Your Destination Is on the Left

by Lauren Spieller

  “You’re saying the pieces should be displayed randomly? That’s not a concept.”

  “No, not randomly. But I don’t think we should group the pieces based on medium, or theme, or something like that, either.”

  “Then what would you suggest?”

  “They should speak to each other through . . . uh . . .” I search for the right term. I want people to see that Fiona’s pieces have something in common, but that they aren’t all the same. That they’re in conversation with each other, and that the conversation is sometimes an argument. “The pieces should speak to each other through their differences.”

  “That’s called juxtaposition.” Fiona strides toward us. “And it sounds like a good idea to me, especially since I’m working with so many different mediums this time around.”

  Jordan plasters a smile onto her face. “Conversation through conflict,” she says, like it was her idea in the first place. “Wonderful. I’ll draw up a few concepts.”

  “The two of you should do it together,” Fiona says. “There’s a lot Dessa can learn from working with you, Jordan, and she’s already shown that she has great ideas.”

  Jordan nods, but her lips twitch with annoyance. Spending more time together sounds unpleasant. But Fiona said I have great ideas, and that’s all that matters.

  “I’ll give you a call and let you know when you can come by,” Jordan says, her eyes traveling from my face down to my too-short dress. She smiles, but it’s not quite as warm as the one she gave us when we first walked in.

  Fiona gives me a pointed look and wanders outside, leaving Jordan and me alone. Crap. Fiona can’t regret bringing me. I clear my throat.

  “Actually,” I say, summoning my courage, “I’ll come by on . . . um . . .” I open the planner Fiona gave me and flip through a few pages, pretending to check my schedule. “Tuesday?”

  She gives me another tight-lipped smile. “Tuesday it is, Tessa. Be here at five.”

  “It’s Dessa . . . ,” I say, but she’s already walking away, her heels clickclickclick-ing across the floor.

  “Wait!” My voice bounces off the empty walls of the gallery. “Don’t you think that’s too late to meet? We may need a few hours.”

  She stares at me, and I can practically hear her weighing the pros and cons of arguing. My hands start to sweat, but I resist the urge to wipe them off on my dress.

  “Fine,” Jordan says at last. “How’s ten a.m.?”

  “Perfect.”

  We nod at each other, and Jordan walks away. I let out a sigh of relief. If Cy were here instead of running around Texas with his new girlfriend, he’d be proud of me for standing up to her.

  On the way back from the gallery, Fiona stops at a taco stand and orders us both three tacos de carne asada and a tall glass bottle of Coke. We eat our food in the car, the doors thrown open since the air conditioning doesn’t work. I take a sip of my Coke, and for a second I consider saving the bottle—the rounded edges that make the bottom would make interesting shards for my box of glass back in the RV—but then I put it down and take another bite of my taco.

  Fiona tilts her chair back and kicks off her heels, folding her legs against the steering wheel. “What do you think so far?”

  I swallow a bite of taco even though I haven’t finished chewing. It goes down rough. “What do you mean?” I choke out.

  “About the glamorous life of a starving artist, of course.” She gestures around us—at the broken AC, the empty bottles on the floor of the back seat, the sunroof that won’t close. “Is it everything you wished for?”

  “Actually, it is.”

  Fiona laughs like she thinks I’m kidding, but I shake my head. “I’m serious. Your work is going to look incredible in there.”

  She leans her head back against the seat. “From your mouth to the art god’s ears.”

  As we finish our food, I flip through the binder. Now that we’ve decided on juxtaposition, I want to come up with a plan that’ll wow Fiona. But Jordan’s right: It’s not enough to just have the pieces scattered randomly. We have to make the contrast purposeful. We have to say something. I turn another page in the binder, and I come to the list of Fiona’s pieces. I drag my finger down it, past the paintings and the tire wolf that I convinced Fiona to have flown in for this show, until I come to a seven-foot-tall sculpture made of colored bottles.

  Bingo.

  “I know you said you don’t want to talk about where we put everything, but I’ve got an idea that I want to run by you.”

