Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) by Courtney Cook Hopp Read Free Book Online Page A

green cardigan and boots.
    I stepped in front of the mirror, a long sigh escaped up my throat. Who was I kidding?
    I grabbed a rubber band and pulled my hair partly up in the back, trying to hide the out of control natural of the kinks. My hands dropped to my side and I stared. I didn’t have to go. No one was holding a gun to my head. I could just stay home, not get on the ferry, never see him again.
    Distraction. I needed a distraction. And to stop looking in the mirror. Grace would have been the perfect distraction. Her voice would fill every crevice in my head. But even she would eventually circle back around, inflaming my already fire of nerves with questions.
    My eyes landed on my French book. The essay. Perfect. Foreign words to run interference with spools of crazy English thoughts. I didn’t get far when there was a light knock on the door.
    “Come in,” I said not looking up, assuming it was Dad.
    “Hello, Miss CeeCee.”
    The chimes of Aunt Lucy’s voice tingled the air as she breezed through the door, her peasant skirt swishing gently around her long, slender legs. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I would stop by to see how you all were getting along.”
    I spun my desk chair around, grateful for the unplanned distraction. “Same as always. And you?”
    “Oh, fine.” Her eyes wandered up and down me, the waves of her long, dusty brown hair br ushing the top of her tailbone. “Don’t you look nice? Is dressing up a requirement for doing homework?”
    Consciously, my hands brushed down my skirt, tucking the ends tight around my legs. “Um, well, yes, as a matter of fact, it is.”
    “Mmm.” A single eyebrow lifted slightly as she moved further into my room. “Any other reason for dressing up?”
    “Nope, not that I know of.” The guilt of the lie landed like a rock in the pit of my stomach. I could tell her. Of all people, I could tell her. My hesitation hung briefly before I knew I wouldn’t. “Unless you wanted to take me out on the town.”
    “Probably not tonight, but I’d be happy to another time.” She stood in front of my dresser, her fingers danced lightly over the items cluttered on top. “The girls mentioned they hadn’t seen you around school recently.”
    “I’ve been around. I just don’t have hair that makes me easily noticeable.”
    Aunt Lucy’s fourteen year old twin daughters, Autumn and Summer, were both topped with the brightest red hair imaginable, although their sameness in looks were punctuated by opposite dispositions.
    “Did you enjoy your night at the Picasso show?” she asked.
    Did she know? Did she talk to Evelyn? “It was, um, fun,” I stuttered and tried to change the subject. “Ms. Harris had us do a Picasso-esque assignment for class.”
    She looked at me, and I was certain my truth withholding slid across her eyes knowingly. She reached out and lifted a framed picture of my mom off the top of the dresser. My favorite. The camera shutter had stolen a moment and perfectly captured her essence. Her bare feet were tucked deep in the sand, and a beautiful floral sundress hung stylishly over her lithe frame. Her mouth was curved wide, her head tossed back, and you could almost hear her laughter swirling in the salt air.
    “Gretta was a beautiful woman, Cee.” She gently set the frame down and turned back to me. “I see much of her in you.”
    The compliment stung the back of my eyes. I swallowed down the loss, bit my tongue, and muttered, “Thanks.”

 

     
     
    Aunt Lucy’s presence proved damaging to my psyche, leaving me befuddled and late as I slipped down the stairs and muttered a “studying at Grace’s house” excuse to Dad.
    “Not a late night!” was all I heard as the door clicked closed behind me.
    My Ghia whirled like a bee as I raced to the ferry, certain I would miss it. At the moment, I didn’t care. The evening had turned into a mental game of damage control, reining Mom’s memory in tight enough for me to deal with the