You Have Seven Messages

by Stewart Lewis

  Tribeca is very industrial and stark, but the streets are clean and there’s a sense of calm that’s rare in Manhattan. I find the building, and the lobby is filled with animal-print couches and a large sculpture that is shaped sort of like an ice cream cone. I am buzzed up and I panic a little inside the mirrored elevator. I don’t even know this person, and I’m going into his apartment. Will Daria be there? I check my hair, which thankfully has been cooperating.

  The elevator opens and the vast and virtually empty space is protected by only glass, with one section in the corner sporting a large orange rug and some comfortable-looking curvy chairs. I walk in timidly and hear a voice say, “Make yourself at home. Daria is having a moment, so it’ll just be us.”

  His voice is calm and soft, so immediately my panic subsides. I sit down and thumb through the glossy magazines. Even though I know my pictures are good, I feel like an imposter. Too young, or too “green,” as my dad says about actors.

  A couple of minutes later, in walks a slight man with wild hair and kind eyes.

  “Well, hello there, I’m Les.”

  “Luna, nice to meet you.”

  His hands are a little clammy, and his body language reminds me of Tile. Is he blushing?

  I draw in a deep breath, then take the duplicate pictures out and spread them on the table. He spends a long minute with each, his expression completely neutral.

  “You’ve been shooting long?” he asks after putting down the shot of Ms. Gray.

  “Well, not professionally, if that’s what you mean.”

  He pours us each a glass of water from a pitcher on the table, and I briefly wonder if it’s drugged. Like Tile, I’ve read too many of my father’s scripts.

  “There is a rawness to your vision, which I’m not sure you’re aware of.”

  “Well, I took the pictures,” I say, a little too fast. I tell myself to calm down.

  He smiles condescendingly, then his face snaps back to its neutral expression. With his green glasses and his salt-and-pepper hair running off his head in every direction, he looks like a caricature.

  “Can you leave these prints with me?”

  “Sure, I printed two copies, and I also have them scanned.”

  Then he just sits there like a satisfied dog.

  “So, will you give me a show?”

  He rubs his chin as if he’s considering it.

  “Not sure what the balance of this year will bring to my gallery. I may have a slot for you but tough to tell. These are strong, but I need to get some more eyes on them.”

  I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do now. I should’ve gotten some more advice from Daria.

  Suddenly I’m parched. I drink the water down in one gulp and then stand up.

  “Okay, well, I should get going.”

  He walks me to the elevator and smiles when it opens, then shakes my hand.

  On the subway ride home I’m not even sure what to think about the meeting, so I zone back into my iPod, which is playing Imogen’s “First Train Home.” Even though I’m lost in the silky electronic production of the song, my mind keeps flashing on the boy I saw. Part of me wishes that I were dreaming it, that maybe the girl greeting him was an optical illusion or some other love story unfurling.

  Back in my room everything is quiet. I start learning my vocabulary for English. Diffident. Inchoate. Verdant. Oliver’s window is covered up but the light is on.

  Maybe it’s just the housekeeper.

  “Moon!” Tile yells from the hallway. “There’s nothing to eat.”

  “Hang on, I’ll come down.…”

  My mother didn’t cook much but she always had things very organized. She liked to spread everything out and just pick at things. Between school and this photography stuff and with Dad gone, I feel like I now have to be a mom, too. I look up at the glossy magazine cutout of my mother on the wall. I’m not sure what possesses me, but I take it down and put it in a drawer.

  “Tile!”

  He comes to my door and his face is red and blotchy.

  “Order something with the card Dad gave you. Just make sure it includes vegetables.”

  “Are french fries a vegetable?”

  I’m not in the mood for this.

  “And wash your face, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I go back on the photo blog and see that my entry has gotten over six hundred hits! I notice that Levi’s online, so I IM him the link.

  Moongirlnyc: Pretty cool huh?

  I can hear Tile ordering in the hallway, racking up the bill, I’m sure.

  Leviphoto3: nice shot

  Moongirlnyc: thanks … I met with this guy Les Bell

  Leviphoto3:?

  Leviphoto3: you’re kidding right?

  Moongirlnyc: no

  Leviphoto3: big deal he is

  When I walked into his loft I thought it was somewhere special, or at least cost a truckload of money. But why was it mostly empty?

  Moongirlnyc: hard to read

  Leviphoto3: you need an agent immediately … email jj1900@gmail.com

  Leviphoto3: he goes by jj, no one knows his real name

  Moongirlnyc: sounds pretentious

  Leviphoto3: he’s a bit of a tool, but most agents are

  Moongirlnyc: what do I do?

  Leviphoto3: send him three jpegs (sharpened)

  Leviphoto3: tell him you may have something happening with Les

  Moongirlnyc: k

  Leviphoto3: and you can mention me … jeez, you work fast

  Moongirlnyc: I’m going to email him now

  Leviphoto3: my point exactly

  Moongirlnyc: thanks so much

  Leviphoto3: maybe you can introduce me to Les if all goes smoothly?

