I stare after her as she heads upstairs, feeling my heart thump hard in my chest. My brat of a principal has just been through an awful experience and has at last earned the right to have a meltdown and tell me I failed her, and she ends up comforting me instead. I pull at the knot of my tie as I go through to the kitchen, wondering at this young woman. I can see she’s going to keep me guessing.
I watch her closely over the next two days for signs of distress. She stays calm, though I can tell she’s preoccupied. The sketchbooks go with her everywhere but she’s drawing on scrap paper instead and she doesn’t let me see what she’s working on.
Every time I try and broach the subject of her father’s impending bail hearing she clams up. Finally I confront her while she’s drawing at the dining room table. “Adrienne. You can’t ignore this forever.”
At the sound of my voice she shoves the paper she was drawing on under her sketchbook. “What?”
“Don’t say what, say pardon.” Oh, hell. That’s the second time I’ve done that today, and yesterday I prompted her to say thank you when I handed her a glass of lemonade. My principals don’t need to show me total politeness and respect. The problem is I feel vaguely aroused and pleased when she does what I say.
The expression on the soft oval of her face is serene and pretty. “Sorry. Pardon?”
My thumb itches to rub over her full lower lip and the words good girl are on the tip of my tongue. I almost want her to be a brat again so she doesn’t look at me like that. Clearing my throat, I say, “It’s your father’s bail hearing in two days’ time. We need to talk about what’s going to happen.”
She grimaces. “Not now, okay?”
I sit down at the table. “Yes now. You have to tell me whether you want to go to court. His lawyer has given me the time and court number.” She fiddles with the spiral binding on her sketchbook. “Adrienne. What’s wrong?”
Casting about for an explanation, she sighs and says, “I don’t know. If I go then people will think I support him despite what he’s being accused of. If I don’t they’ll think I hate him or something. I can’t decide what I want because I’m too busy worrying what other people will think.”
I’m not surprised she’s thinking this way. There’s been a swarm of journalists out front ever since Mr. Westley’s arrest. So much for things quieting down on the scandal front. But I am surprised that she’s confiding in me and it’s on the tip of my tongue to praise her for it. Better that I don’t make a big deal out of it, though. “That’s true, people will make inferences. But try to put that aside for the moment and consider what will make you happy.”
Rolling a pencil back and forth on the table, she says, “Um, hiding forever?”
“Okay, bad choice of words. Do you want to be there for your father, or to at least get a better understanding of what’s going on?”
She screws up her face, thinking. “It would be good to know for myself what he’s supposed to have done. But what if it’s—” She cuts herself off with a shake of her head.
“What if it’s what, Adrienne?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I’m going to watch TV or something in my room.”
As she scoops up her things and heads for the stairs a piece of paper slips out of her arms and flutters to the ground. She’s gone before I can call out to her.
I bend down and pick the paper up. It’s got half a dozen small sketches on it, figures drawn in blue pencil. The first is a man’s suited torso and shoulders standing face-on to the viewer. Behind him is a young woman with long curly hair, peeking out behind him, with only her right eye and the side of her face visible. The next is a study of a pair of hands. A man’s hands. I glance down at my own briefly. The next is a man standing in front of a mirror tying a tie, his chin angled upwards. The face is just a mere suggestion. Then what seems to be the same person leaning against a counter, hands in his trouser pockets.
It’s me. She’s drawn me, not as a caricature or vanquished foe, but a person who is professional, protective. This is the person I want to be to her, and I feel myself smiling with pleasure, and something else. Thankfulness. I’m finally getting through to her.
* * *
“Dieter.”
My name has been spoken in a soft whisper. The voice is sweet, familiar, holding no panic or urgency, but I’m yanked out of sleep with a sharp inhalation and a thud of alarm.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
The room’s dark but I can make out Adrienne standing by my bedside in her pajamas, her arms crossed over her chest like she’s cold. “Nothing. I couldn’t sleep.”
I scrub a hand over my face and glance at the digital clock. Two-fifteen in the morning. “Sorry to hear that. Read a book or something.”
“Can I—can I sleep with you?”
I’m suddenly aware that I’m naked under the sheet crumpled in my lap and pull it up to cover my torso. “No you may not,” I enunciate. “Go back to your room, now.”
“Dieter...” she says, drawing my name out and putting one knee up on the bed. “I’ll be super quiet. You won’t even know I’m here.”
Like hell I won’t. I’ll be waiting for her to pull some silly stunt. Just because she’s seeing me as someone who can help her now doesn’t mean she’s not still a brat. “No.”
She pouts. “But I want to.”