Adam’s money is still dragging on me as I walk up the entrance ramp to CALINVA the next morning, but I stop for a moment to look at Seen/Not Seen. I’m so proud of what I’ve done. Not just because Julie loved it, or Krell was impressed, or Casey Stiner bought it, or even because Gaereth Wattleberg, the Gaereth Wattleberg thinks I’m an artist to watch. I’m proud because I pushed myself to go further, and I got people engaged, got them to reconsider who Julie is.
As I soak in Julie’s portrait, I see what I can’t believe I didn’t see before. Every painting is the painter, their inner life splayed across the canvas. This is even more of a self-portrait than the one I just painted.
The disconnect I feel between who I thought I was, who others think I am, and the truth is right in front of me. Only in my case, it’s reversed. The real me hangs off the canvas, ragged and torn.
Suddenly I can’t stand that the painting is here where my friends and classmates can see it. I’m about to go ask Marco when the exhibition’s being taken down when I see Keiko coming up the ramp, practically standing on tiptoe to see through the windows, and I realize my classmates are so excited to see their own paintings, they couldn’t care less about mine.
I walk in the lobby and start looking for a familiar curly head, because I could really use a dose of Kev today, but then I spy David Tito, Bryian, and Birch outside class on the second floor and remember it’s Tuesday and Kevin’s not here, he’s over at Caltech. Damn.
There’s a strange current in the air that I pick up on even before I step off the stairs. People are huddled in the hall outside our classroom with their phones out, comparing screens.
David Tito waves at me to join him and Bryian, and their faces are tense. “What’s going on?” I ask, leaning my portfolio against my leg.
“There was a fire last night at Art Basel,” David says.
“Oh my God, was anyone hurt?”
“They reported that about twenty people were treated for smoke inhalation. Here’s a video,” David says, and hands me his phone.
I tap play, and the video pans across an exhibition booth filled with paintings and sculptures as smoke pours toward the ceiling. People are screaming and shouting, and the image jumps around as the person holding the camera runs for the exit. I play it again, trying to spot Krell or his wife or get a glimpse of Barry Ankarian or his booth, but the image is way too jumbled and blurry.
I hand David back his phone. “Does anyone know if Krell and his wife are okay?”
“Taysha’s talking to Mona right now,” Bryian answers, his thumbs flying over his screen.
I crane my neck to see down to the admin office. Taysha’s leaning over Mona’s desk, and it seems as if they can’t get out a sentence or two before Mona’s forced to pick up the phone again.
This can’t be good.
Bryian nudges me to get my attention. “Here’s a shot from outside the exhibition hall.” Smoke pours out the doors onto a crowd of people dancing among palm trees and huge spotlit sculptures. The music cuts off, and people run down the steps into the park below as sirens begin to wail.
A reporter comes on, saying, “Despite the highly flammable artwork on exhibit, and toxic smoke produced by burning acrylic and fiberglass, the swift response from Miami firefighters last night ensured that there were no casualties and property losses were limited to a handful of works. The show will be closed today for cleanup and reopen on Wednesday.”
“This is good news, right?”
Bryian winces. “Yeah, try telling that to the artist who just lost a year’s work.”
Taysha scurries out of the office and is still crossing the lobby when she calls up, “Krell and his wife are fine. They were at the party on the patio when the fire started.”
All around us people look up, relieved.
Taysha hoofs it up the stairs, so she’s breathing hard when she reaches us. “Mona said the only person she knows who was injured was Barry Ankarian.”
“Is it bad?” Bryian asks. The concern in his voice is genuine, and even though I’m not used to seeing this side of him, I’m not surprised. Barry’s his dealer now, too.
“No, Ankarian will be fine. He suffered a broken wrist, that’s all. There was a rush for the exits and he tripped.”
“He’s lucky he wasn’t trampled,” Bryian says.
“Yeah, it could have been a lot worse.” Taysha scrunches her mouth as if she can’t decide whether to confide in us, and I realize that something must have happened to Ankarian’s booth.
The weight I’ve been carrying for days lifts and I instantly feel ashamed, but that doesn’t stop me from blurting, “What aren’t you telling us? Did Ankarian’s booth burn down?” I hold my breath, hoping Taysha will say the booth and Krell’s painting are ashes.
