Livvy (6 page)

I set the table for dinner, then take a seat next to my uncle. Mom and Dad bring in the food, and Mom helps Trey get suitable portions to eat. He never eats as much as he should.

“So, Livvy,” Matty says as my parents settle in at the table. “Are you excited about Thursday?” I glare at him from the corner of my eye. “Was it a secret?” he asks suddenly, reading my expression.

“What’s Thursday?” Mom asks.

“It’s a secret,” I state plainly.

“You’re not supposed to keep secrets,” my brother informs me.

“That’s right, Jackson,” Dad says, looking at me curiously. “What’s Thursday?”

“I have another date, that’s all.”

“With one of the guys you’ve already been out with?” Mom asks. I shake my head. “With whom?”

“Uhhh...” I can’t say ‘you don’t know him’ and blow off the question, because–of course–they do know him. “It’s Emmanuel, okay?”

“Emmanuel Cortez, as in Manny?” Dad asks, referring to the boy he sponsored to go to the best art academy in the city when I was a stubborn child who didn’t want to leave Nate’s Art Room.

“The one and only, but he asked me not to call him that anymore.” My parents both smile, obviously pleased with the prospect. If they saw how he’d changed since last year, I don’t think either would be happy. Dad has never been a fan of alternative culture, and he especially doesn’t like guys with earrings. I’m sure he thinks I’d never date someone like that since I don’t even have my own ears pierced.

When Anna had asked me if I wanted them done for my ninth birthday, I told her simply that I wanted to remain a blank canvas. I don’t even know where I got the notion back then, but I always liked being relatively unadorned. I like being able to be anyone I want from one day to the next, just by wearing different clothes, and more or less makeup.

Back then, I saw how people who looked differently were judged by others. I knew I already had enough people watching me, without drawing extra attention to myself. Sure, earrings for girls are nothing, and in fact are expected these days, but I still like the fact that I’d resisted peer pressure over the years. I was the only girl I knew that was my age who didn’t have any piercings.

I can’t imagine Jon kissing my ears as he did with studs in my lobes. I wonder if piercing desensitizes that part of the body, because I’d never want that feeling to lessen. His teeth, scraping against my skin there... I shiver just thinking about it.

“I didn’t even know you’d seen him this year,” Dad says. “You haven’t mentioned him.”

“He’s the TA in my intro to photography class.”

“Are you supposed to date teaching assistants?” Mom asks.

“Am I
supposed
to?” I ask her. “Or is it frowned upon?”

“I guess the second one.”

“I don’t know. Maybe
he
has rules, but I don’t. It’s not really a date, anyway, so much as it is two friends going out for dinner. We’ll probably talk about photography all night. It’s really no big deal, and Matty,” I say, turning my attention to him, “please do not make a big deal out of this.”

“You’re the one who told me how hot he is, with his mohawk–ow!” he exclaims when I jab him in the rib. I look over at my dad. He looks surprised.

“Mohawk?”

I shrug my shoulders. “He got a haircut,” I say simply.

“Into a mohawk?”

“He does look kinda hot,” I say softly.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Dad says, looking away as he takes a bite of his salmon. “That would be an interesting story, though, if you ended up with him,” he adds with a small smile.

“I don’t think you magically identified my lifelong mate when I was six, Dad. It’s just one date.”

“You just said it wasn’t really a date, though,” he challenges me, looking smug.

“Right. It’s not.”

My cheeks heat up as I look at my mom. She’s grinning, but looking down at her plate. When she asks what our plans are, I tell her about the tapas restaurant, but leave out the part about the bar. One of Emmanuel’s selling points on that location was the fact that he knew they would serve us there. Apparently, many of the waitresses are models he has hired for photo shoots.

After we exhaust that conversation, Dad gets back to practical questions. “So, where do you think you might look for a job this week?”

“I don’t think I’m going to.”

“Livvy, I was serious about the bills. You need to pay your share.”

“I will,” I tell him. “I’m going to sell some paintings. I’ll talk to some of the professors at school and see if they know of any good agents.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t have a whole lot in storage,” he says softly.

“I have enough,” I start. “And I’m going to start painting at the studio at Yale. They’re open all night. Plus,” I say, taking a deep breath to expel the next sentence as quickly and incoherently as possible, “I think I’ll try to find buyers for the series in the loft.” Mom’s fork clanks against her plate. Dad is more graceful, setting it down softly on his napkin. Matty puts his hand on my arm.

“Livvy, I know how deeply personal those are to you,” Mom says.

“I don’t know that I can bear to look at them every time I’m there, though, Mom.” I have to tighten my stomach muscles to keep my voice from shaking or cracking as I speak. “Especially if I’ll be spending every weekend there.”

“Well, then we put them in storage,” Dad suggests. “I don’t want you making any impulsive decisions that you’ll regret later.”

“I’d only regret it if he took me back someday,” I admit. “And I don’t think that’s going to happen.” Both of my parents look at me sympathetically. Dad starts to nod his head.

“I want you to think about it for a few weeks. Okay?”

“That’s fine,” I tell him.

“And you don’t have to spend every weekend there, Contessa. Like I told you, you are always welcome here. This is your home. I’ll set up a small studio in Jackson’s old bedroom, if you’d like. We love having you here. “

“I know, Dad. Thank you.”

He and I do the dishes together, and he tells me he’s checked the oil in my car and filled it up with gas for me as he helps me get my things together to head back to school.

“You don’t care that he’s got a mohawk?” I ask him, giving him one more hug before I get in the car.

“As long as he treats you well, Livvy, no. I don’t care.”

“I love you, Daddy.” He shuts the door after I settle into the driver’s seat. He knocks on my window before I back out. I press the button to roll it down. “Yes?”

