Claudia looked at me with unblinking eyes. “Quentin’s already got that covered with his new interactive piece, The Dog Ate My Garden, which is about the disconnect between our romanticization of nature and the harsh realities of the wild.”
Claudia’s deadpan delivery made it impossible to tell if she was being sincere or ironic. “Okay, but . . . again, I’m sorry I’m not understanding, but I . . . I don’t really know very much about street art.”
“This isn’t about what you do or don’t know, Annie. You’re the one who came to us with a proposal on the beautification of urban space, on how creating aesthetically pleasing public environments puts a twinkle in our eye and the stamp of civic pride in our hearts.”
“I-I said that?” I was almost sure those weren’t my words.
Claudia was beginning to get impatient. “You know, there are hundreds of other kids out there who would love to be in your shoes. This is your chance to hit the ground running, a rare opportunity to be a leader and a visionary—and you actually have the gall to question Quentin’s judgment?”
“N-no.” I almost felt bad. Sure, Claudia was exaggerating, but if they thought I was qualified, who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth? Of course, it was most likely an ugly, unrefined, totally crazy and chaotic gift horse that I couldn’t make heads or tails of, but still . . .
When it was clear I was all out of words, Claudia moved on. Elsie sneered triumphantly at me, but I ignored her. If I was going to be successful, I knew I couldn’t let her be the cause of my depleted morale.
At the end of the meeting, after we were all crystal-clear that we needed to be in contact with the artist of our choice by the following week, I was so emotionally exhausted that I just wanted to get back to the dorm and call my mom. Elsie must have seen the distress on my face. As we were all going our separate ways, she walked over to me and said, “Hey, Annie, street art’s not so bad.”
I raised an eyebrow, waiting for the punch line. “It’s not?”
“No. I’m sure you can find a hobo out there who’s willing to make a giant heap of garbage for you. You can call it an installation.”
I swear she cackled at her own joke.
“Thanks for your concern—but seriously, worry about yourself.” I turned my back on her and walked out the door.
“Who says I’m worried, Blondie? I’m going be awesome, but I’m definitely looking forward to seeing you fail. You have no business being here, and you clearly don’t know what it is you even signed up for, so forgive me if I have no sympathy.” She chuckled one last time. “Ta-ta, loser.”
Her words haunted me later that evening, as I talked to my mother. It was Thursday, the only night of the week Mom wasn’t slinging hash at the local truck-stop diner. I knew Thursday nights were reserved for our weekly phone calls (although I always lectured her about the importance of getting out on her free nights, maybe even dating), but I hated to be the bearer of bad news—even if it was attached to some pretty incredible news.
As I’d predicted, Mom was just as excited as I’d been about the curatorship. As she squealed into the phone, she sounded almost like a teenager. I smiled as I imagined her sitting on our Chesterfield sofa, an Indian shawl draped lightly over her legs. Mom wasn’t that much older than I was, so, despite a few strands of silver in her blond hair and just the slightest hint of crow’s-feet (happy lines, I used to call them when I was younger, since my mother was always smiling and joyful), she could’ve been my older sister. Because she suffered from her own brand of anxiety, she probably had me on speakerphone while crocheting a handmade throw to send me when autumn turned to bitter sleet and snow in New York. I felt the slightest twinge of homesickness.
“Annie Bear, I’m soooooo proud of you. I knew you’d get it. Heavens, I can’t imagine anyone else at your grade level has the kind of passion and determination you do. I still remember how you forced me to let you take college-level French when you were twelve, so that when you went to the Louvre one day, you’d be able to read the descriptions in each gallery.”
I giggled at the memory. “Why didn’t you tell me the Louvre wasn’t limited to French artists?”
“You were just so cute, and I loved the idea of having a bilingual daughter.”
“Yeah, well . . . just remember, I stopped taking French once I got to high school,” I said, my tone suddenly darkening. “Likewise, I’m thinking of quitting the committee.”
