Krell sets his latte on the table up front, and when he finally takes us in, he blinks as if he didn’t register we were here until that very moment.
“Welcome back, Professor Krell,” Bernadette says.
He nods, and even that seems hard for him.
The granola’s a brick in my stomach. It’s awful, seeing him like this.
“We’re really sorry about what happened at Art Basel,” Bryian offers. “We hope the police find whoever did that to your painting.”
Krell’s gaze darts to the ceiling. “Thank you. Your concern is much appreciated.”
“Will they attempt to restore Duncan?”
Krell can’t seem to bear to look at us. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling. “Duncan has been examined by a restoration expert who believes it is unlikely it can be returned to its former state.”
A minute goes by while we all sit in silence before Krell returns his attention to us and launches into his lecture.
“Self-portraits are an ironic art form. We look into the soul of the person we know best, but oddly that may be the person who perplexes us most. We try to control how the viewer perceives us, but our subconscious can defy our efforts and reveal much more than we intend. Self-portraits are mirrors and windows, and sometimes they are wells.”
Then the air seems to go out of him, and instead of standing or pacing like he usually does, he slips into a chair at the front. His mouth is flat, and his brows sag as if they’re too heavy to hold up.
Taysha and I exchange glances. “Someone’s philosophical today,” she murmurs.
“Bernadette,” Krell says, “could you bring your por-trait up?”
Back in September, I might have enjoyed Krell’s misery. His masterpiece ruined. His reputation destroyed as the art world paints him as a monster who drove a student to kill himself.
But right now what I feel is more complicated. I can’t believe I feel sorry for him, when he brought so much of this mess on himself by treating people the way he did, but I do, and I hate the part I played in it.
Bernadette’s neon-pink hair is topped with a crimson head wrap, and she’s tucked a row of pink silk roses into a fold in the velvet.
“I see Frida Kahlo’s made an appearance,” Birch says under his breath.
Bernadette sets her canvas on the easel, and I don’t have a decent view, but people around me are coughing into their hands and making eyes at each other. I lean to one side so I can see.
She’s painted herself from behind, crouching naked over a pile of splintered bones. What the…?
“Tell me those are not real bones,” Taysha says.
I clamp my teeth over my knuckle so I don’t laugh.
“Of course they’re real,” Birch mutters. “The question is did she herself trap and kill the animal they belong to.”
Taysha considers this. “Too small for a deer,” she says.
“Probably a dog,” Birch replies. “Once I heard her say she hates corgis.”
I kick Birch in the ankle. I’m warning you. Stop.
Krell calls Bryian up to the front, and Bernadette clips his canvas with hers as she carries it back to her seat. Birch nods in her direction. “The other day, I saw her coming out of the Humane Society.”
I roll my eyes, and Birch shrugs. “Just saying.”
There’s a knock on the door and the dean sticks her head in. “Professor Krell, can I talk with you outside?” Krell steps into the hall and closes the door behind him.
I look at my portrait once more, imagining what Birch will whisper about me when I’m up front. House on fire? Birch’ll have a field day with that, but he can’t go too far or Taysha will shut him down.
A minute later Krell returns. He asks Bryian to take his seat and he stands at the front, hands on his hips. Krell’s eyes slowly sweep the room as if he’s trying to capture the moment.
I squint at Taysha. Any idea what’s going on?
She shakes her head no, but right as she leans in to whisper something, Krell clears his throat.
“The administration will issue an announcement this morning, but I wanted to tell you in person that I am resigning my position as department chair effective immediately and plan to take an indefinite leave from teaching.”
No. He can’t be doing this. Everyone around me…we all gape at each other, hoping we heard him wrong.
“Rumors will abound regarding my decision; I urge you not to give them credence. As a working artist who has secured several new commissions, and as a new father, I have made a choice I believe works best for my art, my family, and ultimately, the students at CALINVA. That said, I have enjoyed our time together profoundly, and my only regret is that I will no longer have a front seat to observe your creative endeavors.”
