What I Want You to See

by Catherine Linka

  I’m coming for you, Adam.

  I’m jumpy as a cat in class, twisting and untwisting my pen cap, because Krell looks like he hasn’t slept in days. His eyes are sunken, and he hasn’t shaved, which is a first. Maybe he realized over the weekend that the Duncan at the party Friday night wasn’t his and he’s freaking out.

  Taysha’s right next to me, and she’d know before anyone if a scandal was brewing on campus.

  “Does Krell look okay to you?” I whisper.

  “He looks like a wreck. Benny had an allergic reaction Friday night, and Krell and his wife spent the weekend in the emergency room.”

  “Poor little guy.”

  “Benny’s better, but the doctors are still trying to figure out what caused it.”

  So Krell was preoccupied with Benny, but he had to have felt something was off when he saw my copy of Duncan.

  As class drags on, I’m beginning to believe that as of this minute, no one, including Krell, suspects there are two Duncans. Those two guys in Secure Storage would not have acted so cool if I’d walked into the hottest story at CALINVA.

  I scoot out of class as soon as it’s over.

  No one answers when I knock on the door of Adam’s studio. The smashed robot taped to it grins mockingly at me.

  Okay, Adam. It’s 11 a.m. Monday. Where are you?

  He’s not in class, so he’s probably working somewhere in the building. I start my search on the loading dock and work through the support areas. There’s a set of stairs that lead to the basement, and as I start down them, I run into an older man I’ve noticed a few times around the building. He’s wearing the same coveralls Adam wears when he’s working.

  “This level’s off-limits to students,” the guy says, and circles his finger in the air, ordering me to walk right back up the stairs I’m coming down.

  “Sorry. I’m looking for Adam.”

  The man screws up his face so his eyes almost disappear. “Adam?”

  “He’s a grad student, but he works here part-time.”

  “Don’t know the guy.”

  “Tall, dark hair, wears a silver earring shaped like a cross.”

  “Never seen him,” he says in a way that tells me to stop asking and get going.

  My neck pinches as I walk up the stairs, but I tell myself that maybe this guy works in the basement and Adam never goes down there. It’s a big building. If Adam spends most of his time doing errands for the faculty, their paths wouldn’t cross. Right?

  I roam the halls, peeking into open classrooms and unlocked studios. Finally, I’m back on the third floor outside Adam’s studio. This time when I knock a male voice calls out, “Come in.”

  Now, some answers.

  Clearly, I’ve interrupted this guy who shares Adam’s studio, because the paintbrush he’s holding is wet. He peers at me through big black glasses, his face squashed between the tan porkpie hat pushed down over his hair and the mossy beard under his chin. “Yeah?” he says.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Adam.”

  “Adam? Huh.”

  He fills his brush with paint from his palette, then turns back to the canvas in front of him.

  It’s Adam’s.

  I march across the room. “What are you doing to Adam’s painting?”

  The guy squints at me as if I’m nuts. “Um, this is my painting.”

  “No, Adam brought me here and showed me this painting. I know it’s his.”

  “I don’t know any Adam.”

  “Yeah, you do. He’s a grad student. He shares this studio. He’s been at CALINVA for almost five years.”

  The guy leans to one side, his mouth slack like he can’t figure out what to do with me. “Only four of us work here, and I don’t know him.”

  My mouth goes dry as sawdust. “Are you sure? Tall, dark hair, silver cross in one ear?”

  He shakes his head like he can’t even believe I’m still standing here.

  “Then I guess I was mistaken.” I walk into the hall and collapse against the wall, slide until my butt hits the floor. What the hell just happened?

  My head drops into my hands and I peer out between my fingers. Adam lied when he told me he painted that painting. He lied about this being his studio, lied when he said he’d meet me the other night.

  My lungs empty and I force air into them. There’s so much that doesn’t add up.

  Julie said he had a truck, but Adam said he didn’t. Still, Julie could be wrong.

  The janitor didn’t recognize him, but I saw Adam fix that light in Krell’s classroom.

