32. Margo
Chapter 32
Margo
I ntervention time.
Or… something like that. Maybe it isn’t an intervention, but the way Lenora and Robert are staring at me, it sure feels like something momentous—and catastrophic—is going to happen.
The only sound is the clock ticking on the wall behind Robert’s head.
We chose to sit at the dining room table, Robert at the head and Lenora and me on either side of him. And they’re just… waiting for something.
Finally, Robert clears his throat. “How are you doing, honey?”
“Doing? Like…”
“In general,” Lenora supplies. “Or specifically, if you want.”
“I’m good.” I shrug, forcing a smile at both of them. “I mean, I’m sorry for the other night. When I got drunk.”
The late-morning sun streams in through the window behind me, warming my back. Caleb successfully snuck out through the window, and I made an appearance for movie night. It was nice. No talking. Just sword fights and British accents.
When I woke up, I was filled with inexplicable trepidation. I could barely move.
My body hurt. I discovered a trail of hickies and bruises on my neck, down my chest. I pressed my thumb into one, and pain hit deep. But it wasn’t bad. It was the kind of pain that made me want to keep pushing on it.
And then I remembered the chat we’re supposed to have.
So here we are, food in front of us that I’m too nervous to eat.
My mouth waters at the smell of bacon, but my flipping stomach prevents me from reaching out and taking a slice.
“We understand that these things happen,” Lenora says. “Kids drink. Next time, please call us to come get you. We’d rather you be safe and in trouble than seriously hurt.”
I wrap my arms around my stomach. The guilt of something terrible happening, and them not knowing about it, hits hard.
“Your social worker mentioned that your dad is in jail,” Robert says. “He’s actually quite close?—”
“No.” I want to crawl out of my skin at the thought of my dad in an orange jumpsuit.
“Are you angry with him?” Robert asks. “I can’t imagine how you must feel, and we just want to understand?—”
“I can’t do this right now,” I whisper. “Did Ms. McCaw suggest I see him?”
They trade a look. It’s not a no, but it’s not quite a yes either.
Lenora presses on. “We know your mother is?—”
— my head snaps back ?—
“I’m doing okay, aren’t I? Going to school, making friends. My grades are good.” Ish . “You’re letting me be a normal teen with… not a lot of worries, really.” I manage to smile at them. “Thank you for that.”
Somehow this turned into a heart-to-heart.
“We love having you here,” Lenora says.
I meet her gaze. “I love being here.”
She sniffles. “Okay, enough of this. As long as you’re content, and we’re doing a good job… let’s eat.”
“And you’re officially ungrounded,” Robert adds.
I beam.
“How’s your painting coming along?” he asks.
I start loading my plate. My anxiety has eased, and suddenly I’m ravenous. They’ve prepared a feast of breakfast foods.
And then I register his question and slowly set down my fork. “Oh, um…”
The answer? Not great.
Not only have I pushed it so far to the bottom of my to-do list that I’d forgotten about it, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to come out awful.
“Do you need help?”
I squint at him. “Are you allowed to help me? Being the teacher and all?”
Lenora laughs. “Probably not, but that won’t stop him.”
“I can give feedback,” he allows. “And maybe point you in the right direction. Just like I would do for every other student who asked for help.”
“I just need to put the time in. I’ve been preoccupied.”
He nods. “I’ve noticed.”
Guilt crawls over me. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean?—”
He waves. “Stop. You’re allowed. But if you want to work on it, I’m around today.”
Once we’re done eating, I run upstairs and change into clothes I don’t mind getting paint on. I need to figure out exactly how I’m going to capture Caleb. He’s a riddle I haven’t found the answer to yet, always shifting pieces and parts. A mirage.
I cart down my canvas, my box of paints, and brushes under my arm. Robert has already laid out newspaper in the dining room, along with an easel sized to stand on the table.
He comes in as I’m setting up.
“Do you know why I picked oil paints for this assignment?” he asks.
I shrug, staring at the vague outline of Caleb. “Because it’s a difficult medium, and you wanted to challenge us?”
He nudges me, shaking his head. “It is difficult, but it’s also forgiving.”
I tilt my head. We’ve been working with a bunch of different paints—watercolor, acrylic, oil. I haven’t picked a favorite. Maybe we haven’t worked with oil enough.
“You make a mistake? Go over it. Erase it. Hell, do a painting and then repaint it the next day. You can’t do that with watercolors.”
“Ah.”
“You’ve barely touched the surface here, Margo,” he says. “You’ve painted an interesting background… and that’s it.”
That’s all I had the nerve to do last time Caleb and I faced each other in class.
Robert leans on the table. “You don’t need him in front of you to paint him. In fact, I think you’d capture his essence better when you’re not looking at him. Go with how he makes you feel.”
He leaves me alone while I stare at the canvas. The space where his head and shoulders should be, filled in only by the shadows and highlights from a few weeks ago, and the boring background texture I tried out on Friday.
Sooner or later, I just have to start. Take a chance.