What? No! I don’t care what Krell says about his com-missions or being a new parent, I can’t believe he really wants this.
Bernadette stands up. “We won’t let the administration do this to you, Professor Krell. We’ll start a petition….”
He raises a hand to silence her. “Bernadette, your belief that I was forced to resign is mistaken and that is all I intend to say on the matter. Bryian, if you would come to the front, please.”
My heart is pounding so loudly in my ears, I’m surprised no one else hears it. Maybe Krell wasn’t forced to resign, but I doubt he would have quit if I’d come forward a week ago and confessed.
When I painted Duncan, I gave Adam the weapon he needed to take down Krell. If I’d told Krell that my copy of Duncan was shipped to Miami and the original was gone, there wouldn’t have been a Krell painting at Art Basel for Adam to tag.
Adam would have had to find a way to take down Krell without me.
Bryian struggles to hold it together up at the front as Krell comments on the creative choices Bryian made on his self-portrait. We all knew Bryian was counting on Krell to be here for him and mentor him, so he’s probably in shock.
The ripples of what I’ve done, the choices I’ve made, keep expanding, slamming everyone around me.
Krell calls my name. It takes all my concentration not to step on the bags and paint boxes and portfolio cases beside everyone’s stools as I carry my portrait up to the front. I place my painting on the easel and turn to face Krell.
I try to keep my face composed as I look him in the eyes, sure he must see the guilt in mine.
But he must not, because he focuses his gaze on the painted girl whose open chest reveals the burning house inside. I expect Krell to complain that my style isn’t bold or experimental enough, that I’ve reverted to my old ways, but he doesn’t. Head propped on one hand, he looks at me almost tenderly and says, “You would not have painted this six months ago. You aren’t trying to impress the viewer with your virtuosity. It’s the most honest thing you’ve painted all semester.”
I’m not sure he hears me thank him, because I barely hear it myself. Air fills my head and I’m almost dizzy as I go back to my seat. I plop down on my stool and Taysha wraps an arm around me. “Great job,” she whispers.
I smile back, but inside I’m ashes.
I sit through the rest of class, but I don’t hear a word Krell says.
Adam won. He forced Krell out and I helped him. I could have come forward weeks ago. I could have stopped Adam, but now it’s too late.
A few seats over, Bernadette is sniffling and Bryian’s biting the skin around his thumb. A fluorescent bulb starts to flicker, so I duck my head, trying to keep the strobing light from making me feel sicker than I already do. I’m dying inside, full of disgust at Adam and at myself.
Taysha leans over and whispers, “Seems like you’re taking Krell’s leaving awfully hard.”
I give her a broken smile. “Yeah, who’d have thought I’d be upset?”
Krell’s leaving CALINVA, so does it really matter anymore if I come forward about Adam? Would it be stupid to confess when my confession won’t change what’s happened?
There’s a chance the police are so focused on the
tagging, no one realizes Duncan’s a fake. They might never find the tagger, or if they do, he could insist that Duncan Pyne, not Krell, was his target.
Say nothing, and there’s a chance I can go on with my life, my scholarship secure. I keep my friends at CALINVA, my cozy room at Mrs. Mednikov’s. I spend the next three years living my dream, and when I graduate, I might have a dealer and a slot in my first group show.
I look over at the portrait on my easel and the house in my chest consumed by fire and realize I’m still lying to myself. Until I come clean, until I confess what I know to Krell and my friends, I’ll continue being this girl whose lies are destroying her from the inside. I will always be scared of being exposed and losing Kevin and this new family I’ve created.
I need to tell Krell what happened to Duncan, not just for him, but for me.
I pull my sweater tighter around me because the room has turned incredibly cold. My fingers are ice and I slide my hands into my sleeves. I’m afraid, Mom.
I close my eyes and her voice in my head is quiet and clear. I know, baby, I know, but the only way out is through.
