Night Owls (31 page)

“Okay, okay,” Dad said, pulling his hands out of his pockets to hold them up in surrender. “Let’s take it one step at a time. Talk to your mother; and, Heath, discuss it
with Noah. Just keep me in the loop and let me know what you decide.”

At the mention of his name, Noah perked up, and he and Suzi approached us. While Heath was saying something to the two of them, Dad pulled me aside and reached inside his jacket. “I had
this repaired,” he said, offering me the artist’s mannequin. “It might not survive another fall, so I hope you won’t throw it at me again.”

“Thanks,” I said as I accepted it. “This doesn’t mean we’re bosom buddies, though. And the college thing is honorable, but I’m not sure if I’ve forgiven
you quite yet. Money doesn’t instantly erase every bad thing.”

“Just as long as the door is open between us.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe it is.”

December, four months later

JACK AND I STOOD BACKSTAGE BEHIND THE CURTAIN,
watching his father speak in front of a packed auditorium at the university hospital. The mayor
probably made a dozen fund-raising speeches every year for a dozen different causes, but this was the first one that was personal. He wanted to combine city money and private contributions to fund
a new outreach program for homeless people with psychiatric needs. It would add another wing to the psychiatric hospital and additional staff to diagnose, counsel, and distribute medicine to people
who other wise couldn’t afford it.

People like Panhandler Will.

“Make sure you get a shot of your mom,” I whispered to Jack. He was filming bits and pieces of the speech to show to Jillian later, and their mom was sitting in the front row with
Katherine the Great. They saw a fair amount of each other, Mom and Mrs. Vincent. The entire Adams clan, including Noah, even spent Thanksgiving at the Vincents’ house, which was surprisingly
cool and fun, if not a little weird.

It was also weird to hear Jack’s father talking about Jillian in public. But he was. He’d done an exclusive television interview with a local news program a few weeks earlier and
told the story of the stabbing and Jillian’s suicide attempt. And the world didn’t fall apart. In fact, public reaction was overwhelmingly positive. People liked it when politicians
were human and honest. Imagine that.

“God, they’re chatty,” Jack whispered as he filmed our mothers with their heads bent toward each other.

“They’re probably talking about the fact that I won’t get accepted to SFAI.”

“Probably,” he said with a grin.

I elbowed him. “Laugh it up, fun boy. If I don’t, you’ll be in a long-distance relationship after I end up at one of my safety schools across the state.”

“Don’t tease me, Bex. I can’t take it.”

We’d both applied to the San Francisco Art Institute. The school has a rolling admissions calendar, which means they make decisions as they receive each application, instead of having one
massive deadline, and Jack had gotten his acceptance letter the day before.

“You applied almost a week after me,” Jack reassured me. “Who would turn down your portfolio? It’s amazing. Besides, your SAT scores are better, and your dad wrote your
recommendation.”

Things weren’t perfect between Dad and me, but once a month he came into the city and we’d meet for lunch or have dinner—last month at Noah and Heath’s place (which was
sort of awkward, but sort of okay, too). And it was true that he’d written my recommendation letter.

“But he’s my
dad
,” I protested.

“But he didn’t mention that. Besides, you have different last names. Stop worrying. You’ll get in.”

SFAI was the oldest art school west of the Mississippi River. Diego Rivera painted a mural for the institute, and Ansel Adams started the photography department. It’s a great school. A
school for serious artists, and god knew if I was anything, I was
very serious.

The school had a reputation for encouraging students to do their own thing, so for me, that meant I could take the occasional premed anatomy class at another school in the city when I was ready.
And for Jack, it meant he could attend the college where the graffiti-inspired Mission School art movement had begun. It also meant he could continue to be close to Jillian. And that was more
important than ever, because she was coming home the following week.

Pretty amazing.

Jack was over the moon about it. She’d continue to go to therapy and see Dr. Kapoor several times a week, and the Vincents had hired a full-time nurse to live in the house and make sure
she stuck to her routines. The new living arrangement might work, or it might be a disaster. But there was no way of knowing until they tried. And Jillian was finally ready to take that step, which
was awesome. To get her acclimated to life on the outside, she’d been allowed a computer for a couple of months and had been using social media. She loved it. (A little too much: The
orderlies had to stop her from staying up all night chatting.)

