Fly Away (8 page)
I needn't have worried. The art room was locked. There are expensive supplies in there. It made sense that Ms. Currie would lock it up when she wasn't there. I let go of the doorknob and turned around to leave. Then I saw the bulletin board display on the wall across from the art room:
A Career in Fine ArtâNot Just a Fantasy
.
The display was part of a schoolwide career-day project. Many classes and labs had these boards up to highlight the practical applications of the subjects we were learning. I'd contributed a profile of a physiotherapist I'd interviewed to the Health display. I leaned in closer to scan the bulletin board, which housed a collage of art pieces and the careers they reflected. A piece of gift wrap, for example, framed a photo of a person working at a stationery design company. A page of print included a long list of web links, organized into categories. I zeroed in on the list marked
Government grant and other funding
support for artists
. I pulled out my iPhone and typed in four URLs from the list. The most promising one was to a website that had information about private donors.
I stuffed my phone back in my purse and walked quickly away from the art room. If I was lucky, there'd be no need to talk to Ms. Currie after all.
After I got home from school, I only had about twenty minutes to go online before cheerleading practice, but it was enough. One of the private donors profiled on the website from the bulletin board was a man named Trey Benedict. The first hit, when I googled the name, was a newspaper review of an art exhibition. According to the reviewer, Trey Benedict's work was “arch.” What was arch? Was it good or bad? There was no photo with the article, so I moved on until I found a page about a juried art contest for youth. Trey Benedict was on the three-member jury. I clicked to enlarge his photo. He was a white guy, with a shaved head, thin lips and small features. He stared intently at the camera. It was hard to tell his age. I guessed somewhere in his thirties.
Trey Benedict, the bio said, is a multimedia artist based in Toronto. He is known for his collaborative work, including the creation, with sculptor Cheri Tepperman, of an award-winning permanent installation for the lobby of the prestigious Harwood Club in Oakville. An enthusiastic supporter of young artists, Benedict created the BeneFactor Foundation, which offers exclusive mentorships to emerging young artists.
Exclusive mentorships. I had to find out what that meant. Trey Benedict was based in Toronto. Arielle had disappeared in Toronto. She was with him. I was sure of it. I was desperate to find out more, but I had to leave for cheerleading. I couldn't afford to be late. I was the captain.
As soon as I'd changed, Coach Saylor took me aside and asked how I was coping. I told her the truth. The idea of being captain of the Starlings completely freaked me out, and I wasn't sure I was up to the task.
She made her
I'm disappointed
face at me. “Well, Marnie,” she said, “you're going to have to fake it. These girls need leadership. I can only do so much.” She ran a hand through her curly hair. I could see that she was tired. She had been interviewed by the police too. “First of all, you need to tell me whether you want me to replace Arielle.”
I opened my mouth, but she interrupted me before I could say anything.
“Not with a new captain. You're stuck with that gig. I mean with a new base.”
“I'm the one who has to decide that? Not you?”
She nodded. “Arielle decided to replace Emma with you and to bring Lucy on. It's your call.”
I was quiet for a moment, thinking. Our team had been through a lot. I wasn't sure the girls were ready to adjust to a new member. “I'd rather have Barb do it, if she's willing. And use Jada as a spotter when we need one. I'll let the girls know.”
Coach nodded.
Having made at least one real decision calmed me down a little. When the warm-up was over, I scooted to the front of the room and did my best to deliver a pep talk.
“Hey,” I said. I had to repeat myself a couple of times before the girls quieted down to listen. They weren't used to speeches from me. “We've got some business to discuss. We didn't do too badly at the Great Lakes, considering.”
Shona made a face, but she didn't correct me.
“We were in the middle of a crisis, but we got through the routine without any major screwups. We've got provincials coming up, and there's no reason why we're not still in the running.”
I looked at Barb. “Barb, I want you to take Arielle's place in stunt team three. When you need a spotter, you'll use Jada. We'll work through the choreography changes today. Are you ready?”
