Contessa

by Lori L. Otto

  My stomach jumps.

  “Oh,” I barely manage to breathe out. “Okay.”

  “You always were sensitive.” He crinkles his nose and grins as he says this.

  “I am not.”

  “Oh, you are,” he argues. “But I like that about you.”

  “Oh.” This time, I’m not sure he can even hear me.

  “So your sixteenth birthday’s coming up soon, huh?” I’d never noticed how long his eyelashes were.

  “Next month, yeah,” I tell him, surprised that he remembers.

  “Are you gonna let me be your first date?” he asks quietly. “Or is that privilege saved for someone else?”

  “I’m yours,” I tell him, and then hear what I’d said. “I mean, it’s yours. It’s.”

  “It will be my privilege. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say, the only words I can think of to say. “Cool.”

  “Cool,” he repeats as he kicks one leg forward deliberately and starts to walk again. I stay at his side and keep pace with him.

  “You think your dad will be okay with that?”

  “I don’t care,” I tell him. “But yeah, I don’t see why he wouldn’t.”

  “I don’t know. I bet he’s been happy I haven’t been around so often.”

  “Why would you say that? He barely knows you.”

  “Well, I asked him a year ago if I could take you to a movie.”

  “You what?”

  “Yeah. He said no; he told me to come back and ask when you’re sixteen.”

  “He said no?”

  “Of course. I knew the rule. I had just hoped I could prove to him that I wasn’t some scary perv or something. Apparently, I failed,” he says, then laughs. “He didn’t like the idea of his fourteen-year-old daughter going out with a sixteen-year-old. That’s what he told me.”

  “I can’t believe he said no. He’s such a jerk sometimes. And I can’t believe you never told me that!” I tell him with a big grin.

  “I haven’t really seen you. Plus, I was embarrassed. But I’m good now. I’m up for the challenge.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m walking you home so I can talk to your dad.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I sure am. I’ve been gearing up for this for a year. You can’t stop me now.”

  “He’ll be pissed that I was with you in the first place.”

  “I beg to differ. I was studying nearby when I saw those guys following you.”

  “What guys?” I ask, turning around.

  “There were no guys, Liv,” he says, rolling his eyes. “But he doesn’t need to know that.”

  “Ohhh...” I say, following his plan. “Cool.”

  “Yeah, cool. You’ll play along?”

  “Of course!”

  As we turn the corner, I see my dad and my brother playing catch in the light of the streetlamp. That’s what they do every Thursday night until I get home.

  “Is he in a good mood tonight?” Jon whispers.

  “He’s always in a good mood,” I mutter. “Always so upbeat. It’s annoying and–”

  “Mr. Holland,” Jon calls out to him, cutting me off. My dad squints as he tries to figure out who I’m with. “It’s Jon. From Nate’s Art Room?” he reminds him. The realization hits him quickly, and I’m sure Dad’s sizing him up, noticing how much he’s grown in the past year and a half.

  “Jon,” he says, shaking his hand after taking off the baseball mitt. Trey watches us from the porch.

  “How are you, Mr. Holland?” he says formally, too formally. I expect my dad to correct him, tell him to call him Jack like he does all of my other friends, but he doesn’t. For some reason, this just ticks me off.

  “I’m very well, thank you, Jon. Livvy, you know the rules,” he says, and although his words sound like a warning, his reminder to me sounds kind and not angry.

  “Mr. Holland, it’s not Livvy’s fault. I was studying at the smoothie place next door,” he says, deliberately showing my father his study guide, “and I saw her start to walk home. There were some sketchy guys watching her from across the street. I decided to walk with her. Make sure she made it home safely.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Jon,” Dad says as he puts his arm around my shoulder. I roll my eyes, but Jon is the only one who can see my expression. “Thank you. Can you make it home okay?”

  “I can, yes, but I wanted to talk to you about something first, sir... if you don’t mind.”

  My dad lets go of my shoulder, but angles me toward the house and gives me a gentle shove toward it. I stop, though, and stand behind him, wanting to hear the rest of the conversation.

  “It’s kind of late, Jon. Maybe another night. But thank you–”

  “Sir, I really need to ask you a question.”

  I know my dad knows the exact question that’s coming, and know exactly why he’s acting the way he is. I’m sure he’s not ready to deal with this, but it’s time. My stomach tightens as I try to anticipate my dad’s next move.

  “Jon, why don’t I drive you home?”

  Jon’s speechless and loses a little confidence as his shoulders slump.

  “Dad,” I try to interject.

  “Tessa, I think your mom needs help with Trey. Would you mind taking him inside?”

  “Dad!” I plead loudly.

  “It’s cool, Liv,” Jon says. “Sir, yes, I’d love a ride home. Thank you. Good night, Livvy. See you in a month.” A smile spreads quickly across my face, even as my dad turns to glare at me.

  “Can you bring me my keys, Liv?”

  “Sure!” I run quickly into the house and have to stop myself from skipping back out to the front yard.

  “Tell your mother I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Okay.”

  “Shall we?” he asks Jon.

  “Yes, sir.” Jon shows me his crossed fingers on the way to Dad’s sedan. I make the same motion back, the grin painful in my cheeks.

