Night Owls

by Jenn Bennett

  “The graffiti isn’t connected to her birthday,” Mom said. “It was a coincidence.” Now she was getting mad, and I would appreciate her anger a heck of a lot more if I deserved her defense. “My daughter is a talented artist, not a troubled teen.” Oh, Lordy. “She takes AP classes. She works a steady job twenty hours a week.”

  “She won an attendance award for not missing a day of school last year,” my brother said from the hallway. “She’s a total nerd.”

  Thanks, Heath.

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree,” Mom added.

  The officer handed me a business card. It said he was in the SFPD Graffiti Abatement Program. “If you think of anything or remember something about one of your classmates, give me a call. Sometimes I’ve been able to mediate a solution between the property owners and the perpetrator. Believe me, I’m a good friend to have.”

  I gripped the card as he walked to the door with my mother, but I could hardly feel the paper. My hands and feet had gone numb. The door closed, and after my mom bolted the lock, she turned around and stared at me with her eagle eyes. The silence was choking me. Even Heath was quiet, a sure sign of damnation.

  “Please tell me it was a coincidence,” Mom finally said in a low voice.

  I tucked my feet between the couch cushions and hugged myself. “All I did was take a photo.”

  She nodded, but the doubt wafting off her hung around my head like cheap perfume. And why was I feeling so guilty? I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not like I asked Jack to do it. I didn’t even know his last name, for Pete’s sake.

  “Don’t worry, Bex,” Heath said. “If anyone’s going to jail in this family, it’ll still be me.”

  I tried to smile, but my heart wasn’t in it.

  “Oh no,” Mom mumbled, rushing over to the forgotten cupcakes. Only one of the candles was still lit, and half the frosting had melted and dripped down the black-and-gold bakery paper. She set the tray down on the coffee table. “Hurry up and make a wish.”

  I groaned and leaned over the table. As I blew out the flame, I wished I could see Jack one more time . . . just so I could boot him in the balls.

  7

  AS IF A PANIC-SOAKED BIRTHDAY WASN’T A BIG enough pie in the face, the next morning I got an email from Dr. Sheridan’s assistant. In the coldest, most banal language possible, grad student Denise wrote that I would “unfortunately” not be allowed to draw inside the Willed Body classroom. But she noted that Dr. Sheridan hoped I’d consider taking anatomy classes there in the future.

  I was devastated. And because Heath had already left for work—he’s the front-desk guy at a vet office in Cole Valley—I had no one to unload on. I told myself I’d figure something else out. An alternate plan. But at that moment, it felt like the end the world.

  It didn’t help my black mood that Mom was checking up on me online, reading everything I hadn’t disabled after the cop left. Not like I had a cache of boozy party pictures or anything that would get me in trouble, but still. Mildly violating.

  Because of all this, I wasn’t in the best frame of mind when I clocked in at Alto Market later that afternoon. I’d already deleted the CELEBRATE photo, and in honor of my craptastic day, I posted a new one of my name tag, to the bottom of which I’d added a sticker the backroom workers use for pallets of dented cans: DAMAGED GOODS. Ms. Lopez made me take it off the second I got on the floor, but at least I finally got to talk to someone about the rejection.

  “Can’t you try another medical college?” she suggested. Today’s ladybugs dangled from earrings that peeked between strands of her shoulder-length hair when she moved. “After all, a body is a body on the inside, yes?”

  “I suppose I could try.”

  “What about a veterinarian office?”

  Dead cats. Ugh. I’m not squeamish, but drawing someone’s deceased pet was miles different from a formaldehyde-preserved frog in a bag. “Veterinarians don’t dissect for teaching, and they have to follow laws about disposal.” I knew that because of Heath’s job.

  Ms. Lopez made a face. “What about your mother? Maybe you should just come clean and talk to her about it. If you explain how important it is, perhaps she’ll change her mind and help you out.”

  “No way. She doesn’t like to make waves at work, so she’d never pull any strings for me. And I really don’t want her to. I want to do this on my own.”

  When I sighed, she patted me the shoulder. “You’ll think of something.”

