I run my hand over the words, then carefully flip open the clasps so they don’t make a sound. The blond spruce body nestles in folds of dark crimson velvet. My eyes trace the red roses that twine from the pick guard under the strings and up the fingerboard to the headstock.
“Go ahead and play it if you want.”
“I wish,” I tell him. “I can barely pick out a tune. My mom, she—”
He nods, freeing me from saying any more. I close the lid. He picks up the case and sets it behind the counter.
“Thanks, I appreciate you letting me see it,” I say, and start for the exit. I have my hand on the door when I turn back to the guy. “You won’t sell it, will you?”
“Not as long as you keep paying down your debt.”
Out on the sidewalk, the sun half blinds me, and I flip down my shades.
Rent. Car insurance. Food. Gas. Phone. No way I can squeeze out another $110 in two weeks.
I hoof it toward work, stopping only to throw my portfolio in the back of my car. Two hands on the hatchback, I shove it closed. Should I sell the car and get a bike?
My stomach lurches, imagining it gone. It’s my life raft. I can’t give it up.
Nope, the car stays. For now.
So what am I going to do? I can’t lose Mom’s guitar again.
I storm up the street. Add another waitress shift? I’m barely getting my class assignments done now. I’d be better off selling something, but there’s not much in my closet anyone would want except Iona’s boots.
If Taysha’s right, Hollywood Redux would probably give me at least two hundred for them, but not with the torn heel. Damn. The only shoe-repair guy I trust to fix it is way over on the west side.
Nothing’s ever easy, is it?
It’s one of my last nights working on Duncan, and from the moment I pull out my brushes, I struggle. I prop my painting up on an easel right next to Krell’s, but I can’t get the shapes or textures right, can’t get a rhythm going, can’t even match the spruce blue that Krell used on the man’s shoulder. By the time Adam appears to help me tidy up, I’ve already started cleaning my brushes.
Adam snaps open a garbage bag and drops my used paper towels in it. “I thought I saw you over on Fair Oaks today,” he says.
Great. He saw me by the pawnshop. “Oh yeah?”
“I was riding by on my bike, and I called your name, but you didn’t turn around.”
I’m tempted to say it wasn’t me, but I’m so freaking tired of pretending to be “artist poor” and not “real poor.”
“I was trying to get my mom’s guitar out of hock, but I didn’t have enough money.”
“That blows. Here, let me help.” He shoves his hand deep in his jeans and pulls out some crumpled bills. Two fives and a bunch of ones. “How much do you need?”
“You’re sweet, but a lot more than that.”
“Tell me how much. I could borrow it from a guy I know.”
“You shouldn’t borrow money to give to me when you’re worried about rent.”
“Let me help. It feels like this is important to you.”
Adam’s been so good to me, I can’t let him do this. “Thanks, but really, I don’t need you to give me the money. I’ve got this.”
“All right. But if you change your mind…”
“I’ll let you know.”
I check the worktable to see if I’ve missed anything, and I have. There’s one last can of blue paint over by the easels.
I scoop it up with my hand, but as I turn, my foot hits a waxy spot on the cement and I’m falling. My hand hits the table, and the can flies out of my fingers.
I come down hard on my thigh while the can bounces off something onto the floor and rattles toward the wall. I lie there, dazed, trying to catch my breath.
“Oh shit,” Adam says, his voice tinted with panic. He’s rushing around, and I hear him tearing paper towels. “Are you all right?”
I nod and sit up. My thigh hurts, but—“I don’t think I broke anything.”
Adam’s not even looking at me. He’s too busy trying to stop the rivulets of waxy pigment flowing down Krell’s canvas. A dark blue streak cuts across Duncan’s cheek.
“Oh no,” I murmur.
“Get me some clean rags. Now!”
I scramble to my feet and dig out a pile of rags from Krell’s stash under the sink. I hand them to Adam. “What should I do now?”
“Pick that fucking can off the floor and wipe the paint off the cement.”