  Adam has to be a student here. He has keys to the entire building and he used Ofelo’s account number at Artsy.

  If there’s one person who can tell me for sure if Adam’s a student here or not, it’s Mona. My heart thuds in my chest as I head down to administration because I don’t have Taysha’s talent for getting Mona to spill. I approach her desk, biting my lip as if I’m embarrassed to bother her.

  One eyebrow goes up when she sees me. “You look like you want something.”

  “You’ve been here awhile, right?”

  “Eight bliss-filled years.”

  I can’t rush her even though the suspense is killing me. I sigh and crush my sketch pad to my chest as if what I’m going to ask might be crossing a line.

  “Okay, what is it?”

  “I met this hot guy Friday night, and he told me he was a student here, so I wondered if I show you his picture, maybe you could tell me his name?”

  Mona smiles. “Probably. I try to know every student here by sight, but I make an extra effort when it comes to the hot ones.”

  My heart is beating so hard, I’m afraid Mona can hear it. I flip my sketchbook open to Adam’s face.

  She presses a fingertip to her temple and studies the page for way too long. “You’d think I’d remember a face like this.”

  Shit, no. The blood leaves my cheeks, but I can’t let her see me panic. “I can’t get over his eyes…the way he looked at me.”

  Mona frowns sympathetically and hands me back my sketchbook. “Sorry I can’t help.”

  “Well, thanks for trying.” I get halfway to the door before I turn back around and look at her. “Do you think he lied to me about being a student here?” Please say no.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  I want to break into a run, but I hold myself back even though it takes all my strength not to. I manage to make it across the lobby to the ladies’ room and throw myself into a bathroom stall.

  I lock the door but can’t let go of the lock.

  Oh, my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

  That lying, lying liar.

  Adam lured me into painting a secret copy of Krell’s painting. He had the combination to the locker, the keys to Secure Storage. Adam was the only person who knew about the two paintings, and he promised we’d destroy the copy.

  But then he didn’t show.

  I’m such a freaking idiot. He played me. The bastard played me. How could I have trusted him?

  Now I know which painting is en route to Miami. Mine.

  I dig the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. I’ve watched enough crime shows to figure out that I’m an accessory to a million-dollar art theft. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t intend to commit fraud or steal Krell’s painting. Adam’s disappeared, and it’s like he never existed.

  Getting thrown out of CALINVA isn’t the worst thing that could happen to me. There’s a chance I could go to prison.

  Taysha has saved me a seat in the front row for Color & Theory. Benita Newson conducts the class as half lecture, half debate, and expects you to speak up if you want to pass. Taysha insists that even if we have nothing to say, Newson will give us points for looking interested.

  Kevin slips into the room at the last minute and heads for the back, his engineering book tight against his chest like a shield.

  I want this day to be over.

  Benita’s tunic is woven wool, angles and blocks of red, orange,
and black. When she moves she’s a Cubist painting snapping to life. She jabs the air with a finger and says, “Cultural appropriation. Why is this a concern for artists?”

  Taysha throws up her hand. “Because it’s theft. When members of a dominant culture steal the elements of a marginalized one, they reduce the group’s own culture to a stereotype.”

  My neck starts to itch and I twist my hair into a bun to get it off my skin.

  “All right,” Newson says. “But all artists steal ideas and motifs from other cultures. Isn’t that what we call inspiration?”

  For crap’s sake, could you people stop saying the word “steal”?

  “With inspiration, the artist uses elements to experiment or add layers of meaning. Van Gogh took ideas about color and composition from Japanese woodcuts, but he didn’t try to paint exactly like them.”

  I shove my sweater down my arms, but my shirt’s so damp with sweat I can smell it. I fold into myself, hoping the people beside me can’t smell it, too.

  The discussion keeps going, but I can’t bear to listen. I can’t defend copying Krell’s painting without permission, but I never intended to steal his ideas.