  “It’s Jack,” I hear my dad say as they both get into the car. I let out a deep breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding in. Keeping my fingers crossed, I watch as my dad backs out of the driveway and begins to head north. Jon waves to me as they drive away.

  CHAPTER 4

  When he got home two nights ago, Dad wouldn’t tell me anything about the conversation he’d had with Jon. I knew he was saving it for our trip upstate today. If he held on to that piece of information, he knew I wouldn’t back out. I couldn’t wait to hear every detail.

  I was up early and made coffee for my dad. The smell woke my brother up first since his bedroom is right off the kitchen. He was disappointed to see it was me that was up and not our parents. He bounded up the stairs quickly, though, and succeeded at what I’d failed to do. My mom comes down first, still in her pajamas. She gives me a hug and starts to search the pantry for something to give Trey for breakfast. I can hear the shower running upstairs, so I know Dad will be ready to go when he comes down.

  “You excited about today?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” And I am.

  “Ten and two, right?” she quizzes me.

  I feign ignorance. “Makes twelve?” I tease her.

  “Pay close attention when he shows you how to parallel park. He’s a pro.”

  “I will, Mom.”

  “You’ll be a better driver than I am by the time you have your license.” I know she’s right, too. She’s always skittish when she drives, occasionally spooked by oncoming cars that aren’t actually there. She hates to drive for those reasons, and after what she’s been through, I can’t blame her.

  “You ready, Contessa?” my dad says with a genuine smile as he pours coffee into a travel mug. I know he’s wanted me to spend time with him for weeks, and I kept putting him off. I know the two of us have completely different agendas for the day, though.

  I show him the keys in my hand and nod my head.

  “Jack, you’re going to drive out of the city, right.�
��

  “Yes, Poppet,” he says, exasperated. “I promise, we will take no unnecessary risks, Em. We’ll call you from your parent’s house. And my phone’s on.”

  “I don’t want to distract her,” she says, shaking her head. I can tell she’s beginning to worry.

  “I’ll be careful, Mom.”

  “Yes, don’t worry, Mom,” Dad says as he wraps his arms around her and kisses the top her of head. She looks up at him, speaking to him in expressions, not words. I start toward the front door to give them a little privacy, but clear my throat loudly before exiting our house. “Coming, Liv.” I hear him tell my brother goodbye and witness one more kiss between my parents in the hallway. “Don’t roll your eyes,” he mumbles playfully as he takes the keys from me. I hadn’t even realized I had.

  “Bye, Mom!”

  “Bye, Livvy!”

  As we navigate through the city, Dad engages me in small talk about my week. I answer with quick, non-descriptive responses as I find the playlist I want to listen to on my iPod. I wait impatiently for him to bring up the conversation he had in the car with my friend. As soon as we hit the highway, I start in. “So what did you and Jon talk about?”

  He looks at me out of the corner of his eye and grins. “You’ve been dying to ask me that.”

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “Please don’t keep me waiting any longer.”

  “Well, what are we going to talk about on the way back?”

  “Dad! I can’t wait all day.”

  “You’ve waited the past two. I’ve been really impressed.”

  “Seriously? Did he ask you?”

  “Ask me what?” His attempt at being coy is really starting to annoy me.

  “You know. He was going to ask if he could take me out on my first date.”

  “Oh, that?”

  “Yeah, that!”

  “We might have talked about that,” he says, exiting the highway and pulling into a parking lot. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes!” I exclaim. “I really want to go out with him.”

  “Tessa, focus. I was talking about taking the wheel.”

  “Already? I thought you’d get us through the boroughs.”

  “You’ve got to start somewhere,” he says with a shrug as he gets out of the car. He comes around and opens the passenger door for me. “You brought your permit?”

  “Of course,” I tell him.

  “Well, let’s go, Contessa. What are you waiting for?” After giving the keys back to me, I climb out of the car. He takes the passenger seat, fastening the belt and watching me as I make all the seat and mirror adjustments. Before I pull out of the lot, he turns the volume down on the music.

  “I can barely hear it,” I whine.

  “We were having a discussion, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say with a smile. “So can I go out with him?”

  “I don’t know, Liv,” he says sounding truly unsure of his answer. “What do you see in that kid?”

  “What do you mean? He’s a really nice guy, Dad.”

  “I just think he’s too old for you. He’s a senior?”

  “Yeah. So? I’m a junior, remember?”

  “You skipped a grade, though. There’s a two-year age difference.”

  “You’re five years older than Mom.”

  “It’s different when you’re older. We were twice your age when we started dating.”

  “Well, our age difference is only half as much as yours is,” I counter.

  I can see a smile spread across his lips at my logic. He nods his head slowly. “So it is,” he states simply. “Well, tell me a little more about him.”

  “He’s smart, and he studies hard. He’s trying to get a scholarship.”

  “Where does he want to go to college?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? That seems like something you should know of a guy you want to go out with. He told me he wants to go to Columbia. That’s very ambitious.”

  “He could do it. He’s at the top of his class.”

