A Work of Art by Melody Maysonet Page B

sketches.”
    â€œAnd why do you think they took all that?”
    â€œBecause . . .” I clenched my jaw. This was where I had to say it. “Because there was a photo of me,” I blurted. “At least I think there was. A digital photo. Mom said she found something on his computer. That’s why she called them. So the police must have found the photo, too, on his computer, and then they took his hard drive and a bunch of other stuff hoping they’d find something else.” I rambled on, wanting her to stop me, but she was taking notes on her pad. “I think they were fishing because it’s not a big deal. The photo, I mean. Or the drawing. That’s what the police do, right? They fish. And you can’t explain anything to my mom. There’s something wrong with her. She takes medication for depression and anxiety. That’s important, right?”
    â€œIt could be.” She scribbled something else on her pad. “But I need you to back up a little.”
    â€œOkay.” I thought for sure she wanted to talk about the photo. Why was I in it? Why did he have it? But that’s not what she asked.
    â€œHow old were you when you did the drawing?”
    â€œNine, I think.”
    â€œAnd how old are you now?”
    â€œSeventeen. Almost eighteen.”
    She nodded, wrote something on her pad. “And you were nine years old in the photo?”
    â€œYes.” I waited for her to finish writing. “Can you help him? Will you help him?”
    She leaned back in her chair. “You understand that nothing is a sure thing.”
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œBut I’m sure we can resolve this so it makes sense. Whatever tack I take, I want you to feel confident that your dad is making a good decision.”
    â€œOkay.”
    She tapped her pen against her chin. “Do you want to talk money now?”
    â€œYes.” My stomach tightened. What if I didn’t have enough?
    â€œThis is a felony charge. You understand that, right?”
    I nodded.
    â€œIn this type of case, my retainer would be eighteen thousand dollars. If the case goes to trial, that amount would increase significantly.”
    I actually breathed a sigh of relief. I had enough. I’d even have two thousand dollars left over to start up my Paris fund again.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I can do that.”
    â€œYou need to be sure, Tera. If your father changes his mind—if you change your mind—the money is still spent.”
    I’d already made my decision. I was Dad’s only hope, and I had to do this. “I understand,” I said. I pulled out my checkbook.
    â€œYour dad has to agree. He has to sign the papers.”
    â€œI know.”
    She handed me a pen, one of those fancy designer ones, heavy in my hand. “I won’t cash your check until we have your father’s signature.”
    I’d written only one other check in my life—for the application fee to the Paris Art Institute—and it wasn’t anywhere near eighteen thousand dollars. I remembered how I felt when I wrote that check. Excited and hopeful. I knew I should feel hopeful writing this check, too. I was saving my dad. But to do it, I was giving up the thing that had kept me going for so long. The one thing I looked forward to when I woke up in the morning.
    My hand started to shake as I wrote the amount, so I tried to pretend I was painting. The fancy pen seemed to call for big, flowery letters, and when I got to the last part, the part where I signed my name, I used fast, flourished strokes, like I was signing my name to a work of art.
    I thought my dad would like that.

CHAPTER 9
Humpty Dumpty
    Tera huddled on the couch, her hands pressed to her ears. It didn’t help. She could still hear them fighting in their bedroom.
    â€œWhat were you thinking?” Her mom’s voice. Shrieky. “She’s only nine years old!”
    They were fighting about her.