What I Want You to See

by Catherine Linka

  Her lips are bright red against her pale skin, and everything about her—the cut of her black pants and chartreuse swing coat, the perfect arch of her eyebrows—feels like a warning.

  I take a step back, but before I can get away, she wraps my arm in both of hers and is walking me across the lobby. She’s smiling, her head bent toward mine, but her voice is anything but friendly as she says, “I’m Iona Taylor’s personal assistant, Tara Speer. I think you know why I’m here, so where would you like to have this conversation?”

  The exhibition gallery’s empty, but Tara feels so dangerous I need to get her out of the building. “There’s a bench outside.”

  “Perfect. Lead the way.”

  She marches me down the entrance ramp, her grip tight on my arm. “I am not your average PA, Sabine. Not some simpering twenty-year-old who does coffee and dog-grooming runs. I’ve been doing this awhile, so I know how to dig into problems. How to investigate and rectify discrepancies.”

  Just as I imagined, poor Lacy lost her job. Iona must have tired of sweet young things trying to break into Hollywood, so she hired Tara as her personal assistant.

  When we’re outside, I nod to the right. There’s a small courtyard cut into the side of the building where there’s a bench no one uses.

  Thankfully, no one’s sitting there today.

  Tara releases my arm and we both sit down. I’m not surprised she doesn’t waste time on pleasantries, but launches right in. “You picked up Iona Taylor’s Valentino dress from the dry cleaner on February twenty-first, the same day you retrieved her Zanotti boots.”

  I nod yes. Tara’s not at all what I expected, and I don’t know how I’m getting myself out of this.

  “Iona wants them back.”

  “I don’t have them.”

  She screws up her face like she’s in pain. “I really hoped you wouldn’t say that. You know how much that dress cost, don’t you? Six thousand. And the boots were seventeen hundred. That’s grand larceny, Sabine. Iona could have you arrested.”

  The street is swimming before my eyes. I’m trapped.

  “What did you do with the Valentino?”

  “I sold it.”

  “Great. Just great. Did you sell it online? Take it to a consignment store?”

  “I took it to Hollywood Redux in the valley.”

  She whips out her phone and taps the screen. “Over on Victory. There’s a chance it’s still there. How much did you get for it?”

  “Four hundred.”

  She snorts. “Four hundred dollars. Too stupid to get a good price.”

  How dare she judge me? “I needed the money. You don’t know what happened that day, do you?”

  “No?”

  “Iona didn’t tell you about Mom going to the hospital? She didn’t mention how she fired Mom while she was dying, packed up our things, and kicked us out?”

  I watch Tara’s face shift as what I’ve said sinks in, but her feeling sorry for me lasts about two seconds before she says, “Oh, I get it. You think that selling her dress was justified. You think Iona deserved it.”

  “Yeah, I did and I still do. I was seventeen. I had no mom, no money, no home, and I was sleeping in my car, because of her.”

  Tara smirks, probably because she’s thinking that it doesn’t matter if I was justified. If Iona files charges, I could go to jail. “How much did you get for the boots?”

  “I lied. I still have the boots.”

  “Are they in decent shape?”

  I shrug.

  Tara shakes out her hair. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I will see if I can get that dress back from Hollywood Redux, and if I do, you will repay me what that costs. And you are going to return the boots and write the most abject, obsequious, groveling apology of your life and send it to Iona.”

  I hate the idea of pretending I’m sorry. “What if Hollywood Redux already sold the dress?”

  “You’d better pray they haven’t.”

  Tara refuses to leave until my cell number is in her phone. “I’ll be in contact,” she says, and strides off.

  Iona hired herself a bulldog, and Tara’s not going to stop until she’s satisfied. There’s no escaping her.

  I’m late for work, so I haul my messenger bag onto my shoulder, and I’m not paying attention as I hit the sidewalk and almost bump into two of my classmates having a smoke break.

