Harrison glared at Chase. “I thought you were leaving, dude.”
Chase just kept looking at me, and my last reserves began to melt. I breathed deeply and said, “William Wordsworth. You know that poem?”
Chase gave me an inscrutable half smile. “Looks like we’re both deep wells, Goldilocks.” And then he was gone.
As Chase walked off, I could hear Pike and Reynaldo bitching over the fact that they hadn’t gotten to brawl. Despite myself, I couldn’t help but be amused at their childish enthusiasm.
“Who was that, Annie?” Harrison said, sitting down.
I paused, not quite knowing what to say. “He’s just . . . some guy I met a while ago. He’s a jerk, but he isn’t dangerous or anything.”
Harrison frowned. “Well, I’ve met guys like that before—dumb pricks who think they’re cool because they have a little gang to boss around. But, looking at the guy, I doubt he can even read. He’s not at NYU, is he? Annie, if he ever messes with you . . .”
At that point, I just wanted Harrison to stop talking, and I was so hopped up on the adrenaline of watching the movie, running into Chase, and feeling all of Deanie’s repressed desire coursing through my own body that I impulsively grabbed Harrison by the collar and kissed him—hard and deep. He didn’t need to be coerced. He met my passion with equal fervor, moving his tongue into my mouth and grabbing me by the small of my waist as he pulled me down onto the blanket.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Chase was staring back at us. I closed my eyes and tried to simply enjoy the moment—as well as my realization that Harrison was a pretty decent kisser. But, try as I might, the vision of Chase, of his deep and mesmerizing eyes piercing through mine so that I felt as if he had penetrated down to my purest nakedness, was seared into my skull.
Chapter Twelve
“Okay, Annie, you’re up,” Claudia said without looking at me as she tapped away at her laptop keyboard, recording the minutes of our meeting.
I gazed out the window, onto the sparkling New York City skyline. I was literally and figuratively on top of the world, but that world seemed to be crashing down around me like a building hit by a wrecking ball. It was the Monday after my run-in with Chase, and I was still didn’t have an idea as to whom I could approach to do the piece. I was determined not to ask any of the committee advisors for leads—I was going to have to come up with my own idea and my own contacts somehow; otherwise, I’d never live down the embarrassment of not meeting the challenge like a trouper—like the person who, at the very least, Mom and Kendra knew me to be.
Quentin was still visibly absent, but Claudia was in a somewhat more chipper mood than she had been the week before—she even stopped to crack jokes and compliment the committee’s work along the way. The three others were ahead of the game, predictably. Elsie had some kind of plan to do a video sculpture piece that would juxtapose the present landscape and the New York of times past with another well-known, reclusive artist and filmmaker, Todd Butcher, who’d retired in Woodstock to create massive environmental installations centered on the themes of UFO sightings and dying indigenous tribes.
Hayden’s project was going to be an homage to the New York tenement building, but with the added bonus of fiber-optic architecture and some kind of lighting system that would be determined by temperature, sound, and people’s emotions. (I didn’t know quite how that would work, but she even had a technical-looking blueprint from the person she’d commissioned, an architect–installation artist who’d just designed a new opera house in Florence, Italy.)
Shawn had commissioned a prominent techno-geek–visual artist to design a suite of “smart object” sculptures: people, things, and environments networked seamlessly together, with no need for little devices like iPhones or computers to connect to the Internet. “Google Glass is an early awkward step in that direction,” Shawn explained. “But our take would be more artistic, of course—a haunting yet beautiful look at the way technology is changing our lives, and what it’s turning us into. José even thought we could maybe make some of the pieces interactive with the spectators.”
“Well done, you guys,” Claudia remarked on their progress. “You’re all definitely working in idioms that we’re not seeing enough of in today’s artwork, and I love the attention to crossovers into different disciplines. We need to show people that art is as relevant as ever, and that it cannot be extricated from any other part of our lives.”
