THE BAD BOY AND THE CHEERLEADER

THE BAD BOY AND THE CHEERLEADER - CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 52:

CALEB’S  POV:

MAY

seven months down, three to go . . .

She’s going to prom with someone else when it should be me with her.  I hang up the phone, leaning against the wall and letting out a deep breath.  It took all the control I’m capable of to hold back my feelings when Gianna just told me over the phone that she’s going to prom with Gage. 

Instead of raging and whining, asking her not to go to prom at all since it wouldn’t be with me, I encouraged her to go.  Assured her that I wanted her to go next weekend.  Have fun.  Holy shit, they should let me out of here early for sainthood.  I’m sure I can get some priest to speak on my behalf.  Obviously I must be a god damn saint to encourage my girlfriend to go to prom with another guy.

As much as I was tempted to show my true feelings on the subject, I knew that Gianna going to prom was a big step.  And in a way, I very reluctantly feel gratitude towards Gage for talking her into going.  Very reluctantly. 

I call the kid every Friday morning, while he conveniently leaves whatever class he has to use the restroom.  One time I guess he actually had to go, because I could hear him pissing.  During these calls, he informs me what Gianna has been up to, whether or not she seems to be improving and if there’s been any drama. 

Thankfully, life for Gianna has been drama-less.  Gage claims that she seems happier and less introverted at school since he started there.  I’ve called him out on it a couple times and Gage swears up and down that any feelings he has towards Gianna are purely platonic. 

As intimidating as I could make myself sound, I threatened Gage to keep it that way.  When I get out of juvie, if there are stars in Gage’s eyes when he looks at Gianna, I’ll make sure he’s seeing stars around his head when I knock his ass out.

I guess the guy was a good investment on my part, using Ian’s money of course.

Gianna has come to visit me several more times since February.  Each time, she seems more comfortable around me, but I could just be imagining it, since she’s nowhere near like she used to be around me.  Ready to throw down verbally at my smallest provocation.  But then again, maybe I’m not the same way I used to be around her either. 

When it’s time for her to leave, it’s so hard to let her go.  Not that I have much choice.  The end of visiting time is the end of visiting time, period. 

And how embarrassing is that?  How embarrassing is all of this? 

If I were a selfless person, I might set her free to find someone more deserving of her.  Someone who isn’t a loser locked up in juvie.  It’s good for me that I’m such a selfish bastard.  That’s my girl and when I get out of here I can reinvent myself into the kind of guy who deserves her. 

A glance at the clock tells me that I still have thirty minutes before my mom is here for visitation.  For awhile there, I was wondering if my parents were getting back together, with all of their joint visits, but when my dad told me over the phone that my parents were going to start taking turns visiting me, so that I’d have at least one of them here every weekend, minus the weekends that Gianna comes, I knew that they were just friends. 

Cause really, a relationship didn’t work out too well between them the first time around.  Why make that mistake again? 

They did however, both come on the Saturday before my birthday in March.  Gianna was here too.  It was the first time my mom had seen her since the attack and she started crying, making Gianna and everyone uncomfortable.  My dad quickly brought an end to the waterworks by bringing up what he’d brought me. 

For Gianna’s birthday in April, I asked my mom to use my debit card to have a huge bouquet of flowers delivered to her dad’s house.  The smile on her face when she came to visit me after that was priceless.  I also gave her a self-portrait of me, which is what every girls wants for her birthday. 

Walking into the art room, I grab my most recent paintings and pile them on top of each other.  Lately, there’s been a lot.  Feeling coiled tight and upset about a situation that, logically, I know is coming to an end, but seems never-ending regardless, I’ve been in a sort of painting frenzy.  Whenever they’ll let me in here, this is where I am. 

I make it back to my cell block just in time for them to call my name for visitation.  Following the others, carrying my heavy load, I think about what else I’m going to miss.  In June, Gianna’s ballet academy is going to have several nights of performances.  And I won’t be there to see her dance because I’m stuck in juvenile detention.  What a freaking loser I am. 

I’m sure Gage will be there.  And that dumbass Jared too, since Cece will also be dancing. 

When I enter the room, my mom is sitting there, looking about ready to bounce out of her seat.  I set down the paintings on the table between us, “Here they are.”

Still looking excited, she looks through them carefully.  “These are great, Caleb.  A few more and there’ll be enough for an exhibit.”

“Exhibit?” I ask warily, thinking my mom must be in la-la land again. 

Putting down the painting that she was holding, she reaches out with both hands to grab onto my forearm, shaking it lightly, “Yes.  I didn’t want to say anything until things were more definite, but I showed the gallery director everything you’ve done up until now and he says that with more pieces, he’d be willing to give you your own show.”

It takes a few moments for me to digest this.  “Why the hell would anyone want to buy my artwork?”

Giving me an exasperated look, she says, “Because it’s wonderful.”

Giving her back the same looks, I tell her, “You think that because you popped me out.  All of my paintings are about my friends or Gianna and this fucked up place.”

“Exactly,” she smiles, my crudeness not affecting her good mood one bit.  “That’s what makes you so unique.  Not many artists go through the experience of youth corrections.  The critics will admire the grittiness and reality of your work and the buyers will love to say that they own a piece created by a teenage delinquent.”

Slowly, to emphasize, I say, “So, what you’re saying is that I’ll be a novelty?”

She nods her head, “Yes.”

“But I’ll be a well-paid novelty?”

“Yes.”

