What I Want You to See

by Catherine Linka

  “Schrödinger’s cat.”

  He’s so pitiful, I’d like to give him a hug, but instead I pat his shoulder. “You explained it, but I still don’t get it. How can the cat be alive and dead at the same time?”

  “It’s not a real cat,” Kevin moans. “It’s a paradox.”

  I sip my coffee, relieved he doesn’t ask me about last night. Around eleven, my heart almost stopped when someone tried the door handle of Krell’s studio. I’d just picked up the heat gun, but I hadn’t yet turned it on, so I carefully set it down and texted Adam. He told me not to panic; it was probably the security guard, checking that all the doors were locked. We joked about it later when we were cleaning up, but I’m still not quite over it.

  The thing is, I can’t tell Kevin any of this, because he’d never understand why I was there. And I’m pretty sure he’d hate Adam if they ever met.

  I can hear it now. That guy’s a poser, Sabine. He’s so pre-tentious.

  Wrong, Kev. Adam’s not a poser, he’s got real talent. A major art dealer has scheduled a studio visit with him.

  I cover my cheeks with my hands so Kevin won’t see them turn pink as I remember Adam’s hand on my back when we were saying good night.

  Kev slurps his coffee, wincing at how even that small motion hurts. He slumps deeper into the couch. “Sunday, two weeks from now. I’m going someplace special. Want to come?”

  I’m intrigued that he hasn’t said where. “Maybe. Where are you going?”

  His pained smile says he’s not telling. “Here’s a clue. It’s transformative.”

  “Oh. Hell no. You’re a Scientologist.”

  He laughs, then groans, then digs his thumbs into the pressure points by his eyes. “No, I’m Lutheran and I said transform, not convert.”

  “Fine, I’ll go with you to this mysterious place as long as there’s no conversion.”

  “Promise, no conversion,” he says, crossing his heart. He closes his eyes. “Think I’ll take a little nap.”

  I dig out my earphones, but before I have them in, Kevin’s asleep. I get the feeling he likes me as more than a friend, and the last thing I want to do is mess things up with him.

  A part of me feels bad, keeping secrets from him, but I don’t need Kevin judging me. I’m doing what I need to do to stay here. Kevin doesn’t have to worry about losing a scholarship, and he doesn’t have to worry about Krell, because Krell doesn’t mentor the sculptors; Ofelo does.

  And I know what I’m doing with Duncan is right, because I see the progress I’ve made, how my technical skills are stronger, and the way I use color is more confident, more experimental. I’m close to a breakthrough, to discovering what will take Julie to the next level.

  Plus, it’s not like I’m going to keep doing this forever. In three weeks, painting Duncan will be past tense. Over and done.

  The next three nights, the security guard is back, rattling Krell’s door handle and making me jump each time. Adam tells me to relax. He thinks it’s Chuck, the new guy, trying to show his boss he’s doing his job.

  Adam’s convinced Chuck won’t enter Krell’s studio. The security staff might have keys to get in, but Krell’s intimidated most of them into staying clear of him and it.

  The deadline for our Color & Theory papers is coming up, so this morning Kevin and I trade laptops during break so we can give each other feedback on our first drafts. Kevin tackles my thoughts on Lois Lowry’s The Giver and Gerhard Richter’s blurred photograph paintings, while I review his about Orwell’s 1984 and Franz Kline’s abstracts.

  I’m only halfway through Kevin’s paper when he’s finished mine.

  Kevin rests his chin on his hand and stares off into space. He’s been growing a beard and it creeps along his jaw, curly and untamable.

  “That bad?” I say.

  He snaps out of his dream state and scrolls up the screen. “No, I think you’re on the right track. I like how you compare the way Lowry and Richter use black and white to show the lost connection between people and their pasts. And I especially like when you posit that ambiguity in novels and abstraction in paintings both force the viewer to draw their own conclusions.”

  “That’s a relief. I was afraid it was total bullshit.” I spy Taysha run-walking through the lobby, making a beeline for our table. “Did you really just say ‘posit’?”

