What I Want You to See

by Catherine Linka

Adam grins and shakes his head. “I forget that you’re new to the art world. Gavin owns galleries on four continents, and 365 is just one of them. I ran into him by the bar and we started talking about the chromatic saturation of the music. Five hours later we’re throwing back soju in Koreatown and he tells me he wants to see my studio.”

  “He wants to see your work! That’s amazing. What if he offers to represent you?”

  “I’ll say yes, of course. And once he sells out my first show, I’ll tell him about a young painter I know who shows enormous promise.”

  Our eyes meet and I blush. He squeezes my arm and gets back to cleaning up the studio.

  The art world is all about connections, and being tight with Adam and this Gavin Brown? I picture a gallery, big white walls hung with my paintings.

  I stick Krell’s brushes back in the jars, careful to match how he’s grouped them by size and shape. Then I kneel down to wipe a spot off the floor, and catch Adam rearranging them. “Is something the matter?” I ask.

  He smiles like it’s nothing. “Krell can be a bit anal about his brushes, that’s all.”

  Adam gathers up my used paper towels and stuffs them in a trash bag. I take it from him and grab the box of pigment.

  I’m not nervous when Adam carries my panel downstairs, because I’m still so pumped from the work I’ve done. We slide it into the storage locker along with the box of supplies, and Adam works the lock.

  Watching him, it hits me that this is how I’ve wanted to feel all semester—that I’m energized and learning, and I won’t let Krell make me feel bad anymore.

  “Why so happy?” he says. “You’re beaming.”

  “I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

  He squeezes my arm again, and what I see in his eyes makes my stomach swoop. “You’re fighting back,” he says. “That’s great. I knew you wouldn’t let Krell kill your spirit.”

  I look away, blushing but happy. Adam gets me in a way no one else at CALINVA does. He could be the reason I survive Collin Krell. The reason I hold on to the Zoich.

  By the time Adam and I get outside, night classes are letting out. We linger, saying good night, but the moment’s not what I’d call romantic; Adam’s hands are wrapped around the trash bag we need to dump.

  “You working on Sunday?” I say, hoping he’ll suggest we hang out.

  He tosses the garbage into a dumpster and smiles at me, his teeth white in the shadows. “Yeah, I’ve got a gig, hauling equipment for a wedding photographer.”

  “Maybe some other time,” I say, careful to keep it light.

  “I’d like that.”

  The way he says it makes my heart skip. He comes in close and leans over me until his face is just inches from mine. Adam smiles and my lips part. Yes, yes.

  He reaches up and sets his hand on my neck. I lean into it as he draws his thumb over my cheek. “I like you,” he says, gazing into my eyes. “I didn’t expect to.”

  My jaw actually drops. “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry,” he says. “That came out wrong.” He frowns, collecting his thoughts, his hand still resting on my neck. “The first time we spoke, I wasn’t looking to get involved—”

  I hold my breath as he chooses his words.

  “Things aren’t quite resolved with my ex. I wouldn’t want to start something with you and then—”

  I smile so he’ll stop talking. “It’s late.”

  He takes his hand away. “Yeah, I should get going, too.”

  He’s looking everywhere but at me, so I ask, “What’s on your mind?”

  “I don’t have to tell you we need to keep this a secret?”

  “No, I get that if this got out it wouldn’t look good for either of us.”

  He takes a step back. “Monday night? Same time?”

  I hate walking to my car alone this late. There’s hardly any traffic on the street after dark and late night is the only time a cop isn’t parked outside the shelter. “You mind walking me to my car?”

  Adam glances over his shoulder at the lot, which is lit like a football field. “You’re not parked over there?”

  “Nope. I couldn’t afford a pass this semester. I’m up on Raymond.”

  He glances at his phone like he’s checking the time, and then smiles. “Sure. No problem. I’m headed to the Metro stop anyway.”

  I step toward the lit walkway, but Adam waves me into the alley on the other side of the building. “This way’s shorter,” he says. We chat quietly as we exit onto Raymond and head up the street. Adam’s keeping up the pace, and I realize he’s probably eager to make the next train.