“What?” Something clattered to the ground. I’d probably shocked her with my sudden shift from enthusiasm to dejection. “Why in the world would you think of quitting?”
I explained the whole street-art fiasco, making sure to leave out the part about Elsie. (Mom was definitely something of a mama bear, and I didn’t want to give her any more reasons to worry about me, considering that for the first two weeks I was in New York, she called me every night to make sure I hadn’t been mugged or assaulted.) “I was hoping I’d get to work with more gallery artists. I realize things in the art world are changing all the time, that lines are beginning to blur, but I don’t know the first thing about street art. The one person I know who could be considered a street artist is perhaps the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met, so if he’s any indication of what I’m dealing with, I’m definitely screwed.”
Mom sighed. “Adaptability is one of your strongest suits. If you stick with this curatorship, just think of what it’ll do for your resume, all the doors it’ll open for you. Remember how much you hated math when you were younger?”
I smiled. “I still do, Mom.”
“Well, yes, but remember how you still took all the most advanced math classes throughout middle school and high school? And you passed with flying colors. Now, that doesn’t mean that it came naturally to you or that it was easy, but . . . you’re my daughter, and I know you to be someone who never takes the easy way out.” Her voice started to shake, which meant she was getting emotional.
“Mom, I know . . . ,” I said, trying to brush off what I could tell was an impending speech.
“But you see, that’s what’s remarkable about you, and I think you constantly forget it. From an early age, you’ve always had your eye on the prize—you’ve always known what it takes to fulfill a dream. You’ve always been aware that planting a garden requires pulling up weeds and getting your hands dirty. I love your passion, but I also love your discipline—and when you put those things together, it makes for an unstoppable combination. Annie Bear, you have to remember that even sour grapes can make incredible wine.”
“Thanks, Mom. I love you.” She always knew how to make me feel better.
“I love you, too, Annie Bear.”
After we ended our conversation, I realized Mom’s comment made me think about my last encounter with incredible wine, which turned my smile into a frown. At that moment, I realized Chase Adams was truly the only person I knew in the world of street art. I could approach Professor Claremont for advice on the most promising public artists, but I wanted to prove myself to the committee. If Elsie thought she was going to beat me down by attacking my vulnerabilities, she was sorely mistaken. I was definitely going to come out swinging—I didn’t really have a choice.
As I went to sleep, I thought about Chase—but not with the chagrin and anger I’d come to associate as my primary feelings about him. Chase was the one person I knew who was passionately in love with street art; as cocky as he was about everything else, it was obvious that his talent and his respect for the tradition in which he’d grown up were genuine. I wondered . . . if I could still the beating of my heart enough to approach him, more like a humble admirer than a girl conflicted by both rage and attraction, would he be willing to help me?
As I drifted off, the last image in my mind was of Chase’s green eyes, as tortured and intensely beautiful as a storm-tossed sea.
Chapter Ten
I did what any girl in my position would do. The next day, I swallowed my pride, and set out to find Chase to see if he might be willing
to help me. I dreaded what I imagined would be the look of smug satisfaction on his face at the discovery that I needed him for something, but I was desperate. If I was going to come up with an artist who was willing to be commissioned for a massive piece to be made in just a little over a month, I would require a bevy of names, which I didn’t currently have. And because I knew that notoriety on the streets was gained through word of mouth, rather than through whose website got the most hits, the bird’s-eye view didn’t quite work here. I needed to swoop in and find the insiders.
That morning, I’d approached Kendra to get the scoop on Chase, since she’d known who he was and where to find him the first time we’d met. But I tried to play it cool; the last thing I needed was Kendra scolding me about pursuing bad boys like Chase or, worse yet, grilling me for minor details—like whether or not he had any cute artist friends.
“Ken, remember that place we saw Chase Adams a couple weeks ago?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she mumbled absentmindedly as she lay belly-down on her bed, ankles crossed in the air, thumbing through a fashion magazine.