When the mayor’s speech ended, he left the stage to thunderous applause. Jack and I were clapping, too. It was sort of exciting. His aides were walking him back to the press for follow-up
questions, but he spotted us and made a detour.

“What did you think?” he asked us.

“Nice,” Jack said, sticking out his fist for a bump.

The mayor bumped back and smiled. “Is that for Jillie?”

“Yep,” Jack confirmed, holding up his phone. “Say hi.”

“Love you, baby. Can’t wait for you to come home next week,” his father said to the screen. His chief of staff was calling him and motioning to his watch. “I’ve got
to go. See you at dinner tonight, Beatrix?”

“With bells on,” I replied.

He smiled and trotted back to his staff, disappearing down a hallway.

“Okey-dokey,” Jack said, stopping the video recording. “We’d better clear out before this dog-and-pony show clogs up the exit.”

We headed out of the auditorium and made our way toward his car, which was parked in a rare curbside space just down the hill. He’d joked that finding the premium space was
“Buddha’s blessing.” I told him that he was going to hell for using his enlightened philosophical leader’s name in vain, and that it was totally the cloisonné ladybug
pin I’d worn every day since the art contest. He didn’t believe in hell, but he did believe in Lucy the Ladybug, which was what I’d named the pin.

“My parents will be stuck here for a good half hour, maybe an hour,” Jack said, sliding me a seductive look. “We can stop off at the guesthouse on our way out for some quickie
afternoon delight.”

“Gee, when you put it
that
way . . .”

We were headed to our last day of volunteer work—or, as Jack called it, our prison sentence. Every weekend since school had started up, we spent a couple of hours painting over graffiti
tags on a block near the Zen Center. This was the “additional stipulation” that the mayor had mentioned after the art show. Punishment for Jack’s vandalism. The SFPD, who
sponsored the volunteer clean-up program, thought we were just doing it out the goodness of our hearts. No way was Mayor Vincent opening himself up to the scandal of his kid being the notorious
Golden Apple street artist, so we did it on the down-low. It wasn’t so bad. We painted over mailboxes, walls, windows, and sidewalks. Before we covered them up, Jack secretly snapped pictures
of anything that was more than just a basic one-color tag and uploaded the images to a local graffiti online photo album. For posterity’s sake.

“What do you say?” Jack pulled out his car keys and swung the key ring around his index finger. “I’ll let you drive. Fast car and fast love. It’s the perfect
combination.”

“Said no girl, ever. You sure you trust me to drive after last time?”

I nearly killed all three of us—me, Jack,
and
Ghost—when he was teaching me to parallel park. In my defense, it was a busy street and the guy behind us was making me
supernervous with all the angry honking. Afterward, Jack had to do his seated zazen meditation to calm down.

“Beatrix Adams,” he said. “You know I trust you with everything. The anatomical representation of my heart, my life . . . even my car.”

“You must really love me,” I said, matching my steps with his.

I knew he did, of course. We try not to say it casually too much, because we want it to mean something. Not just a throwaway phrase like “How’s it going” or “See you
later.” But when I’m in his arms, when we’re alone, he whispers “I love you,” and those three words never stop amazing me. Never.

Without breaking our synchronized stride, he slid an arm around my shoulders and lowered his head to murmur near my ear. “Would you like me to remind you how much?”

Flutter-flutter. “I actually think I might.”

“Yeah?” A slow, dazzling smile lifted his cheeks, and then he came to a sudden halt on the sidewalk. “Oh! We need to stop by the house anyway. You can see our paintings hanging
together, live in person.”

After the art show, Mrs. Vincent replaced her chair painting in the foyer of their house with my painting of Jillian. I got a little choked up when she showed me. I think it made the mayor
sentimental, too, because he left the room awfully fast, and Mrs. Vincent says that’s what he does when he gets emotional.

But my painting now had a partner. I’d seen a photo of it before the mayor’s speech this afternoon, but I hadn’t seen the real thing yet.

Before Jack admitted to his parents that he was the person behind all the Golden Apple graffiti, Jillian had given him one last word puzzle to decode. He’d never been able to execute the
piece out in the city, obviously. When Jack found out Jillian had agreed to leave the hospital and move back in the house, he painted the tenth and final word for her as a “welcome
home” gift.