I take my time putting the paints on my palette, preparing my brushes, lining up the charcoal and turpentine. I mix a few different colors together, experimenting until I find the right shade to match Caleb’s skin.
But nothing is perfect, so I just…
Put a stroke on the page.
So what if it isn’t beautiful? He’s not beautiful—not on the inside. He’s broken, just like me. It comes out in the way the colors clash on the page. I take Robert’s advice and redo the background. The blues and purples I had originally painted, trying to go for a nice look, don’t work.
His jaw comes to life with dark slashes.
I leave his eyes blank for now. I’m tempted to paint them completely black, honestly. Yet, that wouldn’t quite do.
“Wow,” Robert says over my shoulder.
I twist around. “How am I doing?”
“Fantastic emotion.” He leans closer. “Once this dries, you can go back with an artist’s eye and clean up some of the lines. Make every stroke purposeful.”
I nod and glance at the clock. I’ve been sitting here for two hours.
“What do you have planned for his eyes? And lips?”
“I haven’t decided.” Because I can’t see it yet.
He chuckles. “That boy is in trouble.”
“I think I’m the one in trouble.” I stare at Caleb’s face. It isn’t exactly in his likeness—it’s a little too abstract for that. Plus, there are the blank gaps: his eyes, his lips, his eyebrows. To capture the scowl or make him smile…
“Speaking of,” Robert says, going to the window. “He just pulled up.”
“Distract him!” I grab the canvas. “I need to hide this!”
He chuckles as I dash around, but he keeps Caleb engaged in conversation just inside the door long enough for me to put it away. Caleb walks into the dining room to me drying my brushes.
“Hey, baby. Were you working on our project?”
I grin. “Yep.”
He makes a show of looking around the room. “Where is it?”
“Hiding from your nosiness.” I brush my hair off my face and sigh. “What’s up?”
“Didn’t you say you were ungrounded today?”
“Did I say that?”
He lifts one shoulder, smirking at me. “Not sure where else I could’ve heard it.”
“Maybe that’s true.”
I try to slip past him, but he moves too fast. He frames me in against the wall, just out of sight of Robert. My foster dad is almost definitely eavesdropping on the other side of the wall.
“You running from me?”
“No,” I breathe.
He hums. “I think you are. Let’s change that.”
“How?”
His fingers dig into my hip. “Come to the Fall Ball with me.”
I pause, then remember what the hell that is. Which is a dance . I don’t dance. Going to a school function, surrounded by students who may or may not hate my guts, sounds like the definition of Hell.
“I don’t dance,” I tell him.
His eyes glitter, and he leans closer. His lips are right above mine.
Not fair , I want to complain. He knows how to make my body react. Always has.
“The theme is masquerade.”
Masks…
“We’d be anonymous enough. Come with me.”
“I… okay.”
His lips brush mine, but then he’s gone. Straightening and stepping back.
“That was easy.” His grin is devious.
Shit. Did I seriously just fold?
“Caleb—”
He goes into the kitchen. He mentions the Fall Ball to Robert, confirming that I’m going with him.
“That’s great, Margo,” Robert says when I suck it up and join them. “It’s hard to go to the dances alone, but from my time as a chaperone, the kids always have a lot of fun.”
“Are you chaperoning this year?” Please say no, please say no .
He shakes his head. “I didn’t volunteer this time. Lenora gets a little pissy if I’m out partying with the high schoolers past our bedtime. Besides, she doesn’t like to give candy out alone.”
Caleb laughs. “I’m sure you’re a reckless partier, Mr. Bryan.”
“That I am, my boy.”
My boy . Jesus.
“Wait, give out candy?”
Caleb eyes me. “It’s on Halloween night. Don’t worry, you have plenty of time to find a dress.”
Bastard .
“Right…”
“Lenora would love to help,” Robert offers. “We never got to go dress shopping with…”
I look at my shoes. With their dead child, he means.
Robert clears his throat. “I don’t mean to bring up the past.”
Caleb goes over and pats his shoulder. “It’s okay, Mr. Bryan. I understand.”
I glance at Caleb.
My foster dad nods and pats his shoulder. “I know you do. But anyway, I’m sure you two have better things to do. It’s Margo’s first day of freedom, after all.”
“It’s only been a week of being grounded,” I point out.
“Just go with it,” Caleb murmurs. “I was actually going to go run an errand in the city. You don’t mind if I take her, do you, Mr. Bryan?”
New York City is about an hour and a half away. By a stroke of pure luck, I didn’t end up in the NYC foster system. That would’ve been… significantly harder.
Because I lived in Rose Hill, which is part of Hillshire County, I got looped into that foster system. There are enough homes and group housing around here to keep me within an hour radius.
And that meant I avoided New York City.
“What errand?” I ask, perking up. “I haven’t been?—”
“Since you were a kid?” Caleb finishes with a nod.
Robert tuts. “We could plan a day trip, Margo. I didn’t realize it was something you might want to do.”
