What I Want You to See

by Catherine Linka

“Mount Wilson.”

  I picture the mountains just north of Pasadena. Mount Wilson’s where all the TV towers are. “Okay. I’m in.”

  “Great! I’ll be there in twenty—oh, and dress warm. It’s going to be freezing up there.”

  Mount Wilson is up an old highway that winds into the mountains, but we’ve barely left town before it feels like we’re hours away. There are no streetlamps and hardly any other cars. The forest hugs the road on both sides, but I glimpse the valley below through the gaps between the pines. “It looks like someone shook a jar of gold glitter over Pasadena,” I tell Kev.

  He doesn’t answer or maybe he didn’t hear me.

  Something changed in the half hour between his calling me and showing up at my house. He’s bobbing his head and nodding along to the music that’s playing, but he feels far away.

  What’s going on? I wonder. I pick up the CD lying on the console and flip it over to see what we’re listening to: a bluegrass band, Mandolin Orange.

  “Kevin Walker partying on a school night,” I tease. “Did you blow off physics study group?”

  “No, that’s tomorrow,” he says quietly.

  I don’t get it. He was so excited an hour ago. “Did something happen before you picked me up? You seem upset.”

  Kev makes eye contact with me for the first time in miles. “My dad called. He’s stopping by.”

  “He’s coming to see you?”

  Headlights flood the inside of the car, and we duck our eyes until they pass.

  “He’s doing a layover on his way to Korea,” Kev says.

  “Sounds like he misses you.”

  “Dad hates LAX and he hates layovers. He’ll do just about anything to avoid both those things.”

  I think back to what Kev told me when we went to see the butterflies. “Do you think this has to do with your grades?”

  “That. Or the cancer’s back.” Kev tries to sound matter-of-fact, but his voice catches.

  “Kev. I didn’t know.” I rest my fingers on his sleeve, unsure if he wants to talk or not. “Can I ask what kind?”

  “Bone cancer. He’s been clear five years, but that’s no guarantee.”

  A hollow opens in my gut as I picture Mom bandaged and unconscious, becoming a ghost before my eyes. “Are you close, you and your dad?”

  “We got close. After Dad lost his arm, he started taking me with him when he had to travel outside the US.”

  China. Poland. Dubai. Now I know why Kevin’s traveled everywhere. “It’s different when it’s just you two, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” Kev slaps the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “I don’t want to think about any of this tonight, okay? Tonight I want to hang out and watch the Geminids put on a show.”

  “All right. I’m good with that.” I’ve seen Kev stressed, but this feels different. I’m praying his dad’s visit doesn’t mean he’s sick again.

  We drive deeper into the mountains, and patches of snow glow under the pine trees, caught in our headlights. Kevin begins to hum along to Mandolin Orange, and I smile to myself because I can feel his mood get lighter. The guitar, mandolin, and bass are a perfect soundtrack for the night-quiet highway.

  After we turn onto the road for the observatory, I catch Kevin singing under his breath. He wasn’t shy about singing in front of me on Thanksgiving, so I pretend not to listen. His voice drops down so I can barely hear him. “I’m a fool for the finest girl, but she’s no fool for me….”

  My heart doesn’t know which way to go, if he’s singing about me or someone else. Like the girl at Caltech or the one at home who broke his heart, Chantal.

  I don’t want us to just be friends, Kevin. I want you to sing that song to me.

  When we finally get to Mount Wilson, the small parking lot is almost full of cars. We park and get out, and the cold combs through my hair.

  Kevin pulls his beanie down over his forehead. “You want your hat?” he says, and tosses it to me, then tucks a blanket under his arm.

  The white dome of the big observatory peeks through the trees, along with smaller rounded top towers. Kev and I start down a paved path where pine cones as big as my boot lie scattered. All around us, the mountains are dark and deep. We walk beside each other, hands stuffed in our pockets. Our arms bump every few steps, and I wonder what would change if I reached for his hand.

  The night is still except for the wind rustling the trees. The quiet seeps into us and makes us whisper. Kevin points out two slender steel towers. “Most of the telescopes here are for nighttime observation, but those two track the surface of the sun. The astronomers make a pencil drawing of the pattern of sunspots every day.”