  Moongirlnyc: of course

  Leviphoto3: ☺ good luck

  I email JJ and he responds within five minutes from his iPhone.

  Luna—

  Promising. Can you be at my office 3:30 tomorrow with prints?

  JJ

  Wow. Will it be that easy? At least it’s an actual office and not a colossal empty apartment. I confirm and go back to my vocabulary, until Tile barges in with burgers and fries in big Styrofoam containers, a ketchup packet in his teeth. I redirect him downstairs and we eat at the table. My mother preferred to graze in the kitchen, usually wearing a simple dress and a thin silver choker ending in a leaf that rested gracefully in the crook of her collarbone. My dad was always saying, “We should eat at the table like a normal family,” and she’d reply with something like, “Who wants to be normal?” If only I had read between the lines.

  The fries taste salty and good. Proud of himself, Tile makes a show of presenting me with a side of broccoli.

  “Your vegetables, madame.”

  After dinner he helps me with my vocab flash cards, and all of a sudden it’s ten o’clock.

  “Thanks for your help, I’ve got a final tomorrow.”

  “Get some rest, big sis,” he says, and blows me a kiss.

  As I drift off to sleep, I hear the low, sweeping groan of a cello, but I’m not sure if I’m already dreaming.

  CHAPTER 31

  A TIPPING POINT

  I check the lost and found at school for Mom’s phone: no luck. Why I had to lose it with one message left is beyond me. On my way to my English final I pray it will show up somewhere. I finish the test early and notice that the Rachels are cheating. Ms. Gray is oblivious, eating her little Tupperware container of sliced apples.

  I meet Janine at lunch and fill her in on stuff.

  “That is so cool! Do you think you could just blow off college and become a photographer?”

  “I don’t know, we’ll see. My mother told me that a college degree isn’t really necessary anymore, but the experience matters. Friends you make and stuff.”

  “I wish my mother were that cool. She basically judges everyone on what school they got into. It’s such an East Coast thing. That’s why I want to go to Berkeley. Will you vi
sit me if I get in?”

  I look at her slightly flushed face, with two strings of brown hair framing her cheekbones. She has always been one step ahead of me and so adult about everything, but right now she looks like a lost child.

  “Of course,” I say, feeling myself gaining speed on her, this school, everything.

  JJ’s office is in the East Village, and to get there I have to walk through what seems like a city of homeless people. I realize it’s because there’s some kind of soup kitchen on the block. I look into as many faces as I can, trying to peer inside their souls. They are so exposed, seemingly stripped of all pride. I wish I could take their pictures, try to capture that feeling in their eyes and their bodies, the tipping point when it all became about survival. I went into survival mode when Mom died. It was only the taste of food and the sound of music that got me through. I listened to Joshua Radin on repeat for like a month.

  Before I enter the building I say another prayer, this one for Oliver.

  Come back.

  In the reception area I am told to sit down and wait by a skinny woman with severe bangs. I flip through Variety and see a little blurb on my dad’s documentary. There’s still a sour spot in my heart, and part of me wants to rip out the page and burn it. If he lied to me about who she was with that night, who’s to say he’s not lying to me about other things? As Ms. Gray says, lying is a slippery slope. Where do parents draw the line between protecting their children and letting them in on the whole truth? Before I can start to make any sense of my swirling, complicated thoughts, Miss Bangs calls me in.

  JJ’s office is covered with photographs and magazines, stacked everywhere like small cities. He’s olive-skinned, with large eyes and thin lips. His long arms and elegant neck remind me of a proud bird. He smiles and shakes my hand.

  “So, let’s have a look.”

  I show him the shots, which I am starting to get more confident about now. He looks at them, raising a perfectly trimmed eyebrow.

  “Now, you have interest from Les, I hear.”

  “Yes.”

  “Worked with him for years. An odd one, but knows his stuff.” He beeps Miss Bangs on the phone and asks her for a “standard three-sheeter.”

  “Tell me a little about where you see yourself, say, in five years.”

  Something about his clear gaze relaxes me.

  “Well, to be honest, the last year for me has been hard. My mother …”

  “I know.”

  “Yes, well, for me I’ve just been trying to get through to the next year, you know? Then my father, he bought me this amazing camera, and it just felt natural, like this was the right thing. In some ways I felt so scattered and lost, like I was floating, and taking pictures is a way for me to arrange things, control something, I guess. I see composition everywhere I go.”

  He seems impressed.

  “Well, you certainly have a rare gift. A lot of people who start out with these sort of, shall we say edgy prints, end up shooting editorial ’cause that’s where the money is. I’d hate for you to go in that direction, as in some cases it numbs you down. What I would do for you is look for more niche gallery placements, and try to orchestrate a book deal.”

  “Cool.”

  Miss Bangs comes in with the three-sheeter.

  “I tell you what, Luna. This is a standard agreement for six months, pretty straightforward. Why don’t you have someone take a look at this and we’ll go from there. In the meantime, I encourage you to treat the camera like a limb—always have one at your side. Almost like a writer with a notebook. When you see that composition, wherever it is, capture it.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Great. Here’s my card with my cell on the back.”