“What do you know about . . . how often street artists gather to make work in that area? I mean, is it, like, a regular thing?”
She looked up at me suspiciously. “Why? You’re not going by there, are you? Because if you do and you see that asshole, you should totally hand him a bill for that dress he ruined. That was Carolina Herrera, not Forever 21!”
I smiled at my friend’s priorities. “And I got it secondhand, so it’s no biggie. Also, I’m not planning on running into Chase Adams anytime soon.” I felt a little bad lying to my best friend, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. “I just wanted to see if I could check out more work is all.”
Kendra studied me for a long moment, and for a second, I thought she saw through my flimsy cover. “You live in the craziest city in the world, Annie. I’m sure that if you wanted to, you could find a street artist on pretty much every corner.”
I groaned. “Oh, it’s no use, Kendra. I feel like a total failure. I don’t know the first thing about what I’m doing, where to go, who to talk to. I should just give up right now, because there’s no way I’ll be able to find an artist to commission in time for the meeting next week. Game over! Annie, zero.”
Kendra tossed her magazine aside and propped her head in her hands, looking at me with concern. “Annie, you’re a bright girl. Don’t even start talking that way, because it’s won’t lead to anything good. Buck up, kiddo! You’ll find the perfect artist for this project—I just know it.”
It was nice that my mom and my best friend had faith in me, but it wasn’t enough. “I don’t know,” I said. “The clock is ticking.”
“Well, if it helps any, there’s some kind of street-art team that gathers in that area of the Meatpacking District most days of the week, so you should be in luck,” Kendra said, retrieving her magazine to show me. “Art’s hot right now, especially since Quentin Pierce is in town. And I may not be working with all that boring shit you guys on the committee are doing, but believe you me, I’m definitely honing my PR skills by making sure I stay very 2014 about the scene.”
“But it’s 2013.”
“Exactly.”
I smiled as she went back to her magazine. “Seriously, Kendra, I’m not sure what I’d do without you.”
“Well, if you wanna thank me, bring home some Pinkberry tonight, yeah?”
“Will do.” I grabbed my coat and headed for the door.
“And, Annie?”
I turned around to see Kendra with an impish grin on her face.
“Yes?”
“Say hi to the asshole for me.” She ducked under her magazine before I could throw a pillow at her.
“I’m not going to see Chase Adams!”
“Just sayin’!”
I decided to let her comment pass and headed out. As it turned out, Kendra was right. There was some kind of weekly tag-team effort of street artists who gathered to paint murals in dank and smelly alleyways, make permanent chalk drawings on sidewalks, and snazz up street lamps with interesting potpourri. There were a few video cameras there as well, but it looked more like MFA film students shooting a documentary than some local TV station.
I looked around at the small handful of people, mainly somber-looking guys with sweaty T-shirts and intent expressions, all of whom were painting. A boom box on the ground was blasting early-’90s rap music. While a few onlookers stopped to marvel at the creations, the area was relatively devoid of tourists. This was the kind of stuff that would cause a public spectacle back in Apple Creek, but I guess it just went with the territory in New York City.
I looked around to see if Chase was in sight. I guess I could have talked to any one of the guys painting the walls and sidewalks, but they seemed pretty fixated on what they were doing. And while Chase wasn’t the most approachable guy in the world, many of the ones here seemed even less friendly. In fact, a fellow who was busy embellishing his version of the puffy Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters on a brick wall yelled at me, “Get the fuck out of the way—can’t you see the cameras?” when I asked him if he knew Chase Adams.
I turned around to see some of the cameras I’d spotted earlier; they were off in other areas of the alley. “Uh, yes, but they’re not anywhere near us,” I said, confused.
The guy sighed in exasperation and responded, “No shit, Sherlock! But if they decide to turn around, they won’t give me the time of day if they see some stupid tourist checking out my skills with goo-goo eyes.” He looked at me, fluttering his eyes in mockery.