BEGIN, FLY, BELONG, JUMP, TRUST, BLOOM, CELEBRATE, ENDURE, RISE . . .

And now LOVE.

The word was spray-painted onto a canvas, not a wall, and it was the smallest piece he’d ever done. But it was by far his best work. Jillian would adore it. I sure did.

“Come on,” he coaxed, dangling the car keys in front of my face as he wound one arm around my back to pull me closer. “You won’t ever learn to drive if you stop trying.
You know you want to.”

I totally did. I stood on my tiptoes, accepted the kiss he dropped on my lips, and snatched the keys out of his fingers. Feeling alive might just be a rush of adrenaline, but Jack had been right
that first night on the Owl bus. It was definitely worth the risk.

THIS IS NOT MY FIRST PUBLISHED BOOK, BUT IT MIGHT
be my favorite. And it wouldn’t exist if my extraordinary agent, Laura Bradford, had not said,
“Yo! You should consider writing YA.” (Or something slightly more professional.) It was excellent advice. Writing this book was like slipping into a comfortable coat. It just felt . . .
right.

It felt even better after it landed in my editor’s capable hands. Anna Roberto, your passion for teen fiction is infectious, and I feel unbelievably lucky to work with someone so
thoughtful, smart, and talented. Thank you for making Bex and Jack even more
Bex and Jack
than they were before. Many heartfelt thanks to everyone else who works behind the scenes at
Feiwel and Friends and Macmillan—including this book’s talented designer, Anna Booth!—and a special thanks to the legendary Liz Szabla, for believing in this book. And a million
thanks to the entire Simon & Schuster UK team for bringing Bex and Jack across the pond, including: Rachel Mann, Becky Peacock, Liz Binks, Paul Coomey and Jenny Richards. Every author dreams of
working with a creative team like this.

Much love to everyone else who read the manuscript in its infancy, including Veronica Buck, Janice Ming, Ann Aguirre, and especially Karina Cooper, who, upon finishing, called me up to shout
enthusiastic praise and made me feel like I’d accomplished something truly amazing. Thanks also to Taryn Fagerness, Elv Moody, and Barbara König. And to all my readers who cheered when I
told them I was traveling to YA Land, I wish I could bear-hug each and every one of you.

My biggest I’m-not-worthy acknowledgment goes out to my husband. You not only help brainstorm me out of treacherous plot holes, you’re also my biggest fan. Thanks for believing in me
all these years, again and again and again.

DEAR READER,

THE BOOK YOU HAVE JUST READ IS A LOVE LETTER
to artists. Not only the famous ones, enshrined in museums, but also the everyday people who are brave enough to express
themselves. My teen protagonists are both artists, though wildly different ones: Bex is fascinated by anatomy and wants to be a medical illustrator, while Jack is a street artist, spray-painting
giant gold words across San Francisco landmarks. She’s a smart loner being raised by a strong, single mother, and he’s a charming, pompadour-ed boy from a different side of town. Though
they’re opposites – in both their art
and
lives – a mutual respect for each other’s work brings them together.

I come from a family of artists. My Scandinavian grandmother was a painter, and my mother, a stained-glass artist. Expression was always encouraged and as a teen, I bounced around from
(terrible) acting to (horrific) poetry to teaching myself how to play both the drums and piano (my entire repertoire included butchering a variety of Christmas carols, punk-rock classics, and
“Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” – which, to this day, my family can’t hear without cringing).

All of that early experimentation led me to pursue two degrees in Fine Art. For me, being an artist wasn’t about some sort of gift-from-the-gods talent as much as a drive to express
yourself. No way was wrong, no method was off-limits. Be true to yourself. Take the risk. If you fail, get back up and try it again.

I still believe this.

At the beginning of NIGHT OWLS, Bex is struggling with unresolved family issues that have changed her artwork. Instead of using art to express herself, she thinks of it as a skill she must
master if she wants a chance to escape her narrowing world. When she meets Jack – whose own family secrets are driving him in the opposite direction, bigger and bolder – he shoves her
out of her self-imposed bubble. And when she shoves back, both of their worlds (and hearts!) explode in the best way possible.