I wipe the floor while Adam swears behind me, a nail-gun fire of anger.
Once it’s clean, I go back to where Adam’s working and start collecting the used rags and paper towels and shoving them in the garbage bag. I work around him, trying to stay out of his way while I check to make sure I got every drop of paint off the floor.
I’m sick, seeing how my copy’s undamaged while Krell’s painting is a mess. The only blue on mine is a blob on the unpainted edge.
Adam steps back and he’s managed to lift off the worst, but we have to get the blue scar off Duncan’s cheek. Adam looks from the rag to the man’s face. A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Do you carry any Q-tips?”
I dive for my bag. “Yeah. I’ve got them right here.” My hand shakes as I hand him the little box.
He takes a deep breath, exhales, and leans forward. Then he twirls a Q-tip, barely touching the canvas, a surgeon removing a layer of cells.
I try not to move or even to breathe. He’s so angry and I deserve it. We are screwed if he can’t fix this.
The dark blue streak gets smaller and smaller until I can’t see it from where I’m standing. “Give me your magnifying glass,” he says.
I strip the glass and chain from my neck and dangle them in front of him. Adam snatches the chain out of my hand and peers at the canvas. A minute passes while he studies it, then he steps back and drops onto the couch.
He drags his hands through his hair, and I hang back. Silent. Motionless. Ready for him to tell me how stupid I am.
But then he laughs. “We dodged a bullet. A big freaking bullet.”
I swallow, but can’t answer. The air is still dense with anger and I quietly pack my bag. Adam holds out the chain with the magnifying glass and I pluck it from his fingers.
“I’m sorry. I’m such a disaster,” I say.
Adam peels himself off the couch. “You’re not a disaster. You slipped. It wasn’t your fault.”
There’s a slight disconnect between what I hear and what I feel, like when the audio and video are off by a millisecond. The atmosphere hasn’t cleared, so why is Adam taking my hands?
He threads his fingers through mine. “Take a deep breath.” Together we slowly inhale. “And let it out.”
I give Adam a smile because he’s trying to reassure me, but I’m almost sick imagining what might have happened if I’d ruined Krell’s painting.
Adam pulls me closer. Time slows and the room dissolves as he gazes at me. My pulse quickens, sensing his kiss. “Your painting’s almost finished,” he says. “You’ve come to the end of this experience. Has it been worth it?”
“Yes.” I exhale the word, because I can’t speak.
Our lips brush, and my breath catches. “We should celebrate with a bonfire,” he says. “Thursday night.”
“Sounds romantic.”
His lips dive for mine, and we shuffle until the wall’s against my back. Adam presses into me as he draws my hands over my head. I’m pinned, but I don’t want to be free.
We devour each other with kisses. I want to hold him, feel the muscles under his shirt, but when I try to slide my hands out of his, he won’t let go.
“Don’t be in a rush,” he says.
We smile at each other. He straightens up and leans his head back, lips out of reach. The tension from not kissing him is almost unbearable.
“Thursday. I’ll borrow my friend’s van,” he tells me, “and we’ll take your painting out to Dockweiler Beach.”
“Wait,
what?”
“You know you can’t keep it. The first time one of your friends saw it, you’d be screwed, trying to explain why you have a perfect copy of a painting that no one—not even any faculty member—has seen.”
I sigh. It’s only a copy of someone else’s work, so I shouldn’t be proud of it. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Sucks, I know, but since it must be destroyed, we will build a bonfire, consign your artwork to the wild conflagration, and celebrate its creation and demise.”
“A ceremonial bonfire. That’s perfect,” I say. I move forward for one more kiss, but Adam releases my hands and steps back.
“We should get it back in the locker before the night classes let out,” he says.
“Yeah, it’s getting late.” We really do need to get out of here.
We do a final cleanup of Krell’s studio and carry the board down to Secure Storage. I can’t stop smiling, imagining Adam and me feeding it into the fire. The night will be cold and clear, and we’ll have the beach to ourselves. Adam and me. The ocean and stars. Firelight and a blanket on the sand.
