My favorite model was a dark-skinned woman named Nadia. She had thick eyebrows and a wine-red mole on her neck and crepe-papery stretch marks around her navel. I could’ve sketched her for hours and not captured everything there was to see on the landscape of her skin.
One evening, the model who was supposed to show up canceled at the last minute. My father appeared to take the news in stride, and quickly began searching the classroom for items he could use in a still life.
I can’t explain it, but from the time I was very young, I was always deeply attuned to my father’s moods. I wet the bed for weeks before he moved out of my mother’s house, and peeled the skin around my fingernails bloody in the days before he left town for good. When he grew solemn, I cried. When his teeth clenched in anger, my stomach cramped.
That night in his classroom, I could feel the tension rolling off of him like storm clouds. I had to do something.
“Daddy,” I said, hooking his sleeve. “I’ll do it.”
“Do what, Jetty?” He waved me off his arm.
“I’ll sit for the class.”
He started to shake his head no and then stopped, his gaze assessing. I stood up straighter to show him I meant business. After a long and thoughtful pause, he told me to take off my shoes and socks and go take a seat at the center of the room.
I had been my father’s model for years, so I knew what was expected of me. What I didn’t expect was the weight of all those stares. They bore down on me like one of those lead aprons they make you wear when you get an x-ray. I imagined myself sinking through the floor.
Mason kept a close eye on me, making sure I got enough bathroom breaks and time to stretch between poses. Eventually, I settled into the job, lulled by the scraping of pencils and buffing of erasers. I began to have fun with it, choosing complex postures that involved standing on one foot, or twisting myself into a human pretzel. I was a lanky kid, long-limbed and flexible. The best part was getting to walk around and survey the sketches afterward.
My father ended class twenty minutes early; he could tell I was getting tired. On their way out, students approached us to thank him for the opportunity to study such a lovely subject. Most children couldn’t sit still for more than a few minutes, they said. I was a rare gem.
“You have a beautiful daughter,” said a man with a talent for capturing hands and feet. “I hope we’ll be seeing more of her.” My father thanked the student with a proud smile.
“You did great tonight, Jetty,” he said, as we were locking up the classroom. “Thanks for volunteering.”
I danced and skipped all the way down to the parking garage.
Back home, I told my mother and her then-girlfriend how much fun I’d had posing for my father’s class. My mom’s face turned pale as she listened. Before I could finish telling her what the students had said about me, she rushed into the kitchen to call my father.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she hissed into the phone. “You know how I feel about Jett being photographed in public... I don’t care that it’s just a drawing, I don’t want pictures of her floating around where anyone could see them.”
My stomach braided into knots. I thought I’d done a good thing by offering to model for my father’s class. His students had seemed happy. Had I done something wrong?
“Mason, if I find out you’ve brought her
to another one of your classes, no man or god will be able to protect you, and you will never see her again.”
By then, I knew better than to believe in ancient gods who drove magical chariots across the heavens, or that my parents were anything more than human. But it occurred to me that if my mother were a goddess, she would be a vengeful one.
Chapter Seven
I lay in bed staring at the glass of water until almost noon.
When my anxiety could no longer stand up to my hunger, I threw on a robe and padded down to the kitchen. There were muffins and jam waiting on the table, a fresh pot of coffee in the carafe, and a note about hardboiled eggs in the fridge. I munched a blueberry muffin and poured myself a mug of coffee. The brew was strong, just how I liked it, though there was no way Mason could’ve known.
After breakfast, I showered, hand-washed my bra and left it to dry in the bathroom. I’d packed light so I wouldn’t have to check my bag at the museum. A few pairs of underwear and pants, some simple shirts. Whatever I could fit in my laptop bag. I put on a fresh tank and yesterday’s jeans, which were clean enough, and made a mental note to ask Mason about the laundry situation—
As soon as I was able to look him in the face again.
My whole body knotted with embarrassment as memories from the previous night came rushing back. I had watched the man I once called Daddy jerk himself off, then eavesdropped on an illuminating phone call between him and my mother. To top it all off, I’d made myself come imagining his hand between my thighs.
It was beyond twisted. It was fucked up. But the worst part, without a doubt, was the possibly of him suspecting I’d stood captivated outside his bedroom door, watching him fuck his own fist. Whether or not he’d heard me touching myself afterward was still up for debate.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my thoughts racing as I tried to make sense of it all. Was I so desperate to rekindle Mason’s affection toward me that I’d twisted my innocent curiosity into something perverted? Technically, he wasn’t my real father, but he’d been my dad for twelve years—eighteen if you counted the time I’d spent in the dark. Then, there was the fact that Mason had kissed me—or I’d kissed him. Either way, lines had been blurred from the moment I set foot in his apartment. I wasn’t his daughter anymore, but I was hardly a stranger.
I had no idea what we were to each other now.
Even if I tried not to think about what I’d witnessed, there was still the late-night phone call to consider. The information Mason had unwittingly revealed: my mother, believing I was in danger, had told my father to leave me, and he’d agreed to go.