Read Online Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) by Courtney Cook Hopp - Free Book Online
Authors: Courtney Cook Hopp
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voice dropped low and velvety, slipping in and around the pain. “You’d better go before your dad worries.”
I handed him his coat, a chill shuddering through me as I got in my car. “Not something I have to worry about.”
I reached out to pull the door closed, but Quentin stepped in its closing path and pushed it wider, leaning in. The air was suddenly sucked gone. I held my breath.
Breathe. Breathe.
Hesitation lingered, his eyes locked on mine, before he said, “Goodnight,” and slammed the door closed, vanishing into the dark.
I snatched my bag from my locker, thankful it was Friday. Thankful to escape the torturous day I’d forced myself to move through. But no amount of school distraction was able to shake the cold feeling left in the wake of last night’s images. It was a war of shadows dueling in my mind, tormenting me to understand their vagueness before they’d made a hasty retreat into nothingness. I had no idea why my mind conjured up the people, but was fairly certain their fate did not end well.
I cut through the back doors of the school, instantly wrapped in a veil of mist. My mind felt like a scarlet “A” that throbbed for all to see the craziness lurking behi nd my eyes. I picked up my pace as I wove in and out of the parked cars, my cell phone beeping somewhere in the depths of my messenger bag. I dug for my keys and came up with my phone. I ducked into the car, wiped the mist from my eyes, and glanced at the screen. My stomach clenched as the letters of Quentin’s name sprung from the screen, along with three words:
Where R U?
The brusqueness of his message sent annoyance down my spine. What does he mean, where am I? What business is it of his?
Why? Where R U?
I tossed the phone on the seat and pulled out of the parking spot. The beep was instantaneous. I stopped and picked it up.
In UR house
My heart hiccupped in disbelief as I re-read the text. This had to be a joke. A very bad joke.
A horn blared behind me, causing me to jump. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a line of cars stacking up behind me. I tossed the phone back to the passenger seat and slammed on the gas, racing away from the school at record speed.
My grip on the steering wheel tightened in anger. The nerve, showing up uninvited. He had no right to be there, to be sharing anything with my dad. I wrenched the steering wheel hard into my driveway and skidded to a stop in front of Quentin’s parked car. My shoulders slumped. It wasn’t a joke. He was inside my house, telling Dad who knows what.
This day was not going to end well.
The mist had upgraded to a full rain shower by the time I ran up the front steps and burst through the door, my eyes adjusting to the unreal scene before me: Quentin and Dad were sitting quietly across from one another in the living room.
“Cee? Is that you?” Dad asked, standing up from his spot on the couch.
“Yes.” I skirted cautiously around the backside of the furniture like a trapped prey, not taking my eyes off of Quentin.
His eyes held mine in a contest that was becoming all too familiar. I braced myself, waiting for the questions, the accusations.
Instead, Dad said, “Quentin Stone is here from the University as part of the art partnering program you forgot to mention to me.” His disapproval rang loud. Picking up his cane, he moved to a familiar spot at the end of the couch where he could be sure of where he was looking.
Partnering program? What the . . .?
Quentin stood, a newspaper tucked under his arm. “Your art teacher, Ms. Harris, passed along your contact information to me so we could meet,” Quentin lied with ease as he walked toward me. He stretched out his hand in a friendly gesture, but the gesture didn’t touch his frosty emeralds. “It’s nice to finally meet you, CeeCee. My name is Quentin Stone.”
I had no idea what was going on.
I hesitated before shaking his hand and prayed it would not end with me on
I handed him his coat, a chill shuddering through me as I got in my car. “Not something I have to worry about.”
I reached out to pull the door closed, but Quentin stepped in its closing path and pushed it wider, leaning in. The air was suddenly sucked gone. I held my breath.
Breathe. Breathe.
Hesitation lingered, his eyes locked on mine, before he said, “Goodnight,” and slammed the door closed, vanishing into the dark.
I snatched my bag from my locker, thankful it was Friday. Thankful to escape the torturous day I’d forced myself to move through. But no amount of school distraction was able to shake the cold feeling left in the wake of last night’s images. It was a war of shadows dueling in my mind, tormenting me to understand their vagueness before they’d made a hasty retreat into nothingness. I had no idea why my mind conjured up the people, but was fairly certain their fate did not end well.
I cut through the back doors of the school, instantly wrapped in a veil of mist. My mind felt like a scarlet “A” that throbbed for all to see the craziness lurking behi nd my eyes. I picked up my pace as I wove in and out of the parked cars, my cell phone beeping somewhere in the depths of my messenger bag. I dug for my keys and came up with my phone. I ducked into the car, wiped the mist from my eyes, and glanced at the screen. My stomach clenched as the letters of Quentin’s name sprung from the screen, along with three words:
Where R U?
The brusqueness of his message sent annoyance down my spine. What does he mean, where am I? What business is it of his?
Why? Where R U?
I tossed the phone on the seat and pulled out of the parking spot. The beep was instantaneous. I stopped and picked it up.
In UR house
My heart hiccupped in disbelief as I re-read the text. This had to be a joke. A very bad joke.
A horn blared behind me, causing me to jump. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a line of cars stacking up behind me. I tossed the phone back to the passenger seat and slammed on the gas, racing away from the school at record speed.
My grip on the steering wheel tightened in anger. The nerve, showing up uninvited. He had no right to be there, to be sharing anything with my dad. I wrenched the steering wheel hard into my driveway and skidded to a stop in front of Quentin’s parked car. My shoulders slumped. It wasn’t a joke. He was inside my house, telling Dad who knows what.
This day was not going to end well.
The mist had upgraded to a full rain shower by the time I ran up the front steps and burst through the door, my eyes adjusting to the unreal scene before me: Quentin and Dad were sitting quietly across from one another in the living room.
“Cee? Is that you?” Dad asked, standing up from his spot on the couch.
“Yes.” I skirted cautiously around the backside of the furniture like a trapped prey, not taking my eyes off of Quentin.
His eyes held mine in a contest that was becoming all too familiar. I braced myself, waiting for the questions, the accusations.
Instead, Dad said, “Quentin Stone is here from the University as part of the art partnering program you forgot to mention to me.” His disapproval rang loud. Picking up his cane, he moved to a familiar spot at the end of the couch where he could be sure of where he was looking.
Partnering program? What the . . .?
Quentin stood, a newspaper tucked under his arm. “Your art teacher, Ms. Harris, passed along your contact information to me so we could meet,” Quentin lied with ease as he walked toward me. He stretched out his hand in a friendly gesture, but the gesture didn’t touch his frosty emeralds. “It’s nice to finally meet you, CeeCee. My name is Quentin Stone.”
I had no idea what was going on.
I hesitated before shaking his hand and prayed it would not end with me on
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