by Jim Kroepfl
The key is to keep reminding myself they’re not alive for real.
I clutch the journal to my chest. It’s already helped. A fleeting thought appears, then disperses too fast to grab hold of. Was I supposed to tell something to Stryker?
Orfyn
Something is going on, and I need to find out what it is.
As an orphan living on the charity of others, I’ve spent my life around those who believe they’re better than me. I know the way their eyes look through me. I know how their voices sound when they talk at me. And I know how they act while congratulating themselves on how decently they treat me. That superiority isn’t in Lake’s eyes or her voice or her actions. But she’s been avoiding me big time.
A hair thingee is wrapped around her door handle, so I’m waiting it out. She’ll have to come out at some point. Until then, I’m an expert at entertaining myself when there’s a white wall begging to be beautified. Like the white wall across from her room.
I’m soon lost in the details: the folds of the white dress, the multi-colored tapestry, the long, red hair that I perfectly match to Lake’s.
After a couple of hours, Lake emerges and sees my half-finished painting. “That’s beautiful.”
I watch for her realization that the girl’s face is a perfect likeness of her own.
“Why did you make her so forlorn?” she asks.
Does she seriously not recognize herself? Or is she messing with my head? Again.
I dab my brush on the palette and add a burnt-orange streak to the girl’s hair, hoping it draws Lake’s attention to the face. “That’s how Waterhouse painted her. Want to hear the story? It’s like a fairytale.”
Lake bites her lip. It’s almost as if she’s afraid to hang out with me.
Fine. I’m not going to beg her to stay. “Don’t worry about it.”
The plan had been that she’d be so thrilled—flattered—whatever, she’d let down her guard, and I’d learn if I have any hope with her, because she’s been all about the mixed signals.
“I can’t stay long.” She sits on the floor with a good couple of feet between us.
I think this is progress. “I’ll tell you the condensed version, then. There’s a curse on this beautiful girl.” I point to her face and pause, glancing at Lake. No recognition whatsoever. “Her name is the Lady of Shalott. I can’t remember why she was cursed, but if she looks toward Camelot, she’ll die. She can only see the outside through a mirror as she weaves.” I grab a different brush and begin working on the reeds in the water. “One day, she sees Lancelot ride by on his horse—the Lancelot. He’s literally a knight in shining armor. The Lady of Shalott thinks about how bored she’s been, stuck in the castle for her whole life, never doing anything fun. She defies her fate and turns around, and when she looks at Lancelot, the mirror cracks, unleashing the curse. The Lady leaves the castle for the first time, writes her name on the boat, and gets in. She floats down the river, knowing she’s going to die.” I pause to draw out the ending, and Lake leans in closer. “When the Lady of Shalott floats by Camelot, she’s already dead, and Lancelot mourns that he never got to kiss this beautiful girl.”
I’m feeling pretty good about my plan—until Lake says, “And that’s what happens when you allow your heart to rule your head.”
Okay, maybe I should’ve chosen a picture where the girl didn’t die in the end. “You’re missing the point. She was willing to take a chance to live a more exciting life.”
Lake shakes her head, making her long hair ripple. “The Lady of Shalott threw her life away. For a guy.”
This is not going how I’d imagined. “She wanted to know what it felt like to fall in love.”
“Life is filtered … filled with disappointment when you choose someone who’s not good for you.”
I don’t think we’re only talking about the picture anymore. I started this, and there’s no going back now. “Why do you think he’s not good for her?”
“He’s a knight! He’ll never be there when she needs him. When he is home, he’ll be miserable, dreaming about his next adventure. Then he’ll blame her for holding him back, and she’ll regret ever falling in love with him.”
“Lake, not everyone is like that.” I hold her eyes with mine. “I’m not like that.”
“What are you guys doing?”
I turn to see Stryker striding toward us. Could his timing suck any worse?
Lake looks like she’s been caught doing something wrong. “We’re discussing the Lady of Shalott.”
Stryker glances at my work. “In the original, she doesn’t look that much like Lake.”
She gasps. “Is that supposed to be me?”
Thanks a lot, Stryker. I shrug self-consciously. “I wanted to make you smile.”
“I’m grabbing some pizza,” Stryker butts in. “Want to join me, Lake?”
She looks from him to me, then back to him. “Thanks, but I’m going to stay here a little longer.”
It takes superhuman strength to hold in my grin.
“No prob,” he says, smooth as a canvas. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and saunters away.
“He’s been sleeping so much lately,” Lake says as she watches him turn a corner. “This is the first time I’ve seen him in three days.”
I caught him pacing our hall last night. When I asked him if everything was okay, he gave me the finger and went back into his room, slamming the door. It caught me by surprise because he’s not normally that guy.
Lake frowns. “Maybe I should go see if he’s okay.”
“Whatever you want to do,” I force myself to say. I start working on the trees in the background as if I could care less what she decides.