As she said this, she was clacking away at her keyboard. Claudia told us that she was sending Quentin instant messages in real time and that he was “in approval.”
If he’s in approval, why can’t he just tell us himself? I thought, getting more irritated by the moment at our incognito mentor.
And then . . . it was my turn.
As I attempted to figure out how to wriggle out of the fact that I was nowhere close to coming up with a piece or selecting an artist for it, I tried to waffle. “Um, uh, you know, there are a few different artists who have, uh, expressed interest, but I was thinking of taking a different tack altogether. Um, maybe, like, what if, instead of commissioning one artist, we got a bunch of local schools together to create some kind of, uh, mural with artwork by a bunch of kids? You know, like, pushing the idea that our streets belong to our kids, and that kids are the future of art in America . . . something like that.”
I knew I sounded bumbling and inarticulate, and so did Elsie, who preened like a cat.
Claudia didn’t mince her words. “That’s a horrible idea, Annie. We’re not the city arts council or some god-awful community-art nonprofit that puts material out there willy-nilly, without any respect for craft or technique. This isn’t a public-service announcement, either. We are talking about producing genuine works of art by people who are poised to become the next Keith Haring or Ron English, not the poster child for Save the World by Supporting Artists.” She frowned at me. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
I giggled nervously. “Um, yeah—it was just . . . I thought it would be kind of funny and ironic, as, like, a prelude to the other work.”
Claudia’s eyes narrowed. “So . . . do you have a project in mind or an artist you’ve talked to? Because this isn’t your art-history class. There are no extensions here.”
“That’s right—if you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen,” Elsie mumbled loudly enough for me to hear as she crossed one long leg over the other and leaned back serenely in her chair.
I swallowed, hard. All eyes in the room were on me. If I admitted my defeat, it was highly likely that Claudia would recommend to Quentin that he find someone else to do my job—or, worse yet, get one of the committee members to double-team it and take on my project in addition to his or her own.
As if she’d read my mind, Elsie yawned and said, “Claudia, wouldn’t it make sense to hand the street-art project over to someone who actually knows New York like the back of their hand? Hayden, Shawn, and I all grew up in the city . . . Annie’s, like, from Nebraska or something.”
I didn’t bother to correct her as I sank deeper into my chair, my head bowed in silence.
Hayden looked around at all of us, concerned, as Shawn’s eyes darted back and forth between Elsie and me in anticipation—since the potential for a catfight was quite high.
“You guys, I’m really concerned this is going to slow us all down,” Hayden said. “I’ve been working diligently the past few days to ensure that my artist and I finish this work on time and within the assigned budget—but is that even going to matter if some of us aren’t on the ball?” she asked, staring pointedly at me.
Elsie perked up at that point. “In case anyone’s interested, I know a whole crew of street artists right here in Midtown—they were even invited to do murals at the White House.” She looked pleased as punch, which made me want to punch her.
Claudia, however, wasn’t taken with Elsie’s suggestion. “I wouldn’t exactly call our government an arbiter of good taste. Our street artist shouldn�
�t be someone who’s getting accolades only from the higher-ups—he or she should be someone who is destined to take the world by storm, to topple our ideas of what art constitutes. We want someone who’s making waves out there but who also remains true to the lexicon and imagery of the streets—which won’t necessarily be immediately accepted by the more conservative contingents or adhere to some kind of paint-by-numbers schematic.”
Elsie didn’t have an immediate comeback, which made me realize right then and there that she didn’t know the first thing about the hazy lines between the world of the gallery and the world of street art, which I’d absorbed from Chase. For Elsie, a mural was just as good as street art—but now I knew that simply wasn’t true. Street art was something that was almost viral, that got under your skin.
That’s when I blurted out, “Well, I do have a plan B, of course. Chase Adams is totally on board—he’s the artist who’ll be doing the piece I’m commissioning.”
