I curl into myself. It kills me, hearing him say that. “I swear I will never lie to you again, Kev.”
“It’s not just the lies. I can’t handle how you treat people.”
“What do you mean?”
“How about the way you screwed over Krell and that woman whose dress you sold. It’s not like you didn’t know what you were doing was wrong. You chose to hurt them.”
Suddenly I’m freezing, and I glance at the sky, expecting to see clouds blocking the sun, but it’s clear blue. “But I’m making amends, and I’m trying to turn things around. Doesn’t that matter?”
“It matters, but what I can’t wrap my head around is your need to get revenge in the first place.”
“You don’t understand wanting to get back at someone who hurt you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re telling me you never wanted to get back at someone who made you feel worthless. Not even Chantal?” He shakes his head, but I don’t believe him. “Seriously, you never thought of taping a sack of dog crap to her locker?”
I expect him to at least break a smile, but he doesn’t. “I might have thought about hurting someone, but I’d never actually do it,” he answers.
“Wow.” I shake my head, the heat rising inside my clothes. “You totally believe that. Obviously what I did was messed up, but you don’t know that you’d never cross that line, because you’ve had the privilege of never having your entire life go up in flames.”
He whips his head around and he’s pissed, but not as pissed as I am.
I shove my finger in his face. “You thought I was fixed when I got my scholarship. Since I had money, a decent place to live, I wouldn’t screw up again. But I wasn’t fixed, because the single most important thing I lost can never be replaced.
“You know the real reason I didn’t tell you about the mess with Krell? It’s because I knew you’d judge me. I regret everything I’ve done more than you will ever know, and I wish you could try just a little to understand what it’s like to be lost and utterly alone.”
I hop off the table and Kevin doesn’t even try to stop me. I walk away, my heart tearing away from my chest. This hurts so much worse than losing my scholarship or my place at CALINVA, maybe because what Kevin and I had was what I really wanted most of all.
A news van for KTLA is parked on the street outside the shelter when I drive up the following week. Crap. I shade my face as I pull into the driveway, and a uniformed officer orders the dozen or so photographers and reporters out of the way so I can park.
I park on the far side of the shelter’s van and turn off the engine. I take a deep breath, knowing the news media can’t see me unless they are willing to risk ticking off a cop for trespassing.
Casey Stiner called a minute ago, so I dial her back. “I hope this doesn’t mean the police want to question me again,” I say when I get her on the phone.
“No, they seem to be satisfied for now.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Actually, I called to let you know they located Gabriel Bellasco in Croatia.”
I look around even though I know he’s a continent away. In one week, Casey learned that Aiden’s older brother, Gabriel, is twenty-nine, ex-military, and a hacker.
“Let me guess,” I say, “Croatia has no extradition treaty with the US, so we can’t force him to return.”
“Correct. But the good news is he can’t reenter the US without us knowing, so you can sleep knowing you’re safe.”
“What about that girl, the one in the security tapes? Do they know who she is?”
“Not at this time. Bellasco was alone when he arrived in Croatia, and the theory is she was a student like you who he conned into helping him. The police have set up a tip line, and their hope is one of those leads will pan out.”
It’s no consolation that someone else was as easily duped as I was.
I thank Casey for looking out for me, then climb out of the car. Last week when we turned over the six grand Adam gave me to the police as evidence, she made sure I was identified as a victim of his crime. “The police will hold it until they close the case, which could take years, but then you could get it back,” she explained.
I don’t want the money, but maybe I’ll feel differently when I’m still struggling to pay rent and car insurance on minimum wage and tips.
When I get inside the shelter, Taysha’s setting up. She said she’d help out the first day of Christmas holiday camp, but she’s come back every morning since.
This week, she’s been in charge of the tweens, while I’ve wrangled fifteen first- through fifth-graders. We started with colored pencils, then watercolors, and now papier-mâché masks. Every day, I’ve had to rush home from the shelter to scrape off paint and glue before my afternoon shift at Artsy.
Tay thinks I’m hiding out by coming here, and she’s partly right. Here I get to focus on keeping these little guys from destroying the place, and I forget about my own drama. It’s been a week since I saw Kevin, and he went home to Kansas without even a text.
Florence opens the doors and the kids rush in. Taysha sits at the end of the table, surrounded by giggly tweens. I teased her that she’s got a sweatshop going, because the girls have spent whole mornings making earrings for their friends. Rolled paper beads, Sculpey, origami.
I walk around the table, tapping the balloons the kids covered with papier-mâché, checking that the gluey news-paper strips are dry so we can paint.
Yesterday we started by blowing up balloons, which quickly turned into a balloon fight with flying, farting balloons before Florence appeared and restored order. Today the kids are painting their masks. The girls have grabbed the pink and yellow paint, declaring they want to be princesses or super-heroes, while the boys slap on bright red and blue slashes and argue over who gets to be which top Mexican wrestler.
I park myself next to Raymond, whose big ears, buzzed hair, and pointy little chin make him look like a Christmas elf. Raymond leans over his mask, his tongue sticking out in concentration. He’s stolen my heart the way he makes sure he knows where I am at all times. All week, I’ve caught him looking up, checking if I’m there. And each time I smile at him. See, I’m still here.