  “Hit me.”

  “What would you think about including a light installation in your show? I saw one online a few nights ago, and it was incredible. It’s at the Richard Levy Gallery in Albuquerque, and I think it’ll really complement—contrast—your bottle sculpture. Both are made of glass but the colors . . .”

  I trail off as I see her eyes go wide.

  “I totally understand if you don’t want to bring in someone else’s work, though,” I say, scrambling. She wants me to go above and beyond, but that doesn’t mean telling her what to do with her own show. “Maybe we should forget I even said that—”

  “No, Dessa, that’s a really good idea. I’ve seen that exhibit, but I never would have thought to integrate something like it into my work.”

  “Really? You like it?”

  “Absolutely.” She drums her fingers on the steering wheel and stares out the front window. “You should talk to Jordan about it. Tell her to look into the rental details.”

  I cringe at the idea of telling Jordan to do anything, but I agree.

  “What do you say we go back to my studio and work for a little while?” Fiona asks suddenly. “I know this was supposed to be a half day, but I’m feeling inspired. What about you?”

  I glance down at my cell phone. For once no one’s texting me around the clock, wondering when I’ll be home. No one’s wishing I was there for dinner, or asking me to take a walk.

  But that’s good, I remind myself. I wanted a life of my own, and here it is.

  “So?” Fiona asks.

  “Let’s do it.”

  • • •

  Colors sweep across the canvas, sticky and raw, waiting for Fiona to turn them into something beautiful. Sharp cliffs build beneath her brush, jutting out along the California coastline of her imagination. I breathe in the sharp pine tree and licorice scent of turpentine, and exhale with longing. If I could paint like this . . .

  I shove my hands into the pockets of my dress. We came back to the studio to work, but I couldn’t will my fingers to curl around a brush. Even the sight of canvas made my heart speed up. I’m not ready. Not yet.

  “I’m not sure you should be watching me,” Fiona says, her eyes full of worry. “I was hoping you might want to try something on your own.”

  “I’m still learning, I swear.” I point to the upper right corner of her canvas, where she’s been working on a twisted cypress tree growing straight out of a shelf of jagged rock. “The way you used that burnt orange along the underside of the branch, and how it reflects in the water? I never would have used those colors.”

  She puts down her paintbrush and steps away from the easel. Without the presence of her shadow, the early afternoon sun burning through the windows turns her half-filled canvas a blinding white. “Talk to me, Dessa. Why aren’t you working?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t? Why not?”

  “Because.” I stare down at my boots, concentrating as hard as I can on the cracked leather, the scuffed toe—anything but Fiona’s face. “I’m stuck, okay? I’ve been trying to sketch every night like you told me to, but it’s not working. I just keep thinking, what if all those colleges were right? What if I’m really not good enough?”

  Fiona leads me over to a paint-stained ottoman. We sit down, and she rests her chin in her hand. “Why do you think you have to go to college to be an artist?”

  “Because I need to know more. I need real teachers. Real classes. Everything I
know I learned from online tutorials and community classes. I need to learn from professionals.”

  “Do you know who taught Vincent van Gogh to paint? He taught himself. Yes, he attended art school for a year, but that wasn’t until he had years of learning from the work of other artists. And Picasso? He dropped out of art school after only a year because he hated formal instruction.”

  “But they’re both famous! I’m never going to be van Gogh or Picasso.”

  Fiona narrows her eyes. “Well . . . what about me?”

  I pause. “What about you?”

  “You’re a fan of my work, right? I mean, you wanted to be my intern, you seem to like the pieces I’m putting in the show. Would you consider me a successful artist?”

  “Obviously.”

  Fiona crosses her legs and leans back. “I didn’t go to college.”

  My mouth drops open. “Really?”

  “Nope. I wanted to, don’t get me wrong. I thought I was going to become an accountant, because that’s what my dad did. But it was too expensive, and I was already working part-time for my dad’s firm, so . . .” She shrugs. “I never made it.”