  We’re almost across from the shuttered florist shop that my car’s parked behind when I say, “Thanks for walking me, but I can handle it from here.”

  “You sure?” he says, but I feel how much he wants to go.

  “Yeah, my car’s right over there and you’ve got a train to catch.”

  “Monday?” he says.

  “Monday,” I answer, and step into the street. I dash across, still feeling his touch on my cheek, and I know I shouldn’t, not when there’s an ex who’s not totally out of the picture, but I imagine myself at his side at his first solo show at 365 Mission surrounded by everyone who’s anyone in the LA art world.

  I step onto the curb in front of the flower shop and a voice calls out, “Artist girl!” and I jump about a foot.

  “Jesus!” I exclaim, and spin around looking for who’s there.

  A small voice comes from the doorway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I peer into the shadows by the shop’s front door. Julie, the homeless woman, sits on a flattened cardboard box, a thin blanket over her knees. Sweetie is nestled on her chest.

  “Julie, hi. Why are you out here and not in the shelter?”

  “It’s too nice to be inside tonight. Besides, I’m safer out here.”

  I shiver, because I know exactly what Julie means. I tried one night at a teen shelter in Hollywood, but felt more exposed in there than I did in my car.

  “I saw you out walking the other night,” she says. “You was lost.”

  It takes a moment before I realize she must have spotted me the night I saw her eating ice cream. “I wasn’t lost. I live around there.”

  “Lost inside, not outside. Lost in here,” she says, tapping her chest.

  It rattles me how right she is about that, and I fumble in my messenger bag for the bottle of water I haven’t opened. “Are you thirsty?” I say, showing her the bottle.

  “Oh yes, I am. Thank you.”

  I set the bottle in Julie’s grimy hand, and she pours some into a small plastic bowl for Sweetie before she takes a swig. I wonder what her story is. I’d like to ask her about herself, but she’s not here to satisfy my curiosity. “Julie, I’m really tired. I need to go home. Stay safe, okay?”

  She lifts the corner of her blanket and shows me a knife at least nine inches long. “Don’t you worry. I’ll be fine. Sweet dreams.”

  “You too.” I take about two steps before I stop and turn around. “My name’s Sabine.”

  “Sabine. Your mama chose a beautiful name for her girl.”

  And even though there’s no way Julie could have known Mom, the feeling that she did floods me and I walk wobbly-legged to my car. I unlock the door, launch myself inside, and slam down the lock. When I glance up at the rearview mirror, the backseat stares back at me.

  Memories I’ve tried to forget come hurtling back. The plastic knife, jar of peanut butter, and loaf of bread on the floor of the backseat. Washing underwear in a library sink. A cop banging on the window at 3:00 a.m. “You can’t sleep here. Move your car.”

  I go to start the engine and drop my keys. Dammit. I scrabble around by my feet, getting more and more frustrated when I can’t find them.

  Stop. Breathe.

  My heartbeat begins to slow and I start to catch my breath. I need to avoid Julie. She’s triggering me.

  But then Mom’s voice comes thr
ough so clear it’s as if she’s listening. No, baby, she’s your spirit guide.

  The idea is so new-age-y, so Mom, I start laughing. Mom would talk about people, ordinary, everyday people who didn’t look the least angelic, but who appeared when she was screwing up. I couldn’t shake them, baby. I’d try to ignore them, but they’d keep showing up until I got the message.

  I’m done laughing when I find my keys. Okay, fine. If Julie’s got a message for me, then what is it?

  I’m not sure what she’s trying to tell me, but the first time I saw her I was compelled to take her photo. And the other night when I saw her again, I was swamped by the urge to paint her, but I chickened out and painted the urban landscape that got me reamed.

  The engine starts and I shift into drive. The logical answer to my completely irrational question is: I have to paint her.

  I need to paint Julie.

  Portraits are my passion, they always have been, but painting a portrait of Julie to show to Krell, one of the leading portrait painters of our time?

