“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she says. “I’d like to introduce you to Casey Stiner, one of our shelter’s trustees.”
Casey is tall and slender, with a serious smile and black hair bobbed in a way she probably paid a lot to make look effortless. As we shake hands, Casey repeats my name and looks right at me with azure-blue eyes that I bet cut right through bullshit.
“This is the painting I told you about,” Florence tells her.
“So this is Julie.” Casey stands back, appraising my double portrait. “Why paint Julie?” she says, her tone stopping just short of a demand.
I explain how Julie and I met, but Casey’s not as interested in me as she is in the painting. Her eyes dart back and forth between the two portraits like she’s weighing an argument while Florence gazes at the canvas quietly.
When I finish, Florence says, “I think Julie will be happy when she sees this.”
“You do? I’m so glad you said that. I was worried she wouldn’t.”
“You honored her humanity and showed her with dignity.”
Casey touches her collarbone, deep in thought, and I sense she’s about to say something when Mrs. Mednikov, Peter, and Chelsea appear.
Mrs. Mednikov exclaims over the painting, demanding that Peter and Chelsea observe this element and that element. The circle of people in front of Seen/Not Seen begins to swell, keeping me busy answering questions and explaining my artistic statement.
From the corner of my eye, I spy Mrs. Mednikov talking with Florence Harris and Casey Stiner. She frowns and flings her hand out dismissively, making me wonder what the hell is going on. Peter stands to the side of them, grinning, so when I catch his eye I mouth, What’s up?
He slides through the crowd until he’s beside me. “Your landlady is negotiating your first art sale.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all. She overheard that Casey woman say she wondered if you’d donate your painting to be auctioned at a gala for the homeless shelter. Stephania told her in no uncertain terms that she owns your painting and that if the shelter wants to auction it, they should get a wealthy trustee to buy it from her first.”
I burst out laughing. “Did she name a price?”
“She’s asking two thousand, but I think she’d settle for seventeen fifty. Given the quality of the work and the size of the canvas, it’s a fair price for an unknown artist.”
“You’re serious.”
Peter nods at Mrs. Mednikov. “Look. They’re shaking hands. Congratulations. Well done.”
I’m still shaking my head when Mrs. Mednikov strolls over looking like the cat that ate not just one canary, but an entire aviary. “You heard that I sold your painting?”
“Yes, I can’t believe it.”
“The deal is not quite done, but almost,” she says. Mrs. Mednikov shows me the business card she’s holding. “She’s a lawyer for rich criminals.”
I glance at the card. “So I guess she can afford to buy my painting.”
“The money will go to you, you understand.”
“But it’s your painting.”
She reaches for my hand. “I will rest better if I know you will not struggle so much.”
My eyes fill. “Oh, Mrs. Mednikov.” For the first time in months, these are happy tears. It’s not just the rent or car insurance the money will cover, it’s knowing someone actually cares.
She whispers something in Russian and kisses both my cheeks. Then Peter and Chelsea escort her away.
I can’t wait to share the news with Kevin and Taysha. I’m so high from the sale, I finally start having fun, greeting faculty by name and answering questions, chatting up bloggers, and taking selfies with Taysha fans.
A couple hours later, the crowd thins, until all that’s left are my classmates, several of whom are flopped on the floor, their laughter burning like methane.
Taysha and I lean on each other. “We survived,” she says.
“You have a good night?” I ask.
“Yeah, I made some good contacts. You?”
“My landlady might have sold Seen/Not Seen.”
“What!” Taysha slaps me on the head. “When did you plan on telling me?”
“Ow. I’m telling you now.”
Just then Krell reappears. He stands in the center of the room, and we all go quiet.
“Congratulations, everyone, on a fine show,” he says. “Your hard work paid off, as the faculty was very impressed with the caliber of your work. But they weren’t the only ones. I understand that a sale is pending for Ms. Reyes’s painting, Seen/Not Seen.”