I know what it’s like to need a touch point, someone or something solid when everything else has crumbled. If I can do that for Raymond this week, it makes every minute of the wrangling and noise and cleanup of putting on these art lessons worth it.
Florence strolls by the table. “I thought you’d like to know: Julie got off okay.”
Florence and I were worried Julie would refuse to get in her sister’s car when she drove out from Phoenix to take her back. “Did you meet her sister? Is she nice?”
“Nice and…relieved. She’d been looking for Julie for eight years.”
Florence and I share a smile. It’s not a perfect ending. Julie’s still sick, but at least now she’s with someone who cares about her.
Florence sets a sheet of paper by my elbow. “What’s this?” I say, picking up what looks like a page copied from a career guide, because it’s titled “Art Therapist.”
“It’s a little something to think about.”
I scan the description. “You need a master’s degree, and I don’t even have a bachelor’s, plus I’ve never taken a single psych class.”
“Yet.”
She looks so damn sure of herself. “I don’t know if I even want to go to college anymore.”
Florence frowns at me like I’m being ridiculous. “You know, I have not always worked in Social Services. For years, I ran a very successful business.”
I’m stunned. Florence never reveals anything personal. “I didn’t know that.”
“I loved running a business, until I stopped loving it, because it did not satisfy this,” she says, and raps her heart with her fist. “The fact that you are here suggests that you, too, need this.”
“Miss Sabine, look!” Raymond says, grabbing the arm I was leaning on, and I
fall forward, catching myself right before I face-plant in El Diablo.
“Whoa, Raymond!”
“Do you like it? Do you like my mask, Miss Sabine?”
“I’ll let you go,” Florence murmurs, and wanders off. I fold up the paper and take a second look at the name and phone number Florence wrote on the bottom. Underlined next to it she’s written: Career counselor at Pasadena City College.
It feels too soon to think about my future, since I’m still dealing with my past. Casey’s optimistic I’ll come out of this ordeal okay, but if I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that I can’t take anything for granted.
Taysha pops by my table. “You’re still coming for Christmas, right? Because my moms want to know if you have any food allergies.”
Mrs. Mednikov has barely spoken to me since I confessed, so it was a huge relief when Taysha’s family invited me for the holidays. “No food allergies. I’ll eat anything they serve and I’ll do cleanup after.”
I flip through the photographs Tara sent me, landing on a three-quarter shot of Iona in the black Valentino dress. Iona’s smile and stance are practiced as she poses for the press. Chin up, hand on hip, one leg forward, she owns the red carpet. The lace drapes, exposes, suggests, and conceals her curves, so her body appears tall and slim. No wonder she loved that dress.
This shot may be the best, I think, but then I flip to the next: a candid taken in the limo moments before Iona stepped out to greet the crowd. She looks out the window, and the expression on her face is somewhere between fear and doubt, as if she isn’t sure she should be there.
Iona wouldn’t want anyone to see this, and I wonder why Tara sent it. I lean in, studying this person who I lived with for years but never really saw, and a memory hurtles back from a fall day when I was ten.
I went looking for Mom in the Taylors’ house. It was time to leave for school and I was careful not to make noise as I padded down their stairs. Someone was crying quietly in the kitchen, and Mom was soothing whoever it was. I peeked around the corner and Iona was holding on to Mom, her head on Mom’s shoulder, while Mom patted her back. I had never seen Iona act this way, and I retreated to our apartment over the garage. When Mom reappeared I remember asking if Mrs. Taylor was okay. “Everybody has tough times, baby. So it’s important to be kind.”
I turn back to the shot of Iona on the red carpet. This time I will be kind.
The street into the hills above Altadena is a straight shot north for several miles, but then it narrows and begins to wind. Stuck to my dashboard is a Post-it with a man’s address and his assistant’s phone number, but not his name.
Maybe Mona was screwing with me by pretending she didn’t know it. When I saw CALINVA pop up on my phone a few days ago, I almost didn’t answer, and Mona’s hello was so icy, I considered hanging up. But then she told me a woman was trying to track me down for an interview.
“I don’t do interviews,” I replied, thinking this was about the scandal.
“Not that kind of interview,” Mona snapped. “This is for a job.”
The road curves around the side of the hill, and the houses up here are planted farther apart. A couple still have their Christmas decorations up even though we’re halfway through January.
When I called the phone number, the woman said the artist she worked for needed someone with my skills, and I’m still wondering what she meant.
I find the address I’m looking for and steer past the mailbox down a driveway cut into the hill. The drive flattens into a circle in front of a one-story house.
This better be for real. I’m tempted to drive away. I’ve already been contacted by dealers who wanted me to touch up paintings they said were in bad shape. The money they offered was way too much to be legit.
But none of them went through CALINVA to reach me.
I pull up to the carport under the sprawling limbs of an oak. The matte-brown L-shaped house is a classic midcentury with clean lines and long triangular windows under the low roof. I take my portfolio out of the car and walk to the ocher red door. I’m five minutes late. Damn.