  “That seems so bizarre,” I say. “Can you get any lower tech than that?”

  “I know, right? But supposedly the drawings give them better data.”

  As we get closer to the buildings, the quiet is broken by bursts of laughter or cheers. We pass a small museum, which is closed for the night, and take a walkway that leads left to the domed observatory.

  People have set up portable telescopes on tripods along the path. They cluster around the instruments. The unexpected scent of hot coffee draws my attention to a folding table loaded down with paper plates of cookies and bags of chips.

  “How’s it going?” Kevin asks one of the guys.

  “The show’s just starting,” he replies. “The hundred-inch is open tonight if you want to see it.”

  “I’ve got a clear view of Jupiter over here,” someone calls out.

  Kevin steers me over to a scope. I peer through the eyepiece at a gray-striped ball. “This is so cool. Isn’t Jupiter supposed to have a big spot on it?”

  “Red spot’s not visible tonight,” someone says, “but if you look to the left, you can see two of the moons.”

  The moons are shiny pinheads. Kevin guides me to another scope. “I can’t believe it,” I say, peering into the eyepiece. “Saturn really does have rings.”

  Kevin beams at me, then scans the sky. “Come on. Let’s find a good place to watch for meteors.”

  The night is washed with stars. We leave the party behind and veer off onto a quiet walkway. “We really lucked out,” Kevin says. “The night’s clear, and the moon’s not up.”

  We come to a bench, and he sets down the blanket. He takes another look at the sky before he places his hands on my shoulders and gently turns me. Then he leans over my shoulder until our cheeks are side by side.

  The heat radiating from his skin makes my pulse flutter. I don’t trust myself to look at him or move my head even a little. He points to Orion and swings his hand to the left. “See those two bright stars?” he says. “Those are Castor and Pollux in the Gemini constellation.”

  I stare at the stars, which blaze like far-off candles. My skin sparks as Kevin’s curls tickle my cheek, and I can barely concentrate on what he’s saying.

  Kevin circles his hand in the direction of the constellation. “The meteor shower will look as if it radiates from there, hence the name Geminids. But we’re the ones passing through the debris field of the extinct rock comet 320 Phaethon. Chunks of cast-off rock hit our atmosphere and ignite.”

  I try to imagine the sky the way Kevin sees it. “So it’s like a cosmic dodgeball game.”

  He laughs and moves around me so we’re standing shoulder to shoulder. He scans the sky above us and I take my hand out of my pocket, hoping he’ll reach for it.

  Then a silver streak cuts across the sky. “I see one!” I cry.

  Kevin looks to where I’m pointing. “Good eyes. I’m glad I brought you.”

  I blush, but I’m sure he can’t tell, it’s so dark out. “Me too.”

  A minute or two later, another star streaks by, then another. The meteors start coming faster until it’s like a fireworks show. I bounce on my toes counting one, two, three, four at once.

  “This is amazing!” I grab Kevin’s arm. “We need to make wishes.”

  “Okay.” Kevin closes hi
s eyes like he’s thinking, and I jiggle his arm. “No. You have to keep your eyes open.”

  He breaks into a grin. “I didn’t know there was a pro-tocol.”

  I grin right back at him. “I can’t believe your sisters didn’t teach you it.”

  He weaves his fingers into mine and we turn back to the sky. I pin a wish to each falling star. I wish for Kevin’s dad to be okay and my troubles with Krell to end. I wish for the faculty to applaud my vision in Seen/Not Seen. And I wish for Kevin and me to be more than friends.

  Each meteor that streaks by, I tag it, silently repeating my wishes again and again.

  Then the sky goes still, and Kev and I wait, our breaths making little clouds. Nearby people are clapping. “Do you think it’s over?” I say. “Did we pass out of the debris field?”

  He moves around in front of me until we’re standing face-to-face. He gazes into my eyes, and I hold my breath as his arms circle me and slip down to my waist. “I don’t think it’s over,” he whispers. “I think it’s just beginning.”

