“So have you ever tried making a Valentino knockoff?” I joke.
“Not yet, but I’m up for putting my skills to the test.” She makes a mean Iona face and mouths the word VAL-EN-TIN-O.
She’s trying to make me smile, but I can’t. My head feels so, so heavy. “This is such a mess.”
“We’ll find a way,” she promises.
I’m calm now, but I’m not quite ready to let go of her. “Does Kevin know about the rumors?”
“I don’t know what he’s heard, but you should talk to him before they get any worse.”
“I don’t see how I’m going to get through this semester. Everything feels impossible right now.”
Taysha loosens her hug and steps back. She takes hold of my shoulders. “You cannot be wrecked. You are a survivor.”
At last I smile.
“Now, promise me you will change out of that nasty getup you’re wearing before Krell’s reception tonight.”
The entire school will be there for Duncan’s unveiling. Students, faculty, administration, guests, Adam, and the girlfriend he never mentioned. Just thinking about him makes me angry all over again.
“I don’t think I should go. Stay out of sight. Let the rumors die down.”
“Oh no no no. You will be there. You need to get your face and name in front of the faculty. Remember what I said about the faculty choosing who they mentor?”
“Okay; okay, fine.”
Taysha slides her hands down my arms until she’s cradling my fingertips. “You cannot be wrecked. Remember that.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Now, I really need some coffee before next period.”
We go down to the coffee bar, and once I’ve got the biggest cup they sell, I spy Kevin sitting to the side with a calculator and a textbook thicker than any I’ve seen around here. His cheeks are usually pink, but right now they’re pasty white. He’s scruffy and not in a good way.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey yourself. You feeling better?”
I want to get to him before the gossip does. “Yeah, the hatchet-to-the-brain feeling’s gone.”
“Good to hear it.”
It’s very un-Kevin for him not to invite me to sit with him. “You seem really busy.”
“Intro to Engineering test in”—he checks his phone—“two hours and thirty-five minutes.”
“I’ll let you alone. Maybe we could talk later?”
“You going to Krell’s thing tonight?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Good. We’ll catch up then.” Kevin ducks back into his book and I look around for Taysha. I don’t see her, but I do see Bernadette chatting up our rarely sighted TA, Fitz, and two tables over, Bryian glaring at the back of Bernadette’s head.
So much for that romance.
For the first time, I actually feel sorry for Bryian. Apparently, we both trusted the wrong person.
I traded my Friday-night shift at La Petite Tomate for Sunday brunch so I could attend Krell’s reception at CALINVA, so I can’t fall back on that as an excuse for not showing up.
I push through the glass doors and start up the long concrete ramp to the main entrance. The floor-to-ceiling windows on my left look out over the street, while on my right, and level with my head, a long glass wall runs the length of the gallery.
The party for Krell is packed. I pause partway up the ramp, struck by an impulse to turn around. Adam’s somewhere in there, his girlfriend probably orbiting him like a satellite.
You hurt my feelings, but you didn’t break me.
I cannot be wrecked.
I check my reflection in the window overlooking the street. Normally I don’t bother with eyeliner, but tonight I want Adam to regret how he toyed with me. My eyes are dark-rimmed and enormous, and the deep-cut, midnight-blue halter under Hayley’s cast-off leather jacket…Let’s just say I can hold my own with any of the girls here.
I start back up the ramp and take in the crowd. The entire school’s come out, and according to Taysha, the guest list includes trustees, art dealers, critics, and some of LA’s biggest collectors.
Krell’s painting hangs in the center of the long wall that runs the length of the gallery, and even though the piece is five feet tall, I see only the top over people’s heads.
When I push through the glass doors into the lobby, the sound of people talking and laughing hits me like a wave. The art gallery is so full, I have to wade in slowly.
Krell stands by his painting of Duncan, and I get glimpses of him between the layers of adoring fans. His wife, Rachel, and the dean are chatting nearby, and Rachel is wearing Taysha’s necklace.