After an epically long minute, she says, “I’ll look for him later.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Lake picks up a tube of oil paint and reads the color’s name, puts it down, picks up another and then another.
“What’s your favorite painting?” Her voice sounds different, as if her vocal cords are finally allowed to release her words. And the tension in her face is gone. Even her lips look fuller.
I want to go back to the conversation we were having before, but at least we’re still talking. “It’s an almost-finished copy of The Birth of Venus.”
“I’ve always liked that painting,” she says. “But I thought it was finished.”
“That’s the original. The one I’m talking about was on the underside of a bridge.”
“You mentioned that when I first met you,” she says. “I thought you were joking.”
Crap. I’ve painted myself into a corner. “Artists learn from everything we see.” Will she make the leap that I also wasn’t joking about being a street artist? But I want her to know about that painting because it’s important to me.
I reach behind me and add more paint to my brush as an excuse to glimpse at her. She looks more curious than anything else, so I continue. “I hung out under that bridge for a week, studying the technique. I liked that nobody owned it, except maybe the New York Transportation Department. They demolished the bridge last year, but that unfinished painting had to be worth more than the bridge itself. And nobody knew about it. That’s the painting that made me realize what I wanted to do.”
Lake draws her strawberry-blond eyebrows together. “Do you know who painted it?”
“I asked around, but I never found anyone who knew, so I always picture a homeless guy,” I say. “I even made up a story about his life. In my mind, his paintings hang in museums all over the world, but he was mugged while at a show in New York, and he got amnesia. He ended up living on the streets, not remembering he was once a respected artist, but he never lost his passion to paint.” I let out a laugh. “That sounds kinda dumb, doesn’t it?”
“No, it’s imaginative. It’s fascinating how differently our minds work.”
“What would your story about him be?”
Lake’s forehead cr
inkles. “I have no idea, which is my point. Now, if you asked me to tell you what elements need to be in play to make a steel bridge decompose, I’m your girl.”
I laugh along with her. “You are a romantic.”
“I prefer your story to the … fairytale,” Lake says.
“Bad choice. I’ll cover this one over and paint you something else.”
“No, please don’t. I like it.” While staring at my painting of her, she says, “My Grandma Bee has Alzheimer’s. I have to believe Sophie and I can find the cure in time to help her.” Her face is as determined as Sister Mo during Lent.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“The cruelest aspect of that disease is you not only forget everyone you’ve ever loved, you don’t remember your own life. All those experiences. Gone. It’s almost as if you never existed.”
What I don’t tell her is that I couldn’t have chosen a better subject. At this moment, Lake’s flushed cheeks and sad-looking eyes perfectly match the girl’s in The Lady of Shalott.
“Do you believe we can make a difference?” she asks.
“If anyone can, it’s you guys.”
“Why aren’t you including yourself?”
I touch up the water as a stall tactic until coming to the decision to stop dodging the truth. “You were all chosen for a reason. I was just a body available for purchase.”
She tilts her head. “Is the money the reason you agreed to come here?”
“I don’t even know much they gave the church.”
“Then, why are you selling yourself short?”
When Lake inches closer, I feel bolder. “I didn’t know what they were going to do to me until I got here.”
“Then you’re more courageous than me. I had two weeks to decide if I was going to accept their offer.”
“I did it to become a famous artist, but you’re trying to end Alzheimer’s.”
Lake smirks. “I’m not here for entirely altruistic reasons. I want to be recognized for my achievements, just like you.” She points to my painting. “The real difference between us is you’re already using your enhanced knowledge outside of the dreamstate.”
“I never thought of it that way.” The pride I’ve always felt after finishing a painting returns for the first time since I got here. Thanks to Lake.
“Do you think we’ll be able to experience a normal life after leaving here?” she asks.
“I’ve always thought being normal is overrated.”
She looks at me with a funny smile.
“What?” I ask. “Do I have paint on my face?”
“You’re … different than I thought you’d be.”
I lean in closer and whisper mysteriously, “Is that a good or bad thing?”
Lake gives me a sad little smile. I could never recreate the way her eyes look at this moment. “Both.” She looks away, breaking the spell. She rises and brushes off the back of her jeans. “I should find Stryker.”
What? Now?
“Thank you for painting me, but I don’t look like that.”
“Don’t you know how beautiful you are?”
She bites her lip. “I really need to go.”
What just happened?
Stryker
I storm away from Orfyn and Lake. Does she realize no one else’s wall is adorned with a forged painting?
I don’t care if they’re spending time together on that grubby floor.
I don’t even care that they’re discussing his all-too-obvious, ultra-romantic version of Lady of Shalott, with Lake in the starring role.
It’s okay if she ends up with him. It’s better that way. I can’t let myself get distracted by her.
But if I know there’s something special between us, can I let it go?
I must.
I’ve talked to Bjorn about this. He tells me one thing over and over. Be bound to the purpose.
And I am.