  We got a mad rush of customers in the early part of the evening, which helped get my mind off things. But sometime after eight, business slowed to a crawl. I decided to occupy myself with cleaning the magazine racks, so I pulled out stacks of Food and Wine and Organic Spa. Then I knelt on the floor and started cleaning.

  “You missed a spot,” a low voice said behind me.

  My muscles turned to stone. I stood up and slowly turned around to face Jack, who towered a mere foot away from me. He smelled like fabric softener, and his retro-rockabilly hair curled over one eye. He was buttoned up in a short, fitted black peacoat, the wide collar pulled up a little in the back.

  He was beautiful. I’d forgotten just how much. Not only that, he was flat-out happy. Glittering dark eyes. Chest rising and falling, as if he’d just sprinted uphill. Enormous grin splitting his face, with that single perfect dimple studding his cheek like a beauty mark.

  And what? Now I was smiling right back? Get control of yourself, Beatrix.

  My shoulders hit the magazine rack. Crap—I’d backed up into it? Maybe he hadn’t noticed. “How did you find me?” I said in the calmest voice I could muster.

  He pointed to my nametag. “Only two Alto Markets, and this one is on the N-Judah line.”

  “And you just happened to be in the area.”

  “Oh, no. I went well out of my way to find you.” He knocked the toe of my shoe with the toe of his boot. “I believe your Damaged Goods photo said, ‘Summation of my sucky day.’ Why are you having a bad day?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because a freaking cop showed up at my house last night to question me about the vandalizing inside the Legion of Honor.”

  “What? Are you joking?”

  “Does it look like I’m joking?”

  He glanced behind him—nothing but a rack of dehydrated vegetable snacks and Mozart raining down from the speaker above—and swiped a hand over his hair to push it out of his eyes. “Shit. Because of the photo you posted?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That your name is Jack, you’re seventeen, you’re a Buddhist, and they should talk to Panhandler Will for your whereabouts. I also provided a sketch so they could identify you.”

  He stared at me blankly while his mouth made a little O shape.

  I swung around and spritzed the empty magazine rack. “That’s what I should have told Officer Dickwad. But I didn’t.”

  “Jesus and Mary, it’s hard to tell when you’re joking.”

  Spritz. Spritz. Spritz. “The cop threatened me and my mom with jail. He’s in charge of the vandalism department, and he thinks you’re part of Discord.”

  “I swear to you on my life, Beatrix. I’m not.”

  Oh, don’t think I didn’t notice my name on his tongue. I shot him a look.

  “Sorry. Miss Damaged Goods.”

  I grumbled to myself, sighed, and said, “Adams.” If the police could track me, what was stopping a professional criminal like Jack?

  “Adams,” he repeated. “Beatrix Adams.”

  “Bex,” I corrected, because apparently I’d temporarily lost my mind.

  Two roselike spots bloomed over the apples of his cheeks. “Bex Adams,” he said in a softer voice. “It’s so strange that I don’t know that already. I feel like I should.”

  I concentrated superhard on wiping away my spritzes.

  “Vincent,” he said, bracing one arm on the rack beside me.

  That name sounded vaguely familia
r to me, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. “Jack Vincent?”

  “Jackson Vincent, if you want to get technical. You know. In case you need to turn me in to Officer Dickwad or something,” he joked.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “I’m really, really sorry. I just thought . . . damn.” He picked at a peeling section on the magazine rack. “I found you right away on the anatomy art site. BioArtGirl. Your self-portrait is crazy good. All your work is incredible. Blows mine out of the water.”

  “I wouldn’t know. All I’ve seen are some dripping letters done with a paint pen.”

  “I didn’t deface the heart diagram,” he argued. “I’m not an anarchist—I love art. And I especially wouldn’t destroy something that meant that much to you.”

  Oh, he’d definitely read my post. I mean, obviously he had, but it was weird to have him acknowledging it right in front of me.

  “I was trying to . . . I don’t know. Get your attention, I suppose. Communicate.”

  “You could’ve sent a card.”