The way out is right in front of me. I open my eyes, taking in Kevin and Taysha, my rivals, Bryian and Bernadette, and this room where I was ridiculed and embarrassed, but ultimately learned so much.
After class, I ask Kevin and Taysha if they have a few minutes to talk. What I have to tell them is so combustible that I make them come with me to the roof. The garden’s empty except for a couple of grad students grabbing a smoke, but I lead my friends to a far corner.
It’s warm and sunny and the blue sky is cloudless, while inside my chest a storm is roiling. I’m not sure what I expect from telling them, but I can’t keep going on alone.
We drop into tangerine-colored plastic chairs, and the look on my face must be desperate, because Kevin and Taysha draw their chairs up so close our knees almost touch.
“What’s going on, Sabine?” Kev says. “Why did you bring us up here?”
I hug my sketchbook to my chest, but the cardboard cover can’t protect me. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”
“What’s this about?” Taysha asks.
“It’s about Krell. But you have to promise this stays with us.”
Kevin glances at Taysha, and she nods back. “Go ahead,” he says.
“I think I know who’s responsible for setting the fire at Art Basel and vandalizing Krell’s painting.”
They look at me like I’ve lost it. Kevin shakes his head. “How could you possibly know anything about that?”
Taysha shoots a look at Kevin. Hold off. “What is it?” she says. “What do you want to tell us?”
“There was this guy…” I open the sketchbook to Adam’s portrait and turn it so they can see. There’s no going back from here, but I feel myself circling the truth, trying to avoid telling them what I’ve done. “I don’t know his name. I know what he looks like, and that he drives a gray pickup with Colorado plates.”
“Where did you meet this guy?” Kevin says, trying to place him. “Did he model for your drawing class?”
Taysha stares at me. “That’s the painter you went out with.”
“You went out with this guy?” Kevin says.
“Only a couple of times.”
His lips curl as he studies Adam’s face. “How could you go out with him and not know his name?”
“Because he told me his name was Adam, but it wasn’t.”
Taysha’s shaking her head.
“I know you warned me about him, but how was I to know that everything he told me was a lie?”
“What did he tell you?” Kevin says.
“He claimed he was a grad student here, and he had keys to the whole building, and he took me to one of the studios and showed me a painting he said was his, but later I met the student who actually painted it.”
“So this guy was running around CALINVA pretending he’s a student. That doesn’t prove he has anything to do with the fire or vandalizing Krell’s painting,” Kevin says.
“He hates Krell.”
“So does half the school.”
“That number seems high to me,” Taysha mutters.
“The point is,” Kevin says, “where’s your proof?” He’s angry, and I’m not sure what’s made him madder: that I hung out with a scumbag or that I didn’t tell him about the guy before.
I suck in a breath as if I’m diving into the deep end, and dig my fingers into my hair.
“What are you hiding, Sabine? What don’t you want us to know?” Kevin snaps.
“What the hell, Kevin?” Taysha reaches for me, but I wave her off.
“Is this why you’ve been so upset lately?” Kevin says.
I nod, and try to find my voice. “I’m involved. In this mess with Krell and Art Basel. I’m involved.”
“No, how are you involved?”
There’s no way out but the truth. “That was my painting in Miami. Not Krell’s. It was a copy, not the original.”
“Oh no! No no no!” Taysha folds her arms over her chest, but Kev sucks in a breath and closes his eyes, which hurts so much more. Taysha can’t believe I’m capable of crossing the line like this, but Kevin totally accepts that I am.
“Go on,” he says. “Tell us how it happened.”
I start with the day Adam approached me at Artsy, and tell how I went from visiting Krell’s studio to copying Duncan, then Adam going missing, and my painting being swapped for Krell’s. I explain how I had nothing to do with the vandalism at Art Basel and am as shocked as they are about how it’s hurt Krell.
Kevin has barely looked at me since I began my story, and now he can’t stop shaking his head. “I can’t wrap my head around why you’d do something so stupid. Going into Krell’s studio behind his back, and painting a copy without permission.”