  It feels dangerous—no, insane! Krell will savage the painting’s flaws and weaknesses, he’ll shred me in front of the class.

  But I can’t hand in another painting that’s safe. Krell told me to risk failure, and I guess that means I need to be daring and paint Julie.

  I turn off the engine and walk back to where she’s sitting. I crouch on my heels so we can look eye to eye. Julie’s not surprised to see me, but she is when I ask if I can paint her. “This face? Why would you want to paint this ugly face?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s ugly.”

  She sizes me up, her mouth working, then says, “Would I have to go sit in that fancy school while you paint?”

  “Not if you don’t want to. I could paint you from the photo I took the other day.”

  She asks to see it again, and I show it to her. “Would it help you?” she says. “Painting my picture, would it help you?”

  A sob rises in my throat, but I catch it and force it down. “Yes,” I tell her. “It would.”

  “You go ahead, then.”

  We say good night and I walk back to my car, holding her permission to my chest like a gift.

  Krell’s absent from Painting Strategies 101, so class is the most relaxed it’s ever been. I text Adam asking if he can take a break, but he doesn’t text me back, so after class I head for the student lounge. Bryian and Bernadette have taken over one of the couches, their giraffe-long limbs splayed over the arms and the table in front of them. They’re both absorbed in whatever she’s showing him on her tablet.

  I veer over to where Taysha’s working. A pile of earrings on midnight-blue paper backings sits on the table in front of her along with sheets of price stickers. “Nice jacket,” she says.

  “It was my mom’s,” I say, slipping off the cerulean velvet jacket she used to wear onstage.

  “You should raid her closet more often.”

  Taysha’s comment slides into a soft spot between my ribs, but still I smile through the pang in my chest, because when I put Mom’s jacket on this morning, it was the first time that wearing something of hers made me feel close to her instead of infinitely lost.

  I pick up a pair of earrings. Tiny origami cranes dangle from the silver wires. “You made these?”

  “Yes, indeed. The whole bunch.” Taysha waves her hand over the pile. “They’re not really my thing, but they sell like crazy. Do me a favor and peel the price sticker off that one.”

  “Sure.” I sit down and scratch at the card stock with a fingernail, careful not to tear it.

  Taysha hands me a new sticker. “Here. Put this on. It’s almost the holidays. Time to raise prices.” She watches me for barely a second, then pushes the rest of the earrings over to me. “You peel, I’ll replace.”

  I smirk as I reach into the pile. “Why do I feel like you planned this?”

  “Because you can see into my calculating soul.”

  We work in silence for a minute, then Taysha says, “Something’s different about you.”

  The little square of card stock I’m holding pops out of my hand and I snatch it off the table. Calm down. She has no idea what you’re up to with Adam.

  “It has to do with Kevin, doesn’t it?”

  “We are not a thing, Taysha.”

  “You were pretty tight on that bench outside the Broad the other day.”

  “Okay, stop. Don’t even.”

  “Fine,” Taysha declares with a flick of her hands. “Maybe you’d be more interested in who got busted hooking up in CALINVA’s hallowed halls.”

  “Ah, yeah.”

  “So Jorge—” Taysha sees I have no clue who he is. “Security guard, really tall, short black hair?”

  “Nope, go on.”

  “Last night around ten, he’s doing his rounds and he hears slamming noises coming from the library and thinks someone’s destroying equipment. So he bursts in, and these two second-years are banging away. Chairs are turned over. Clothes are everywhere. Art journals cover half the floor.”

  “No!”

  “To hear Jorge tell it, he’s never seen an action sequence like this one. He made them hand over their student IDs, and the administration put them on probation. They can’t even step into the library unless the librarian’s present.”

  I laugh with Taysha, but at the same time, take this as a warning. With Jorge patrolling the halls at night, I need to be careful. The heat gun I need to use to fuse the layers of encaustic paint is as loud as a hair dryer. I don’t want to tip anyone off that I’m in Krell’s studio.

