Calling Home by Michael Cadnum Page B

hands carefully and made my way to school.
    Angela extricated herself from her BMW. Her purse was snagged on the seat belt, and she swore at it, at the belt, and at the car. She said it was a piece of junk, and slammed the door hard.
    â€œI told your brother you were a tramp. I shouldn’t have done that.”
    â€œI was up until very late, Peter, listening to my brother, who my parents suddenly adore, talk to me about condoms and mutual respect between sexual partners. He told me he was going to follow you until he caught you robbing a bank. What’s that you’re carrying?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œPretty big for nothing.”
    â€œActually, it’s my portfolio.”
    â€œThe stock market?”
    â€œIt’s art,” I said, choking on the words. I was hoping she wouldn’t really hear me.
    â€œYou stealing art lately, or what? Hey, remind me—I have a couple liters of something in the trunk. My parents gave this very big spasm last weekend, with salesmen from all over the West Coast passing out in the bathroom. One of them rubbed himself on me. Not for very long. Nothing really overt. I mean, clothing stayed on. Let me see the art.”
    â€œI feel a little personal about it.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t walk around with something that big if you feel personal about it.” She tugged, and papers spilled to the concrete.
    I looked everywhere, and then knelt and gathered them.
    â€œThose aren’t bad. Did you draw them?”
    â€œThey’re just sketches. I wanted to show them to Lani.”
    Angela looked at me, and then looked away, and took too long to respond. “But you showed them to me first, didn’t you?”
    â€œSome of them.”
    She stopped, and turned to face me. I dodged, but she stayed directly before me and we stood, eye to eye. “So you have this fellow-artist thing with Lani now. You don’t have to explain. And you do think I’m a tramp. That’s just great, Peter. Very flattering. I know I’m untalented, and practically a slut in some people’s eyes, but I happen to care about you just enough that I want you to care about me. I hope my brother sees you robbing a liquor store, and blows up your head!”
    The cafeteria was nearly empty. A few figures leaned on elbows and sipped hot chocolate. Nobody liked to spend time in the cafeteria. It was a place without hope or character, a giant vending machine with places to sit. I like it because you could sit and read. Also, an acoustical oddity made the empty hall sound as though it were filled with murmuring maniacs. Any conversation there was impossible to overhear.
    â€œI used to draw a lot, but I stopped.”
    â€œI love them,” said Lani, turning pages. She turned them slowly, looking carefully at each drawing. Some of them I was ashamed to have her look at. They were crude, half-formed. “The hawk in this one is really good.”
    â€œI need to work on the talons.”
    â€œI like them. They look very scaly, and very dangerous.” She turned a page. “I like this man. What’s he doing?”
    â€œThat’s Inspector Ng. I did it from memory. He’s chewing on the end of a pencil.”
    â€œHe looks very suspicious.”
    â€œHe’s a suspicious man.”
    â€œI wish Mead would come back,” she said. “I worry about him sometimes. Except I know that Mead can take care of himself. He’s that kind of person. Don’t you wonder where he is?”
    â€œIt’s very mysterious. Let me take those. I’ll stuff them in my locker. I don’t want everyone seeing them.”
    â€œDon’t you wonder?”
    â€œAbout Mead? Sure. But it’s like you say—he can take care of himself.”
    She was watching me again, looking at me, seeing me in that Lani way. “What do you think he’s doing?”
    I made myself meet her eyes. “I have no idea.”
    â€œYou’re an