  He struggled not to smile. “I have problems sticking to the Middle Path.”

  I shook my head, not knowing what he was going on about.

  “It’s a Zen thing. We try to live in the middle, somewhere between self-denial and self-indulgence. No extremes.”

  “Wow. Major failure there.”

  “I told you I was a bad Buddhist.”

  I didn’t say anything for a few moments. “You liked my stuff?”

  “That X-ray figure study of the torso with the bones showing through?” He whistled. “Amazing.”

  Err . . . that was a self-portrait drawn in a mirror, but it only showed one of my breasts, and only one person outside my family had seen those up close and personal, so it wasn’t like anyone would know. It was Serious Art, and sort of clinical, but I’d forgotten it was posted, and now I was feeling as if I’d accidently given Jack a Girls Gone Wild photo of me flashing my tits. But he wasn’t acting weird about it, so I probably shouldn’t feel weird about it either. I discreetly wiped sweat off my brow.

  “I seriously don’t know anyone with that much talent,” he continued while I was quietly freaking out. “Now I get why you want to draw the dissections.”

  “Well, that’s not happening.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the head of the anatomy department said I couldn’t draw in the lab. No reason. Probably because she didn’t want a high school kid running around underfoot. Or maybe because I’m not pumping thousands of dollars of tuition into her school.”

  “Oh, man. That sucks. Is there anything you can do to change their mind?”

  “Probably not. All I know is that the art show I’m entering is a competition for scientific art, and most of the participating students will likely be engineering and chemistry and microbiology geeks, and ninety percent of them will be guys, and if I don’t enter something with precision and detail that will blow the judges away, I’ll end up losing to a piece of shit Photoshop manipulation of some crappy fractal pattern.”

  “Guess I see now why you’re having a bad day.”

  “Don’t underestimate your part in it,” I said drily before pasting on a half-hearted smile for the customer who was ready to check out. Leaving Jack at the magazine rack, I headed to my register and quickly scanned a woman’s two-tiered mini cart of organic groceries and imported cheese.

  When I was finished, he stepped up to the counter. “I’m really sorry.”

  “You said that already.”

  “But I still mean it,” he said with a hopeful, wide-eyed look.

  Those dark eyelashes should be illegal. Sometimes Heath wore eyeliner when he went out, and Jack’s lashes were nearly as dramatic. He blinked, and it hit me what was so striking about them.

  “Distichiasis.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your eyelashes. A genetic mutation that causes double rows of lashes.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” A hesitant smile lifted his lips. “My mom used to say I had Elizabeth Taylor eyes, but I prefer to think of it as an X-Men mutation. You know, more bad ass.”

  I was a sucker for medical oddities. So unfair that his was exotic and alluring. Do not look at his eyes. To be honest, I couldn’t look at any part of him and stay mad, so I deserted him at the counter and went back to the magazines, picking a stack off the floor to set it back in its cubby. He didn’t get the hint.

  “It was Dr. Sheridan who turned you down at Parnassus?” He picked up another pile and put it in the wrong place.

  “Yes,” I said, moving the stack down to the second row.

  He got out his phone and typed. “I’ll fix it.”

  “Fix what?”

  “Just give me a couple of days. I’ll get you into the anatomy lab.”

  “Excuse me? And just how do you propose to do that?”

  “I have ways. Don’t ask.”

  “Oh, no. I’m asking.”

  “Just trust me.”

  I laughed. “Why in the world would I do that? I’m probably flagged as some kind of potential criminal in the SFPD database, and now my mom suspects I’ve crossed into Troubled Teen territory. Don’t pull me into your drama. I don’t need your help.”

  “Beatrix?” a voice called from behind me.

  I spun around to see Ms. Lopez’s head peeking out from one of the aisles. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  She eyed Jack with suspicion. “Five minutes until register cash-out.”

  I gave her a thumbs-up before rushing to straighten the magazines. “Please don’t get me in trouble with my boss,” I whispered hotly to Jack.

  He made a frustrated sound. “What’s your number? Let me fix this for you.”

  “Are you kidding? The police are probably monitoring my phone.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” I mumbled.