  “I’m sure he could,” he says. “It’s very competitive, but I’m not discrediting his intelligence. He’s a pretty bright kid–very inventive in your art class, if I remember correctly. He was always finding creative solutions to your projects.”

  “He’s really nice, too,” I tell him.

  “You’ve mentioned that, and I should hope so. I don’t want your first date to be with a jerk.”

  “So I can go with him?”

  “Well, what did you have in mind, Liv? Did you talk about what you wanted to do?”

  “No,” I tell him. “I’d just found out he wanted to go out with me five minutes before we got home. We weren’t entirely sure you’d say yes.”

  “Well, he wanted to take you to some place in Greenwich Village. Some inordinately fancy restaurant, actually.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “I said no, Liv.”

  “What?” I ask him, glaring at him.

  “Eyes on the road, Tessa. Watch the traffic.”

  Frustrated, I turn my attention back to the road. “Why can’t I go out with him?” I glance briefly at him, waiting for an answer. “I’m gonna be sixteen, Dad. That was the rule. You can’t go back on that.” I look at him again, and he’s got this smug smile on his face. “This isn’t funny!”

  “Livvy, calm down.” He squeezes my shoulder and I shrug away from his hand. “Watch it, Livvy. I’m not going to spend the day fighting with you. We can go back home now.”

  “I’m driving now. We’re not going home.”

  “Liv–”

  “It’s not fair, Dad!”

  “Livvy, will you just listen to me for a minute? Keep your eyes on the road. And breathe, okay? It’s not good to be so agitated.”

  “Well then why are you pissing me off?”

  “Language, Livvy.”

  “Sorry, but–”

  “Livvy!” His voice is stern, and I bite down on my lip to stop myself from saying more. “Are you going to listen to me now?”

  “Yes,” I mutter.

  “Watch your speed.”

  “I am.” I let off the gas pedal a little.

  “I don’t have a problem with you going out with him, Tessa. I’m just not going to let him take you there for your first date, that’s all.”

  “Really?” I ask him meekly. “Well, what did you decide?”

  “He’s going to have dinner with us the Saturday before your birthday so your mom and I can get to know him a little better. And then, after you turn sixteen, maybe I’ll feel a little more comfortable letting you out of my sight with him.”

  I clap excitedly.

  “Hands on the wheel, Livvy,” he reminds me.

  “Sorry, Dad.” I grip the steering wheel at ten and two, like Mom reminded me to. “And thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Maybe you two could watch a movie or something downstairs after dinner.”

  “That sounds okay.”

  “Good. And you’re right, Livvy, he does seem like a pretty good kid.”

  “I think he is.”

  “I trust your judgment. Now take this exit,” he tells me.

  “This isn’t the way to Grandma and Grandpa’s.”

  “I know, we’re going to make a stop first. We’ll meet your grandparents for dinner.”

  He directs me to the art museum Mom had told me about, and I act surprised like I promised her I would. The studio is amazing. He stays a step or two behind me as we look at all the different works of art on display. He asks me what I like about the paintings, or what I don’t like, and attempts to follow my pattern of thinking. I can tell he’s really trying, and for the first time in awhile, I start to drop the barrier I’d had up just a tad.

  We go into an adjoining section, a brighter, dome-shaped room that has large paintings of all shapes and sizes carefully strung with thick wires from the rafters. On a pedestal beneath each canvas is a card with information about the piece of art and the
artist. I quickly realize we’re in the New York artist exhibit, and I’m amazed at the array of styles that the people of one city–my city–can create. It inspires me, and makes me remember the conversation I had with my mother about finding my aesthetic.

  Again, my dad pays attention to the pieces I linger at longer, and he asks what stands out to me. I’m mesmerized with one particular abstract piece, and when I look at the placard beneath it, I know why.

  “The artist,” I answer my dad’s question. “That’s what stands out.”

  “Someone you know of?” he asks, looking down to read over my shoulder. “Wow.” He takes a few steps back to take in the large painting. “Nate’s, huh?”

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

  “You know, I’ve never really understood the abstract thing. Like, tell me what you like about this one.” Of course he wouldn’t understand the texture of the brush strokes, the strong movements he would have had to take to create such emotions in this particular painting... and then the tiny nuances of tones that add a subtle depth that I’d never seen captured by another artist. Combine that with his use of scale and perfect choices of color, and it was the most masterful thing I’d ever seen.

  “It’s just really good,” I tell him. “I mean, even to your untrained eye, you should be able to see the conflict in this,” I tell him with an air of superiority.

  “Do you think it’s pretty?” he asks me, wanting me to explain in more detail.

  “No, it’s not pretty, Dad. It’s complicated and... I don’t know, hostile? Primal? It’s angry. He was mad. That’s what he was trying to convey. I mean, does it look pretty to you?”

  “No,” he tells me simply. “That was my question. Shouldn’t art be attractive?”

  “Absolutely not, Dad,” I tell him.

  “Explain that to me,” he says, not letting my patronizing attitude affect him.

  “Art should make a statement. It should pull you in and make you feel something that the artist felt.”

  “Is that why you’re mad at me right now?” I’m caught off-guard by his question, but consider it.