  I should tell Krell, warn him that the Duncan on its way to Miami is a fake. There’s still time to stop it from being exhibited or to warn whoever bought it that the original has gone missing.

  He’ll be angry about the copy, furious actually, but he’s got to appreciate me coming forward, right?

  When class lets out, I head for Krell’s studio. He holds office hours in the morning and usually paints in the afternoon, so he should be there.

  Sweat trickles down the backs of my legs. You’re doing the right thing. You need to come clean before this explodes.

  My legs turn wobbly as I come around the corner into the hall that leads to his office, and I feel like I could vomit. And as soon as I see the sheet of paper taped to his door, I know this is not going to play out the way I’d hoped.

  Due to a family emergency, office hours are canceled today and tomorrow. Professor Krell will return after the Thanksgiving break.

  Should I go to the administration? No, they’d toss me out of here so fast. Krell will be furious, but he’d at least see that I didn’t intend to forge his painting. I was following his instructions to transcribe a painting that moved me, even though I did it in a stupidly misguided way. I’m not guilty of forgery. I’m guilty of terrible judgment and a total disregard for him and his work.

  I thump my forehead on the doorframe, even though part of what I feel is relief. Shit. Krell won’t be back for a week, and this isn’t something I can confess in an email. I need to explain how it happened. How Adam’s the real criminal here.

  I’m just Adam’s idiot patsy. And I’m going to pay the price.

  I’ve avoided thinking about Thanksgiving, but when CALINVA starts to clear out after class on Tuesday, I can’t pretend it’s not happening anymore. Taysha gives me a long hug as we say good-bye in the lobby. “You sure you don’t want to come out to Riverside with me? My moms love a full house.”

  It’s tempting, but I’m not sure I can hold it together between the crisis with Krell and the unavoidable reality of my first Thanksgiving without Mom. The last thing I want to do is fall apart in front of Taysha and her family. They don’t need their holiday ruined, hosting a blubbering, inconsolable mess. “Thanks, I really appreciate the invite, but I volunteered for extra shifts this weekend and I desperately need the cash.”

  “If you change your mind—”

  “I’ll text you.”

  Taysha walks off, and I go to grab a yogurt from the coffee bar off the lobby, but right when I get there, the cashier rolls down the metal gate and flips off the lights.

  The cavernous cement lobby’s empty except for me, the security guard, and Mona in the admin office. My footsteps echo eerily, and I speed up to get out of there.

  My shift at Artsy starts in twenty, so I head up Raymond Street. Kevin’s flying home today, or maybe he left already. I know he was swamped, but I thought for sure he’d say good-bye.

  Passing the homeless shelter, I spy a poster for their free Thanksgiving dinner. The turkey’s shaped like a hand cut out of paper, and a memory of Mom stops me dead in my tracks.

  She’s ladling out sweet potatoes, a crazy paper turkey hat bobbing on her head.

  Every year, we’d spend the day serving people at the Episcopal church. I loved it when I was ten, hated it when I was twelve, and blew if off to go out to dinner with Hayley’s family when I was fifteen.

  “Don’t come,” Mom told me the next year. “I know you don’t want to.”

  I ran to phone Hayley to tell her I could join them again, thrilled Mom finally got that she couldn’t force me to help the less fortunate. But I hadn’t finished dialing when I put down the phone.

  An hour later, I walked into the kitchen wearing a paper turkey hat shedding orange glitter. “Please, Mom. I want to come.”

  And right there on the sidewalk, I can feel Mom’s arms around me and I sink into the memory of being loved. Loved so hard and so stubbornly, my selfishness couldn’t even dent it.

  When I open my eyes, I’m gripping the iron fence. I promised Mrs. Mednikov I’d help her with her dinner, but I bet she’d let me volunteer here for a few hours before it.

  I push open the gate and walk into the concrete courtyard out front, where a half-dozen men mill about. Wrinkles etch their faces, even the ones who seem young. Their clothes are powdery gray, the colors muted from layers of dirt.

  “Hi, guys.”