She shakes her head. “No, his booth didn’t burn, but there was ‘an incident,’ and Mona refuses to give me any details.”
The weight settles back down on my shoulders. An incident, whatever that means. I’m not safe, but the exhibition hall in Miami is closed today, which means one less day to worry my fake will be exposed.
“You think the fire was an accident?” Bryian says. “Like a neon piece blew?”
“Doubtful,” David answers. “Neon’s inert. It’s more likely someone wired something wrong and caused an electrical fire.”
“Maybe it was deliberate.” Taysha sounds so certain, all of us turn to her. “An act of terror? Miami’s been hit before.”
She and I stare at each other, sick at the thought, but David disagrees. “Nah. A terrorist would have taken credit for it. I think arson’s more likely,” he argues. “There’s got to be a hundred million in art in that building, and it’s all insured.”
“That would make sense,” Bryian says. “If a dealer had a painting that wouldn’t sell or he knew was fake, he could take out insurance on it, hire someone to set a fire, and problem solved.”
My neck pinches as he says “fake,” but this can’t have anything to do with Adam. Ankarian’s booth didn’t burn.
“What the hell!” Bryian holds up his phone. “Krell’s painting was tagged!”
I gasp, taking in the just-released photo. Red spray-painted letters shriek MURDERER across Duncan’s face.
Murderer. My pulse quickens as my eyes trace the bloodred letters. Duncan’s features are almost obliterated by the vandal’s work. “You can’t fix this. The solvent an art restorer would have to use…it would destroy Krell’s painting.”
“This—a normal person would not do this,” Taysha says. “No wonder Mona’s keeping her mouth shut.”
“Were any other paintings hit?” Birch asks Bryian.
“Not in Ankarian’s booth.”
I press on a spot between my eyes, trying to counter the pressure building in my skull. There’s got to be a rational explanation. “Why? Why would someone choose Krell’s painting out of all the art in Ankarian’s booth to tag?”
“Envy?” Bryian suggests. “Everyone’s calling Duncan a masterpiece. Maybe Krell has a rival out there we don’t know about.”
Birch frowns. “Nah. My guess: a commentary on Duncan Pyne.”
“Wait, who’s Pyne?” I knew Duncan was a real person, but I didn’t realize he was somebody.
“He’s a UCLA researcher who manipulates GMO grain. He tries to spin it that his goal is to relieve hunger in developing nations, but his mutant grain is actually murdering the earth.”
David looks slightly annoyed. “Technically, all grain other than ancient grain has been genetically modified by man.”
“Whatever, science guy,” Birch mutters.
Nausea wedges at the back of my throat. I’d love to believe the attack on Duncan is about Pyne and that the tagger’s an eco-activist trying to bring attention to the cause, but a fake was vandalized? Coincidence? I don’t think so.
This has to be Adam or whoever Adam paid or tricked into doing it.
Bernadette’s been on the fringes of the conversation, but she picks this moment to jump in. �
��This spray-paint thing is so Banksy, I wouldn’t be surprised if Krell and Ankarian planned it to up the prices of Krell’s work.”
She’s referring to the artist Banksy shredding his Girl with Balloon the minute it sold at auction for a million four. Supposedly the painting’s now worth even more half-destroyed.
Bryian glares at her, his eyes filled with disgust. “That’s so messed up, Bernadette. Only you would think like that.”
Bernadette glances around, hoping one of us will back her up, but none of us do. She huffs away and joins another group outside the classroom door.
Ms. Newsom finally appears and we file into class. As I take my seat, I am more and more certain this was Adam’s work. The red paint obliterating the badly rendered shoulder and mistakes I made on Duncan’s eye?
But the tagger writing MURDERER? The word is so…so attention grabbing. Unless that’s Adam’s game: Distract the viewer. Get them to focus on Duncan Pyne. The pressure in my head takes hold right behind my eyes. What am I not seeing?
With Krell still in Miami and no class first period, I take my time getting to CALINVA the next morning. I need to stop by Secure Storage before Color & Theory because Marco, the guy who helped hang Seen/Not Seen for the First-Year Exhibition, wants to go over Casey Stiner’s instructions for how my painting will be shipped to her office.
