Ruin Me

by Jamie Brenner

  “Don’t even think about getting that,” Inez said.

  “It’s Lulu. I can’t imagine why she’s calling so late.” Anna reached for her Céline handbag, and Inez worked hard to swallow her fury. Damn Lulu. How did she manage to get in the way even now, in this very moment? It was uncanny.

  “Why do you need the car at this hour?” Anna was saying. “Why isn’t Brandt with you? Okay, put Miguel on the phone. Yes, Miguel—that’s my daughter. You remember Lulu? She’s on the list. I don’t know why you’re not seeing it in the computer. …”

  Inez felt like screaming. She was really going to have to pull off something spectacular to get the mood back after this.

  When Anna finally hung up the phone, she turned to Inez with a look that said it all: Game over—at least for tonight.

  There wasn’t much Inez could do to salvage the situation, except be the one to say it first. That was crucial.

  “I should get going,” said Inez. And the look of surprise on Anna’s face told her that she nailed the situation. Maybe it was even better this way—leave her wanting more. Leave her wondering if she’d get the chance. Maybe Lulu had inadvertently done her a favor.

  “I know my way out,” Inez said with a smile. She didn’t bother giving Anna a kiss good-bye.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “This is a bullshit car,” GoST says. “I probably could have carried more on the subway than I can fit in this thing.”

  I pull out of the garage, heading south on Seventh Avenue. “Really? That’s the thanks I get?”

  He’d waited outside for me while I fetched the car, and therefore had no idea that securing the vehicle involved biting the bullet with a phone call to my mother. The worst would come tomorrow, when I had to explain where I went with the car.

  “Just tell me where to go,” I say.

  The thing is, I don’t think I woke her. She sounded distracted—like she was in the middle of something. Like she couldn’t wait to get off the phone.

  He tells me to turn around, to get to the 59th Street Bridge to Long Island City.

  “What’s in Long Island City?”

  “The FreshDirect warehouse.”

  What?

  I don’t bother asking why he’s interested in the online grocery delivery service. I know he’d find any question irritating.

  There’s barely any traffic on the bridge. I feel a rush of exhilaration—a mini road trip with this mysterious stranger. It sounds crazy, but it’s probably the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.

  I just wish he’d take off the hood and glasses. I don’t get it—what does he think I’m going to do? Instagram him the minute I see his face?

  “You can take that stuff off,” I say. “I’m not Lois Lane looking to unmask Superman.”

  “Superman,” he says, wryly. “Funny.”

  “No—really. Do you think I’m going to narc you out or something?”

  “S’got nothing to do with you.”

  “Then what?”

  He turns on the radio, and I know I’m not getting any answers. He flips from station to station, finding nothing but pop or R&B. New York City doesn’t have a single decent alternative or rock station. I stream music over iHeartRadio to listen to L.A.’s Alt 98.7.

  With one hand on the wheel, I fumble around in my bag for my phone and hand it to him.

  “Click on the red heart icon. Then hit 98.7.”

  He takes my phone and in a few seconds the car fills with the Of Monsters and Men song “Little Talks.”

  “I feel really stupid calling you GoST,” I say. “Can you at least tell me your real name? I mean, I am driving the getaway car.”

  “You don’t have to call me anything. That should solve the problem.”

  “Why do you have to be such a dick?”

  He doesn’t say anything for a long, awkward pause. “How, exactly, am I being a dick?”

  “You act like I’m putting you out, but all I’ve done is tell you how much I love your work, and then I help you get shit done. Clearly you get something out of my company or you wouldn’t keep bringing me along. And fine, maybe tonight you’re just using me for the car. But you could at least pretend to find me worthy of conversation.”

  “I don’t want to give you the wrong idea,” he says.

  “Like what? That you’re a nice person?”

  I glance at him and catch a fleeting smile.

  “I told you—I’m not looking for a buddy. I’m a lone operator. It’s better for me, and it’s better for my work. And you say you’re a fan of the work, so—don’t mess with that.”

  “Well, you’re not a lone operator tonight.”

  “Yeah, you know why? Because you keep stalking me.”

  “I’m not … stalking you.”

  “You must be really bored,” he says.

  My mouth drops open. “I am not bored. In fact, I’m extremely busy.”

  “Oh yeah? Doin’ what?”

  Unfortunately, this is a conversation stopper. I guess I can’t really blame him for holding out on me when I’m not exactly Ms. Full Disclosure.

  I glance at his hands, resting on his thighs. I notice for the first time the fine tiger stripe of scars on the knuckles of his right hand. And on his forearm, another type of scar. The dappled skin of a serious burn, about the size of a quarter. How many questions would it take to know anything about GoST?

  “I told you. I’m an art student,” I say.

  We ride the rest of the way in silence.

  *** ***

  The FreshDirect warehouse is massive. Maybe 200,000 square feet or more. The entire complex is surrounded by a tall fence and lit by stadium lights.

  Now I’m nervous.

  “So what, exactly, are we doing here?” I ask.

  “I need boxes for an installation I’m planning,” he says.

  My first thought is that it would be much easier to order food and keep the boxes. But then, FreshDirect probably doesn’t deliver to abandoned subway tunnels.