I looked around the room for reactions. Lucy and Priya were smiling at me, but there were a lot of skeptical faces. Shona had her head down, pretending to fiddle with her shoelace. What exactly did she have against me? I was sick of her attitude. It didn't do anything for the team.
“Okay. Places,” I said, with as much authority as I could muster. “We're doing âGroovy.' From the top.”
When practice was over, I followed Shona to her end of the locker room. “Can I have your phone number?” I asked her.
“You already have it,” she reminded me. “Didn't Arielle send you the contact file when she made you assistant captain?”
“Oh,” I said. “Right.”
“Why would you need to call me anyway?” she asked.
“Tell you later,” I answered.
I'd just remembered something. Shona knew her way around Toronto.
As soon as I got home, I got back on the computer. Whatever an “exclusive mentorship” was, it would be hard to argue that Arielle was not worthy of one. I was no judge of art, but I knew Arielle's paintings had earned praise from people who were. She was smart, beautiful and talented, with her life precisely on track. It seemed, now, that those things hadn't mattered much to her. She'd wanted to be an artist more than anything else. And she'd apparently decided that she had to run away to do it. I guess her parents were stricter than I ever realized. I leaned back in my desk chair. I hadn't even figured out where Trey Benedict lived or where his mentorship program was or how it worked. But I knew that Arielle's parents would be grateful for even the little scraps of information that I did have. So why hadn't I called them yet? I probably would have to call the police too. I fished Detective Fuller's business card out of my purse.
Then I put it away again. Wherever Arielle was, she wanted to be there. She'd planned her disappearance with a great deal of care. She'd shipped her paintings. She hadn't told a soul. Not even me. She didn't want to be found. And here I was, trying to help her parentsâand the policeâfind her.
Maybe I owed it to her to find her on my own. She was my best friend. I could find out if she was okay, and then make a decision about who to tell.
There was no address for Trey Benedict on the web. Not surprising. He probably had fans. He might not want them showing up at his door.
There was an address for the BeneFactor Foundation in Richmond Hill, Ontario. Box 2290, Red Maple Road. There was no phone number though, and when I looked up the address on Google Maps, there was a stationery store at that location. So it was a mailing address located in a stationery store, not a real office. That didn't mean anything. Lots of businesses have addresses like that. But it was no help.
If I was going to track down Benedict, I'd have to do it the same way Arielle had. I went to the young artists' bulletin board that I had bookmarked, and hit the button marked Register. I typed in “Flygirl” for a user name, and “Starlings” for my password. Easy as that, I was in.
Trey Benedict didn't come online until nearly eleven thirty that night. I knew better than to pounce on him right away. I'd introduced myself to the group when I first joined, and I posted a general question every half hour or so, to make sure my user name popped up on the list now and then. I wanted to look like a legitimate member.
I read all Trey Benedict's posts. Most of the time he was giving advice. He seemed to enjoy the mentor's role. But in a couple of posts, he answered questions about his own work. He was working on some kind of “installation.” I wasn't sure what that meant, but I learned that it involved metalwork sculptures. First he had to do drawings of the sculptures though. He promised to post the drawings directly to the board for all to see.
By now, everyone at school seemed to know that Liam and I had broken up. As soon as she found out, Priya had started following me around like I was on suicide watch. "You two were, like, the cutest couple in this school," she moaned. "What happened?"
I shrugged. “Don't ask me,” I said. “He didn't explain.”
And anyway, I thought, I wasn't sure I even cared. I'd been trying for months to be patient with Liam's new moodiness. I'd done everything I could to prove that I'd stand by him while he got over his depression. It was wrong of him to turn his back on me so completely. Something inside me was shifting. I was going from feeling abandoned to feeling angry.
For the first time in my life, I was on my own. And being mad instead of lonely made it easier to deal.