At first, everyone was speechless (which made me realize they knew exactly who Chase Adams was).
“Annie, that’s . . . incredible!” Claudia exclaimed, typing furiously on her laptop. “Why the hell didn’t you say so in the first place? Quentin is definitely going to be ecstatic about this.”
“Well, uh, you know—I was thinking of other alternatives, but yeah, for sure, he’s a definite yes,” I said.
“Way to go, Annie—that guy’s stuff is killer, completely out of this world.” Shawn, who was usually pretty quiet, was suddenly quite animated. “His color scheme, his incorporation of unique characters, his sense of restraint paired with his incredible technical detail and massive scale . . . this guy is an innovator!”
I smiled, despite the fact that I had no idea how I was going to back up my lie. “Thanks, Shawn. I love his work, too,” I said, a tad too enthusiastically to mask the panic descending on me.
Hayden became uncharacteristically antsy. “Is he, um, going to come to any of our meetings? I’ve always sort of wanted to meet him.”
“I don’t know, but I can definitely ask him.”
Claudia interjected at that point. “So, did you two come up with a specific plan regarding what he’s going to do? Remember, it needs to tie into the overall theme of New York—what it means to live, love, work, and play here.”
I almost slapped my palm to my forehead. This is why my mother always warns me about telling lies—because one always leads right into the next. “Um, well, as you probably know, Chase is a little . . . free-spirited when it comes to his work. He wouldn’t tell me what he was making, but he assured me it would be apropos of the, er, theme.”
Claudia just shrugged. “That’s fine by me, as long as we know he’s the one. But we need to have a concrete plan in the next couple weeks, okay?”
I nodded, my heart pounding. How the hell was I going to get out of this?
At that point, Elsie, who’d been silent during the round of excited congratulations, piped up. “Okay, there’s just one thing I’m not understanding. My parents are on the boards of galleries who’ve been courting Chase Adams since he was a teenager. Why in the world would he say yes to your invitation and not to theirs?”
I had to admit, I was gloating a bit over Elsie’s disbelief. She had every reason to think I was lying, but her reasons were completely off the mark, considering Chase’s contempt for fancy SoHo galleries. I flashed her a dazzling smile and replied, “I guess he just can’t say no to a blonde.”
“Well, ladies and gentleman, you have your work cut out for you. If Chase Adams is with us, you can bet this is going to be a gala event—he’s going to be just the thing we need to widen our target audience and bring in the folks who couldn’t give two shits about art,” Claudia said, snapping her laptop shut. “By the way, Quentin approves—very, very highly.” She turned to me and gave me a thumbs-up, which made Elsie cross her arms and tighten her jaw.
For the time being, the heat was off. But the more I thought about it, the more I was terrified about the giant, gaping hole I’d just dug for myself. Although nobody but Elsie had really questioned me, Chase had way too much pride to say yes to this kind of project—especially considering his flagging respect for Quentin Pierce. Besides, he was probably just as tired of our run-ins with each other as I was. And did I even want to talk to him after what had happened with him and his loser friends?
He might be a world-class jerk, Annie, but, once again, he’s all you have as far as this project goes, I reminded myself.
It was too late to turn back, anyhow. I’d made my bed and I’d have to lie in it, even if it was going to be alongside a dirty dog like Chase.
Chapter Thirteen
It was a beautiful Wednesday afternoon, and Kendra and I, accompanied by a shy but friendly Yannis, were in summery garb as we sat alongside the Passaic River in northern New Jersey. Today, Harrison and the crew team were racing the rival team at Fordham University, and it couldn’t have been a better day for a competition. On my end, I was tired of obsessing over my as-yet-nonexistent project for Quentin Pierce, so when Harrison had texted to ask if I wanted to come see him race, I had been all for it.
Correction: Kendra had been all for it.
“Girl, you know we have to drive to Jersey to get there, right? He wouldn’t be asking you if it wasn’t important to him, which means he’s totally into you,” Kendra insisted.