“I used to watch all the holiday events on TV. The tree lighting and the parades…”
“I was hoping you would come with me,” Caleb says. “It’s still too early for the Christmas vibe, but…”
“Can I go?” I ask Robert.
“After that spiel?” He chuckles. “How can I say no?”
Yes .
I run upstairs and change into nicer clothes. We’re going to the city . Manhattan, maybe? I didn’t ask the borough. Either way, it all seems luxurious and daunting. I’ve heard horror stories about people getting mugged, pickpockets, insane taxis. But over all of that is the shiny appeal of Times Square. Central Park. Horse-drawn carriages and huge, floppy slices of pizza.
Caleb comes upstairs before I start on my makeup.
He takes my makeup bag out of my hand. “You don’t need this. Not today.”
I frown. “But I want to feel pretty.”
“You can feel pretty without it.”
I try to snatch it back, but he raises it over his head.
“Caleb,” I snap.
“Stop.”
I jump for it.
“Goddamn it, Margo,” he snarls, shoving me back against the wall. “Just— stop . You don’t need it, okay?”
His hand stays on my chest. His fingers are dangerously close to my throat, splayed over my collarbone, and his thumb brushes my nipple.
I suck in a breath. I’m an idiot. My face gets hot.
“Go to the car.”
I stare at him, then lift my chin. If he wants to bare me to the world without a speck of makeup, fine . He’s the one who will hate it as soon as he realizes how out of place I am. Caleb follows me down the stairs, and it’s absolutely intentional.
Because if he didn’t, I would’ve rushed back up and locked myself in the bathroom to swipe on some mascara and eyeliner in peace.
I wave goodbye to Robert, and Lenora, who returned home just in time to see us leave.
Robert stops me, handing me a few folded bills. “Have fun.”
“Thank you!” I wasn’t planning on spending more than I could afford—which wouldn’t have been much at all. I tuck the money in my wallet, and Caleb follows me out.
He beats me to his car and opens the door. I smile and climb in, and we’re on the road in a flash. There’s a mischievous look in his eye that I can’t place. I bite my lip instead of asking about it, and soon enough we’re on the highway.
Up, up, and away.
“Why is makeup so important to you?” he asks. “You don’t think you’re pretty?”
“It’s hard to have self-confidence when everyone is trying to bring you down.” I rub my hands together.
“Of course.”
“Of course?” I echo. “Great.”
He shoots me a glance. “It makes sense. It doesn’t mean it’s true, though. You’re beautiful.”
There are skyscrapers in the distance. I focus on those instead of the compliment I’m not ready to swallow.
“I don’t really like Halloween,” I comment.
He keeps glancing over at me. “Why?”
I tick off the instances on my fingers. “Getting chased by a foster brother with a machete. He threatened to cut off my hair. Being locked in a closet for trying to take a piece of candy meant for the other kids. Having my costume ripped the morning of Halloween by a foster family’s kid. She didn’t like that I got to be a unicorn.”
“How old were you?” His voice is dark.
“It was every year.”
“And the last two? With your supposed good family?”
I shrug. “Hanna ate a Snickers, and her throat swelled shut. We spent the night in the ER. And then the next year, our foster mom let us all go out, but she took our candy when we came back. Said she didn’t trust us not to eat it all in one night.”
“I thought you liked her.”
“They were strict. Everyone is strict at first. It’s how they manage expectations. Start with strong ones and ease them over time.”
“But…?”
“The Bryans are different,” I admit.
I hope they keep me.
I almost say it out loud, but wishes and hopes are dangerous. They inflate us, make us buoyant. And in the end, they just make a harder fall.
I know better.
“We can find complementary masks,” he says. “Something fit for a king and queen.”
He can’t be serious.
“We aren’t royalty ,” I sputter. “This isn’t?—”
“You know as well as I do that hockey is king. And I’m the fucking king of hockey.”
My face warms. “Arrogant, much?”
He cracks a smile. “I am aware of my value.”
“The school… people really love hockey that much? They’d bend rules for you, or bend over and kiss your ass?”
“We remind the students why we’re the best in the league.” He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “There’s a good costume shop off of Times Square.”
“What’s the errand you have to run?”
He makes a face. “Just have to sign some papers nearby. Won’t take long.”
“And you decided to take me with you?”
“You haven’t been to the city. Besides, this type of conversation can’t be had with just myself.”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
He glances over. “You don’t believe me.”
Not really.
“The teachers don’t ever yell at me, give me detention, call me out for being late or skipping.” He puts his hand on my thigh.
Hate to say I like it, but…
“You got suspended. And you can’t play hockey for a while.”
“For fighting Ian, whose dad is a massive dick.” He winks. “I don’t blame the principal for suspending me. Easier to do that than get on Fletcher Senior’s bad side.”
I harrumph.
“You’ll see,” he promises.
His words from my first day of school come back to me.
Margo Wolfe. Haven’t you heard? I’m king now.
What does that make me? Queen—or joker?