  “I could have said ‘hypothesize,’ but that would have sounded grandiose,” Kevin replies.

  I roll my eyes at him as Taysha drops into the seat across from us. She leans in, hands splayed over the orange plastic tabletop. “Mona in the administration office just told me one of the grad students got kicked out this morning…for stealing art!”

  A grad student? “Did Mona say who?”

  “No, she wouldn’t tell me his name, but apparently this guy went through Ofelo’s trash and pulled out piles of sketches, then sold them online.”

  My chest feels tight. Adam cleans Ofelo’s studio, and I know he’s hurting for money, but it couldn’t be him.

  Kevin takes off his glasses and rubs them on his shirt. “What an idiot. How could he think he wouldn’t get caught?”

  The punishment seems way too harsh for what the guy did. “I can’t believe they expelled him. I mean, Ofelo threw the sketches away. He didn’t care about them.”

  Now I wonder if that’s why the security guard’s been checking Krell’s door every night; he’s been looking for this guy.

  “Au contraire,” Taysha throws back. “Ofelo intends to press charges unless the guy turns over all the money he got for the sketches or gets the drawings back.”

  “If I was Ofelo, I’d go right to the police,” Kevin says.

  “Hold on,” I say. “I get why CALINVA kicked this guy out, but why is selling Ofelo’s trash a crime?” It’s barely out of my mouth before I wish I could take it back.

  “Do I really have to explain it to you?” Taysha says.

  “No, I get it. The sketches are Ofelo’s intellectual property. Nobody wants their creative ideas stolen and sold behind their back.”

  Kevin hands me my laptop and reaches for his. “We should get to class.”

  I slide Kevin’s laptop over and slowly pack my stuff. “Save me a seat,” I tell Kevin and Taysha. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

  HOW’S IT GOING? I message Adam, but he doesn’t answer. The atrium’s crowded with people heading to class, and I circle the room, hoping to spot him, but he could be working the loading dock or stretching canvases in the shop or miles away picking up supplies.

  Color & Theory class has started when I slip in the door, but luckily Ms. Newsom doesn’t notice I’m late, because she’s focused on her lecture slides. I take out my laptop and start making notes, but I can’t focus.

  They kicked a grad student out for selling Ofelo’s trash. Even if he stays out of jail, he’ll never get accepted to another school. His reputation in the art world is finished, his future’s over.

  I check my phone, but still nothing from Adam.

  The room feels ten degrees hotter than when I sat down, and I peel off my jacket and hang it over the back of my chair.

  What I’m doing with Krell’s painting isn’t stealing, but Krell could argue I’m trespassing, violating his privacy, and copying a painting neither his dealer nor the collector who paid almost a million for it have seen yet.

  Who am I fooling? Krell would be furious if he found out what I’m doing.

  My armpits are damp and I push up my sleeves, trying to cool down.

  That’s it. I’m done copying Duncan. I can’t get caught. I could lose everything—my scholarship, CALINVA, this thing I’ve got going with Adam.

  I glance over at Kevin. He’d never understand what I’ve done. Taysha? Possibly. But Mrs. Mednikov would be so disappointed.

  I’ll tell Adam when he meets me here tonight. After he lets me into the building, I’ll retrieve my copy of Duncan and then break it up and throw it in a dumpster somewhere.

  The room cools
down to arctic and I shove my jacket back on. This decision feels good. It feels right.

  It’s been well over an hour and still no response from Adam. I know he’s not that guy, the one who got kicked out, but I wish he’d message me back.

  My shift at Artsy doesn’t start for another half hour, so I’m up on the third floor, hoping to find him. The grad students share a row of studios along this one hall, and I go door to door, examining the ridiculous drawings and weird stuff they tape up in the place of name tags: a troll doll, PayDay candy-bar wrappers, and a smashed robot toy. None of this garbage tells me which studio is his.

  Metal blares behind one of the doors, and I’m about to knock and ask whoever’s inside if they’ve seen him, when I stop myself. Adam may be hard up for money, but he’s got too much going for him to get involved in anything so stupid as stealing from the faculty.

