Noelle August - Boomerang

She squares herself to me and grows very still. After a second or two, not even the wine in her glass moves.

I feel like it’s the first time she’s really seeing me and it’s intense. I have to force myself to just stand there and take her eagle-eyed scrutiny. Retreating under her gaze would feel like losing, somehow.

“You have fantastic bone structure, a gorgeous Bernini-esque physique, and I’m absolutely mad for the cleft in your chin,” she says.

What. The. Fuck?

I’m suddenly sweating like Rhett, but I manage to answer like I’m taking this all in stride. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank your parents.”

“Okay.”

“And probably your exercise regimen. Sports?”

“Soccer.”

“Ah.”

She nods, taking that in.

“I have not heard a peep about you from my daughter.”

“I . . . didn’t know that.”

“Well, how would you?”

“Right.”

Is she trying to mess with my head? I have never felt so wrong-footed around another human being before.

Pearl tilts her head like Baudelaire did earlier. “Do you know what that makes you, Ethan?”

“Unexpected?”

She breaks into a big smile, and I feel like I’ve just passed a huge test. “Yes,” she says, emphatically. “And extremely unique.”

She swings the wood door open, leaving me with that little riddle to puzzle over. Thoughtful of her, since I didn’t already have enough to try to contend with tonight.

I follow her into a huge studio space with soaring ceilings. One end looks like part laboratory, part factory, with a cluster of oversized computer monitors and industrial-looking equipment that I can only imagine is for enlarging and transferring photographs.

Above the equipment, the walls are crowded with prints of all sizes. Amazing stuff. My eyes go to a shot of high heels with sparkling sequins and a bow. I recognize them as the Wizard of Oz slippers, except they have a killer four-inch heel, the tip of which is pressing into a curve of smooth flesh.

It’s the body part that’s so arresting. I can’t look away. I can’t figure out if it’s a breast or a back, or a calf, and that’s how every single piece is. You look at it, and you want to know more. You have to.

The other end of the studio is much more open, with a drop cloth, a variety of backdrops, some props like wigs and umbrellas and angel wings, a few stools. Beyond that, huge glass doors lead to an outdoor patio and one of the most incredible views I’ve ever seen.

“Hey,” Mia says.

“Oh, there you are,” her mother says, whirling. Then she shakes her head disapprovingly. “Really, Mia?”

That’s when I notice the sheets dropped over some frames resting against the wall.

“What are those?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Mia says. “Nothing at all.”

Mia

Q: How do you handle a crisis?

Of course, my mother proceeds to whip the sheet off the frames like she’s unveiling a new car. I don’t even know why I tried.

The largest of them, and probably the most eye-catching, is a massive triptych my mom did, based on a Modigliani nude. I’m reclining on a red velvet chaise, arms up over my head, a white silk sheet weaving beneath my body to spill across my thighs. My skin looks burnished, almost amber. And because it’s my mother, my body is sliced into thin spirals, like I’ve been through an apple peeler.

She pulls those away from the wall and sets them beside all the others I tried to hide: martini glass Mia, many-nippled Mia, avenging goddess Mia, with eight arms, a halo of detached eyeballs, and blue flames where one might normally locate my girl bits.

“As you can see,” my mother tells Ethan. “My daughter’s my muse.”

From Ethan’s perspective it probably looks more like shrooms are my mother’s muse, though as far as I know she’s never done a drug in her life.

But he steps back to get a better look at the pieces, and once again, I’m watching him look at me but a different version of me. Digitally manipulated, attractively lit, powerfully posed. That Mia.

“These are . . . extraordinary,” Ethan murmurs, but I can’t tell how he means it. Extraordinary, great? Extraordinary, bizarro? “I’ve never seen anything like them.” It’s dumb, too, but I feel a pang of jealousy, watching him admire her work.

“You see, my darling?” My mom captures my chin in her hands to plant a kiss on me. “Don’t ever hide yourself.” To Ethan, she adds, “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Mom!”

He glances at me, and his gaze is warm and considering, as though he’s seeing me—real me, the one in front of him—for the first time too. “Very,” he says.

“Let me show you what I’m working on now,” my mother says, warmly. “It’s a series called ‘Foxes.’

I groan. Those are the ones of me in different animal masks, taken in weird urban environments. Fox-mask Mia in a shopping cart under fluorescent lights. Cat-mask Mia crouched on a mall escalator, ascending into shadow. I’m dressed in most of them, but maybe we don’t need to inundate the guy with our complete and utter weirdness?

“Mom, dinner’s going to be ready soon. Why don’t we head back to our other guest?”

“I really want to see them,” Ethan says, grinning at me. Once again, I can’t read the expression. Is he genuinely interested? Sucking up to my mom? Or just giving me tsuris, as Nana would say?

“Okay, but don’t keep him too long, Mom,” I say. I don’t add, “And please don’t tell him anything mortifying about yourself. Or me.”

I start for the door, distracted, and catch the heel of my sandal on a snarl of cords on the floor. Flailing, I grab onto Ethan’s arm and send his wine glass—filled with Chianti—splashing onto his face, his throat, and his beautiful crisp white shirt.

“Oh my God, Ethan! I’m so sorry.”

He stands there, totally shocked, and then looks down at himself. A drop of Chianti slides down his nose and drops onto his shoe.

“Happy accident!” my mother says, clasping her hands like a Who on Christmas morning. “Mia, why don’t you run and get a towel. And see if you can find him a clean shirt.”