  He’s already cutting the bottom of the fence with the pliers-like thing he pulled from the box beneath the bed.

  “How do you know where to go? This place is massive. And they probably have nighttime security. I don’t think this is a good idea.” I look around nervously.

  “I used to work here,” he says. “I know exactly where to go. So just sit tight.”

  “Not many boxes will fit in the car,” I say.

  “Yeah, that’s what I was saying earlier and you almost bit my head off.”

  He crawls under the fence, leaving me to sit and wait.

  I wonder what he did when he worked here. Pack groceries? Lug boxes onto the trucks? And what does he do now for money? Maybe he really is homeless. I think his art could be really valuable some day—maybe even someday soon. But he probably doesn’t think about that. That’s just my upbringing: every action has to have a value-added result at the end of it.

  Ten minutes pass. My nervousness turns to boredom. When I finally see him crossing the wide expanse of cement back to where I’m waiting, I stand up and brush myself off.

  The bundle of cardboard is unwieldy. He’s carrying it awkwardly in front of him, like a shield. At the fence, he slides the cardboard under first, then crawls through the opening.

  “Start the car,” he says.

  I motor up while he adjusts the passenger seat to create more room in the back. The pile of flat cardboard boxes fits, but blocks my view of the back window.

  “This makes it hard to see,” I say, driving in reverse out of the field.

  “Live on the edge,” he says dryly.

  Back in Manhattan, he tells me to just drop him off at the garage where I’m returning the car. It’s three in the morning, and I’m still full of adrenaline.

  We’re standing on Seventh Avenue. I halfheartedly look for a cab.

  “You’re not doing that installation tonight, are you?”

  He shakes his head.

  “So wha
t’s it going to be?” I ask. “Since I won’t get to see it.”

  “You might see it,” he says.

  “Really? Where? How?”

  He doesn’t answer me. “How many times can I hunt you down?” I say, only half joking.

  “You tell me,” he says. God, I wish he’d take off those damn glasses.

  He walks away, toward Sixth.

  “You suck,” I call out.

  He stops short, and turns around. There’s about ten feet between us, but I feel something electric.

  “Rory,” he says.

  “What?”

  “My name is Rory.”

  I nod, trying not to smile too much.

  “I guess asking for your last name is pushing it?”

  He turns back to Sixth, shaking his head. “Thanks for the ride, Lulu NYU.”

  “No last names. Fine by me,” I call after him.

  But this time, he doesn’t turn around.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The beep of my phone alarm, three hours after I fall asleep, is painful.

  I groan, forcing myself out of bed, away from my restless sleep. Dream after dream, I followed GoST around, jumping from rooftop to rooftop across the city, like Spider-Man. Always, the fear of getting caught by the police. And of never catching up with GoST. And somewhere along the way, my mother and Brandt were in the crazy mix. But now, awake, suffering a dream hangover, none of it makes any sense.

  I shower, and then, hair still wet, walk down the street to Aroma, where I get my coffee. I pass a newsstand on the way, and the Post headline stops me cold.

  “GHOST Story: Street Artist Creates Mayhem for Gallery Elite.”

  And there, in mottled colored newsprint, is a photo of my mother, in her black Prada dress, standing next to Inez as the fake money rains down on them like they’re Yankees at a ticker-tape parade. My mother looks admirably calm. Inez is already on her phone.

  I grab the Post and The New York Times, drop three singles on the counter, and take the papers with me to Aroma. Sitting with my coffee at the long counter by the window, I quickly flip to the Post cover story. The article calls my mom the “raven-haired art maven,” recounting her most notorious and pricey clients, and goes off on some bullshit tangent that GoST is a disgruntled, rejected artist. It even quotes an unnamed source about how even in the heyday of Basquiat and Keith Haring, Anna Sterling was never a champion of street art, and as someone who called the emperor-has-no-clothes bluff on more than a few occasions, has always been the subject of their distrust.

  I pick up The Times. I don’t really expect to find any mention, but there, at the bottom of the Metro Section, is a photo of the rain of money and the headline “Art’s New Frontier Finds a Clash of Cultures.” The article doesn’t mention my mother or GoST until the third paragraph. Instead, its focal point seems to be the recent migration of SoHo galleries and the impending move of the Whitney to the Meatpacking District, suggesting that the development is the last straw for the small bastion of struggling artists who call the far West Side of Manhattan home “giving rise to a resurgence of protest art not seen since the 1980s.” The article goes on to compare GoST to Keith Haring, whose Ignorance = Fear, Silence = Death murals became a rallying cry for the AIDS epidemic. It says that GoST’s “commentary on consumerism is a natural extension of the Occupy Wall Street movement of 2012.”

  I stuff both papers in my bag and hurry back to the gallery.

  “Hi, Caroline,” I greet the receptionist, who is blond, pale, and pretty. Just a year out of Vassar. She’s deferential to me, and it’s weird because she’s older.

  “Good morning, Lulu. Anna said to meet her in the office.”

  I’m sure my mother has read both news stories. She has all three New York papers delivered every morning. My only hope is that she doesn’t remember that I ever mentioned the name GoST.