I scan the crowd for Adam and feel myself relax when I realize he isn’t here. Still, it’s early.
Taysha’s hanging with some of the first-years, so I head in that direction. Tonight her smoky-purple hair is a cloud, and as the sea of people around her parts, I get a full view of her outfit.
The blouse crisscrosses over her breasts, and the left and right sides are different prints that both command attention. One long dolman sleeve is a bold black-and-white tribal, while the other is hot orange, green, red, and white. Taysha’s claret-colored leather skirt is belted high up on her waist. The look is fierce and uncompromising.
When I get up closer, I realize what I see in the colorful print. Coke. Fanta. Heineken. Sprite. The colors and logos are blown up, layered, distorted, and sliced into irregular shapes. “You designed this print yourself, didn’t you?”
“Indeed I did. I wanted to honor the creativity of African tin artists while making a statement about corporate colon-ialism.”
“The fashion-design faculty must be blown away.”
“I’ve raised some eyebrows, but I’m looking beyond the faculty. There could be a designer or a collector or even a blogger here tonight who can boost my profile.”
“So you must be pumped Krell’s wife is wearing your necklace,” I say.
“She is?” Taysha grabs me by the wrist and the next second she’s wrestling us through the crowd until we’ve got a good view of Krell and his wife.
Rachel’s low-cut neckline is the perfect frame for the necklace. Taysha whips out her phone and starts snapping shots of Rachel. “It looks incredible.”
A moment later, Rachel spies Taysha and waves her over. I hang back as Rachel introduces Taysha to a man who takes in her outfit from neck to hem before he motions with his finger for her to turn so he can see the back.
The crowd is pressing in on all sides, so I retreat to the wall. More people have arrived, but still no Adam.
Krell is to my left, standing in front of Duncan. People approach him, wanting to talk, and he smiles politely and answers their questions, but as soon as they walk away, his gaze drifts back to his painting.
You’d think he’d be puffed up with pride, surrounded by adoring colleagues here to worship his genius, but he seems distracted.
When I follow his gaze, something catches my eye: a slash of dark blue on the edge of the board.
My stomach flips, and I whip my head around. No, I’ve got to be imagining this.
I ease by a cluster of faculty engaged in debate, and move in closer to the painting until I stand at an angle to it. Arms crossed, I tilt my head as if I’m contemplating Duncan for the very first time. My heart skips a beat.
I’m not seeing things. A blue blob on the edge of the painting in the exact spot I remembered.
But the area on the shoulder that I didn’t finish looks done. This doesn’t make sense. I run my eyes over it again, and it feels off.
Now I stare at the painting, focusing on areas where I struggled. By the left eye, under the chin, a spot on Duncan’s neck. The flaws are almost invisible, but not to me.
How? How did my copy get here?
Adam locked it in Secure Storage. I saw him take it off the easel.
My heart’s jumping in my chest. This has got to be a mix-up. Someone must have spied my copy in the locker and thou
ght it was Krell’s.
I catch myself shaking my head. Stop it.
No, even if someone got into the locker, which would mean getting past the combination lock, Krell’s original would still be in his studio. He’d know if it hadn’t gone out to be photographed.
I have to find Adam. I rise up on my toes, but still no sign of him.
Maybe the original was sent out to the photographer, but it hasn’t come back yet. No, that makes no sense. The photographer knew the painting had to be returned in time for the reception.
I whip out my phone. WE NEED TO TALK—NOW. The room’s so loud, I set the phone on vibrate and hold it tight.
Or maybe the original came back from the photographer and was put in another locker in Secure Storage and that’s when the mix-up happened. Someone assumed my copy was Krell’s original.
When I find you, Adam, I will kill you.
No, first we will fix this and then I will kill you.
A finger taps my shoulder and I wheel around so I’m face-to-face with Natalie Fung from admissions. “Sabine! How’s it going? Are you enjoying your first semester?”