  As I leave the offices, the homeless are now inside, aside from a few still lingering on the sidewalk. One man with red hair and a sunburned face is washing his feet with a gallon jug of water, pouring it over his callused toes. I take out my small digital camera and shoot, but then he barks at me so I scuffle away.

  I email Levi a huge thank-you letter when I get home. I study math until my eyes hurt and my head throbs. Still no cello, but at the moment I’m too tired to care. Could I really be getting an agent and having a show? I realize that JJ never mentioned my father. Maybe he doesn’t even know who he is! Unlikely, but I’m going with it. This Moon needs to shine on its own.

  CHAPTER 32

  FLY ON THE WALL

  By the end of my math final my head is swimming with angles and theorems. I really have no idea how I did it, but I’m just glad it’s over. The fire of that happiness is further fueled by the text I get from Daria as soon as I walk into the hallway:

  I think it’s a green light for your show.

  I find myself jumping up and down a little. Some boys walk by giggling but I don’t really care. Suddenly high school seems meaningless. I text her back:

  Signing with JJ today.

  Last night I had Elise look over the contract and she said it was a go. She used to work at a magazine and said it’s superstandard. It was more than a little weird that she signed it as my “guardian” because Dad’s out of town, but I was actually grateful.

  After school I drop off the signed contract with Miss Bangs. There are no homeless people, just a couple fighting—the woman in tears, the man hot with rage. I can’t help but think about the night my mother died. Was the last message from my father? Was there a scene like this on the street? I look down and hurry past, trying to avoid their drama that should be played out behind closed doors. Sometimes in New York there is no such thing as privacy. People just spill themselves out onto the streets, and it’s not always attractive.

  When I get home Tile is on our stoop playing a video game. For as long as I can remember, every Thursday he has gone to his friend Jasper’s house. I look at him without having to ask the question.

  “I’m sick of Jasper right now.”

  “Oh. But did his parents just leave you here?”

  “No, I kinda took off.”

  “Tile! Uh, I have an interview for this Brooklyn zine. You’re going to have to come with.”

  “I can stay here, I’m not going to burn the house down.”

  Suddenly I wish I had parents. Or at least a father who was actually around right now.

  “It’s cool, just come with me, but be a fly on the wall, okay?”

  “I can handle that.”

  The magazine is called Electric and is housed in the back of a bakery. Tile gives the baker a big smile and gets a cupcake on the house. The place smells of cinnamon and ink, an odd combination, just like running a magazine out of a bakery. In the back we are introduced to Sal, who has greasy black hair and a silver bone through his left eyebrow.

  “Did that hurt?” Tile asks.

  So much for my fly-on-the-wall theory.

  Sal just smiles and asks us to sit down.

  “We are doing a spread on young artists, and your friend Deidre—”

  “Daria.”

  “Daria emailed me a few shots.” He pulls out a little recorder and says, “Do you mind?”

  “No.”

  Sal asks me a bunch of dumb questions like where do I go to school, and Tile starts playing his video game. As the questions get deeper, I feel more self-conscious having Tile there, like he’s this obvious sign that I’m still just a kid, with a baby brother I have to look after, that maybe I’m not this hot photographer on the rise. Tile pretends to be absorbed in his game but I can tell he’s listening intently with one ear.

  “What inspires you?” Sal asks.

  “The way unexpected things go together. How stuff in the world can be … mismatched … but still graceful.”

  Tile flashes me a quick look. He knows I’m winging it.

  “What was it like growing up with Jules Clover as your father?”

  I don’t say anything. I just stare at an old coffee cup on the table, ringed with a stain.

  “We made forts out of his scripts,” Tile says.r />
  Sal apparently likes this, as his mouth slides into a wide smile. Then he notices my discomfort and says, “I take it you feel the pressure of living in his shadow?”

  “Well, you are the first person to bring it up, really. I suppose I get some of my vision from him, but I don’t want to be known as ‘the daughter of Jules Clover.’ ”

  “Fair enough,” Sal says.

  After a few more questions, Sal leads us back out through the bakery, which is now packed with people buying cupcakes. Tile recommends the vanilla to an older woman who smiles and pats his head. I don’t think anyone has patted my head in a whole month, and wonder if that stage is finally over.

  On the way home, Tile says, “You know, the guy just asked the dad question ’cause he had to. It’s not like he can ignore it. It’s news.”

  “What are you, a journalist now?”

  “No, just a fly on the wall.”

  I smile and put my arm around him. I want to keep all this adult information I’ve been receiving away from him, but I know he’s too smart. He probably already knows or at least senses what really happened with our parents. But I’m going to try my hardest to protect him. In my eyes, he’s still just a small flower, and I feel like I’m becoming a strong tree. There will be storms, and he will need shelter.

  CHAPTER 33

  ULTERIOR MOTIVES

  Tile sees the IM from over my shoulder. It’s Daria asking me how the interview went. She types that things are happening faster than we thought with my show because another artist dropped out.

  “Do you think she has an ulterior motive?” Tile asks, being his clairvoyant self.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, your pictures are pretty tight,” he says.