I traced the outline of his profile softly, and new tears began to well up in my eyes. “I know, Chase. And I . . .” My voice broke. It had taken me such a long time to admit it to him, to admit it to myself, but the truth was, I’d always known. I’d known from the moment I’d set eyes on him. “I love you, too.” The desultory passion I’d felt in his presence, which could switch so dramatically from ecstasy to rage, had been deeper than I’d initially believed. And now I could see, in retrospect, that the intensity I’d felt months ago hadn’t been the result of my being flummoxed in the presence of a hot guy—it had stemmed from an immediate recognition, one that went beyond reason or doubt. Chase Adams was my soul mate.
Chase clasped my hand and clutched it to his chest. “That’s a good thing . . . right?” he asked, a note of concern in his voice.
I smiled through my tears. “It’s a beautiful thing, Chase. And I’m sorry it took me so long to say it. It’s just . . . I was scared.”
His green eyes burned like fire beneath the night sky. “You don’t have to be scared, Annie. You know I would never do anything to hurt you.”
I nodded. “Yes, but I’m still worried about you. If things are going to work out between us, they can’t go on the same way. I would never want to tame you, make you into someone you’re not, but . . .” I laughed. “Goddamn, I’m not sure I can handle this level of intensity day in and day out.”
He grabbed my hand and kissed it. “Nobody’s given me as much as you have, Annie. I’m sorry for fucking up. And seriously, I promise I’ll be better in the future. I promise I’ll be worthy of you.”
I shook my head, feeling the tears beading my eyelashes. “I don’t need you to be worthy of me. I just need you to be happy and safe.” We melted back into each other’s warmth. Several moments of cozy silence passed, but there was one thing that was bugging me.
“So . . . if that wasn’t the piece you made for the show, does that mean there’s something else out there? A Chase Adams original especially for Quentin Pierce?”
He nodded. “That, my dear Goldilocks, is still a secret.”
I frowned. “Does that mean you still want to do it? You have every right to not want to, after everything Quentin put you through.”
“No, babe. I put myself in that position intentionally.” He looked at me piercingly. “But if you want me not to do the show, I get it. I still have a bone to pick with Quentin, but it won’t be at the expense of making you look bad.”
“Honestly, I’m not even sure I care about having credibility in this, especially if the Quentin Pierces of the world are the norm,” I admitted. “Things have changed for me, Chase. I’m not the naive girl you met a few weeks ago. I know all that glitters isn’t gold.”
He tugged my hair slightly and bit my neck. “Except for you, Goldilocks, except for you.”
Chapter Thirty
It was the following week, and I was back in Professor Claremont’s class. Kendra still wasn’t talking to me, even though I’d attempted to clear the air between us after making up with Chase. I was tired of not having my best friend to talk to, to share the weirdness and grandeur of the last forty-eight hours with. But when I’d reached out to her that morning, when she’d come back into our dorm room to pick up a few clothes after having been gone the entire week of Thanksgiving, she’d practically ignored me.
“Kendra, I . . . ,” I’d started awkwardly. Her back was turned to me as she raided her closet, presumably for warm clothes, as the weather had cooled down considerably in the last two days she’d been at Yannis’s. “Can we get breakfast together today?”
“Nope,” she’d responded curtly. “Early classes.”
“Then maybe lunch or dinner? This is ridiculous. We can’t keep avoiding each other.”
“Who’s avoiding?” she’d said indifferently. “I’m busy and I have a lot more to think about than your boy drama, Annie. Get over yourself.” Then she’d flounced out of the room.
I tried to make eye contact with her in class, but, as usual, she was glued to Yannis’s side. I noticed that he tried to catch my eye now and then. His expression was a mixture of confusion and apology, as if he’d heard Kendra’s side of the story but was sure there was probably more to it. I smiled and nodded appreciatively at him, although I didn’t think his endorsement was going to be enough to push past Kendra’s stubbornness.