  I’m trembling as I reach behind his neck and draw him close and rest my lips on his.

  Our kisses are sweet and star-blessed, and they feel so different and right, because now I’m kissing Kevin, the guy I should have been kissing all along.

  Before Kevin said good night, he asked if I’d proofread his paper for Color & Theory. With Krell out of town and his class canceled, we meet in the student lounge before Newsom’s class and swap laptops. We’re stretched out on a couch, shoes off, our feet resting on a coffee table. Every so often Kev traces a circle on my jeans with his pinkie and we smile at each other.

  His paper on how the chemistry of pigments has changed over the ages and revolutionized art is so engrossing, I can’t believe I’m reading history and liking it. When I get to the end, I’ve got a handful of comments, but Kevin is only halfway through mine.

  I take out my phone and scroll through the news while I wait for him to finish. Art Basel Miami opened yesterday, and I’ve been holding my breath, praying Krell won’t notice Duncan’s a fake.

  Today, Krell’s on everyone’s radar. Four interviews already this morning and they all feature photos of him and Barry Ankarian standing in front of Duncan. Every time I see the words “masterpiece” or “magnum opus,” I feel sick. People are calling Duncan a turning point in Krell’s artistic career.

  I zoom in. The cameraman’s floodlights are trained on the painting, making the flaws so obvious, I don’t get why Krell doesn’t see them.

  I twist a strand of hair around my finger until it hurts. The patch Adam painted on Duncan’s shoulder? It’s a big, messy blob. At some point in the next three days, Krell’s got to notice it.

  Kevin looks up from my laptop. “What’s going on, Sabine?”

  “What do you mean?” I say, pretending I didn’t catch the serious tone in his voice.

  “You’ve been really tense the last couple weeks. Is it all the stuff that’s due or…that other thing we talked about?”

  I peer at him, unsure what he means, but instead of explaining, he peels off his glasses and starts wiping them on his shirt. He’s so determined not to look at me that I realize he must be talking about Iona. I force out a smile. “Actually, I think I’ve come up with a way to fix the thing with Iona Taylor.”

  “Oh yeah?” His expression brightens. Kev might be even more eager than I am to have this disaster behind me.

  “Yeah. I offered to paint her portrait since I can’t replace the dress. Her assistant thinks it’s a good solution. I’m just waiting to hear back from her.”

  Kevin leans over and gives me a quick kiss. “That’s great. I’m happy for you,” he says, then goes back to reading my paper.

  I go back to my phone and pull up the last photo of Krell with Duncan. Can’t he see how the subject’s eye isn’t right? All those months he spent painting, he’s got to.

  My head starts to throb. Maybe Krell has noticed the flaws but he’s in denial. He could be telling himself that those areas that look off, they’re his mistakes. Why think someone might have forged his painting when no one else had seen it until the reception at CALINVA two weeks ago?

  I press my fingers to my temple. This could all be over by Friday. Krell will be back in LA. The art fair will be winding down and Duncan will be crated up, ready to go to its permanent home.

  Right. I’m either the greatest optimist the art world has ever seen, or I’m lying to myself.

  The rest of the day I sneak peeks at my phone. Krell goes from one interview to the next, chatting up reporters, critics, and bloggers from the US, Europe, and South America. The words “breakout” and “rising star” seem to appear in every profile.

  I’m wrung out from reading all this, so when I get back to Mrs. Mednikov’s and find an envelope on my bed, my first thought is, Damn. What now? I wave the envelope at Mrs. Mednikov, who’s standing a few feet away, sprinkling paprika into a pot on the stove. “It’s from a law firm.”

  Since Tara hasn’t gotten back to me about painting Iona, I guess that’s a no-go. It wouldn’t surprise me if this was Iona’s next move: to sue me to get back the cost of the dress I sold.

  Mrs. Mednikov wipes her hands on a towel and comes over. “Why are you nervous? Look. Stiner,” she says, tapping one of the names on the return address. “The woman who bought your painting.”

  “Oh. Right. I can’t believe I didn’t see that.” This has nothing to do with Iona. It’s good news.