  “But how did you become an artist? How did you learn to do that?” I ask, pointing to her half-finished painting.

  “I taught myself. I studied art books. I took classes in town. I entered contests where all contestants were guaranteed feedback, and I listened very carefully to what the judges had to say. Especially when I disagreed with them. Eventually I got to know people in the Santa Fe art scene, and I worked with artists in the area, like you are now.”

  “But how do I know if I’m any good?”

  Fiona sighs. “No one ever really knows that, I’m afraid. All you can do is make your best work, and continue to improve as best you can. But I can tell you right now that you have talent. You really do, Dessa. When I saw your sunburst painting, it didn’t matter that the technique wasn’t perfect. It made me feel something. That’s why I chose you.”

  I stare at her, caught off guard by the sudden compliment. “I . . . thank you. That means a lot to me.”

  “You’re welcome.” She tips her head to the side, studying me intently. “But Dessa, I was very tempted to fire you when I found out you lied to me. Do you know why I didn’t?”

  I shrug helplessly. “You felt bad for me?”

  “No. I let you stay because I could tell that punishing you wasn’t going to help. You were already punishing yourself.”

  My eyes threaten to fill with tears. “I was ashamed. I felt like a failure. I still do.”

  “Listen to me.” Fiona leans toward me, so close her face is only a few inches away. “The only thing that can make you a failure is giving up.”

  “But I’m afraid—”

  “Exactly! You’re afraid. You’re afraid of failure, of not being good enough, of letting your family down. Right? But that’s the problem—you’re letting your fear of failure define you. That’s why you can’t pick up a paintbrush. You’re letting fear get in the way of your voice.”

  Fiona takes my hands in hers.

  “But it doesn’t have to be like that. You can find it again.”

  I stare down at our hands. Everything she’s saying—I want so badly for it to be true. For everything that’s happened to be part of my journey, and not the end of it.

  Fiona goes to the couch and pulls the binder out from under the table, then hurries back.

  “You’ve done a great job this week. You’ve pushed yourself creatively, you’ve been up to every task I’ve given you, and just now, you stared your own shortcomings in the face and didn’t crumble beneath their weight. That’s the kind of person I want working for me. So if you still want to be here, I’d love for you to stay.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. But there’s something else, too.” She opens the binder and flips through a few pages until she comes to the handwritten list titled “Gallery Pieces.” I’ve edited it so many times my handwriting appears just as frequently as hers.

  “We’re adding a new piece to the show.” Fiona picks up a red pen and scribbles something. Then she turns the binder to face me.

  Untitled by Dessa Rhodes

  I inhale sharply. My work, hanging in Fiona’s gallery show. I picture all of her wonderful paintings, her sculptures, and next to them—what?

  “You deserve this,” Fiona says.

  “But—what will I display? The sunburst?”

  Fiona closes the binder. “I think you should create a new piece for the show.”

  I shake my head. “Fiona, I haven’t created something new in months. I’d have to do this in a week. I’m not sure I can—”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I didn’t think you could,” she says firmly. “I also have something that might help.” She pulls a small drawstring bag out of her shirt pocket and hands it to me. “This is for you.”

  Frowning, I peer inside. The delicate yellow flower from the art fair sits at the bottom.

  I shake my head. “I can’t take this.”

  “Yes, you can. But on one condition: I want you to take that flower, and break it into pieces. Don’t crush it—just separate the petals.”

  “What?”

  “If I’ve learned one thing working with discarded and used things, it’s that just because something seems broken doesn’t mean it can’t be made into something beautiful.”

  I pull the delicate flower out of the bag and rest it in my palm. “I love it, but I don’t understand. How is it going to help me come up with an idea for the show?”

  “You applied for an internship with an artist who works primarily with found art, right?” A sly smile creeps over her face. “Maybe it’s time you tried to make some found art of your own.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The plaza is mostly empty. A few old men play chess in the sun, while a family stands outside the church waiting for a morning service to begin. I should take advantage of this extra time to get some work done, but I can’t bring myself to hurry to Fiona’s. She’s going to want to talk about my piece for the show, and I’m not ready. I was up till two a.m. trying to come up with something, but everything sounded cliché, or too simple, or just plain stupid.

