What I Want You to See

by Catherine Linka

  Both Kev and his dad look slightly stunned by my outburst, but Mr. Walker gives me a thoughtful look and says, “Thank you, Sabine. I’ll take that under advisement.”

  As I take a last look at Kevin and his dad, I realize I’m not the only one who has a Krell in their life.

  The lobby is still crowded when I leave the gallery, the tension an electric storm crackling around my head. A news van pulls up in front of the building, so I give up on going outside and instead head for the coffee bar, figuring I could use a cup to steel me for Color & Theory. When I get in line, who’s in front of me but Bryian.

  “You heard about ArtHype?” he says. Heat’s pouring off of him and red blotches cover his neck and face.

  “Yeah. It’s pretty messed up.”

  He glares at a group crowded around a table in the back. “Look at those second-years. They’re smiling like they just pulled off a coup.”

  I recognize them from the performance-art piece they did a few weeks ago. As I watch, two of the guys high-five over something on their laptops.

  “Son of a—” Bryian crumples the napkin he’s holding.

  “Bryian. Bryian,” I say a little louder. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but—”

  He throws his backpack down and I grab his wrist. “Bryian, don’t,” I say, but he wrenches free.

  He moves through the room like a bull dodging tables to get to the second-years. The ones who see him coming elbow their friends to look up. When Bryian reaches them, his voice is shaking. “You happy about this? You think you’re crusaders, meting out justice? This is not justice. It’s just a fucked-up form of revenge.”

  He slams an empty chair against their table, and they half jump out of their seats. “You know nothing, NOTHING about why people choose to kill themselves!”

  There are bursts of scattered applause as Bryian spins on his heel and walks back to where I’m standing. He doesn’t say a word to me, just jerks his backpack off the floor and stomps out.

  I follow him into the hall, carrying our coffees. “Bryian, wait up.” He stops and I hold out his cup. “Are you…okay?”

  His chest heaves as he takes it from me, but I can tell he’s trying to calm down. “Sorry about the scene back there,” he says.

  I nod so he knows I get it. “That felt like it was personal.” Bryian and I aren’t close, but I can’t leave him like this. “Did you lose someone?” I ask gently.

  His face sags, and he bobs his head up and down, his eyes stripped of their usual arrogance. “My dad. He…” Bryian sighs with his whole body. “He had everything. Success. Respect. Us. We loved him, but it didn’t matter because you can’t love someone out of depression. It’s a disease.” He points back at the coffee bar. “I know Krell can be a bastard sometimes, but blaming him for that guy’s suicide…that’s bullshit.”

  Bryian says he needs to clear his head, and I go sit on an empty bench, hunched over coffee that I don’t even want anymore. What’s happening with Krell is so hideously awful it’s almost impossible to take in.

  The second-years are still hanging around the café, but they’re a lot quieter than they were before Bryian lost it. I wasn’t here last year so I don’t know what Krell said to the student who died, but I do know how angry and frustrated and scared Krell’s comments made me feel. Still, I never, not once, thought about throwing myself off a building.

  Krell said some horrible things to me, and his teaching style really sucked at times, but he wasn’t trying to push me out. He was pushing me to try harder, and I did.

  But if that boy was depressed and trying to hide it, Krell might not have had a clue that he was sick and needed help. Krell’s not innocent: I’m sure he added to that kid’s pain, but to call Krell a murderer feels wrong.

  There’s a scuffle by the admin office, where a security guard is telling a guy with a huge video cam he has to leave. I burrow into my scarf. Vultures.

  Adam’s got to be celebrating. No one could possibly look at Duncan now and guess it’s a fake. And the controversy he’s kicked up? Everyone’s completely focused on that.

  Wait. A realization resonates through my chest. What did Adam say when he called that night? Talking about Iona’s dress, he said I was a thief just like him, because I didn’t want what I stole. I kept her dress to get back at her.

  Maybe taking Duncan wasn’t about the money. Maybe what Adam really wanted was this: to hurt Krell. Accuse him, get CALINVA to punish him, and the art world to turn on him.