  Mrs. Mednikov stands over my shoulder as I tear open the envelope. A pale yellow check peeks out of a folded piece of creamy stationery.

  I gasp. “My first sale.” I run my fingers over the numbers on the check. “Pay to the order of Sabine Reyes. One thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “I tried to get you more,” Mrs. Mednikov says. “But this lawyer, she is tough. If I were to commit a crime, I would hire her to defend me.”

  I raise an eyebrow and scan the letter that came with the check. “Any idea what kind of crime you’d commit?”

  She smiles, considering the question. “It would be a crime of passion. A murder, perhaps. Very dramatic.”

  “Remind me not to make you angry.”

  “I doubt you would be foolish enough to cross me.” Mrs. Mednikov gives me a wink and retreats to the kitchen.

  Stiner has sent detailed instructions on where and how to send Seen/Not Seen. The woman leaves nothing to chance.

  I pull out my phone, take a pic of the check, and send it to Kevin with a one-word text: SCORE!!!

  This windfall means I could give some money to Julie and start paying Iona back if I have to. I could even treat Kevin to Korean-Mexican fusion. I pull up my bank account to check the balance, which I hardly ever do since I live off my tips day to day.

  When the screen comes up, I see the balance and shake my head. This isn’t my account. It can’t be. There’s over six thousand dollars in there.

  I log off and try again, because what if there was a glitch or I put in someone else’s information by accident?

  The same screen comes up. Oh shit.

  Six thousand dollars. No. This…this…this is wrong.

  I click over to a screen that shows deposits. Oh no no no. Two deposits for three thousand each? The first on the day that Adam went missing. The second a few days later.

  I exit the screen and shut the door to my room. My hands are trembling, and I lean into the wood. Six thousand? That’s exactly what I told Adam I owe Iona.

  No way he did this to be nice. He’s way too calculating.

  Oh God, I took money from Adam. Even if I didn’t know it, the money’s been in my account for days.

  What the hell do I do now? I shove my hand over my mouth because I can feel the vomit rising inside me. I can’t call the bank. Start an investigation that could lead right back to me?

  I don’t want the money, but I can’t give it back. Who would I even give it back to? Krell?

  I can stuff it in
a bag and leave it outside the homeless shelter. Let it do some good. But that won’t solve the problem, because even if I get rid of the money, there will still be records showing it was in my account.

  Take a deep breath, take a deep breath, I tell myself, trying to force down the nausea. No one but you and Adam and the scumbag who has Krell’s Duncan knows it was stolen.

  I melt against the wall and let it hold me up. You’ve got to hold on, I tell myself. It’s almost over. The nightmare’s almost over.

  But then the phone in my hand buzzes, and I shriek like I’ve got a wasp on me and fling it onto the bed.

  For a moment, I’m sure it’s Adam, that thinking about him has made him swoop out of hiding to taunt me. I lean over the bed, and the phone buzzes again.

  “Are you all right?” Mrs. Mednikov asks through the door.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Sorry for the noise.”

  The stupid thing’s not going to stop until I turn it off or answer it. I curl a finger under the phone and flip it over.

  There’s a pic of the Komodo food truck and NEXT TIME YOU’RE BUYING.

  I exhale. It’s only Kev. YOU KNOW IT, I promise before I turn off my phone.

  The check from Casey Stiner slides off the bed onto the floor. I pick it up and set it on the bureau by my portrait of Mom. The way Mom’s bent over her guitar it’s like she’s staring at the check at her feet.

  I’m disappointed, Sabine.

  I drop on my bed and bury my face in my hands. I know I messed up, I know it, but I told you I wasn’t ready. I told you I couldn’t do it alone.

  And I’m back in that moment in the hospital when she let out her last breath, and I realized she was utterly and completely gone.

  My heart tears loose, but Mrs. Mednikov is right on the other side of the door. Shoulders shaking, I hold in my sobs and let the tears fall.

  None of this would have happened if you were here, Mom. You’d have figured out what I was doing with Krell’s painting and made me stop. You’d never have let me be so stupid.

  Please, Mom. I’m so, so lost, and I know I need to fix this, but I swear I don’t know how.