Elsie walked into the room shortly after I did. My breath caught in my throat when I saw her, preening and smug as ever. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, but her pale skin was rosy and luminescent. As I looked at her, I imagined she was a vampire, sucking her beauty and fortune from other people’s lifeblood. I didn’t exactly hate Elsie, even though most girls in my position would have pulled out all the stops to make her pay for what she’d done. Chase and I had already forgiven each other for our trespasses, but Elsie’s brazenness, her gall, her willingness to sink to the lowest level to hurt me—these were all things that, in my eyes, reduced her effortless beauty to the worst kind of ugliness imaginable.
Professor Claremont’s lecture today was about the most famous graffiti artist in the world, Banksy. Apparently, even the non–art buffs in the class knew who he was. In fact, since the beginning of the month, Banksy had decided to make New York City his own personal playground, producing one jaw-dropping feat of imagination daily. Professor Claremont made the students ooh, aah, chuckle, and offer their own biting commentary as she flitted through image after image: a slaughterhouse delivery truck brimming with stuffed animals, a fiberglass figure of Ronald McDonald, and a “mobile garden” stuffed with a tongue-in-cheek representation of urban green space.
“Banksy is accustomed to creating chaos wherever he goes and sparking conversation that speculates on just what kind of social commentary he’s making,” Professor Claremont proclaimed. “Journalists, art lovers, and residents have been doing their own scavenger hunts, attempting to seek out new pieces and find out just who Banksy is. But some critics have argued that Banksy’s method of urban barnstorming is exploitative and reckless.
“For example, a few years ago, Banksy went on a stenciling tour of New Orleans right after it had been demolished by Hurricane Katrina. His pieces included images of looters, people fighting to be rescued, and hooded KKK members hanging from nooses. Many argued that this was simply his way of pointing at the hypocrisy of modern Americans when it came to helping those in need, and that he was remarking on the harrowing state of race relations today. But others felt it was just another attention-grabbing spectacle, a way to dazzle people who were hungry for some theater in the midst of one of the most horrendous disasters of our time. So I’d like to get some of your takes on this. Is Banksy a genius, or is he just regurgitating collective anxiety in overly bombastic ways?”
Professor Claremont’s passionate screed hushed almost everyone into silence. But, much to everyone’s surprise, my hand immediately shot up.
“Annie?” she said, surprised but pleased at the same time. “What do you have to say?”
“Well, I don’t really think Banksy is doing anything new in the world of graffiti art,” I said. “I mean, yeah, he’s great and all, but the controversy around his work is overblown. Think about it. Ever since the Harlem Renaissance, graffiti has been a propaganda tool used to communicate radical political ideas. Banksy is just an exponent of that. He’s using his work to rebel against authority and mass media. This isn’t an art form that’s ever been about subtlety or politeness. He makes big statements because he’s working in a medium that was devised specifically for that purpose.”
Everyone had turned to stare at me. Finally, Kendra and I made eye contact, and her expression was inquisitive and startled. I’m sure nobody was expecting me to speak so articulately on something as unorthodox as graffiti, but what did they know? I was getting my education after-hours.
“These are all great points, Annie, but I’m curious as to what you think about the commodification of political art,” Professor Claremont said.
“After all, if graffiti has a primarily political agenda and is about self-expression unmoored from moneymaking, is Banksy betraying his art form’s origins?”
I paused. “I don’t think so. I mean, it’s about self-expression and big statements, but what a lot of people don’t know is that graffiti is also about rigorous technique. I mean, it has to be rigorous to stand the test of time. Most graffiti artists are making work in places that aren’t necessarily amenable to the tools that people use in more traditional media. Banksy supposedly formulated his stenciling technique while running away from the cops. It’s a pretty remarkable story.” I felt more excited as I found myself talking, almost as excited as I had been when Chase had first explained to me who Banksy was. “He was making bubble letters on a subway train, and then the police came and his entire crew abandoned him. So he hid under a garbage truck, in a puddle of oil. As he was waiting for the police to disperse, he was thinking of ways to make his process faster, so that throwing up a piece wouldn’t be painstakingly long—so that he could just do it and flee the scene. That was when he saw stenciled letters sprayed on the truck’s bottom, and that was the birth of his new style.” Everyone was in a state of rapt attention as I talked. “That ensured that he could make work faster, work that everyone could see and enjoy—which has been an impetus for most artists since the time of drawing on cave walls.