  But why does he hate Krell so much, if he didn’t go to CALINVA? Unless…unless he was Krell’s student before…at UCLA? Or somehow he was friends with the guy who killed himself, and like the second-years he blames Krell?

  People are starting to spill into the lobby as the next class is about to begin. The second-years walk by, and I wonder if Adam used them the way he used me, because he knew that if he gave them a chance to get back at Krell they’d take it. Tag the painting and let the second-years do the rest.

  I smooth my scarf up around my cheeks. When it comes to exploiting other people’s anger and fear, Adam’s a true artist.

  I can barely concentrate in Color & Theory, because I can’t stop thinking about Adam using me and the second-years to do his dirty work. He’s so sure he pulled off the perfect crime, but when he tagged or got someone else to tag a million-dollar masterpiece with “Murderer,” he guaranteed the police would get involved.

  He probably thinks he’s safe since he’s basically a ghost. Still, all those nights he spent wandering around CALINVA? Someone other than me has to have seen him.

  The painting’s probably in the hands of the police right now, and if they pick up clues that point to Adam, they could point to me, too.

  After class, I pound up Raymond toward Artsy. Effing Adam, putting that six grand in my bank account. He thinks I’m too selfish or afraid to turn on him?

  The scarf around my neck is choking me, and I tear it off and stuff it into my bag. Yes, Adam had my number: desperate, weak, and easy to manipulate.

  The light turns red just before I step off the curb. I wheel around and smash the button, which does nothing. I am not going down for what he did. There has to be a way to fix this. I have to prove he exists. Adam’s smart, but he’s got to have left some kind of trail. Julie saw him.

  I sweep the park across the street but don’t see her. Now that I’m thinking about it, I haven’t seen Julie since the night of the exhibition. Not on the street or on the bench she likes in the park.

  This is not good. On so many levels.

  What if she…No, I just saw her a few days ago. She will show up, she will, but in the meantime…

  I draw in a long breath and let it out. I go down the list of everything I know about Adam, and it hits me—he got my guitar out of the pawnshop. He could be on their surveillance tape.

  I check my watch and I’ve got fifteen minutes. The light changes and I dash across the street toward Fair Oaks.

  My portfolio case flaps alongside my legs, threatening to trip me, but I make it to the pawnshop in record time. I’m breathless as I burst through the door. Steve with the slicked-back hair and moist lips looks up from behind the counter. “The devil chasing you or something?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” I say. I dig into my wallet and take out my pawn ticket. “One of my friends surprised me by paying off my loan, and then left my guitar on my porch.”

  “Nice surprise.”

  “Yeah, it was, but I want to know who it was so I can thank them.”

  “Why don’t you ask them?”

  “I did, but they’ve all denied doing it, so I thought maybe you might remember who came in a couple weeks ago and picked up a guitar with roses painted on the neck.”

  Steve picks up the pawn ticket and reads it. “I remember the guitar, but I wasn’t working the day it got picked up.”

  I slump against the counter. “Darn.” Then I look at the surveillance camera as if this is the first time I’ve seen
it. “Oh, wait. Does that camera mean the person who picked up the guitar might be on tape?”

  Steve frowns, only mildly put out by my asking. He invites me behind the counter to look at an ancient computer screen.

  It’s early in the day, but the smell of beer seeps out of his skin. Steve’s slowly rewinding the tape, and it’s tight behind the counter with the two of us. He’s not a small guy, and I pray he’ll keep his hands to himself.

  “You must go to that art school,” he says.

  I’d like to say no, but my portfolio case is right there. “Yeah.”

  The tape’s wound back, and Steve fast-forwards through the day Adam retrieved my guitar. People jerk on the screen, handing over watches and cameras for cash.

  “What’s your major?” Steve says.

  “Painting.”

  “You paint any naked men?”

  It takes all my strength not to bolt. “Nudes? Nope. That’s an upper-division class,” I say as casually as I can.