  They glance back and forth at each other, and I realize they might not have heard every mortifying detail of my conversation with Tara, but they heard enough.

  A block from Artsy, Tara’s text comes in. DRESS GONE—BETTER START WORKING ON YOUR REPAYMENT PLAN.

  At work, I put my jacket and bag in the back room and throw on my green Artsy apron. The store is crowded with moms and kids buying card stock, glitter, and paint to make Christmas cards, so my manager assigns me to the cash register up front.

  I ring up sales, wondering how the hell I’m going to come up with the money to pay Iona back. Unlike Krell, Iona has zero interest in my leading a productive, artistic life. Every time I think things are getting better, I find out I was wrong.

  As I bag candy-cane-striped paper and Santa Claus rubber stamps, Mom is in my head. Karma isn’t some anonymous, mystical force, Sabine. It’s the energy you create from your choices. Bad choices breed bad endings.

  Customers keep coming and a kid who can’t be more than five or six melts down in front of me. He wants the twenty-four pack of colored pencils and his mom will only spring for twelve. She drags him out of the line and over by the greeting cards, where he sobs and flails his arms, and she stands over him, waiting him out.

  Right there with you, buddy.

  By the time I get through the rest of the people in line, the little guy is back in front of me. His arms are sagging and his face is drained. He pushes a twelve pack of Crayola pencils up on the counter.

  “Sorry about that,” his mom tells me.

  “It’s hard when you want something you can’t have.”

  She smiles wearily and steers her son out of the store.

  Artsy is empty now that it’s dinnertime. I rest my elbows on the counter and thump my forehead with my hands.

  Karma’s on my ass and I have to get her off. It burns that I have to write Iona an apology and return her boots after what she did, but I don’t want Tara showing up again.

  I reach into the drawer below the cash register and take out the key to the display case of the Lascaux acrylics. My coworker Romy’s upstairs in the custom frame and canvas department, so I’m alone on the floor. I walk over and unlock the case. I remove a tube of Phthalo Turquoise Blue and carry it over to the cash register. Then I scan the paint as a sale and pull fifteen dollars out of my jeans. For a second, I weigh whether I deserve an employee discount. Nope.

  The paint goes back in the display and I lock the case. There. My debt is repaid.

  Not so fast, Mom whispers in my ear. It’s not enough to pay for what you stole. You have to make amends.

  Barney, my manager, comes out of the back office. He stops partway down the main aisle and fusses with an endcap of glitter glue. I could walk over right now and confess what I did.

  I wipe my sweaty hands on my butt. What would confessing get me? Out of a job, and a truckload of hurt if word got back to CALINVA.

  No, the best way to make amends to Artsy is to be better at my job. To clean shelves without being asked, to tidy displays, and to be the friendly, helpful, customer-centric employee Artsy loves.

  I go over to Barney, who’s still trying to clean up the endcap. Handfuls of glitter pens are thrown around the shelves. “I can do that.”

  “Every year it gets worse. From the week before Thanksgiving to Christmas Eve, this place looks like Elf Revolt at Santa’s Workshop.”

  “I won’t let them beat me, sir,” I say, and give him a salute.

  My manager thanks me, and I scoop up pens and start to slot them. Green, red, gold, silver, and Hanukkah blue. If only I could sort out my li
fe as easily as I can art supplies.

  I can repay Artsy, but what about Krell? Invading his studio and copying his work without permission? If I confess, I’ll be out of CALINVA in a hot minute.

  The glitter pens are all in their proper slots, but I find a tub of yellow poster paint that needs to be put back where it belongs. I stroll toward the front of the store as the door swings open.

  Adam walks in, wearing a battered black leather jacket that even unzipped shows off his broad shoulders and trim waist.

  I’m not prepared for how his smile latches on to me and pulls me down the aisle. When I get to him, he reaches for me, but drops his hand when he sees my manager looking at us.

  “I thought we were meeting at CALINVA,” I say.

  “We were, but I couldn’t wait to show you something.”