Bound and chained. I’m ready to make the biggest difference I possibly can. Dedicated to fulfilling the greatest purpose I will ever have. Then why do I want to put my fist through a wall?
I slap my hand across Jules’s door. Orfyn’s smelly paint isn’t quite dry, and my hand swipes through the farm scene, slashing through the corn fields and farmhouse. Scratching up the undercoat and ruining Orfyn’s painting of Jules’s home.
I’ve destroyed something.
A mixture of shock and shame and adrenaline surges through me. Anger has gotten the best of me, again, and I’ve ruined something special. All the hidden, raw feelings come rushing back. The memories of what happened in Boston. Painful images of Alicia’s smile. The blame I can’t escape.
I crack my knuckles. I won’t let it happen again. Lake deserves to be the most she can be. She’s special. Not only smart and driven. Lake has forgiveness in her eyes.
Forgiveness.
This world needs Lake.
I’m not here to fall in love. I’m here to succeed. Ensure something like Boston never happens again. Help the world find peace.
I stare at the ruined picture of Jules’s home.
No. I will not let it happen again.
I will not lose anyone else.
Orfyn
I’m in the Bat Cave for five minutes before realizing something is wrong. He isn’t here. I mean, where else could he be? “Bat?”
The screens flicker to life, and my New York Rangerized version of The Last Supper fills the wall. Christ. His twelve disciples. And Bat.
He’s in an electronic version of my oil painting. Wearing a pink bathrobe over a faded Metallica T-shirt. Standing behind Jesus Christ.
“Is that really you?” I ask.
He looks himself up and down. “Yeah.”
“Uhm, do you realize you’re in the painting?”
He scans the scene da Vinci painted five hundred years ago and smiles. “Yep.”
It looks like he’s inside the room. Not a painting of a room, and not a two-dimensional room like on TV. A real life room. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was actually sitting across from the disciples and watching Bat hang out at Christ’s last supper.
“How did you get in there?” I ask.
“You tell me. It’s your dream.”
“I thought you controlled the dreams.”
Bat shrugs, then picks up a piece of bread and takes a bite.
This is now beyond weird. “Is that real? I mean, does it taste like bread?”
“As close to bread as you painted it.”
Bat walks around the electronic painting, and as he moves, the scene shifts with him. “It’s awkward that they’re all sitting on the same side of the table, but that’s da Vinci.” He gets up and puts his hand on Christ’s shoulder.
Bat is literally touching Jesus Christ!
Bat looks out at me and wrinkles his nose. “Man, this place even smells like the Renaissance.”
“There are smells in there?”
He nods, as if all videos games have a scratch-and-sniff feature.
“What’s it smell like?”
He waves his hand in front of his face. “Like the fifteenth century, and it’s not as enlightened as you’d think.”
I can’t take my eyes off Bat acting like this thing he’s doing is perfectly normal. “Is this the first time you’ve done this?”
“Done what?”
Sometimes it takes the patience of a saint to talk to him. “Gone into my painting. Do you do this when I’m not here?”
He frowns. “I don’t know what happens to me. I think I go back to being nothing.”
I knew that, but I kind of forgot. I’ve been too hung up on trying to get Lake to like me. A lifetime of lessons about helping thy neighbor prod at me. If someone living in your brain isn’t considered a neighbor, who is?
“Bat, is this life okay? I mean, should I be sleeping more?”
“Are you tired?”
I can’t help but smi
le. “No, Bat. I feel fine.”
“Then it’s all chill.”
He moves to the back of the room and looks out the window. “Madison Square Garden. Nice add, Orfyn.”
“Thanks.”
“I think I owned it.” He leans out the window and teeters on his dirty, bare feet. He regains his balance and shuffles to the front of the painting. “Don’t you think da Vinci could’ve done a better job in the original making the landscape look like Jerusalem?”
And, now we’re back to his useless questions. “I don’t care! There’s nothing we can do about it.”
He drops his head. “Just asking.”
I take in a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Bat, I didn’t mean to yell. But everyone else is working on really important things. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing nothing. I want a purpose.”
“Okay,” he says, as if I’d told him it’s time for lunch. He licks his index finger, dabs up crumbs off the tablecloth, and sticks his finger in his mouth.
He touched the crumbs. He tasted the bread. He smelled the stink. He hears me talk. And he’s able to see my painting from a completely different viewpoint—inside.
“What if we can do it?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“Create a new form of Art. We could combine what you know about writing video games and what I know about painting so someone can experience a painting like you are right now.”
He nods his head energetically, which is probably the most athletic thing I’ve seen him do. “I think that’s why I chose you.”
The dark weight of bitterness pushes hard against my chest. “The Darwinians picked me because I was disposable.”
“They didn’t choose you. I did. They were going to make you an example.”
“The Darwinians?”
“No, the Anti-Graffiti Task Force. You were days away from getting arrested. I didn’t want you to have to stop painting.”
Orfyn
I hang tarps to keep my surprise from the others.