Krell pauses and beckons to me. My exhausted fellow students peel themselves off the floor until they’re standing. I smile and nod as everyone claps, surprised at some of those clapping hardest, like Bryian and David Tito, people I didn’t expect would be happy for me.
“But Ms. Reyes is not the only one to experience success this evening. One of your peers has been offered representation by the Ankarian Gallery. Bryian, will you please step forward.”
We start clapping for Bryian, and Taysha bumps me. “Check out Bernadette,” she says.
Bernadette’s clapping, but her face is as pink as her hair. “Oooo. They are never getting back together.”
“Bryian’ll be lucky if he makes it to the parking lot alive.”
Krell waves us to silence. “I wish I could stay and celebrate, but I’ve got a plane to catch. Your final assignment, a self-portrait, is due when I return next Friday from Art Basel Miami. Until then, create!”
The buffet in the back of the room, which I never got a chance to even look at, is trashed. Kevin comes back from it, holding up a lonely Wheat Thin. “I’m starving, but this is all that’s left. You want to get a pizza?”
“Aren’t your friends waiting for you?” Isn’t that girl waiting for you?
“Nah, they’re holding a big D and D party. They took a break to come to the show.”
Yes! I resist the urge to fist pump. “Pizza sounds amazing.”
We grab our stuff and head out. “So, tell me all about the sale,” Kev says. I launch into the story of Casey Stiner, expert negotiator, meets Mrs. Mednikov, indomitable old lady, but my eyes are on Bernadette, who’s ahead of us as we start down the ramp.
She’s thrown on a black motorcycle jacket, and her fog-gray dress billows behind her as she heads for a burnt orange Maserati parked right outside. Too bad Taysha’s already gone, because she’d know exactly who the guy is who drives Bernadette away.
Kevin and I come out of the building, and we’re about to head into the parking lot when I see Julie standing across the street. She’s wrapped in a striped blanket, looking up at CALINVA.
I reach for Kevin. “Hey, I know you’re starving, but I can’t leave just yet. Why don’t you go without me?”
Kevin looks from me to Julie and shakes his head. “No, I’m not in a hurry. I’ll stay.”
The street’s empty of cars, so I dart across. I haven’t spoken to Julie since the night I scared her, so I slow as I get close, afraid she might run away.
Sweetie’s curled around Julie’s neck, nestled in the folds of the blanket. “Hi, Julie, I haven’t see you in a while.”
“Florence said I could come see my painting.”
“I’m glad you came. Why don’t we cross the street so you can see it better?”
“Who’s that man standing over there?”
Kevin’s spotlit by the entrance. “He’s my friend Kevin.”
“He has a good aura, not like that other one.”
I shiver, knowing she means Adam. “Yeah, you’re right, Kevin’s a good guy.” On impulse, I ask, “Is the other one—is he around?”
Julie reaches from underneath her blanket and pats my arm. “You’re safe now,” she says, and a weight lifts off me. I’d love to believe Adam is far, far away.
We cross the street together and I guide Julie to a place on the sidewalk that gives us the best view of my painting.
“That’s me,” Julie says, breaking out into a huge smile. “And you even got Sweetie in there.”
She studies the painting, her eyes moving over the canvas, and I wait, afraid of what she’ll say about the ragged, black-and-white portrait attached to it. When she speaks, her eyes turn sad. “That part there hanging down. That’s old me. I like how you showed she’s not part of me no more.”
I dig my hands deep in my coat pockets. I can’t find the words. Julie seems like such a gentle soul, but I get the feeling, and I could be wrong, there’s something dark and violent in her past she ran from. Her need to be in the open. Her fear of anger. Her wanting to help.
I start thinking about how to share some of the money I’ll get for the painting with her. “A woman wants to buy it,” I tell her.
“She does? My painting?”
“She thinks it can help raise money for the shelter.”
“And bring blessings upon the world.”
It’s so Julie, her saying that. I look over at Kevin, watching us and he’s smiling. “Julie, is it okay if I leave you now? My friend’s waiting.”