  My phone rings.

  “Hey, Taryn,” I answer, relief flooding through me. This is exactly the kind of distraction I need right now. “What’s up?”

  “Dude, I have amazing news. Guess where I am right now?”

  I check the time. “Hmm . . . do bars in Oklahoma serve breakfast?”

  “Screw you,” she says, laughing. “I’m in Santa Fe!”

  Ten minutes later, Taryn drops her backpack on the grass and throws her arms around my neck.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” I say. “Wait. Why are you here again?”

  “Well that’s a fine how do you do,” she says. “I came to see you. I hitched a ride from Amarillo.”

  “With who?”

  “Ben Mathers! The singer, remember? I drove all the way from Oklahoma City with a few friends to see him play at this huge-ass Texas steak house, and he recognized me! Can you believe it?”

  “I can, actually. Didn’t you tell me you’ve seen him play, like, ten times?”

  “Yes!” She throws her arms around me again and squeals. “We stayed up all night dancing, and when he said they were driving to Albuquerque for another show, I asked if I could catch a ride and he said yes. I had to hitchhike the rest of the way to Santa Fe, but here I am.”

  “Wow,” I say, shaking my head. “Where are you staying?”

  “Well, now that’s an interesting question. . . .”

  My mouth drops open. “Tell me you didn’t come all this way without figuring out where you’re going to sleep.”

  “I hoped maybe you would have someplace I could stay.” She bats her eyelashes at me. “Pretty please?”

  I chew the inside of my cheek, picture my mom’s face when she picked me up on the curb in the middle of the night. “I’m not sure
my parents will be psyched when they find out you’re the girl I met in Oklahoma.”

  Her face falls. “Oh, yeah. Of course. I get that. I’ll just . . .” She looks around the plaza. “Do you have a sleeping bag I can borrow?”

  Shit. I can’t leave her stranded like this, not when she came all the way here to hang out with me. Besides, my family is out of town anyway. “No, no. You can stay, but we’ve got to clear it with my grandma first.”

  “Easy,” Taryn says, flopping down on the grass. She kicks off her boots and lies back. “Grandmas love me.”

  In the time we’ve been talking, a bunch of people have wandered into the plaza. I want to stay with Taryn, pretend that I don’t have responsibilities outside of lying in the sun and making whistles out of grass, but I figure she can entertain herself for a few hours. “I’ve got to go to work, but I’ll be done by five. I’ll call you?”

  Taryn looks around, and catches sight of a group of guys hanging out near the church at the other end of the plaza. She grins. “Take your time.”

  Fiona is waiting for me at the top of the stairs when I arrive, a damp rag in her hands. “Was that you I saw at the plaza on my way in? With a girl whose head looked like it was on fire?”

  I laugh. “That’s my friend Taryn. She’s visiting from Oklahoma for . . . I don’t know how long she’ll be here, actually.”

  “Why didn’t you invite her in?” Fiona swats at me with the rag. “Tell her to meet us downstairs. We’re going on a field trip today anyway.”

  I stand next to the front window, fidgeting with the edge of a piece of newspaper covering the thin glass. Taryn is great, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea to introduce her to my boss. Fiona needs to see me as a serious artist, not some teenager with wild friends. Even if Taryn is awesome. I decide to bluff. “I thought we were going to talk about price points for the show?”

  “I came up with a complete price list last night,” Fiona says. “I’ll show it to you later.”

  “What about the lighting?”

  “Dessa, I promise that as soon as our outing is over, we’ll come straight back here and talk about the lighting and the prices and whatever else you want,” Fiona says, ushering me back into the hall and locking the door behind us. “But you’ve got a lot of work ahead of you if you’re going to have a piece ready for the show, and I think reconnecting with your creative side is going to help. So that’s what we’re going to do.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Trust me, okay?”