I haven’t been in Secure Storage since the day I went looking for the real Duncan. Despite the fact I have a legitimate reason to be here, when I step inside my shoulders tense like I’ve returned to the scene of the crime.
I glance sideways at the steel locker where Adam stored my copy of Duncan, but no, it hasn’t miraculously reappeared.
Marco stands at the big worktable, stretching a tape measure over an acrylic. He peers over his glasses at me, and the metal tape measure rolls up with a snap. “You’ve created quite a stir.”
I set my portfolio and messenger bag next to the work-table. “I have?”
“Indeed. In the seven years I’ve been here, you are the only student to sell a painting during a First-Year Exhibition. Don’t think the faculty didn’t notice.”
I try to hand him Stiner’s letter, but he waves me off. “Ms. Stiner emailed us instructions as well. Here’s the bad news: A properly constructed crate for a painting the size of yours runs about two hundred.”
“Ouch.” My shoulders sink as I mentally subtract the money from the legit amount in my bank account, not the six grand that doesn’t belong to me. “When do I need to pay you?”
“Never. The good news: We found you a previously owned crate.” Marco beams, and points to a nearly new wooden crate leaning against the wall.
“You guys are the best,” I say, and hold up my hand, inviting him to high-five. He slaps my hand and says, “You can tell Stiner that her driver can pick the painting up on Friday,” then reaches for his tape measure. Clearly, we’re done.
“Thank you.” I go to grab my bag and portfolio case, when a guy saunters in carrying a cup of coffee. The smell of cigarettes pours off his gray-green coveralls. “Marco, you hear the latest about Miami?” he says.
“No, what’s up?” Marco answers.
I slowly pick up my messenger bag.
“Listen to this: ArtHype is saying the tagging of Krell’s painting could be a slam at Krell, not Duncan Pyne.”
I lift the strap of my bag over my head and set it on my shoulder as my pulse takes off like a rabbit.
Marco peers at this guy, his head twitching in disbelief. “They’re saying Collin Krell is guilty of murder?”
I feel like I’m about to be sick and I snatch my portfolio off the floor. Adam did this; I’m sure of it.
“Blows your mind, right? Yeah, they were contacted by”—he rolls his eyes as he air-quotes—“multiple sources who claim CALINVA hushed up that kid’s suicide last year after Krell verbally abused him into diving off the roof.”
I’m trying to hold myself together, but I can’t get out of that room fast enough. “Unbelievable,” I hear Marco mutter as I reach the door.
When I hit the hall, the walls feel like they’re closing in. I dash into the lobby, keeping my head down, hoping to get outside without anyone stopping me. I skirt around people, and they’re all talking about Krell.
“Man, you’d really have to hate Krell to go to ArtHype like that.”
“To come right out and declare Krell’s a murderer! I bet it was second-years. They despise him after what happened to that guy last fall.”
“What the second-years just did, attacking Krell, that is not going to play well with the administration. They better pray they don’t get kicked out.”
I can’t breathe. I need to get out of here. The ramp is so close, I’m only steps away when someone clamps onto my arm. “Sabine!” he says, and I jerk away before I register it’s Kevin.
“Kev. Ah, hi.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He’s hunched over, rubbing his palms together like he’s a fugitive on the run. “My dad’s here—”
I suck in a breath and scan the lobby, trying to control my panic. “Where is he? I don’t see him.”
Kev nods at the plate-glass wall between us and the gallery. “He’s looking at the show. Could you come meet him?”
His dad stands in front of Unresolved, a roller bag and backpack at his feet. His arms are crossed, and even from here, the tilt of his head and slumping shoulders announce that he’s not pleased.
As much as I want to help Kev, I really want to get out of this place. “I’m sorry. I forgot something and I need to go home and get it right now. If you’re still here when I get back…?” I take a step toward the exit.
The hope in Kevin’s face dissolves. “Yeah, yeah, sure. He’ll be around for an hour or so before he has to catch his next flight.”