I can barely think, my pulse is so loud in my head. “Ah, it’s going great, Ms. Fung.”
“Call me Natalie.”
“Natalie.” My eyes are darting from side to side, but luckily so are Natalie’s.
“How do you like your classes? I believe we put you in Painting Strategies with Collin Krell?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I hear he’s really demanding, but his class is transformative.”
I force out a smile. “Yeah, nobody’s the same after it.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing your painting in the First-Year Exhibition. Are you excited?”
“More nervous than excited. I’ve still got a lot of work to do on it.”
Natalie tips her wineglass to someone behind me. “I’ll let you go. So glad we got a chance to catch up and I can’t wait to see your new work.”
The crowd is even thicker than before. People are still arriving, many of them older than students and better dressed than faculty. Art collectors, critics, dealers, all here to see the new Krell before it wings off to Art Basel Miami then disappears into private hands.
I check my phone, but still no answer.
Adam’s tall, but not so tall he towers over people. Come on, Adam, where are you? I work my way through the throng, from the front of the room to the back, looking for him. If I knew the grad students, I could ask them if they’ve seen him.
After two circuits of the room, I give up. He’s not here.
Because he’s sick. He’s working a wedding. He’s trying to avoid me.
Well, avoiding me is not going to happen.
I make my way out to the lobby. Adam could be hiding in his studio until he thinks I’ve left or the party’s too packed for me to make a scene. I start for the stairs and hear Kevin behind me. “Sabine!”
I rearrange my face into a smile before I spin around. “Hey, did you just get here?”
“Physics lab ran late. You leaving?”
“No, no, I’m coming back,” I say, and wave a finger toward the bathrooms. Kevin looks like he just showered. His oxford-blue button-down is tucked into his jeans.
“I could wait for you,” he offers.
“No, you go ahead. I’ll meet you in there.”
“All right.”
The nicest guy I’ve ever known goes to join the party, and I duck into the ladies’ room. I wait a minute, check that the hall’s empty, and dart to the stairs. Once I get to the third floor, I head to the door with the flattened metal robot taped to it.
Adam’s studio is locked. I put my ear to the door and listen for movement or music or voices. Nothing. I tap lightly. No response. Tap again harder. Still nothing.
Adam, where are you? We’re in such deep shit.
The metal robot taped to the door grins at me, and it’s all I can do not to rip him off and crush him under my heel. I hammer the steel door with my fist, and the banging reverberates off the concrete floor and walls. A couple seconds later, a door nearby wrenches open and I take off running.
I spin around the corner and catch my breath. If I don’t go back to the party, Kevin will come looking for me.
And yeah, he’s waiting for me near the doors of the gallery with a couple bottles of grapefruit soda. David Tito comes over, and we hang out together, and while I laugh at people’s jokes and clap for Krell during the speeches, I’m not really there. I’m neck-deep in the worst trouble of my life.
This weekend, everything I want is beyond my reach: answers, friends, and the reassurance that my first semester at CALINVA won’t be my last. Adam’s ignoring my voice mails, Taysha’s at a swap meet in the desert, and Kevin’s locked in a marathon engineering project at Caltech and his group won’t free him until it’s over.
I throw myself into homework and painting Seen/Not Seen every minute I’m not at Artsy or rushing plates of steak frites to half-drunk customers. I keep busy, trying to shut out the crushing question of where the hell Krell’s painting is.
The only explanation I can come up with is that Duncan is in one of the other lockers in Secure Storage.
I’m so pissed with Adam that Sunday evening, I’m standing out in front of the Rhodes Gallery. It’s just after closing, but there are lights on in the back, so I press the buzzer, hoping Florian’s still here.
He cracks open the door. “Oh, hello,” he says, and opens it wider. “It’s Sabine, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t invite me in, but I’m relieved he remembers me. “Yes, thank you for answering the door. I know you’re closed.”