“And just because his work is being commodified doesn’t mean he’s the person initiating it or condoning it. And it doesn’t take the edge off his art. He’s still chosen anonymity over potentially even more money. He still undertakes risky illegal interventions on our streets. He still messes with people’s expectations, time after time.” I paused. “And no matter what, his work is unapologetically his own. You don’t see him hopping on the bandwagon and doing what everyone else is doing.”
People began to nod in approval, but Elsie just rolled her eyes and turned to glare at me. “Banksy is totally not a radical artist. His work is made for wealthy people who feel guilty about their privilege. It’s completely dishonest—it panders to these pie-in-the-sky ideas people have about revolution, but he’s just as ambitious and mainstream as someone like Quentin Pierce. Think about it. Celebrity fans? Oscar-nominated films? Exhibitions in exclusive places?” She sat back, arms crossed, as if she’d just proved a profound point.
On any other day, I would have let Elsie have the last word, but I could feel both anger and passion rising in my belly. “That’s a completely cynical way of reading his work. If you think a guy who makes the unequivocal statement that public space shouldn’t be overrun by advertising, that it’s ours to rearrange and reuse as we see fit, is anything less than radical, you’re wrong.”
Elsie raised an eyebrow. “Pretty funny that you’re sitting here defending graffiti art, especially after the way Chase Adams screwed you over.”
An excited buzz went through the class. “Okay, everyone, settle down—we’re going off topic here,” Professor Claremont exclaimed, her eyes darting nervously between Elsie and me. But whether or not Elsie’s stinging remark was pertinent, I didn’t care. Something in me snapped at that point. I had been her punching bag for the past several weeks, not because I was afraid of her, but because I had doubted my own ability to prove I had what it took to be a successful curator. And I was tired of it. I was tired of being undermined and abused by the Elsie Donegans of the world. She’d tried to push me off the committee, she’d shamelessly stalked then tried to seduce Chase, but she was definitely not going to get the best of me today. I could feel myself spontaneously building a counterattack.
“This isn’t about Chase Adams, and it never has been,” I said, my voice restrained and low. “You know what, Elsie? I’d always heard about girls like you—jealous, mean-spirited, and mysteriously angry all the time—but I never believed they existed, because they sounded like caricatures to me. And honestly? That’s kind of what you are. Unlike you, I don’t need to hide claws and knives behind my sweetness. I’m not so wounded and manipulative that I need to emulate some fake image of what an art aficionado is supposed to look like. The truth is, you’re pathetic. You know it, everyone knows it, and the bitch act isn’t fooling anyone. You act like you’re packing heat, but I think you’re just sad and lonely. And you’re starting to embarrass yourself. Especially because it’s clear that despite your classical education and your parents’ connections, you are definitely a goldfish swimming with sharks when it comes to talking intelligently about street art.”
A collective gasp arose. Elsie’s face went red with fury, but when she opened her mouth, she couldn’t find the words to respond. Unbelievably, students in the class actually started to cheer over my little blitzkrieg, while Professor Claremont was struggling to calm down the room.
“Class, class! Settle down, please!” she shouted, to no avail. At that moment, the bell rang. Before anyone could come up to me with questions or congratulatory wisecracks, I shot out of the room—catapulted by a surge of energy that felt altogether foreign to me.
As I made my way out onto the street, I heard a voice behind me.
“Annie, wait up!’
I turned around. It was Kendra. I braced myself for another onslaught. “If you’re going to lecture me, save it, Kendra,” I said harshly.