  Steve checks the time stamp on my ticket. “Should be coming up soon,” he says, just before Mom’s guitar appears on the screen. “Was I right or was I right?” He chuckles.

  My jaw drops. What the…? It’s not Adam. I close my mouth before Steve sees I have no clue who that girl is who’s paying for my guitar, that girl who looks uncomfortably like me.

  Long hair cut like mine, artsy blouse over jeans, messenger bag and portfolio.

  “So who’s your friend?” Steve says. His hand grazes my ass and I edge away.

  “That’s Trish,” I say, throwing out the first name that comes to mind.

  “She looks like you.”

  “Yeah, people always say we look alike.” I scoot out from behind the counter and gather up my bag and portfolio case. “Thanks for helping me. I really appreciate it.”

  I make a show of checking my watch. “Oops! Late for work!” Then I fling myself through the door and hustle up the street, not looking back.

  Adam’s thought through every detail, even finding a girl who looks like me to pick up my guitar? I slow as I turn the corner, filled with a nauseating certainty that if I went through CALINVA’s security tapes, Adam’s face wouldn’t appear. When we walked the halls, he always carried my painting in front of him like a shield.

  The only person I know for sure who’s seen Adam near CALINVA is Julie. I have to find her.

  When I walk in from work, Kevin’s sitting at the kitchen table with Mrs. Mednikov, and he’s operating on her toaster with a screwdriver. A half-eaten piece of pear crumble lies next to the toaster’s metal cover, clear evidence she bribed Kevin to fix it.

  It’s a moment of normal, of how my life could be if I straightened it out. “Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

  Kev tilts his head back and I give him a quick kiss. He tastes of pear and brown sugar, and the vanilla ice cream melting on the plate. I scoop up a forkful and drop it in my mouth.

  “What’s wrong with the toaster?” I ask, surveying the knobs, screws, and small metal pieces carefully laid out on the tabletop.

  “This morning it burned the toast to cinders. To be safe, it needed repair.” Mrs. Mednikov is almost imperial in the way she rises from her seat and glides into the living room.

  “She’s shameless!” I whisper.

  Kev smiles after her. “It’s an easy fix,” he says, working the screwdriver. “All I have to do is turn this calibration knob toward the solenoid to shorten the toasting cycle.”

  “No more cinders?”

  “Cinders averted.”

  I scoop up another bite of crumble. “You know that’s mine,” Kev says as I lick a drop of ice cream off my lips.

  “I know,” I say, and scoop up a large forkful and guide it to his mouth. His lips close around the fork as I slide it away, and we can’t take our eyes off each other.

  He puts down the screwdriver, plucks a curved metal piece off the table, and sets it in place. “Hand me that screw?” he says, pointing.

  I hand it to him.

  “I heard what happened with Krell today,” he says.

  “Ugh. Let’s not. Can I declare this house a no-Krell zone?”

  “Okay. Sure.” Kevin’s movements are certain as he begins to reassemble the toaster. “Thanks again for trying to rescue me today.”

  “Anytime,” I murmur.

  “Sorry my dad was such a jerk.”

  “No worries. How’d it go with him after I left?”

  “You’ll be pleased to know he asked several detailed questions about the engineering problems I ran into with Unresolved, and we actually had a decent conversation. Not that it changed his mind.” Kev slides the metal shell back over the toaster and replaces the final screws.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  We both look up as we hear the creaking of Mrs. Mednikov’s feet on the stairs. Kev puts down the toaster and reaches for my hand, then gently draws me into his lap. He’s in that quiet place you hit after you spend all your energy being upset.

  I wrap my arms around his neck and gaze into the green-and-gold-brushed depths of his eyes. “Now I get why you were so nervous about seeing your dad. He’s not exactly crazy about you going to Caltech or CALINVA.”

  Kev tucks his arms around me, cradling me so I melt into his chest. “He’s an engineer. He’d feel a lot better about Caltech if it didn’t cost twice what Kansas does.”