Another rude street artist? Would wonders never cease? First of all, I’m not a tourist. Second of all, I’m not giving your ‘shit’ goo-goo eyes, because it sucks! I thought. But of course I would never say it, so I just turned on my heel and walked away.
I didn’t have to walk far, though. At the end of the alley was Chase, a cigarette between his lips, spray-painting a wall just as feverishly as the guy I’d just talked to. I suddenly felt like a fool. What was I trying to do—rack up more insults from the king of them all? I didn’t know exactly how I would appeal to Chase’s better instincts, but one could hope, all the same. Before I could think of some not completely asinine way to greet him, Chase turned around. Weirdly enough, he wasn’t upset to see me—he had a smile on his face, in fact.
“Well, well, well, how did I just know you’d be back, Goldilocks?” He took the cigarette between his thumb and index finger. “My Spidey sense has been tingling for a few days now.”
I rolled my eyes, hoping I’d have the patience to withstand his cockiness long enough to be pointed in the right direction. “My name isn’t Goldilocks.”
He smiled again, assessing me with those cool green eyes. He was clean-shaven today, and since the air was a little crisp, he was wearing a hoodie over his T-shirt, with the hood low over his head. It didn’t matter, though—Chase Adams couldn’t be inconspicuous if he tried.
He turned away from me and back to his artwork. “I know, Annie Green with Envy.”
Anger bubbled in my veins. “What exactly do I have to be envious of?”
He looked at me and smiled. “All my admirers. Remember?” He put the cigarette between his lips again.
I scowled when I thought back to the night of the Quentin Pierce gallery event. Chase was kidding himself if he thought I was jealous. I recollected the look of hurt, resignation, and humiliation on Daisy’s face when she saw Chase with me. I wish I’d gone after her and convinced her that hooking up with her boyfriend was the furthest thing from my mind, and that if she knew what was good for her, she’d keep him away with a ten-foot pole. But that would’ve been out of line, I suppose. Chase may have been something of a pusher, with his raw sex appeal and cool sarcasm, but it wasn’t my job to save girls from him. And I resented his implication that I was one of those girls who needed to be saved.
I took a deep breath. Calm down, Annie. You came here for his help—nothing more. Perhaps if I made
it strictly business, Chase would be willing to show me the ropes. It was a big if, but stranger things could happen.
I looked at the piece Chase was making. Just like the last one I’d seen, it was breathtaking. A panoramic splash of peacock feathers, dragonflies, flowers, pyramids, stars and planets, fairies, and mythical beasts burst out from the single image of a young girl with dreadlocks and baggy clothes, eyes closed and cherubic face smiling sweetly as she covered her headphones with her hands, as if she were drinking in the music. The piece was beautiful and dreamy, and almost meditative, a combination I hadn’t particularly expected from Chase. “Wow,” I breathed. “You really outdid yourself here. You might want to show the guy down that way how street art is done,” I said, pointing back toward Marshmallow Man.
As usual, Chase couldn’t take a compliment. Smirking, he grabbed the cigarette again and said, “Whatever, kid—this is street art lite. See, the way it usually works is this: the city rounds up a bunch of roughnecks from the Bronx and Queens and tells ’em they won’t go to jail for tagging if they ‘give back’ to the community. They do this by coming into Manhattan and painting daisies and unicorns on the walls of cafés with tasteless ethnic food and five-dollar cups of coffee. It’s fuckin’ bullshit, but if you get really good, well, people start taking notice and you’re not throwing up your art for free anymore. You even start to gain control over what you’re creating, subvert the usual fare with some authentic truth. Of course, people are too busy eating it up to notice you’re fucking with their heads, adding in some subliminal tags and other things that’ll remind ’em, at least on some level, where all of this stuff really comes from.” He dropped the cigarette and stubbed it beneath his shoe, then shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.
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