?” she asks, heading toward the bar. “Nana, the usual? Ethan?”

“Anything,” I say, “but I was hoping to see your mother’s studio first.”

“Yeah, too bad about that,” she says over her shoulder as she pours a glass of wine. “Maybe some other time.”

I’m not sure I follow. “Why some other time?”

“How about now?” Mia’s mom sweeps into the room. The woman has some stage presence, but Mia’s father just keeps talking, clearly used to his wife’s big personality. “Now sounds wonderful!”

She refills her wine glass almost to the brim, grabs the one Mia poured and tips her head, summoning me to join her. “Come along, come along! Next tour departs immediately!”

Adam breaks off with Mia’s father and catches my eye. “You’re definitely going to want to check it out.”

At the same moment, Mia takes off like an Olympic sprinter, shooting past her mom and disappearing into the hallway. Two thoughts pop into my head. One, the girl claims she’s not an athlete, but she can definitely move and she looks good doing it. And two, I’m obviously missing something.

“Thank you,” I say, joining Pearl. “I was disappointed when I thought I’d missed out.”

“Nonsense.” Pearl hands me a very full glass of red wine. “This way.” Then she loops an arm through mine.

“Whoa.” I bobble my wine glass a little, but thankfully don’t spill.

Pearl laughs. “Sorry. We’re a touchy family. Sometimes, I forget it’s uncomfortable for people.”

“No . . . It’s okay. I just didn’t expect that.”

Pearl smiles. “Unexpected things are my favorite.”

I like unexpected too, but this night is starting to feel like I’m on Space Mountain: in the dark and totally unable to anticipate turns.

Pearl is short like Mia, but she walks briskly and I have to lengthen my stride to stay even with her and not spill wine. Also because everywhere I look are pictures, each one more interesting than the one before it.

“You know, Ethan,” Pearl says, “Mia has told us a lot about her internship.”

“It’s a great opportunity.” I don’t add
for only one of us
.

Pearl stops in front of a carved wooden door that’s different from the others in the house. It’s all warped and weathered, like it was pulled up from a shipwreck.

She squares herself to me and grows very still. After a second or two, not even the wine in her glass moves.

I feel like it’s the first time she’s really
seeing
me and it’s intense. I have to force myself to just stand there and take her eagle-eyed scrutiny. Retreating under her gaze would feel like losing, somehow.

“You have fantastic bone structure, a gorgeous Bernini-esque physique, and I’m absolutely
mad
for the cleft in your chin,” she says.

What. The. Fuck?

I’m suddenly sweating like Rhett, but I manage to answer like I’m taking this all in stride. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank your parents.”

“Okay.”

“And probably your exercise regimen. Sports?”

“Soccer.”

“Ah.”

She nods, taking that in.

“I have not heard
a peep
about you from my daughter.”

“I . . . didn’t know that.”

“Well, how would you?”

“Right.”

Is she trying to mess with my head? I have never felt so wrong-footed around another human being before.

Pearl tilts her head like Baudelaire did earlier. “Do you know what that makes you, Ethan?”

“Unexpected?”

She breaks into a big smile, and I feel like I’ve just passed a huge test. “
Yes,
” she says, emphatically. “And
extremely
unique.”

She swings the wood door open, leaving me with that little riddle to puzzle over. Thoughtful of her, since I didn’t already have enough to try to contend with tonight.

I follow her into a huge studio space with soaring ceilings. One end looks like part laboratory, part factory, with a cluster of oversized computer monitors and industrial-looking equipment that I can only imagine is for enlarging and transferring photographs.

Above the equipment, the walls are crowded with prints of all sizes. Amazing stuff. My eyes go to a shot of high heels with sparkling sequins and a bow. I recognize them as the Wizard of Oz slippers, except they have a killer four-inch heel, the tip of which is pressing into a curve of smooth flesh.

It’s the body part that’s so arresting. I can’t look away. I can’t figure out if it’s a breast or a back, or a calf, and that’s how every single piece is. You look at it, and you want to know more. You
have
to.

The other end of the studio is much more open, with a drop cloth, a variety of backdrops, some props like wigs and umbrellas and angel wings, a few stools. Beyond that, huge glass doors lead to an outdoor patio and one of the most incredible views I’ve ever seen.

“Hey,” Mia says.

“Oh, there you are,” her mother says, whirling. Then she shakes her head disapprovingly. “Really, Mia?”

That’s when I notice the sheets dropped over some frames resting against the wall.

“What are those?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Mia says. “Nothing at all.”

Chapter 19

Mia

Q: How do you handle a crisis?

O
f course, my mother proceeds to whip the sheet off the frames like she’s unveiling a new car. I don’t even know why I tried.

The largest of them, and probably the most eye-catching, is a massive triptych my mom did, based on a Modigliani nude. I’m reclining on a red velvet chaise, arms up over my head, a white silk sheet weaving beneath my body to spill across my thighs. My skin looks burnished, almost amber. And because it’s my mother, my body is sliced into thin spirals, like I’ve been through an apple peeler.

She pulls those away from the wall and sets them beside all the others I tried to hide: martini glass Mia, many-nippled Mia, avenging goddess Mia, with eight arms, a halo of detached eyeballs, and blue flames where one might normally locate my girl bits.