  My manager lets me off early, and Adam and I walk down Raymond toward CALINVA. The first block is well lit, and even though it’s midweek, the bars and restaurants are busy.

  Adam clasps my hand, but he’s scanning the street as if there’s someone he’s trying to avoid. His stride is longer than mine, so I have to walk fast to keep up.

  When we cross to the next block, Adam slows. The patio furniture store is dark, and the outdoor display of fountains and gazebos behind the ironwork fence looks like the remains of a cemetery in a gothic novel.

  Adam’s never chatty when we’re in a public space, so I’m used to his silence.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” I tell him. “I almost lost it today.”

  “What happened?”

  “First, Krell called me in—”

  His hand spasms, almost crushing mine. “Shit. Did he find something?” An ugly look comes over his face.

  “Yeah, that was my first thought, but—”

  “So he didn’t find anything.”

  “No, he—”

  Adam blows out a breath. “That’s a relief.”

  “I know.”

  “So what else was going on?”

  I decide to skip over my meeting with Krell. “My past has come back to haunt me.”

  “You’ve got a past?” he jokes.

  I don’t laugh. Adam stops and turns me toward him. “Are you in trouble?”

  “Definitely.”

  “What did you do?”

  I wish I hadn’t said anything, but now it’s too late. “I sold something that didn’t belong to me.”

  He gives me a sideways smile. He’s both amused and intrigued. “But you didn’t steal it?” he says.

  “No. I didn’t take it, but I didn’t return it either when I realized I had it.”

  “You must have had a good reason.”

  Adam sees me so clearly. He knows I’d never hurt someone for no reason. “I did. I was desperate.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  I’ve never told anyone even part of the story, but I feel in my heart that Adam won’t judge me, so I lay out what happened with Iona, her tossing me out, me selling her dress, and the six grand I owe her. Adam does all the right things, cursing Iona and insisting she deserved everything I did to her. Then he wraps his arm over my shoulder. “You’re unbelievable. I had no idea how strong you are, living on the street like that.”

  I lean into him. No one’s ever said that to me before.

  “Whatever happens,” he says, “I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks.” I nestle closer, taking in his warmth. “I can’t tell you what that means to me.”

  He looks over my head and mutters, “There’s a homeless woman staring at us.” I turn. Julie’s in the park across the street with the guy who sells Jesus poems for a dollar. She waves at me like she wants me to come over.

  “Hi, Julie!” I wave back, pretending not to understand what she wants. Adam’s creeped out, and I don’t blame him. The palm trees they’re standing under slice the light across their faces, so Julie and the poet look like ghouls.

  Adam tugs me along. “That’s the woman you’re painting?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s that going?”

  He listens, not interrupting once, while I describe the second panel, the idea of seen and unseen. I’ve never felt closer to Adam than I do tonight.

  We cover the last two blocks to CALINVA and Adam goes ahead of me around the building. We sneak in the back door, and even though we’ve done this dozens of times without getting caught, I’m still on the lookout while Adam’s striding through the halls and unlocking doors.

  I need to tell him I’m done with Duncan, but he’s so fixated on getting into Secure Storage I can’t find a way to say it. It’s not until he opens the locker and slides out my copy of Duncan that he starts to relax.

  He gazes at my painting. “Promise me that if anyone ever tells you you’re not talented, you won’t believe them.”

  The look he gives me next is so intense, so awestruck, my heart swells with pride for how I’ve grown. “I promise.” How could I have made it through this semester without him?

  “This is it. Tonight you complete this painting and tomorrow we light its funeral pyre.”

  “Funeral pyre. I like that. It sounds heroic.”

  “Your work deserves to be honored.” Adam scans the painting. “The only part left to do is this small area on the shoulder.”

  “Actually, I don’t want to work on it anymore.”

  Adam’s face shifts, and for a second, he looks pissed, but before I can ask what he’s mad about, his features relax and he says, “Oh. I guess I read you wrong.”