I hate myself right now, but that doesn’t stop me from saying, “If I’m not back before he leaves, text me the gory details, okay?”
Kevin gives me a limp smile. “Later.”
I throw myself through the glass doors and plunge down the ramp. But I’m barely halfway down when a glimpse of Kevin and his dad stops me. I don’t have to hear a word of what they’re saying to know the visit’s not going well.
I can’t abandon Kevin when he never asks me for anything.
I shake out my hair and twist it back up. Chin up, I enter the gallery as Kevin reaches out and hits the switch to activate Unresolved. The canvas strips begin to flip, and I hang back so his dad can see the pattern break and re-form before I interrupt them.
“So the pattern’s random?” his dad says. His tone is curt and unimpressed, like Krell on a bad day.
“No, actually, each strip of canvas corresponds to a musical note,” Kevin answers. “Each is a key on the piano. The program is translating a jazz piece right now.”
His dad’s salt-and-pepper hair is buzz-cut, and I wonder if that’s one reason Kevin leaves his long.
I edge closer, unsure if this is a good time to interrupt. Mr. Walker’s narrowed eyes bore into the canvas. “How long did you spend tinkering with this?” he asks.
Tinkering. I can’t believe he said that, as if what Kevin’s done isn’t brilliant and inventive.
“Six weeks, more or less.”
“How’s your engineering grade?” his dad snaps, and even I flinch.
“Decent.” Kev seems like he’s keeping his cool, but I know he’s upset.
“Be specific!”
Kev mumbles something, and his dad replies, “Seventy-four? You’ve never had a seventy-four in your life!”
“Yeah, well, the highest grade in the class was an eighty-two. Caltech’s a few notches higher than Kansas State, Dad.”
His dad puffs up his chest, and clearly it’s time for the bomb squad to take over.
“Kevin,” I call out, “is this your dad?”
They both turn to greet me. Side by side, Kevin and his dad are variations on a theme. Same eyes, nose, and mouth, but the sharp edges of his father�
��s features are muted by Kevin’s clear plastic frames and long brown curls.
I go to shake his dad’s hand and my fingers wrap around metal. I lock my eyes on Mr. Walker’s while I absorb the unexpected heft and smoothness of his bionic hand. “Hi. Sabine Reyes.”
“Kurt Walker.”
Before I can get another word out, Kevin jumps in. “Sabine did the double portrait by the window. It sold the first night of the show.”
“Congratulations,” Mr. Walker says. “I expect that’s a coup for an unknown.”
Unknown. That stings, but I force myself to smile. “A big coup,” I reply, telling myself that of course I’m an unknown. I’m a student. There’s zero shame in that.
And it’s obvious that the issue Mr. Walker’s got right now is with Kevin.
“What do your parents think about you attending CALINVA?”
I blink hard, blindsided by the question.
“Dad! Sabine, you don’t have to answer—”
“No, it’s okay,” I tell Kev, and hold up my hand to quiet him. “It was just me and my mom, and I lost her last spring, but she would have been overjoyed I’m here. She sacrificed a lot to give me opportunities to develop my talent.”
Kevin’s smile holds both sadness and respect. You’re awesome, he mouths.
His dad stumbles through an awkward apology that I tell him isn’t necessary, then he makes a show of checking his watch. “You said something about mac and cheese?”
“Yeah,” Kev answers. “The mac and cheese truck’s two blocks over from here.”
“Care to join us, Sabine?”
I glance at Kevin. Just tell me what you want me to do.
“Sabine has class, Dad,” Kevin says.
“Color and Theory,” I add. “Otherwise I’d love to join you.”
Mr. Walker and I say our good-byes, and then Kevin walks me partway across the room before he leans in for a quick kiss. “I’ll come over after work, if I survive.”
“You’ll survive. Your dad loves you, Kev. He just doesn’t understand all this.”
I take a couple of steps toward the lobby, remembering how Mom insisted art was practical, because it challenged you to come up with unconventional solutions. I stop and call back, “Kevin isn’t wasting his time here, Mr. Walker. He learned a lot, working on Unresolved. The programming and mechanical problems he had to solve blew me away, and I bet you’d find them intriguing.”
What I Want You to See Page 23