We stow the painting and leave through the back door before the night classes let out. Adam pulls me into a shadow and we kiss briefly before he pulls away. “I’ll see you Wednesday? You only need one night to finish, right?”
I’m tempted to tell Adam I’m done with Krell’s painting, because I’m a little freaked that our luck may have run out, but instead I say, “Yeah, Wednesday.” Adam disappears into the dark, and I touch my lips, which are ever so slightly swollen.
Even though Krell’s painting looked perfect when Adam and I locked up, I wake up feeling we missed a spot. We were rushed and panicked while we cleaned it, and in the daylight something might be visible that wasn’t last night.
I’m almost nauseous worrying about it, and frustrated that I can’t get into Krell’s studio until tomorrow night. When I show up for Krell’s class on Wednesday morning I’m convinced he’s found a smear or a splotch that Adam and I didn’t.
But Krell’s his usual provocative self as the crit session for Bernadette’s thorn painting begins.
She’s a lot further along, and now what emerges from the canvas is a man in an overcoat and bowler hat. The only actual paint on the canvas besides the white background is a bright green apple in the middle of the man’s face.
Kevin’s sitting next to me and I tap his shoe with my foot. He turns, and I whisper, “Is it just me or did she appropriate René Magritte?”
He squelches a smile, letting me know that what Bernadette’s done is obvious to anyone who’s taken a semester of art history. She’s used one of the most famous images of Surrealist art to make her painting seem deeper than it is.
Bernadette faces the class, one hand on her hip like a Valkyrie daring us to cross her. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder and says, “We always want to see what is hidden by what we see…but humans hide their secrets too well.” Then she makes air quotes so we know she’s quoting Magritte.
The class launches into a discussion of how Bernadette’s use of thorns defines the man in her painting, but also keeps the viewer at a distance, protecting his secrets. The discussion turns into a debate about what we know or will never know about a painting or a person.
As a strategic move, Bernadette’s painting is effing brilliant.
It’s everything CALINVA’s faculty goes nuts over: an unexpected medium that expresses a philosophical inquiry.
Now it’s even more clear that not only does Seen/Not Seen have to be perfect and arresting, but my artist statement has to be compelling if I want to compete with what Bernadette has created.
I glance at Bryian, and for the first time in weeks, he’s not smiling or nodding proudly as his girlfriend talks about her work. His eyes are tense, and I’d bet money I don’t have that Bernadette didn’t share with him what she was going to say. Hmm, Bryian’s scared, too.
After the crit ends, Kevin leans over. “You seem worried.”
“How am I supposed to compete with that? The faculty’s going to fight over who gets to be her adviser.”
I half expect Kev to tell me I’m wrong, but he nods and says, “You’re probably right. Bernadette’s going to get a lot of attention.”
“So what do I do?”
“Just keep going, I guess.”
I stand and haul my messenger bag onto my chair so I can pack my stuff. “I wish I could just focus on my art. I hate worrying about who’s the best, who’ll get their pick of advisers, who’ll get a dealer—”
Kevin signals me with his eyes to stop talking, and I hear, “Ms. Reyes?”
I go rigid, knowing Krell’s right behind me. I turn and say, “Yes?”
“If you’re free, I’d like to see you in my office.” Krell’s expression isn’t angry, but it is serious.
Oh God, Krell knows.
The walk to Krell’s studio is agony. As soon as we start down the hall, his dealer calls, hot to nail down the final details for shipping the Duncan painting to Miami on Monday. Krell’s cool, and if he’s found anything wrong with his masterwork, he isn’t giving it away to his dealer. Not that I would if I were him.
When we enter his studio, my eyes flit to his painting, but it faces away from me so I can’t see what he’s discovered. Krell sits down at his big worktable, snaps his fingers to get my attention, and points at the stool across from him.
Sweat trickles down my sides, and I don’t want to look at him while he’s on the phone, so I train my gaze on a white coffee cup near my hands. DEFACE CONVENTION, it dares in bright red letters.