“You seem upset.”
I didn’t think through what I was going to say on the drive over and now I fumble to explain why I’m here. “I wondered if you’d heard from Adam. He was supposed to meet me a few nights ago, but he didn’t show.”
Florian gives me a sympathetic smile. “He’s not answering his phone?”
“No, he’s not,” I answer, and I realize Florian sees me as the desperate girl who got dumped. “We’re working on a project together. I thought since you’re friends—”
“I wish I could help you, but I’m afraid I only met him that one time.”
“But you…I thought you knew him. He told you about me.”
“We’d corresponded online.”
“Oh.” I don’t know where to go with this.
The sun’s gone behind the hills, and the lights are coming on down the street. It’s disorienting: the shift in how the neighborhood looks in the artificial light.
Florian is still holding on to the door. The keys are in the lock, he’s probably exhausted after dealing with people all weekend, and I’m holding him up.
“Thanks for talking with me,” I say.
“My pleasure.”
I turn and start down the steps, and I sense Florian’s still watching. I look over my shoulder, and our eyes meet.
“I have a feeling you’ll hear from him soon,” Florian says. “Adam was very eager to impress you. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but he offered to pay me to open the gallery so you could have a private showing. Of course, I couldn’t accept his money. . . .”
Whatever Florian says next I can’t hear over the whooshing in my ears. Somehow I manage to say good night and walk to my car.
Adam who has no money, Adam who should know how tacky it is to offer to pay a gallery owner for a showing…Adam did that?
The streetlights are cutting shadows into the buildings along the street, deepening the cracks in the sidewalk, sharpening the tips of poinsettia leaves.
I get into my car and start the engine. I drive past the restaurant where we ate and go one block more, then veer into a residential street. Cars line either side of the narrow street and I cruise along, looking for the hulking shape of an old RV in a driveway. I only get a few blocks before I realize how futile this is.
Adam will show up tomorrow at CALI
NVA. Right now I’m wasting time I could spend painting.
I barely sleep Sunday night, and the next morning I’m at CALINVA by half past eight. When I drove by the building on my way home from waitressing, my copy of Duncan was still hanging in the gallery, but now it’s gone.
Screw me.
I hit Adam’s number, and it rings twice, and then: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”
Nausea floods me, but I tell myself not to panic. The jerk probably didn’t pay his bill. He was hurting for cash.
Then why would Adam have offered to pay Florian for a private showing?
I can’t wait for Adam to show, so I run-walk to the back of the building and Secure Storage, even though I’m not exactly sure what I’m going to do when I get there.
The door’s shut but not locked, so I knock as I open it. “Hello?”
Two guys are examining a large abstract laid out on the huge worktable. From the look on their faces they don’t see a lot of students down here. “Can we help you?” one says.
“Mmmm,” I mumble, and stroll around the room, peeking into lockers and trying to buy time. My copy of Duncan isn’t propped against the wall like I’d prayed it would be, and the locker where we stored it is empty.
Helpless is my best strategy. “Um. Collin Krell’s my instructor and he told the class to study his painting this weekend, but my sister got sick, so I had to go home to Visalia, and now Krell’s going to ask us about it, so I was hoping you might let me see it?”
The guy shakes his head. “Sorry, it already left for Miami.”
The earth crumbles beneath me, but somehow I manage to get out, “Wow, okay.”
“Hope you don’t get in trouble.”
“Thanks, I’ll try asking my friends what it looks like.”
I walk out of the room but can’t hear my footsteps. What did I think was going to happen? That I’d open the locker, find Krell’s painting, then somehow magically switch the two?
Right now a painting known as Duncan, which is in all probability my copy, is in a crate halfway to LAX. And when it gets to Miami, it won’t be just a stupid, innocent copy anymore. No, once it’s hung at Art Basel Miami, the king of international art fairs, my copy will be a full-blown forgery.
What I Want You to See Page 16