She stepped back somewhat timidly. “No way I’d goad you into a scuffle, girl,” she said. There was admiration in her voice. “I just wanted to say you were incredible back there. Not just in the way you gave it to Elsie, but . . . damn, you actually made art seem cool!” She grinned, which took the tension out of my body.
“So, does this mean you’re talking to me now?” I asked, still feeling a little guarded after her recent iciness.
She smiled a bit timorously. “I’ve been feeling like a first-class asshole ever since we fought. I mean, shit, I was so fucking holier-than-thou! But what you do is your own business. My mom always told me the best antidote to judgment is curiosity. I should have been more curious, as opposed to just telling you what to do. I’m sorry for getting all sanctimonious on your ass. Even Yannis said I was being a brat.” She peeked at me uncertainly through the curtains of her eyelashes. “Would you forgive me?”
I enfolded my friend in a huge hug. “Of course, silly.” I looked behind her. “But let’s get out of here, okay? I’m not in the mood to indulge our classmates with justifications for what happened back there.”
She laughed. “Everyone in that class is bowing down to you right now, Annie. Elsie’s backbiting has earned her plenty of enemies already—you just said what everyone was thinking. That blowup was fucking classic! I wish I’d recorded it to put on YouTube. It would totally have gone viral!”
I linked my arm through Kendra’s. “For once, I’m glad I didn’t hold back. You have no idea what I’ve had to deal with these past few days, Kendra. I swear your head will spin when I tell you.”
Her eyes widened. “So what are we waiting for? My next class is in a few hours. Let’s grab lunch, and you can tell Mama everything.”
I smiled. “Okay . . . but only if we bypass the soba noodles for some pizza. I’m famished!”
Chapter Thirty-One
It was Wednesday morning, and while I’d managed to patch things up with both Chase and Kendra, I had been procrastinating on the hard part. It was time to put on my big-girl shoes and confront Harrison with the truth—and this time, I wasn’t going to let my guilt or his declarations of love get in the way. I’d talked to both Kendra and my mom about it, and the consensus was the same.
“Annie Bear, I’ve always told you to trust yourself,” my mother half-berated me.
“Mom, what I remember most from you was your advice to keep my head screwed on straight, rather than allow myself to be sidetracked by boys,” I complained.
“Oh, honey, that was just for your own good, but I’ve always had faith in your ability to make the best decisions for you. I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did, but I also know you’re an intelligen
t, passionate, and wise soul who gets to have her own experience in this world. I’m so sorry if I ever made you believe I wouldn’t support you or love you if you didn’t do it the way I wanted you to.”
Tears came to my eyes at my mother’s words. “Mom, I’ve never doubted your love. I just wanted to make you proud of me.”
“I am so proud of you, Annie Bear. Words couldn’t possibly express it.” I could imagine her curled up on the couch, fogging up her tortoiseshell glasses with her own tears. “And now it’s time for you to get out there and show the world who you are and what you want. Don’t ever apologize for that.”
Kendra’s advice had been more to the point. “You need to tell Harrison about Chase, stat. Look, I make no bones about my own moral failings, but this is just a matter of pragmatism. If you keep stringing him along, you’ll just end up screwing over everyone—Harrison, Chase, even yourself. So don’t go in for that compassion crap. Make it like a Band-Aid—rip it off without dawdling.”
I knew she was right. What stung my pride most in this situation was the fact that I’d always chosen to view myself as having integrity. But for a long time now, I’d been completely dishonest about my feelings for Chase. I’d fixated so much on why he was completely wrong for me that I’d strung Harrison along in the process. I hadn’t been willing to face the truth: that I was irrevocably and hopelessly in love with Chase. Of course, I’d known . . . I’d probably known from the moment I’d first laid eyes on him. And being the proverbial good girl had been more important than following my own desire.
Never again, Annie, I told myself. You’re never going to be that stupid again.
The swift kick to my ego had been an incredible learning moment, and as I walked over to Harrison’s house, I was almost hopeful. My stomach was in knots, but perhaps the whole ordeal would end up being easier than I’d previously imagined.
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