I smiled at her. “We? You driving?”
Neither of us had a car, but, given the fact that she and Yannis had hit it off after their first date, he had graciously volunteered to be our chauffeur. As Kendra prattled on in the car about clothes and movies, I wondered how, exactly, she and Yannis had become an item. They were inseparable these days, but for the life of me, I couldn’t see what they had in common. While Kendra could talk a mile a minute, Yannis seemed content to listen. I wasn’t complaining, though—despite his faltering English, I could tell he was a soulful guy. He was beautiful and exotic, just like Kendra. With his dark curls and lanky frame, he reminded me of the figures on Grecian busts and statues. I knew that his family had some kind of jewelry business and that he was a year ahead of Kendra and me, but that he also had a tendency to skip class.
“He’s not really into school,” Kendra had explained to me without a trace of judgment in her voice. “His passion is horses.”
“Horses?” I’d asked, wondering where the closest stable to NYU could be.
“Yup,” she’d said without blinking. “He likes to ride horses, and I like to ride him—it’s a passion we can share.”
I was happy my friend was finally getting some action, with a guy who appeared to be as sweet and patient as he was gorgeous.
The Passaic River was nice enough, sweeping from the urbanized areas of Newark to wide swaths of forest and meadows. We were close to the finish line, along with a cluster of sixty or seventy others—mostly parents and other NYU students, from the looks of it—waiting for our first glimpse of the rowers who were already racing. From what Kendra had told me, a crew regatta usually took less than ten minutes. As we stood with our binoculars (which Kendra had insisted we purchase), drinking iced coffee, I watched both teams dip their oars in the water—pushing their torsos forward and pulling the oars back toward them. It looked both mesmerizing and exhausting. I could see Harrison sitting at the stern of the boat, directing all the other rowers. My chest swelled with pride for him, especially given the fact that NYU appeared to be kicking Fordham’s ass.
“Go, Bobcats!” Kendra screamed at the top of her lungs.
“Babe, I think they call the sports teams Violets,” Yannis said, draping an arm over her shoulder.
“Huh?” Kendra looked confused.
“He’s right, Ken,” I said. “Our mascot is the bobcat, but we always refer to competitive sports teams as Violets ’cause of our school colors.”
Kendra rolled her eyes. “That’s so . . . not competitive-sounding. What is this, a tea party or something?”
I held my breath as I loo
ked through the binoculars. I hadn’t seen any of the rowers, but I could tell they were probably similar to Harrison: well muscled, tall, broad shouldered, and superfit.
The boat glided easily toward us, leaving Fordham in its wake. I’d never been all that excited about sports, but I felt a flutter of joy as I jumped up and down and threw my arms around both Kendra and Yannis.
A few minutes later, Harrison walked up to us, looking as hot as ever in his long tank top and waterproof shorts. I hugged him, while Kendra grabbed Yannis by the arm and made for the food table, giving me a noticeable wink before jetting off.
“You guys were amazing!” I exclaimed. “Your control and precision were really impressive.”
He waved a hand modestly. “It’s all just basic mechanics. Rotate the oar, release the blade, extend the arms. It’s all about the basic rhythm.”
“Well, whatever it was, it’s definitely not something I’d be capable of,” I said. “You were captivating out there.”
He smiled. “Admit it—you just like the outfit, huh?”
“Okay, you got me. I can’t resist a guy in hot pants!”
He pretended to be offended. “Hot pants? I’ll have you know these are athletic shorts.”
“Whatever you say.”
Harrison’s expression suddenly became serious. “It means a lot to me that you’re here, Annie,” he said, placing a hand gently on my shoulder.
“Was your victory entirely dependent on my presence?” I quipped. “Because I think you would’ve done just fine without me.”
He smiled. “No, it’s just that . . . I want you to be around more often,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “Let me check my schedule, and I’ll get back to you.”
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