  “Adorably ridiculous?”

  “Criminally ridiculous.”

  “I’ll take it.” He smiled and stuck a finger out to playfully poke the knot of my tie. He had large boy hands, all sinewy and latticed with faint blue veins, and long, slender fingers. More beautiful bones. I desperately wanted to trace my fingers over them—which was insane. And stupid.

  “Please don’t stand so close,” I murmured.

  “I can’t help it. I’m strangely turned on by the tie and those Sacagawea braids.”

  My checks caught fire. Was he making fun of me? And why hadn’t he moved?

  “Beatrix?” Ms. Lopez called out again.

  “Just a moment,” I shouted back. “I can’t talk anymore,” I told Jack, stepping away with a nervous twist in my stomach. “You need to go.”

  “Digits?” he said, holding up his phone.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Email address?”

  “Yeah, it’s Bex at why-won’t-you-leave-me-alone dot com.”

  “I’ll message you online, then.”

  I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could. “It’s a free country.”

  “You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch,” he said, backing up toward the doors. They opened with a whoosh. He pulled up his collar. “I’ll fix it for you. Hand on my heart, Bex Adams, I will fix it.”

  8

  I STARED AT MY PHONE, WHICH WAS PROPPED ON the pencil ledge of my drafting table. Any second now, it would morph into a rabbit and I’d know I’d been dreaming. But, no, it remained a phone, and if I needed further proof I was experiencing reality, I got it from the rapid-fire drumbeats of Heath’s metal blasting through the floorboards; he didn’t work at the vet’s office on Mondays.

  The impossible phone call I’d just received was from Dr. Sheridan’s assistant Henry. He said the director had “reconsidered” my “query,” and could I come in tomorrow night at six? I was assigned to Simon Gan, a physical therapy student who was earning in de-pen dent research credits with three other grad students who met on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m. in the otherwise
empty lab. I could draw under his supervision unless my presence detracted from their research.

  “I promise it will not,” I’d told Henry before he thanked me and hung up.

  But now that the reality of what was—really!—happening settled in, my brain scrambled to see how this would fit in with Mom’s changing shifts and my work schedule. On top of all that, an unavoidable question loomed in my thoughts:

  How had Jack done this?

  Because, clearly, he’d done something. But what? Threatened to spray-paint four-letter words on the anatomy lab?

  I won’t lie: The second he left Alto Market, I was on my phone, vetting him. I found his name in the usual places, but his profiles were set to private. I also unearthed a handful of comments made by one Jack Vincent of San Francisco on a couple of comic-book forums and a music venue on Potrero Hill that hosted some indie bands I’d never heard of. But the weirdest thing I found was his full name in a school picture from last year. The thumbnail was too small to see much, but “Jackson Vincent” was standing with a bunch of other kids. The reason I couldn’t pull up a bigger photo was because you had to be registered on the site to see it, and the site was a private high school in the Haight. A really expensive private school—like, one that costs more than forty thousand dollars a year to attend.

  Who the hell are you, Jack?

  I supposed it was possible that he didn’t actually go there and had just participated in some kind of activity the school sponsored; I’d had artwork displayed at other schools in regional competitions.

  Either way, it didn’t explain how he’d changed my luck at the anatomy lab.

  My mind jumped back to the reason Panhandler Will knew Jack—the so-called “lady friend” working at the hospital. Jack had admitted to visiting someone there and implied that they weren’t dating. Or had he? He sort of skated around that, and I hadn’t had a chance to call him out on it. But if he had a girlfriend, why was he showing up at my workplace and risking his neck to spray-paint irresponsible romantic gestures for me?

  He and his “lady friend” could’ve broken up. Or maybe they were just good friends. But unless she volunteered there, she had to be older. He had said he liked older girls. Crap. Was he some young doctor’s boy toy? Was he diddling busty nurses in empty patient rooms? Mom said strange things happened during the graveyard shift; she once walked into a male doctor/male doctor/female nurse threesome a few years back. They were doing it right there on a hospital bed—one that a patient had died on earlier that night.