“She must be so proud of her girl.”
Julie’s eyes are glued to the painting and I’m thrown, because I have no clue who she’s talking about. “Who’s proud, Julie?”
“Your momma. She’s got to be proud tonight.”
I sway on my feet and suck in a breath. “Thank you.” I pat Julie’s bony shoulder through the blanket and then say, “Be safe,” and walk toward Kevin, carefully putting one foot in front of the other, because I hope, I really hope Julie’s right.
When I reach him, he tosses his head at Julie. “She likes it.”
“Yeah, she does.”
“Still up for pizza?”
“I’m starving.”
As we walk to the car, Kevin says, “You think we could find her later?”
“We might. Julie usually stays right around here.”
“So if we pick up an extra slice, we can bring it to her.”
I didn’t see the glow around Kevin when Julie mentioned it earlier, but now I do. The way I feel about him at this moment, the light he radiates, it isn’t a mere aura, it’s an aurora borealis.
I smile through my shifts at Artsy and La Petite Tomate on Saturday, reliving the exhibition, Julie’s joy when she saw Seen/Not Seen, and the hours Kev and I lingered over pizza. It feels like Christmas lights are wound around my heart, and their blinky brightness fills my chest.
Taysha’s soaring, too, and she messages me nonstop.
9K VIEWS OF ZOETROPE COAT!
12K!
15K! INDIE ACTOR WANTS TO BORROW 4 SUNDANCE FILM FEST.
Kevin sends me shots of his self-portrait as he works. He’s a smiley-faced blue robot gobbling down tacos. WHAT DO YOU THINK?
RESEMBLANCE IS UNCANNY! I message back.
I don’t have time to think about my self-portrait until after I finish the brunch shift on Sunday. By the time I get back to Mrs. Mednikov’s, my hair reeks of bacon, but there’s only a couple hours left of sunlight, so I make some coffee and go out to the porch to start in on the assignment.
A canvas board waits on the easel and I face off with it. The empty white square stares back defiantly. I spill my drawing pencils out on the little table and pick through them, because it might sound silly, but the right pencil makes a difference.
My hand circles the canvas board, and the charcoal pencil hovers over the surface. Round and round it goes, but won’t touch down.
“Argh!”
The terrier next door starts yapping and won’t stop. Oh, shut up, would you?
I pick up the makeup mirror I brought out and try a frown, a glare, a soulful gaze, a tentative smile. Painting what I look like is easy. But a self-portrait isn’t a mirror. I’m supposed to go deeper and reveal what’s under the surface, my true self.
I swap out pencils, choosing one that’s easier to erase. My hand sweeps over the canvas, barely brushing it before my head falls back and I stare at the ceiling.
Who the hell am I?
Last year, I would have said I’m a talented artist, I’m a good person, I’m honest, I’m loyal to my friends.
But would a good person have set Krell up so his painting was stolen?
I’ve pushed away thoughts about Krell all weekend, but now I check my phone. It’s seven o’clock in Miami, and the opening reception at Art Basel is about to begin. The booths are up and the artwork’s on display. Krell’s probably walking the exhibition hall right now.
He knows his painting like he knows his own face, so the only way to explain why he didn’t realize the Duncan at his reception was a copy is that he was distracted when he saw it.
But he’ll be at the art fair for almost a week. At some point, he will look at Duncan and realize something about it is off.
I pick up my cup, but the coffee’s stone cold, so I throw open the screen and toss it on the lilies. Krell’s not blind; he’ll see where I didn’t get it quite right. Not to mention the part on the shoulder Adam must have done.
And then? When he clues in that the painting’s a forgery?
A ridge of pain takes hold of my shoulders, and I slowly roll my arms and move my head from side to side, trying to work out the cramp.
What an idiot I was, letting Adam convince me Krell would stay silent. Krell’s not going to do that. He’ll go right to Barry Ankarian, and Ankarian will have to pull the painting from the show and concoct a convincing story to head off the scandal so it doesn’t sink his gallery.