  Kevin’s lips are on mine, sure, ginger, and sweet. I want to lose myself in his kisses, but before I can I need to know, “Is he making you transfer?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  It’s not the no I’d hoped for, but it’s better than yes. “You’ve got to be relieved he’s not sick.”

  “Yeah, when you get down to it, that’s the only thing that matters.”

  He’s not fooling me. Kevin can say that all he wants, but like me, he has a dream coiled up inside him like a spring and he wants to stay where he is.

  I slide off his lap. “Come,” I whisper, taking his hand. I lead him to my room and guide him onto my bed. Light from the house next door filters through the window, casting the shadow of Mom’s dream catcher onto the wall.

  Kev kicks off his shoes, and I toss mine in the corner before I slide onto the quilt next to him. He hands me his folded glasses and I set them on the tiny bedside table. We lie facing each other, legs entwined, our heads sharing my pillow.

  He slips his hand under my shirt, and I shiver as his warm fingers travel slowly up my spine, following the crest and valley of each vertebra.

  My fingers brush his cheek. This is nothing like the desperate, racing hunger I felt with Adam.

  Kevin draws me closer, pressing his lips to mine. I never knew before now that kisses possess their own vocabulary, but tonight his say “tender,” “wounded,” “hopeful.”

  And I answer them back, and everything I say through mine is real and true. Let me love you, let me be there for you, let me take away your hurt.

  We begin to shed our clothes as if they’re walls we can’t allow to stand. I read his body with my hands as he reads mine. When we are naked and lying in each other’s arms, we are both trembling.

  “Are you sure?” Kevin asks. “We don’t have to—”

  I set my finger on his lips and slide my leg over his. This is the only thing in my life I’m sure about.

  The next morning, Kevin pedals off to Caltech before I peel myself out of bed. I slide over into the still-warm spot where he lay. The mattress holds the shape of his body and I nestle into it, imagining I’m still in his arms.

  I bask in wanting him and being wanted by him, marveling at how foreign and delicious it is, like a food I’ve never tasted until now.

  Outside, the neighbor’s marmalade tabby trots along the fence, her orange fur brightening and dulling as she moves from sunlight to shadow. Her ears prick up, following the raucous, discordant calls of wild parrots who’ve claimed a nearby tree.

  I press my pillow to my mouth. “I’m in love.” I dare myself to say it agai
n without the pillow. “I’m in love with you, Kevin Walker.”

  The words float in my ears, fragile and evanescent. I imagine whispering them in his ears, his face turning to mine….

  Boom. Something hits the fence, and I jerk upright as the sound of barking and snarling tears through the quiet. Heart racing, I lean into the window, looking for the tabby, but she’s gone.

  I sit back down on my bed. The electric charge of adrenaline has shot me back to the real world.

  I need to get up and deal with what’s in front of me. It’s nice to pretend everything’s perfect between Kevin and me, but if he finds out what I did, I could lose him.

  Hoping this will all go away is just magical thinking, as Mom would say.

  The only chance I’ve got of putting things right is to find Julie. I’m pretty sure she saw Adam and me enter CALINVA together, so at the very least she could back me up that he’s real. Sure, it’s a long shot, her knowing something about Adam that could help me track him down, but how else can I clear my name?

  I get dressed and head out early. Julie’s not out on Raymond Street, and it looks like breakfast at the shelter’s over, because Homer and his buddies are milling around the courtyard outside.

  Most of them turn to look at me as I come through the gate. “Hi, everybody!” I stride past the group, and I’m just about to hit the door buzzer when I hear, “Hey you, artist girl.”

  “Yes?” I smile, looking for signs that the man in the tattered green camo jacket who’s coming toward me is sober, sane, and harmless.

  “You paint that picture of Julie?”

  His hair is silver against his ebony skin and nothing I read off him tells me he’s a danger. I smack the buzzer. “Yeah, I did. What do you think?”

  “I like it fine. Julie looks good.”

  His praise is so genuine, so real, I almost don’t know what to say. “Thank you for telling me. I’m really glad you like it.”