“I am so, so sorry,” I tell him. “Stay right here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

More carefully, I flee the room, wanting to stop and bang my head against the wall a few times before I go. Why do I feel like a walking catastrophe around this guy?

I pass by the kitchen on my way to the linen closet. Looking in, I’m surprised to find my dad, Adam, and Nana sitting around the round table tucked into the window niche there. The two guys look like they’ve done some real damage to that bottle of bourbon already—though Nana still has her full glass of vermouth.

Adam sits back, resting his head against the wall, a strange expression on his face. “That’s what they don’t understand,” he says hoarsely.

“How could they?” My dad tips back his glass. “That feeling like someone pushed a button on your life. And it’s suddenly something new?”

“And something you didn’t ask for,” Adam replies. “Or want.”

“Guys?” I say, coming into the kitchen. “What’s going on? Everything all right?”

“Ah, my sweet Mia Moré.” My dad waves me over, and I go. He threads an arm around my waist and squeezes. “The thing is, Adam,” he says. “You have to find the thing that makes it worth it. That turns that life you didn’t want into something you do.”

Adam salutes my dad with his glass. “It’s great you have that. Family.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

Adam checks the remains of his bourbon for an answer but doesn’t say anything.

“Jo-Jo?”

“Oh,” my dad replies. “I told Adam here about my accident.”

“Really?” He never talks about it. So, why to Adam—a stranger?

People always talk about the voltage when they talk about electricity. But it only took one amp to stop my dad’s heart. He’s got a chest full of shining pink scars to remind us of what happened—but I forget about the other wounds, the ones he carries inside.

“It’s a good reminder that things go fast,” my father says. “And nothing’s guaranteed. You can only dig in and fight for your little share of happiness, capisci?”

“Capisco,” Adam replies. Is there anything he doesn’t know?

Glassy-eyed, he drains the last of the bourbon. For the first time that I’ve ever seen, he’s a bit . . . askew. His collar droops on one side, and the knot of his tie’s too tight, like he’s been tugging on it.

“Maybe we should get dinner on the table?” I suggest. They could use some good bread to sop up the booze.

My dad lets go of me. Getting to his feet, he says, “Good thinking, sweetheart.” He extends a hand to Nana. “Evie?”

Nana rises and smiles at me. Her eyes are her own again, green and sharp with humor. “Where’d that good-looking boy go?” she asks.

Oh, crap. I totally forgot about Ethan.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell them and explain about Ethan and the wine.

I dash into my parents’ room, rifle through my dad’s closet for a shirt, snag a towel from the linen closet, and rush back to my mother’s studio.

“Hey, sorry about—” But the scene in the room chops the words off mid-sentence.

The studio lights blaze, and my mom stands back behind the camera, snapping pictures, calling out encouragement.

To Ethan.

Who’s sitting atop a stool and posing for my mom—shirtless.

Ethan

Q: Lights, camera, action—or do you prefer your fun in the dark?

Mia stops, a shirt in one hand, a towel in the other, and locks eyes with me. The moment stretches out between us, as we both try to process the situation.

I’ve been wondering how she’d react when she came back.

My top theory was with humor, a laugh, a joke of some kind, but embarrassment wasn’t far behind.

The way she’s looking at me, though—eyes wide, pink lips relaxed into a pout—isn’t either. I’ve struck her speechless, which would be a massive turn-on if her mother wasn’t standing ten feet away from me.

Actually. It still is.

Pearl lowers her camera and smiles at Mia. “Ah, you’re back.”

“Um, Mom?” Mia squeaks. “What are you doing?”

“Taking advantage of an opportunity,” Pearl says. “I’d never have forgiven myself if he left this house and I didn’t get a shot of that chin. Come look.”

She messes with the back of the camera, and Mia moves to her, peering at the digital display that lights up.

Standing at the edge of the pool of yellow thrown by the spotlights, they’re mostly in darkness, but I can see Mia’s mouth curve into a smile as Pearl scrolls through pictures.

In the seconds of silence that follow, I give myself a little pep talk. I’m secure in my own skin. Never worried about what a girl thought of me shirtless before because I know I have a decent build. Better than decent, actually, thanks to soccer. So why am I sitting here right now wondering what Mia’s thinking?

“That one,” Mia says, her hand stopping Pearl’s. “That’s the shot.”

Pearl glances at me, then at Mia. “It’s a different side of him. Darker.”

And that clues me as to what they’re seeing.

When Mia left, Pearl asked if she could take my picture.

I said, “No thanks.”

She said, “Surely I can convince you.”

What followed was some hardcore bartering wherein I agreed to sit for a few pictures in exchange for Pearl answering my questions about Mia.

I had a goal in mind like always, so I worked my angle of questioning to Mia’s friends, waiting for the perfect moment to bring up her ex. I didn’t want to know about him as much as what he did to screw up being with Mia. That was when Pearl told me what a fuckwad the guy was, how he treated Mia, taking her for granted.

“Did he two-time her?” I’d asked.

“No,” Pearl said, between snaps. “It was worse than that.” Snap, snap. “He toyed with her.” Snap, snap. “He’d just disappear or lose interest sometimes, claiming some nonsense about needing to find himself.” Snap, snap. “Then he’d come back and get her hopes up again. That happened ’til he drained the hope right out of her, the little prick.”

I felt like tracking Kyle down and beating the shit out of him, and I’m guessing that translated as “Darker Ethan” in the photos.

“You should make some prints, Mom,” Mia says now.