  I fold my arms over my chest, because even though his expression appears calm, the tone of his voice is slightly hostile. “What are you saying?”

  “I didn’t think you were a quitter.”

  The dig hurts. Still, I’m done. I’ve wronged Krell and it’s time for this to be over. “Why does this even matter to you?” I say quietly. “I thought the point was for me to get what I needed from Krell.”

  Adam shakes his head. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. You’re not a quitter. You’re the last person in the world anyone could call a quitter.”

  He slides the painting back in the locker. His features are tense like he’s gritting his teeth, but then he turns, his eyes bright, and says, “Ready for my surprise?”

  I’m thrown by how he’s acting tonight, and I don’t know why he was so put out, but it seems like his little storm might be over. “Can’t wait,” I say, and take his outstretched hand. We ride up to the third floor, and Adam scopes out the halls and waves me forward. He turns down the hall with the grad student studios and leads me to the door with the flattened metal robot toy duct-taped to it.

  “Is this your studio?” I ask.

  Adam nods. “Sean said he was moving out today to go live with his girlfriend.” Adam puts his ear to the door and listens. “All clear.”

  We walk in and Adam flips on the light. As the fluorescents warm, he points to a huge canvas leaning against the wall. “My magnum opus.”

  “This is your painting, the one you’ve been working on all semester?”

  It’s at least eight feet long and six feet high. I move closer, taking in the hundreds of scribbled white squares on the black canvas. They float, but are all connected. A maze or a language without words. They are black-and-white photos scarred with acid, or a house of staircases leading nowhere.

  My mouth goes dry, and a wave of curiosity and discomfort washes over me as I stare at the canvas. “So this is Infinite Uncertainty.”

  “You remembered.”

  I walk along the painting, taking it in in pieces. My skin prickles up my arms, and I struggle to understand what my body’s telling me. It’s not until I walk the length of it that I realize what is setting me off.

  This painting doesn’t feel like Adam. I’d never have guessed he painted it, and it makes me feel I know nothing about him.

  Maybe it’s me, I think. I’m the one who’s off-kilter tonight.

  He walks over and slides h
is arm around my waist. “What do you think?”

  I don’t tell him what I’m feeling, but share my impressions of a maze, language, vandalized photos, house of staircases.

  “You’re very poetic.” His breath is warm on my neck as he murmurs into my ear. “You should write the description when it goes on exhibit.”

  “If you want me to.”

  “Gavin Brown’s coming to see it next week.”

  He throws this out like it’s nothing, but I squeal, “No way! That’s incredible.”

  Adam squeezes my waist, and I turn for his kiss, but he says, “Let’s go up to the roof.”

  My heart races as we walk to the staircase. I’ve only been to the rooftop garden during the day, but I can imagine how romantic it is at night.

  The mustard-colored steel door is locked. Adam pulls out his keys, ignoring the sign: ACCESS PROHIBITED AFTER DARK.

  We step outside. I expect it to be dark, but the raised planters are dotted with solar lights, and a huge skylight thrusts out of the roof, a jagged iceberg spilling light.

  Because this is CALINVA, nothing up here is built with right angles. The sides of the raised planters tilt and their tops bulge with mounds of floppy grass planted over the feet of crooked Japanese maples. The planters divide the rooftop into oddly shaped spaces that hide lounge chairs and tables.

  We walk through the garden, our arms around each other’s waist. Adam gives off faint scents of musk and paint, and his hip is muscle over bone beneath my hand. My skin is hot under my shirt, and I sneak my hand up and unbutton it down to my bra.

  We’re four stories up, and Pasadena is spread out before us. The Metro rattles past, its silver sides streaked with reflected light.

  “It’s beautiful out here,” I say.

  “You can see even better from up top.” Adam points back to where we came in. That half of the building is one story higher. “You game?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We climb the ladder bolted to the wall, and the metal clangs as we go. Adam’s first and he reaches for me and helps me over the last step.