  Class is about to start, so Taysha and I pack up. “Oh, before I forget,” she says, “I could use some help next Sunday if you’re free. I rented a space at the Rose Bowl flea market. It’s how I pay for the extras, like, you know, food.”

  It sounds fun, but I was hoping to spend that Sunday in Krell’s studio. Duncan will be gone in a few weeks, so I don’t have a lot of time to work on it. “I don’t know, Taysha. I’d like to, but I might be doing something.”

  Taysha smiles knowingly.

  “Not with Kevin.”

  “Oh, with someone else?” she asks.

  I feel my face turn pink, so I reach under the table and dig though my messenger bag. For a moment, I’m tempted to tell her about Adam, but it would be way too easy to mess up and let slip what he and I are up to. “You don’t know him.”

  “So he’s not in the program?”

  “He’s someone I met at Artsy.” Which is sort of true.

  “Mmm. The way you’re blushing makes me think he must be hot.”

  “Yes.” I feel my cheeks return to normal and I stand up. “But I’m not saying another thing about it. It’s probably nothing and it’s probably going nowhere.”

  Taysha gives me a look I can’t read, then says, “Well, if you are free, and I’m not counting on it, I’ll pay you fifty in cash and throw in a pair of earrings.”

  Fifty dollars I could put toward pigment or brushes or getting Mom’s guitar out of hock. I’m late paying back the pawnshop, so I’m completely torn. “I’ll check with my friend and get back to you.”

  “Deal.”

  Taysha and I pack up the last of our stuff and cross the lobby, skirting a group of students who’ve gathered in the center. Above us, people line the railings on the second and third floors.

  As we climb the stairs to the second floor, an eerie quiet infuses the air. Class is about to start, but people aren’t heading inside. “What’s going on?” I whisper.

  “Not sure,” Taysha answers, and we squeeze into an opening along the railing.

  Performance art in the lobby is a regular thing, so I wait for music or a dissonant crash of notes, but the silence intensifies.

  Twenty students have formed a line across the cement floor below. Their arms hang limp at their sides and their eyes are focused on their feet.

  The first student in line drops to her knees. She throws her arms up before she
falls forward, flattening out on her stomach, her arms and legs splayed. Her eyes are wide open, but unfocused, and her mouth gapes.

  She lies, silent and immobile, and what can really only be a few seconds feels never-ending before she gets up and the next guy takes her place. Around us, there’s sniffling and muffled sobs.

  He was crazy talented…this day last year…feels so unreal…

  Students hug each other as each person in the line below repeats the tiny drama. My hands turn to ice, and I wrap them in the ends of my scarf. “How did he die?” Taysha asks a second-year girl I don’t know.

  Her features contort before she forces out her answer. “He jumped.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Taysha murmurs, then crosses herself. “You okay?” she says, sliding her arm through mine. I squeeze her back and we hold on to each other as the last of the twenty students hit the cement.

  Our instructor raps on her classroom door, breaking the spell. We file into class, shuffling as if we’ve survived a shipwreck, and half the period goes by before any of us speak.

  I can’t help wondering if he was one of Krell’s students, someone creative and talented who couldn’t handle the pressure of being at CALINVA.

  I’m not him and I’d never do something like that loops in my head as if repeating it will make sure it never comes true.

  On Saturday, Kevin’s banana-bread apology costs me hours of cleaning out old flowerpots crusted with dirt, sweeping away dusty spiderwebs, and washing the ten windows in the sunroom until the view of her garden goes from smeary to high def, but when I’m done, Mrs. Mednikov declares this is now my space to paint.

  “Really?” I say, taking it all in. “Thank you!” I can’t believe she’s giving me this extra room when the rent she charges me is ridiculously low.

  “Working late at night alone at school? It’s not good for you.”

  I smile. “You’re kind to worry, but I’m not alone.”

  She smiles back, curious, but restrained by her last-century good manners.

  “I’m working on a project,” I add. “It’ll be done soon.”

  “That’s good.”

  I’m relieved she doesn’t pry. She’s no fan of Krell’s, but I have no doubt she’d disapprove of what I’m doing in his studio.