“Remember. Hair grows back,” he says with a wink. I decide not to mention the piercings and tattoo. I mean, he accepted Jon’s tattoo, anyway.

“Bye, Dad,” I laugh.

Back at the dorm, Katrina and Rachelle give me all of five minutes to unpack my things before dragging me into the bathroom we share, bottles in hand. “You’re gonna do this with us, right?” Rachelle asks.

“It’s less permanent than this awful cut, so why not?” I nod and smile. I’ll be ready to remind Dad of that next weekend when he sees the new addition to my own hair.

Emmanuel wasn’t in class the following Tuesday, but he was waiting outside the room before our professor arrived today, just wanting to confirm our date for tonight. He’d taken one of the blue streaks of my hair between his fingers, smiling in approval. A few times during the lecture, I caught him looking my way. Rachelle had noticed, too, pointing it out to me more than once.

“Are you nervous?” she asks as I get ready. I consider her question, feeling very calm and collected.

“Nope.”

“Good, you shouldn’t be,” she says. “The way he couldn’t keep his eyes off you today makes me wonder if he’ll be able to keep his hands off you tonight,” she jokes.

“He better,” I laugh back,
now
suddenly feeling anxious. Emmanuel isn’t shy. He is very self-assured and confident. I can tell he’s experienced, more so than I am. What if he
does
expect something from me tonight? I hadn’t considered that until now.
Two friends, talking about photography.
Of course I know it’s more than that, but if I just keep telling myself that, it eases my fears.

“You at least have to let him kiss you,” Katrina says. “He’ll try to kiss you. No doubt.”

“Did you see how he was watching your lips as your were talking to him today?”

“No,” I admit. I hadn’t noticed.

“Well, he was.”

“Okay, guys, I wasn’t nervous about this at all, and now I’m going to back out–”

“No, you aren’t,” they say together. “I skipped a lab to help you get ready,” Katrina adds. “You’re going.”

“Yeah, don’t skip class for me again. It’s not worth it,” I tell her.

“You’d do it for me, if I thought he was special enough,” Rachelle adds. “Plus, I can make up the lab next week.” She smiles when her eyes meet mine. Just as I look at the clock above the door, someone knocks. He’s right on time. “We won’t wait up,” my roommate whispers to me as I answer the door. “Hi, Emmanuel,” she says as she braids a pink strand of her hair.

“Hey, Rachel,” he says.

“It’s Rachelle,” I correct him. He apologizes to her quickly, and she accepts it graciously. “I’ll see you guys later.”

“You look nice,” he says to me, eyeing my black dress and touching one of the spaghetti straps on our way out of my hall.

“You do, too.” He’s wearing black slacks and a long-sleeved grey shirt that he keeps untucked. The cuffs are rolled up haphazardly, showing a little of his tattoo. “When’d you get that?” I ask him, touching it lightly.

“Last spring,” he says.

“Does it mean anything?”

“No. It’s just something I doodled one day.” I take a closer look.

“It’s cool,” I say, noticing the spacial alignment of the curves and lines. “It’s distinctive.”

“Thanks. It’s one of a kind. Just like me.”

“Yeah, about that,” I start, “I almost didn’t recognize you on our first day of class. You’re, like, a completely different person than the guy I met last fall.”

“I’m the same guy,” he says. “I just feel more comfortable expressing who I am now.” He opens the door for me before jogging to his side of the older model sports car. When he gets in, he continues. “I gather you’re feeling the same, with the hair change?”

“We all just wanted to add a little color,” I tell him. “It’s no big deal.”

“I meant with the cut. You definitely have a harder edge to you now,” he says as we start driving down the road to the restaurant.

“Really?” I ask him with a slight laugh.

“Or are you just trying to be less recognizable?”

“A little of that, yeah.”

“I’d say your hair has less to do with that than your posture does.”

“What do you mean?”

“Last year, you seemed to have much more confidence. You stood taller, held your chin up higher. When I first saw you in class, I was sure it was you by your eyes and your smile, but the way you slouched in your chair made me doubt myself.”

I consider his observation, and try to be subtle as I adjust my posture in his car.

“It wasn’t until Professor Murphy started talking about the knack this school has for recognizing the top, young, creative minds of our generation that I accepted it was you. You know you have talent. That’s something you can’t hide. You straightened up as if she was speaking only of you.”

“I’m not that arrogant,” I tell him.

“You should be. I checked out your studio space. You’re that good.”

“Thank you.” As he pulls into the parking lot of the restaurant, I fix my hair in the vanity mirror before getting out. He opens the door again for me, offering me his hand to help me out of the car. “So, do you like my hair like this?”

“It’s sexy,” he says. “The way it exposes your neck and your shoulders is incredibly sensual. I didn’t think you should be hiding them last year when I photographed you. Remember? I moved your sleeve.”

“I remember,” I tell him with a blush as we go inside. I stand in front of him just inside the door, waiting for the hostess. I feel his thumb on the hollow beneath my ear.

“That part’s begging for attention,” he whispers. The blush from before spreads across my body in a flash of heat.
That
was sexy. I’m grateful when the hostess shows up and directs us to our table. He holds my hand loosely as we walk through the restaurant.

“Emmanuel, what can I get you?” a woman asks. She has high cheekbones and overly-plumped lips. I assume she’s one of his models.

“Let’s see... Spanish tapas? I have to go for a margarita, I guess. On the rocks.”

“And your date?”

I look at Emmanuel first, unsure if I should order anything. He nods subtly. “Ummm...” I have no idea what to even ask for. I’m about to order a rum and Coke, but the waitress speaks up before I can.

“The red sangria here is wonderful,” she suggests. I shrug my shoulders and tell her that’s fine.