The pain’s dug in. Dammit. I fold one arm over my chest and pull with the other, trying to force the cramp free.
Krell might be in shock, but Ankarian will be pissed. Because even if the insurance pays out, he’ll have to tell the buyer what happened.
I picture him at Krell’s reception, eyeing the crowd, sorting us into those who are worthy of his attention and those who are not. With an ego like his, he’s not going to let this go. Not when he’ll have a million reasons to hunt down the person who painted the copy.
And of course, the investigation will start at CALINVA, because no one outside it even saw Duncan until the day before Krell’s reception when it was sent out to be photographed.
I stretch my arms out in front of me, only now seeing that my fingertips are black from my charcoal pencil. I spit onto a paper towel and try to wipe off the residue, but it clings to my skin.
Krell will narrow down the suspects to painters with the strongest technical skills. I run through the first-years. Me, Bernadette, and Bryian will be the top suspects, but I don’t know the upper classes or grad students well enough to guess who else they’ll target.
Whoever’s in charge of the search will probably check security tapes to figure out which of us got into Krell’s studio when he wasn’t there. I try to picture the halls. I don’t remember any security cameras, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.
My chest tightens as I recall one by the back door on the pole with the security light. Shit. I’m on tape going in a door that students don’t normally use.
No, wait; that’s good. If there’s a tape, Adam’s on it, too. It proves he exists.
But Adam’s gone, and my fingerprints are all over the painting. I’m so, so screwed, but there’s nothing I can do.
I shut my eyes and count to five as I breathe in, hold the breath, and slowly release. Again. Again. My heartbeat begins to slow.
God, I want this over.
When I open my eyes, it’s no surprise the canvas in front of me is still blank. But I’m clued in to who I am: a liar.
And unless I admit that, I’m stuck.
Fine. “I’m a fraud,” I whisper. I say it again, a little louder. “I’m a cheat.”
My pencil circles the board twice then touches down. A vision forms in my head and flows through my fingers, and a sketch emerges: my face as Raphael would draw a Madonna with lowered eyes and a gentle smile. From the neck up, I appear innocent, happy even.
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br /> But the hands I draw hold open the doors of the wood cabinet that is my chest. A bluebird wheels out of it, fleeing the burning house that consumes the inside.
Mrs. Mednikov steps out on the porch, cat-quiet in her slippers. I’m tempted to cover my drawing, but I’ve never done that with my art before.
Her tea smells of orange and cinnamon, and when I glance over my shoulder, she’s taking in my sketch.
“This drawing. This is how you feel?” she says.
I answer the only way I can. “Yes.”
She’s never hugged me or squeezed my hand, but I feel her embrace in the tender way she says, “I pray the end of your trials is near.”
“Me too,” I say. Me too.
The painting moves swiftly as if it demands to be painted. It tells me which colors to use, where to throw light and deepen the dark, how to angle my brush, and how long, short, strong, or delicate the strokes should be. I work until the sun begins to set, then put the canvas aside to dry.
I roll my shoulders and shake out my hands. The portrait’s so honest, just looking at it makes me nervous.
One last look around, and I gather my dirty brushes and go inside. I’m washing the brushes out in the kitchen when my phone lights up and it’s Kev. My lips curve into a smile. “Hi. I didn’t expect to hear from you.”
“Hey,” he says. “Are you busy?”
I wipe a wet brush on a paper towel, checking the bristles for any paint I’ve missed. “Depends.”
“There’s this party…” He says it like he’s sure I won’t want to come. I get it. I’ve turned him down before.
“You sound like you want to go,” I say.
“It’s the Geminids, this is your chance to see them.”
Clearly, he’s talking about an indie band. “I don’t know them,” I say.
“I promise, you’ll love the Geminids. Biggest meteor shower of the year.”
I smile so big at his excitement, my cheeks crease. “So where’s the party?” I say, imagining a kegger on some rooftop at Caltech.
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