  I head off to Artsy, convinced there’s a simple explanation for why he hasn’t gotten back to me.

  But hours later, he still hasn’t returned my message. Adam’s usually right on time to meet me, but tonight he’s not. I fidget at the back door of CALINVA, convinced he’s not coming. The Metro train rattles past, blowing my hair.

  If Adam’s gone, I’m screwed. I can’t get into the locker to retrieve my copy of Krell’s painting.

  Unless…no one opens the locker. The painting could probably sit there for months before the staff decided to check what was in that particular locker.

  And then what? The whole school would debate who copied Krell’s masterwork, but it’s not like CALINVA would dust it for fingerprints.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Adam strides out of the alley, and I’m so relieved, I run up, ready to fling my arms around him, but he walks right past me and shoves the keys into the lock.

  I drop my arms to my sides. “I was worried. I heard one of Ofelo’s grad assistants got thrown out.”

  He makes no move to turn the keys. “You thought I stole Ofelo’s sketches?” His voice is barely above a whisper. “That’s so insulting.”

  I never considered how what I said would sound. “I’m sorry,” I sputter, “I didn’t mean it that way. I knew it wasn’t you.”

  Adam pinches the bridge of his nose and blows out a breath. It feels like forever before he looks up and says, “No need to apologize. I overreacted. Today was a real shit show.”

  I relax; we’re okay.

  He starts to turn the keys. “You ready to get to work?” he says.

  Now. I need to tell Adam that this little experiment is over. “Yeah, um, maybe I shouldn’t work on it anymore.”

  He tilts his head, curious more than anything else. “Why? You’re almost finished.”

  “This thing today with Ofelo’s grad student—it got me thinking. I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  He nods, removes the keys from the lock, and pockets them. “Okay.”

  I expected a fight, so I’m happy he’s okay with how I feel, but I’m still a little thrown. I’m deciding whether to say good night or ask if he wants to get coffee when he says, “Come on. I think we could both use a new point of view.”

  I trot along beside him around the building to the metal stairs that zigzag up the side. Three stories up, he stops and folds his arms on the railing. “Take a look,” he says, and rests his chin on his forearms.

  The flying chopstick sculpture is right below. Light slides up and down the thin aluminum pieces as they rock gently in the breeze. We stand side by side on the landing, elbows touching, taking it in.

  “Looks totally different from up here, doesn’t it?” Adam murmurs.

  “Yeah,” I say, watching the narrow tips weave together then apart. “I never noticed how the sounds it makes are almost like music.”

  A minute goes by and Adam says, “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

  I look at him.

  “You’re not like that guy who stole Ofelo’s work. You haven’t taken anything from Krell and you’re not forging his painting to rip him off, so you shouldn’t feel guilty.”

  “I know,” I say, but I guess I’m not very convincing, because Adam says, “Yeah, right.” He taps my elbow with his finger. “No guilt. Didn’t you tell me that transcribing Krell’s painting had made you a better painter?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Then be proud. You did the right thing for your art.”

  It’s true. I did the only thing I could do. It wasn’t like Krell was going to help me.

  “To be honest,” he says, “I barely survived my First-Year Exhibition. The pressure almost killed me, knowing this one show would decide my future here and I had to be my best.”

  I slide my arms off the railing and wrap them across my chest. One exhibition decides everything. “Yeah, I have to show the faculty I’m good.”

  “More than good, actually. Exceptional.” Adam’s still absorbed in the flying chopsticks, but I can’t focus. “Who’s your biggest competition?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit,” he says gently. “You know exactly who Krell thinks is the best in your class.”

  I hate to say it, but…“Bryian, Bernadette, and David Tito.”

  “Your TA probably explained about the awards and faculty mentors?”

  “Fitz hasn’t explained jack,” I snap. “Sorry, I’m not mad at you.”

  “Fitz is a worthless piece of crap.” Adam turns and faces me. “The most important thing you need to know is the faculty hands out awards based on the work shown at the First-Year Exhibition, and they choose who to mentor the next year. So Krell isn’t the only person you need to impress.”