I’d like to take off my jacket, but if I move, he might look my way, and I struggle to keep my face neutral. My thoughts are lightning strikes: Krell found some damage, security caught Adam and me on tape, I’m going to be expelled.
Krell sets his phone down on the table and switches it off.
Oh God, this is it.
His fingers drum the paint-specked tabletop. “You’re probably wondering why I asked you here.”
I can barely hear over the wind in my ears. My mouth is cotton dry, and my tongue sticks to my teeth. “Yes.”
“Your scholarship is at risk,” he says. “Did the financial aid office explain that the Zoich is performance based?”
I nod yes. “Ms. Gonzales went over that with me.”
“Then you know it’s critical you turn in outstanding work. That’s why I want to check in with you about your work in progress. I’d hate to see you lose the Zoich.”
For the first time since I walked in here, I look right at him. “What did you say?”
His mouth twists in annoyance. “I said, I’d hate to see you lose your scholarship. I’ve championed you from the beginning.”
That can’t be true. Adam told me you wanted Bryian to get it.
“Your instructors agree that your technical and observational skills surpass those of your classmates. Your potential is undeniable, but other students are ahead of you creatively.”
“Bryian and Bernadette,” I say with a sigh.
He nods. “You saw how compelling her piece is.”
“Yes.”
“And I assume you’ve noticed that Bryian has spent this semester experimenting and challenging himself with different approaches to express his ideas.”
I have to admit that even though Bryian’s copied other artists, he’s never repeated himself all semester. His work is getting looser and more daring. I couldn’t identify who he’d impersonated this week, but now I wonder if his latest and best work was actually all him.
“Yeah, I can see that.”
Krell leans in, and I know he’s about to deliver the deathblow, so I’m not ready for the gentle, not entirely condescending way he says, “The portrait you’re working on now could turn this situation around. Have you revisited your painting since we last met?”
My voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. “Yes. I took your advice and—” I pull out my phone. “Do you want to see
where I’m going with it?”
Krell motions for me to pass him the phone, and for the next twenty minutes we talk through what I’m trying to do with the two panels. He comments on how he feels my use of contrasting styles, colors, and brushwork can succeed in forcing the viewer to question their assumptions about Julie.
“But consider how you can take the idea even further by exploring dimensionality. Currently, the two panels are the same size, so the viewer may interpret that as the images carrying equal weight or validity.”
“Oh, that’s not what I’m trying to say. But making one smaller, wouldn’t that be too obvious?”
“Mmm. Agreed. The solution should be unexpected.”
I’ve never played with dimension beyond size or shape, but the layering Krell does with the Strata or going 3-D like Bernadette did with those thorns are other ways of approaching it.
We’re almost done talking when Krell challenges me not to use black paint on the second panel.
“Think about the energy in Monet’s railway paintings,” he says. “The locomotives look black, but Monet built the blackness out of red, blue, and green so it has depth.”
I walk out of his office, my head spinning. I’ve been wrong about him. Not wrong about everything; Krell’s still an asshat, but now I wonder if his harsh and obnoxious comments were intended to help me.
I don’t think Krell was lying about wanting me to keep my scholarship. Adam must have heard wrong when he said Krell wanted Bryian to get the Zoich. Or maybe Krell was all set to vote for Bryian and changed his mind.
I can’t continue sneaking into Krell’s studio. Right now it feels completely wrong.
For the first time, I consider what Krell would have said if I’d asked him if I could copy his painting. The answer almost makes me sick, because there’s the tiniest chance he might have said yes.
The regret and confusion I feel after my meeting with Krell dog me through Color & Theory. I’m supposed to be such a talented observer, but I’ve been blind as far as he’s concerned.
As I walk through the atrium, a woman calls, “Sabine,” and I whirl around, wondering who’s so excited to see me, but I don’t recognize her. She dashes toward me, arms outstretched, her long black hair swinging. “I can’t believe it’s you!”
What I Want You to See Page 13