It doesn’t matter if you don’t get this job, I tell myself. You mostly came because you were curious. Right now I work enough hours at Artsy and La Petite Tomate to cover my expenses.
An Asian woman wearing a black tunic and loose khaki pants opens the door. Her black hair is fastened into a short ponytail, and a chunky turquoise necklace circles her neck. “Ms. Reyes?”
“Yes, sorry I’m late.”
“Five minutes in LA isn’t late.”
I step inside and huge black-framed windows offer a panoramic view of the canyon. A fire road zigzags up the opposite slope, a mustard-colored cut through the silvery gray-green brush. “Wow. This view is amazing.”
“Surprising how serene the location is considering its proximity to downtown.” The woman smiles at my port-folio. “Good. You brought your work.” She motions to me to follow her. “I’m sure you have questions, and I apologize for the mysterious nature of the invitation, but Willy is a very private man. He did not wish to expose himself to anyone whose purpose in coming was questionable.”
We start down the hall. Long angled shelves of art books offer their covers to us.
Willy who? I run through every Willy I can think of in the art world, and as we emerge into a huge room at the back, I see two enormous portraits.
Holy shit, it’s Willy Steam.
Several eight-foot-tall portraits fill the wall opposite me. The faces look like mosaics assembled from brightly colored shapes: diamonds, squashed circles, and triangles. Oversize photographs of the people he’s painted hang next to the acrylics.
The paintings draw me to them. How Steam has captured these people using abstract shapes I can’t even begin to understand.
I come close to the canvases and then back up again. How does he do that?
A soft thunk thunk makes me wheel around. “Mr. Steam. Hello.”
Steam shambles forward with his walker, but seems too young to shuffle this way. He commands my attention with his piercing blue eyes and streaked mane of hair. His eyes take me in, assessing me, sizing me up.
“Sabine Reyes. Thank you for coming. I wanted to meet you.” He chokes and his words break up as he speaks, but his eyes are fiery.
I fumble through thank-you-glad-to-meet-you-too, and follow him as he crosses the room to a pair of chairs positioned by the wall of windows. I take the chair he offers me. “I brought my portfolio,” I say.
Steam falls back into his chair. “Don’t need it.”
This has got to be some kind of joke. Why am I here? “I don’t know what you know about me.”
“I know you paint so well you fooled Collin Krell.”
Heat rises into my cheeks and I pop out of my seat. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake coming here.”
“You’re mighty indignant for an art forger,” he calls after me.
“I am not a forger. I copied his work without permission, and that was a huge mistake.”
“What if I asked you to paint a copy of something?”
“I’d say no.”
“What if I asked you to be my hands?”
I stop at the doorway.
Steam lifts his hands off the arms of the chair and holds them out. He tries to hold them steady, but his fingers jerk and twitch like they’re playing a frenetic song. “Parkinson’s. I can barely hold a brush.”
His confession makes me gasp. What would it be like to have so much talent, so much vision, and not be able to express it? I go back and sit down. “Tell me what you need.”
“I begin a painting by taking a photo and breaking it into a grid. I’d need you to lay the grid out on the canvas.” He rushes to finish as his chest seizes. Coughs rack his body, and his face turns red.
He tries to explain but can’t get out the words, so I say, “I guess we’d talk through what shapes and colors to use in each square on the grid.”
He nods, so I continue. “Then I’d paint i
n the square, and we’d change it if it isn’t working?”
“Yes. Exactly.” The coughing has stopped, and he takes a deep breath. “What do you think?”
I run my eyes over the canvases. I’ve never seen anything like them before, and I doubt a pariah like me will be offered a chance like this ever again. I could learn from him.
I’ve begun painting again, fighting my way through, experiencing moments of joy, times when I see my visions take form, when the feelings that roil me are tamed in paint.
Six months ago, I wanted to be top in my class, Zoich winner, Krell’s fawned-over protégée, but now that dream feels empty.
What feels right is to do all I can to be as good a painter as I can. And working with Willy Steam, helping him make his visions real…feels right on so many levels.
“I don’t want any secrets or confusion,” I say. “If I work on your painting, I want your dealer to know. And if someone buys it, I want them to know, too.”
“Complete transparency.” Steam glances at a half glass of water on the sawed-off tree trunk by his chair. “Agreed.” His hand closes around the orange plastic glass, and the water inside sloshes back and forth as he goes to drink from the straw.
I’m tempted to jump up and help, but I don’t because I know it would kill any chance I have to work for him.
I want this job, but I don’t want him to regret hiring me. “You should check my references. My boss at Artsy says he’d be happy to answer any questions.”
“Nope. I don’t need other references. I have Collin Krell’s.”
My head spins, and nausea rises from my gut.
“You can’t believe it,” Steam says.
I shake my head no.
“I didn’t either…at first. Collin was my student. I asked him for a name, and he suggested you.”
Now I’m the one struggling to speak. “Did he say why?”
“He said he failed you.”
“Not true. He taught me so much. He changed the way I look at painting.”
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