  “You look god-awful,” my mother says. She looks bright-eyed and flawless this morning—maybe even particularly beautiful. My mother wears a lot of black and white, but today she’s in some chocolate-brown number, with belted waist and a bell skirt. Very glam. In my wrinkled, white cotton H&M tank and skirt, I feel like something that the proverbial cat dragged in.

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night,” I say, taking a giant pull of my iced coffee. The New York Post is resting on top of her mouse pad.

  “Did you at least manage to get the car back to the garage?”

  “Yeah. Thanks. Sorry if I woke you.” She closes the door to her office. Forty-five minutes ago, a time I now see as blissful innocence, I thought my biggest hurdle of the day would be explaining the car. I now realize I will not be so lucky.

  “Did you have a chance to read this?” She waves the Post at me. “I assume not, since you look like you literally just rolled out of bed.”

  Before I can answer, she says, “Let me give it to you in a nutshell: It seems the person behind the mayhem at the gallery yesterday is a street “artist”—and I use that word very loosely—called GoST. I believe you’re familiar with his work?”

  “Yes,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I told you about his paintings. There was one right around the corner from here. But it’s gone now,” I say, as if that’s the end of that story.

  “Do you know him personally?”

  “No,” I say. It’s almost true. I don’t know him at all.

  “You don’t spend time with him?”

  I shake my head no. “No,” I repeat.

  And I feel guilty. At the very least, I should tell Rory the truth about my mother. Ask him to back off. I know he won’t like hearing it, but he doesn’t think all that much of me anyway. What was that he’d called me? “NYU Girl?” So dismissive.

  But for all I know, that was just a one-time thing. I can’t imagine the FreshDirect installation has anything to do with her. And if he finds out that I’m connected to the gallery world, he’ll never trust me again.

  “I’m happy to hear that, Lulu. It would be extremely disappointing to find out that you were cavorting with people who have so little respect for us and our clients. If you willingly allowed yourself to be disrespected in this way, I can’t see how you could ever have any credibility in the real art world. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  “Yes. But don’t worry, Mom.”

  I know she would never understand that my relationship with Rory—possibly the most talented art provocateur since Banksy—might be valuable to me as a future art dealer. I can’t expect her to. But I know it.

  I also know that I’m not going to blow everything over my fascination with him. He and I have one major thing in common: We want to keep it under wraps.

  But if Rory really wants to be underground, he should stay away from lightning rods like Anna Sterling. He might call himself GoST, but as of today, he’s no longer invisible. More than that, he’s a story that sells newspapers. And when the tabloids get a bone like that, they don’t let go. I need to warn him.

  I won’t be the only one looking for him tonight. I just hope I’m the only one who finds him.

  “I suggest you go back upstairs and sleep it off—whatever ‘it’ may be,” my mother says. “We have the dinner at MoMA tonight.”

  Tonight is the party for some artist’s coffee-table book. My mother wrote the foreword.

  “I’m really not feeling well. I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

  “You have to make an appearance, Lulu. Brandt is going to be there. I’m sure he’d be disappointed not to have your company. And really, as he becomes more and more visible, you don’t want to give other women the sense that there’s an opening there.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You haven’t had many relationships—and certainly none with a man who’s the focal point of so much attention. I’m just telling you, for your own good, don’t be so quick to send him out every night on his own.”

  “It’s not every night on his own—it’s one dinner.”

  “You
said he wasn’t with you last night. When you called for the car.”

  “I’ll try to make it,” I lie.

  Brandt’s not the high-profile artist I’m worried about tonight.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The guy at the Verizon store on Broadway clearly thinks I’m making a big mistake.

  “It doesn’t even have a camera,” he says, handing me the generic little phone.

  “That’s okay,” I assure him. And then my own phone rings. Brandt. “Excuse me for a sec.”

  “I got your text,” Brandt says. “You’re sick?”

  I cup my hand over the microphone on my headset to block out the background noise.

  “I might be coming down with something,” I say, coughing a little. “Sorry I can’t go tonight.”

  “That’s fine—I really have to work the room, anyway. I’d come by later, but I don’t know what time I’m going to get out of there.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m just going to go to sleep early,” I say.

  The sales guy, already hating me for picking out the cheapest, most basic phone, huffs with impatience.

  “Feel better, babe,” Brandt says.

  “Thanks. Have fun.”

  I feel inexplicably sad when I hang up.

  The sales guy leads me to the register. I ask for the unlimited plan, but even this doesn’t seem to appease him.

  “You can’t upgrade for a year,” he says, a final warning before I sign the contract.

  “I’ll be counting the days,” I joke.

  I call the new phone with my iPhone, saving my number in the contacts. Then I do the reverse.

  I walk over to the block with the sidewalk hatch, fully aware that what I’m doing is crazy. But how else am I going to bridge the communication gap with Rory?

  And a bigger question might be how to create more of a gap between my mother and me. Niffer had been right—moving back home was an epic mistake. I can’t have my mother privy to every move I make. I had to fake sick just to get out of going tonight—and that meant being stuck in my room until she and Inez left for the dinner. I waited a full hour after they were gone to make sure they didn’t come back.