  I dig my fingers into my hair and squeeze. If I want to keep the Zoich, I need a mentor to champion me. “God, I want this semester over.”

  Adam stretches out an arm, and I lean in and rest my head on his chest. “Hey. You’ve got this. You said it yourself: You’re close to a breakthrough on your painting.”

  I want to believe him. I am close to a breakthrough, but I’m not there yet and the stakes are so high. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…“I’m almost done with Duncan. It feels silly to stop now.”

  He nods. “Next semester will be easier,” he promises.

  We go back down and let ourselves into the building. When Adam slides my painting out of the locker, he says, “I can’t believe your feel for Krell’s work. If I didn’t know you painted this, I’d swear he did.”

  He carries my painting into Krell’s studio and places it on the worktable. I lay my jacket over the couch and pull out the materials I need.

  I’m lost in thought when I sense Adam by my side. I glance up and he’s looking at me with what feels like wonder. “You can be a great artist, Sabine. Don’t be afraid to risk it all.”

  Electricity travels down my arms, and I stare into his eyes, waiting for his kiss. I lean in, sensing it’s about to happen, but he steps back. “I shouldn’t interfere with your work.”

  “Yep, good thinking,” I answer, but what I want to say is, No, please interfere.

  Adam cracks open the door and checks the hall. “I’ll be down at nine thirty,” he says. The door closes behind him, and I need to get started, but first I walk over and try the handle, making sure it’s locked.

  This drawing guts me every time I look at it.

  I stand in the inky ocean, the water up to my knees, suitcases in both hands, my profile to the viewer. My long coat drags in the waves like a collapsed sail, and my belongings litter the sand: torn photographs of Mom, her shattered guitar, ripped sheets of music.

  I drew the suitcases, scattered sheet music, and shattered guitar because I couldn’t bear to draw the urn I’d carried into the surf. Even after changing it up, halfway through the drawing, I put down my pen, exhausted.

  I remember closing my sketchbook when my art teacher sat down beside me at the table. I didn’t want her commenting on what I’d drawn. Ms. Pensel had asked me to come to her classroom after school and I’d almost skipped out on her because I
had to meet the rest of the cleaning crew in Tarzana by four.

  “How’s it going, living with Hayley and her family?” she said, her fingers drumming a large white envelope.

  “We’re getting along fine,” I replied, omitting how I moved out when I overheard Hayley’s parents talk about turning me over to Social Services.

  “CALINVA’s been trying to reach you.”

  I focused on the art projects dotting the walls, because I didn’t want to tell her I’d already told CALINVA I wasn’t coming. They didn’t give me any money, so there was no way I could attend. “I haven’t been checking my email.”

  Her eyebrows pinched, but she slid the envelope across her desk. “Open it.”

  I flipped it over and found the Zoich logo blazed across the front. “Oh my God,” I remember saying.

  Ms. Pensel pulled me out of my chair and threw her arms around me. “You won,” she cried, her voice wobbling with excitement. “Didn’t I tell you you could do it?”

  I nodded yes, but whatever she said next I didn’t hear; my ears had filled with static. I had a full ride to CALINVA. Tuition, books, art supplies, basic living expenses.

  “How is this even possible?” I said when we were sitting down again. “I gave up hope a month ago.”

  “I never did. The portfolio you sent in—squisito!” she said, kissing her fingertips.

  My phone buzzed and I glanced at the time. “Ms. Pensel, I need to go, but I want to thank you. Not just for helping me put my portfolio together for CALINVA, but for everything. The last four years—” My throat was closing up. She’d gone out of her way for me: scholarships, contests, invites to openings. My voice shook as I said, “I want you to know it means a lot.”

  “A student with your talent comes along once in a decade. What kind of teacher would I be if I didn’t embrace the challenge of nurturing that talent?”

  She hugged me good-bye and I took off across campus. The hell I was going through would soon be over. All I had to do was make it through the summer, and I’d be immersed in art, surrounded by people who lived and breathed it the way I did.