Slapping my hands together and rubbing, my mood just got much better, “Alright, bring on the green.  If a bunch of art freaks wanna hand over their cash, who am I to complain?”

When my mom starts to look uncomfortable, I start to feel worried, “What?”

“Well,” she begins hesitantly.  From the look on her face, I’m obviously not going to like what she has to say next.  “Well, the director has one request.”

“Yeah?” I ask, wondering what could be causing her anxiety. 

“He wants you to paint the night of the attack.”  Her words are so fast that it takes me a moment to understand what she just said. 

“Hell no!” I shout, coming out of my seat, bumping up against the pile of artwork. 

Reaching up to grab my arm, she yanks me down, “Sh, Caleb!  You’re going to get in trouble.”

Grudgingly, I sit down, crossing my arms over my chest, “No way in hell.”

Her face softens, “I know honey.  And I wouldn’t expect you to, but he wanted me to ask and I did.”

“Do I still get the show?”

Her smile is one of relief, “Yes, you do.  Although, if you decide to do the piece, my boss would be very happy.  He wants to place the paintings in chronological order.  Obviously, he feels that a piece about the incident would be important.”

“Too bad,” I say belligerently. 

She rolls her eyes, “Well, I’m sure he’ll understand, but if you change your mind before the show, he’ll welcome the piece.”  Handing me a gift bag with all the things she always brings for me and Ian, sweets and magazines, she continues, “He’s not sure if the show will be you by yourself or if he’ll have a joint showing of you and a urban realist painter that he’s been thinking about exhibiting.”

I shrug, “Whatever.”

Her eyes go wide and she looks excited all over again, “Oh my god, I almost forgot!  I spoke with your lawyer yesterday about petitioning to the judge for early release!”

“And you’re just barely telling me this now?” I practically shout.  When she looks hurt, I calm myself, “What did he say?”

Her face smoothes out and she smiles, “He says you have a shot of getting out of here up to a eighty days early.  At least he’s asking for eighty days to be cut from your sentence.  Especially with only one incident in your file from back in December, he thinks you may have a shot.”

“Damn, this is good news.  When do I go before the judge?” I ask eagerly, wanting all the details.  “What about Ian?”

She grimaces, “Caleb, from what you’ve told me, Ian hasn’t exactly been a model prisoner.”

I think back to all the arguments with guards he’s had and the several fights he’s been involved in.  Poor guy, he really should have thought before he acted.  However, as guilty as I’ll feel at leaving him behind, I need to get the hell out of here.  “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

She squeezes my hand in hers, “I can’t wait for you to come home.”

My mom’s idealistic nature shining through again.  I squeeze her hand back, “First we have to convince a judge to let me out.”

Her face lights up, “We could show him your paintings!”

“Yeah,” I say cynically, “Cause a judge is really going to give a crap about what some kid paints.”

“Caleb,” my mom says in her most reprimanding tone, which has obviously never worked before.  Just look where I’m at.  “Art speaks to people in ways words do not.”

O-kay.  Don’t really want to get into that debate again.  I may have the skills of an artist, even the drive to create, but my mom has the soul of one.  I’m a little too much of a realist for all that fanciful bullshit.  “I think we’ll stick to my lawyer’s arguments.”

“I’m sure Gianna will be happy to hear about this.” 

“Mom, don’t tell anyone about this and tell Dad not to tell anyone either.  If I don’t get this, she won’t have to be disappointed.”  I say this sternly, to get it through her head.  In my mom’s mind, I’m sure it’s as good as done, but in my mind, it’s a big maybe.  And most likely a probably not. 

“Fine.”  Her disappointment is apparent, but I won’t waver in my decision.  “When you come home, we really need to start looking into art schools.  You’ll want to apply to the best across the country.”

“I want to go to the same college as Gianna,” I say stubbornly. 

“I’m sure you don’t have to go to the exact same school.  I mean, Gianna will most likely go to a state college.  Although state universities have art programs, where you really need to be is an art school.  You’re talented, Caleb, but your talent is still raw.  You need to learn technique.  Maybe even look into other forms of expression.”

“We’ll see,” I grunt out noncommittally.  Then I swiftly change the subject, “So, the divorce is final?”

My mom purses her lips in irritation, “Yes, that woman is finally out of your father’s life.” 

I haven’t wanted to ask my dad about it, because I know he was nursing a broken heart when Julie filed for divorce last fall.  But, seriously, everyone thinks he is better off without her.  I just feel sorry for Chance.  Living with that woman and who knows who Julie will marry next. 

Weird, but I just realized that Gianna and I are no longer stepbrother and stepsister.  She’s just my girlfriend now.  Now, that’s a nice feeling. 

After my mom leaves, taking the painting with her, I walk to the TV room to look for Ian.  He’s sitting and watching the latest Harry Potter movie.  When he doesn’t even acknowledge my presence, I snap my fingers in his face, “Hey!”

He turns to give me an aggravated look, “What?”

“Whatcha doing?”

“Watching a movie, now buzz off.”  With that, he resumes watching the movie and ignoring me. 

Shaking my head, I leave the TV room to ask for permission to go to the art room.  A guard escorts me and I’m happy to have the place to myself. 

Staring at the blank canvas in front of me, I have the sudden urge to paint the night of the attack.  Dammit, now that my mom has brought it up, I want to paint it.  Refusing to put it on canvas, I instead paint a picture of Gage wearing a tuxedo, sprawling on a dance floor, bleeding to death.  I don’t think my mom will want to show the judge this one.

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