My face goes so hot, it feels sunburned. “I don’t know. I was scared, I was an idiot.”
Taysha jumps in. “He played her. Sabine’s a victim here. That guy manipulated her.”
Kevin ignores her. “Was that really it?” he says, his voice breaking. “Why didn’t you come forward when you knew the paintings had been switched? You didn’t even try to fix the situation.”
“Yes, I did! I tried to find Adam, I asked people if they knew him. I quizzed Julie about his car, and I figured out he had an accomplice.”
“Yeah, you.”
This stings worse than if Kev slapped me, and I count to five before I answer. “Not me, a girl who looks like me. I saw her on tape at the pawnshop paying for my guitar.”
“Wait. You said…No, sorry, you let me believe you picked up your mom’s guitar.”
His cheeks are red and blotchy. This is one lie too many, and Kevin’s sympathy’s run out.
“Kevin, stop it.” Taysha’s gripping the arm of my chair. “Can’t you see she’s trying to turn this around?”
The muscle in his jaw twitches and anger’s blowing off him like smoke.
“Please, Kevin. I need your help. I don’t know how to get out of this mess.”
His voice is so calm, so carefully constructed, I feel him forcing himself not to snap. “The answer’s pretty clear since you only have one option.”
“What’s that?” As if I don’t already know.
“Confess. Show Krell the guy’s picture since he’ll probably recognize him. How about hire a lawyer before you have to turn yourself in to the police.”
Even though I’ve been thinking the same thing, it sounds a hundred times worse coming from Kev. “I hoped you’d say something different.”
“I guess I could have lied and told you what you wanted to hear, but that hasn’t proven to be an effective strategy so far, has it?” he says.
I’ve got no witty comeback, and we must all sense we’re done talking, because Kevin and Taysha move their chairs back and I stow my sketch pad away. Kevin’s the first to get up.
“Call me later,” he says. “Let me know how it go
es.”
“Kevin?” I jump out of my chair, but he’s disappeared around a corner. No kiss. No hug. No looking back.
Taysha puts her arm around my shoulder. “Give him a few days,” she murmurs.
“Sure,” I say, but my insides are ruins. I swallow back my tears, because if I let go now, I’m not getting off this roof.
“You got a lawyer you can call?”
“Ironically enough, I’ve got a direct line to one of the best criminal lawyers in LA.”
“Not the one who bought your painting?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
Taysha walks me back to the lobby and offers to drive me home, but I tell her no, I’ve got to go to work. Each block I walk feels like ten, and I’m barely conscious of where I’m headed until I’m standing next to my car in the alley. I climb into the backseat, curl up in the corner, and stare at the brick wall outside the window.
Tears trickle down my face, and I dig into my pain, letting it loose until my chest is heaving. I rage at Adam and God and fucking fate, and drivers who hit people and run away. And I rage against myself when there’s no one left to blame. I made my own choices. Adam didn’t force me to copy Krell’s painting. I wanted to.
My clothes are soaked with sweat when I finally lean my head back against the seat. The sky beyond the sunroof is faded blue.
Help me, Mom. I’m so messed up. Help me.
I see her cradling her wrist, her thumb rubbing the word inked into it. When her eyes meet mine, they’re disappointed, but still loving. You can’t fix the problem if you’re not honest about how you’ve messed up. Time to come clean, baby.
I wipe the last tears off my cheeks. My hand shakes as I dig my phone out of my bag. I steady my breathing and dial, but I’m still thrown when the phone only rings twice before a receptionist answers.
He rattles off the firm’s name, but my mouth is so dry I can’t speak before he rattles it off again.
My thumb hovers over the end-call button for what feels like forever, but at last I hear myself say, “I’d like to speak to Casey Stiner. Can you please tell her Sabine Reyes is calling and I need her help.”
Casey Stiner drives me to Krell’s house. We idle at a crosswalk while kids walking home from school dart in front of her car to catch up to their friends.
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