  An older man in a wheelchair makes a beeline for me. “You can’t go inside until supper.”

  His crossed eyes throw me off, and I want to be respectful, but I’m not sure where to look.

  A man in a frayed plaid coat comes over to us. “Homer, can’t you see she’s here on business?” He motions to a doorbell. “Go push that button. They’ll let you in.”

  “Ah, thanks.”

  I’m buzzed into a narrow entry where the floor is speckled gray linoleum and the walls are yellow and nicked. Light filters through small windows above my head that cage the sky behind chicken wire.

  A woman in knit pants and a purple cowl-neck comes out to greet me. “Good morning?” Her dark eyes sweep over me as her smile warns me not to waste her time.

  “Hi, my name’s Sabine. I wondered if you need any volunteers for Thursday.”

  “Thank you for offering, but we already have so many volunteers right now, I’m turning people away.”

  “Okay, well, another time maybe.”

  “Contact us next week if you want to volunteer for Christmas.”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” I turn to go, but remember the socks I have for Julie, and reach in my messenger bag. “I don’t know if you know Julie, maybe she doesn’t come in here, but I have these socks for her.”

  The woman takes the socks from my outstretched hand. “I know Julie. She stops by for breakfast most days.” She rubs the wool between her fingers. “Cashmere?”

  “They’re soft and really warm.” I see she wants a better explanation. “They were a gift. I never wear them. I thought—”

  “I’ll give them to Julie the next time I see her. I’m sure she’ll appreciate them.”

  I barely get out “Thank you” when the woman’s expression goes hard.

  “Wait a minute. Sabine. I remember Julie mentioning you. She said you’re painting a picture of her.”

  I grip the strap of my bag, sensing trouble. “Yes, I’m an art student at CALINVA.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sorry. What do you mean, why?”

  “I think it’s a fair question. You’re painting someone who’s vulnerable, someone who people often look down upon. I think I’d like to know if you’re doing this to ‘enhance your artistic cred.’”

  I shrink under her gaze. “No, I’m not, or at least I don’t think I am. I saw Julie on the street and then our paths kept crossing, so I wan
ted to paint her. I promise you I asked her if it was okay and she said yes.”

  The woman is still eyeing me, pushing me to explain.

  “You don’t know me, so you probably think I’m rich since I go to CALINVA, but for a while I lived in my car. I know what it’s like to have people’s eyes move past you, judging you but not really seeing you, and I…”

  I can’t go on and I shouldn’t have to. I don’t know this woman, and I don’t owe her an explanation.

  “Sabine,” the woman says quietly. “I’m sorry. I assumed wrongly.”

  “It’s okay. I get it. You’re trying to look out for Julie.”

  “Do you think I could see your painting when it’s done?”

  For a moment, I’m stunned. “Yes.” I dig into my bag and pull out a flyer. “There’s a show at CALINVA in two weeks. You can come to the opening reception and bring Julie if you want.”

  The woman studies the flyer as she walks me to the door. “I apologize for not introducing myself. I’m Florence Harris. And I would very much like to come to the exhibition. I doubt Julie would agree to, however. As you may know, she’s very uncomfortable indoors.”

  “Yeah, she’s told me that.”

  Florence Harris lets me out, and I wave good-bye to the men in the courtyard and continue back up the street. I can’t help feeling I might have made a mistake inviting her to the opening since there’s no guarantee I’ll still be at CALINVA when it happens.

  Wednesday night, I fall into a hard and dreamless sleep, but a call comes at 2 a.m. I fumble for the phone, and my eyes struggle to focus on the too bright screen.

  NAME WITHHELD. Normally, I’d assume it’s a wrong number, but for some strange reason I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Did I wake you, Sabine?” Adam sounds like he couldn’t care less.

  I sit straight up. “You played me, you prick.”

  There are street sounds in the background. People passing by? A bus?

  “True. But admit it: You were happy to be played. You got what Krell wouldn’t give you, and sticking it to him—that’s just a bonus.”