“As you can see,” my mother tells Ethan. “My daughter’s my muse.”

From Ethan’s perspective it probably looks more like shrooms are my mother’s muse, though as far as I know she’s never done a drug in her life.

But he steps back to get a better look at the pieces, and once again, I’m watching him look at me but a different version of me. Digitally manipulated, attractively lit, powerfully posed.
That
Mia.

“These are . . . extraordinary,” Ethan murmurs, but I can’t tell how he means it. Extraordinary, great? Extraordinary, bizarro? “I’ve never seen anything like them.” It’s dumb, too, but I feel a pang of jealousy, watching him admire her work.

“You see, my darling?” My mom captures my chin in her hands to plant a kiss on me. “Don’t ever hide yourself.” To Ethan, she adds, “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Mom!”

He glances at me, and his gaze is warm and considering, as though he’s seeing me—real me, the one in front of him—for the first time too. “Very,” he says.

“Let me show you what I’m working on now,” my mother says, warmly. “It’s a series called ‘Foxes.’

I groan. Those are the ones of me in different animal masks, taken in weird urban environments. Fox-mask Mia in a shopping cart under fluorescent lights. Cat-mask Mia crouched on a mall escalator, ascending into shadow. I’m dressed in most of them, but maybe we don’t need to inundate the guy with our complete and utter weirdness?

“Mom, dinner’s going to be ready soon. Why don’t we head back to our other guest?”

“I really want to see them,” Ethan says, grinning at me. Once again, I can’t read the expression. Is he genuinely interested? Sucking up to my mom? Or just giving me tsuris, as Nana would say?

“Okay, but don’t keep him too long, Mom,” I say. I don’t add, “And please don’t tell him anything mortifying about yourself. Or me.”

I start for the door, distracted, and catch the heel of my sandal on a snarl of cords on the floor. Flailing, I grab onto Ethan’s arm and send his wine glass—filled with Chianti—splashing onto his face, his throat, and his beautiful crisp white shirt.

“Oh my God, Ethan! I’m so sorry.”

He stands there, totally shocked, and then looks down at himself. A drop of Chianti slides down his nose and drops onto his shoe.

“Happy accident!” my mother says, clasping her hands like a Who on Christmas morning. “Mia, why don’t you run and get a towel. And see if you can find him a clean shirt.”

“I am so, so sorry,” I tell him. “Stay right here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

More carefully, I flee the room, wanting to stop and bang my head against the wall a few times before I go. Why do I feel like a walking catastrophe around this guy?

I pass by the kitchen on my way to the linen closet. Looking in, I’m surprised to find my dad, Adam, and Nana sitting around the round table tucked into the window niche there. The two guys look like they’ve done some real damage to that bottle of bourbon already—though Nana still has her full glass of vermouth.

Adam sits back, resting his head against the wall, a strange expression on his face. “That’s what they don’t understand,” he says hoarsely.

“How could they?” My dad tips back his glass. “That feeling like someone pushed a button on your life. And it’s suddenly something new?”

“And something you didn’t ask for,” Adam replies. “Or want.”

“Guys?” I say, coming into the kitchen. “What’s going on? Everything all right?”

“Ah, my sweet Mia Moré.” My dad waves me over, and I go. He threads an arm around my waist and squeezes. “The thing is, Adam,” he says. “You have to find the thing that makes it worth it. That turns that life you didn’t want into something you do.”

Adam salutes my dad with his glass. “It’s great you have that. Family.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

Adam checks the remains of his bourbon for an answer but doesn’t say anything.

“Jo-Jo?”

“Oh,” my dad replies. “I told Adam here about my accident.”

“Really?” He never talks about it. So, why to Adam—a stranger?

People always talk about the voltage when they talk about electricity. But it only took one amp to stop my dad’s heart. He’s got a chest full of shining pink scars to remind us of what happened—but I forget about the other wounds, the ones he carries inside.

“It’s a good reminder that things go fast,” my father says. “And nothing’s guaranteed. You can only dig in and fight for your little share of happiness,
capisci
?”

“Capisco
,” Adam replies. Is there anything he doesn’t know?

Glassy-eyed, he drains the last of the bourbon. For the first time that I’ve ever seen, he’s a bit . . . askew. His collar droops on one side, and the knot of his tie’s too tight, like he’s been tugging on it.

“Maybe we should get dinner on the table?” I suggest. They could use some good bread to sop up the booze.

My dad lets go of me. Getting to his feet, he says, “Good thinking, sweetheart.” He extends a hand to Nana. “Evie?”

Nana rises and smiles at me. Her eyes are her own again, green and sharp with humor. “Where’d that good-looking boy go?” she asks.

Oh, crap. I totally forgot about Ethan.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell them and explain about Ethan and the wine.

I dash into my parents’ room, rifle through my dad’s closet for a shirt, snag a towel from the linen closet, and rush back to my mother’s studio.

“Hey, sorry about—” But the scene in the room chops the words off mid-sentence.

The studio lights blaze, and my mom stands back behind the camera, snapping pictures, calling out encouragement.

To Ethan.

Who’s sitting atop a stool and posing for my mom—shirtless.

Chapter 20