The Art of Scandal(14)
Bobbi gazed at the picture with such adoration that he snuck another look at his work, trying to see it through her eyes. But he could only see the flaws, so he quickly dimmed the screen again.
“This is amazing,” Bobbi said. “You really outdid yourself, Nettles.”
Nathan thanked her with a no big deal shrug. His throat was tight, and any attempt at words would probably become some raw and messy confession about how down he’d been feeling lately. Bobbi would freak. Then she’d tell Dillon and both of his friends would converge, wringing their hands because Nate’s not himself, which would force him to admit that he actually was being himself. He’d been this needy his whole life, but had never let them see it.
Nathan popped a chili pepper into his mouth. The burn cleared his head, but quickly escalated into a coughing fit that made his eyes water. Bobbi nudged over a bowl of shredded cheese and resumed ogling the picture.
“You keep getting better,” she said. “Did you try a new technique this time? No, don’t tell me. I like trying to figure it out on my own.”
The cheese helped, but his mouth was still on fire. “Don’t put those peppers in whatever you’re cooking.”
“Did you get the link I sent you about selling your designs online? People would pay a fortune for something like this.”
“For a tattoo of some book character?” His laugh was strangled by another cough. “I don’t like encouraging questionable choices.”
“Okay, hypocrite.” Bobbi pointed to the evidence of his Phoenix devotion tattooed on his forearm.
“A phoenix is objectively badass.” He ran his hand over the image. “I can make up ten stories about where this came from.”
She put her phone away and ate one of the demonic peppers without wincing. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of what inspires you.”
Nathan wasn’t interested in starting another debate about whether he should post his work under his real name. While Bobbi’s hobbies were indistinguishable from her career, Nathan preferred to keep his life in separate, tidy compartments, to ensure the different parts never touched. She saw his obstinate expression and huffed in defeat. “Dillon’s been blowing up my phone since you ditched him last night.”
“I didn’t ditch him. I wasn’t feeling those two girls he met at the gas station.”
“Sounds like you were being an asshole.” She dumped a handful of vegetables into the eggs, picked up a whisk, and stirred with superhuman speed.
“I bought them all dinner!” Nathan looked away from the bowl, his stomach rolling at the slimy consistency. He wasn’t totally recovered from his whiskey binge the night before. After mindlessly finishing the bottle, he’d called a Lyft and spent the rest of the night on his couch, scrolling through articles and social media posts about Rachel Abbott.
People used #BlackElsa to post about how cold and boring she was. But the photos hit differently now that Nathan had the husky Demi Moore voice and dark sense of humor to pair with the flawless face. She put on plastic smiles for the camera, but last night she’d been viscerally real, electric and changeable like a summer storm.
He read through a few posts debating whether she wore a wig to a cancer research fundraiser before he switched to reading news articles that were probably planted by her husband’s staff. Apparently, the buzzed woman who’d asked him, a stranger, for weed was passionate about drugs and alcohol education in schools. She also taught kindergartners how to garden. He’d drifted off scrolling through photos of her squatting next to starry-eyed kids.
Bobbi closed the oven and tossed her potholders on the counter. “What is going on with you?”
If he didn’t answer, she would keep prodding. Bobbi’s stubbornness about helping the people she loved could occasionally be obsessive. The last time he tried to freeze her out of one of his dark moods, she’d planted herself on his couch for a week.
But each time he tried to pinpoint a specific thing that was bothering him, the opposite thing felt just as true: He was lonely, but he was also tired of being around people. He was bored, but the things he enjoyed weren’t appealing. Sometimes it felt like he was existing underwater, looking up at everyone thriving above the surface, breathing the stale air he couldn’t stomach. But he couldn’t say that to Bobbi. She’d lecture him about wasting time running the laundromat and tell him to research art schools again. He loved drawing, but he hated school. Or school hated him. Every teacher unlucky enough to have him walk through their door had been relieved to see him walk back out again.
When he was young, Nathan would get in trouble for daydreaming while he was supposed to be paying attention. It came to a head when his fifth-grade teacher, Donald Green, said that he would be better off repeating the same grade next year. Nathan was sent to a guidance counselor who suggested he keep a journal to help him focus. But he was a shitty writer. Now he knew it was the dyslexia, but back then, the idea of trying to put what was in his head down on paper made him want to give up on education completely.
So he’d started drawing. Doodling at first, and then illustrations of his teacher’s lessons. His grades had improved, which led to accusations of cheating. The notebook was used as evidence of his laziness during parent-teacher conferences.
In high school, Nathan tried becoming someone else. He stopped drawing, joined the wrestling team, and learned to flirt. It worked for a while, but then the rumors started. He was an asshole only looking to get laid. He only liked white girls. He had a monster dick that made some girl cry when he tried to fuck her. It was like being back in Green’s class, with his patronizing warnings not to bother trying—he would never be more than this.