When I got home from school, I logged onto the artists' site. Nothing yet. Benedict was obviously a night owl.
So I went out for a run. It was March, and we'd had a mild spell. The streets were clear. I ran for only fifteen minutes or so, but it felt good to move. It made me feel competent. In charge. When I got home, I pushed the coffee table aside in the family room and marked out some changes to the choreography for the “Midsummer” routine. With only one tumbler, I needed to find a way to make us look balanced. Pulling out Priya and Ashleigh, the spotters from groups one and three, for some simple tumbling moves during basic stunts would accomplish that. It would provide more visual interest at floor level. Besides, using only two bases for lifts looks less cluttered. It also makes you look cocky, like you don't need spotters.
Priya, I knew, was a decent tumbler, so she'd be able to do it. Ashleigh was more of an unknown quantity. I dialed her number.
“Hi, Mar,” she said.
“Hi,” I said. “Hope I'm not calling too late. I need to know what kind of tumbling you can do. Can you do a handspring?”
She laughed. “I can do a back tuck, thank you very much. I'm not just a platform for Keri to stand on, you know. What's up?”
“I'm tinkering a little with âMidsummer.' I want to pull you and Priya out for a couple of tumbling runs.”
“Go, girl,” Ashleigh said.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I was worried about you for a while. You seemed pretty shaken up about Arielle. But it sounds like you're on the job now.”
I smiled. After Arielle, Ashleigh was the most mature girl on the team. She should have been assistant captain. Her support meant a lot to me. “Thanks,” I said.
“Any news about Arielle? The forty-eight hours are up now, right? The police must be searching.”
I explained that the search was on hold. Ari was eighteen, she'd shipped her paintings somewhere, and there was nothing to suggest she was in danger. “It's not like she's a missing child,” I told Ashleigh, “or even a runaway teen. According to the police, she's an adult. Basically, she's moved out with no forwarding address. Not really a police matter.”
“Her parents disagree, I'll bet,” said Ashleigh.
“Yep,” I said.
It was after midnight. I was exhausted when Benedict finally uploaded his sketches. But I was glad I'd stayed up. When I scrolled down to the second one, a flash of recognition jolted me fully awake. The sketch was of a boy on a skateboard, shoulders hunched, chin tucked down into his collar. Arielle's cousin.
My Girl
was there too. There was no mention in his post of Arielle's name, but Benedict was using Ari's paintings as the basis for his sculptures.
But why would Benedict make pencil sketches of Arielle's paintings? And why had he called them first-draft sketches? And why wasn't he giving Arielle any credit?
It didn't seem wise to ask him those questions directly. Instead, I asked him for an application to his mentorship program. There was a note in his profile that mentioned the BeneFactor Foundation and how it offered “yearlong residential apprenticeships to emerging artists.” I also asked where the studio was located. I knew that once I found him, I'd find Arielle.
When I went online the next morning, a note from Trey Benedict said he was sorry to advise me that there were currently no mentorship openings available. He was grateful for my interest and urged me to post my work to the bulletin board for the group to critique. He didn't answer my question about the studio's location.
I looked at his sketches again. They were in pencil. Some were better than others. First-draft sketches. Of finished paintings? I don't know much about art, but it didn't make much sense to me.
After cheerleading practice, I approached Shona. “You taking the bus tonight, Shona?”
“Yeah,” she answered, sounding suspicious. She hadn't seemed happy, earlier, about my new choreography. I think she preferred me as incompetent as possible.
“Do you have time to grab a coffee with me first?”
She told me she didn't drink coffee. I felt like telling her she could order a tall glass of air, for all I cared. But instead, I said I needed to talk.
We sat down in a diner booth. Shona looked uncomfortable. I wondered if she was expecting me to give her a hard time for trying to undermine me.
“I need your help with something,” I said.
She waited.
“You have family in Toronto, right? Or near there?”
“Stouffville,” she said, as though everybody knew where that was.
