The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

  Someone grabs my elbow. At first, I smile, thinking it’s a fan, but then I spot Cara. “Lost your way?”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Contestants can’t mingle.” She all but drags me to the stairs.

  I shake her off with the energy brought on by the compliments. “That’s a stupid rule.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a rule. Up we go,” she says.

  I go up a few stairs, but turn back and take one last, longing look around. As my gaze surfs over the crowd, I catch sight of a man with dark hair and an orange tie. He’s watching me with great interest. Too much interest. Then again, I’m sort of a star now.

  Chapter Nine

  Aster

  I’ve just spent several hours in front of a tiny television screen. My eyes are raw, my legs stiff, and I’m ravenous. The oatmeal might have tasted like cement, but it wasn’t, and there’s now a gaping void in my stomach. The food will suck tonight, like it sucks all the time, but I’m so hungry I don’t care. I could eat the polyester fill of my pillow. I head to the cafeteria along with the hordes of other inmates. I spot fiery red dreadlocks ahead of me, so I slow down. Maybe if I wait for Gill to sit first, she won’t join me.

  I take my time gathering my meal. Finally, Gill sits next to fat Cheyenne and two other women who do not look particularly friendly. She catches me staring, so I turn my attention to the opposite side of the room where I find a table occupied solely by a white-haired woman whose advanced age leads me to believe she’s inoffensive. I place my tray next to hers and take a seat.

  The mashed potatoes are lumpy, the piece of meat appears as appetizing as a shoe sole, and the boiled carrot, with its green leaf, resembles Herrick. I squash the tender orange flesh with the tines of my fork. My stomach growls, so I gobble it down along with the watery potatoes. I have more trouble with the meat. The blunt knife doesn’t even pierce the steak, so I pick it up and tear off chunks with my teeth.

  My least favorite time of day comes after dinner. Ironically, it used to be my favorite back home: shower time. I sorely miss the privacy of my bathroom. Tightening a tiny, scratchy towel around my body and keeping my prison-issue flip-flops on, I head to the salmon-tiled communal shower where the grout has turned a nasty shade of tobacco.

  Most of the prisoners use this time to socialize. Definitely not me. I’m in and out so quickly that I don’t press the shower button more than once for water. I still have foam on my thighs and calves. I sponge it up with the coarse towel and don my gray uniform.

  “Can I be escorted back to the dayroom?” I ask the guard on duty.

  She narrows her eyes.

  “Officer Cooper got me special permission. It’s in my file,” I tell her.

  “Is that so?”

  I nod.

  She holds out her palm. I stare at it so long, that she says, “A twenty will do.”

  “Twenty what?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You want me to bribe you?”

  “It’s called payment for services rendered.”

  Right. “I don’t have any money on me.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “But Josh—I mean Officer Cooper got—”

  She’s twisting her long neck left and right. “Don’t see him nowhere.”

  My nostrils flare. My first reflex is to dig through my pocket for my cell phone. Then I remember that it was confiscated because I’m in fucking prison. The guard turns her back to me to survey the palette of naked bodies on display.

  Desperation hits me so hard that an idea—probably an awful one—materializes in my brain. “I have a proposition for you,” I say, coming around to stand in front of her.

  She cocks her head to the side. “I’m listening.”

  “My sister’s competing in the Masterpiecers. You know, that show about—”

  “I know it.” She scrutinizes my face. “That’s why you look familiar. You’re related to that girl, Lucky Little Eight, or whatever the media calls her.”

  “Her name’s Ivy.”

  “What’s your offer?”

  “I’ll give you some of the prize money.”

  “She hasn’t won yet.”

  “But she will. I know my sister. She always gets what she wants.”

  “How much are we talking?”

  “A hundred dollars.”

  She snorts. “Isn’t the prize a hundred thousand?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll need bail money, and Ivy will want to keep some—”

  “Five thousand.”

  “Five thousand?” I choke out.

  “Take it or leave it.”

  My bargaining skills are nil, but I can’t just hand over five thousand bucks. Then again, we’re talking about imaginary money. Once I’m out, I’ll never see this woman again so she can hang on to her imaginary payday.

  “For that price, I get permission to watch the show whenever I want.”

  “Aren’t you a little wheeler and dealer? Fine. But—”

  My mouth goes dry.

  “If your sister gets disqualified,” she says, “you’ll still owe me the money.”

  Cold sweat gathers on the nape of my neck. I remind myself that it’s pretend money, like the one Ivy and I bartered when we played on the faded Monopoly board my mother once brought back from the flea market. We’d had to make playdough houses and hotels, and cut and write our own chance cards and property deeds, but at least we had the board, the dice, the bills, and the metal tokens. It gave us something to do on dreary, rainy afternoons.

  “Fine,” I finally say.

  She smiles. “Kim!”

  A short woman with a long, coarse braid trots over.

  “Gotta escort a prisoner. Take over.”

  The walk to the dayroom is quick and quiet in spite of the pointed looks the guard keeps firing my way. I wish she’d stop. I wish everyone would just stop looking at me.

  She buzzes the door open. The TV’s already on. I can hear two commentators rehashing the day’s event.

  “Hey, Redd,” she calls out as I hurry in.

  “Yeah?”

  A crooked smile lights up her face. “I always collect.”

  When I nod, she leaves, and the anthem booms out of the stereo in time with the door banging shut.

  “Welcome ba-ack!” Dominic singsongs. He’s holding his mic so close to his lips that it looks as though he’s French-kissing it. “Tonight is an unusual night, because, usually, there’s a vote among the judges and among the audience to decide who gets the boot. Tonight, we didn’t have to deliberate. Performance art wasn’t Maria’s forte. Or maybe it was the knitting…”

  Laughter warbles out of the dark pit of people seated around the raised stone platform. It’s scornful, which makes me angry, but my anger recedes when I spot my sister. Her face resembles burnished copper, and her lips have been painted a bright red. When they curve into a smile, I feel an overwhelming sense of pride.

  “That’s my sister,” I say to no one, but Ivy must hear me because she winks. I wink back, and then settle down to watch.

  Chapter Ten

  Ivy

  “You’re late,” Leila says when I arrive at my station the next morning, yawning and stretching.

  I didn’t fall asleep until really late—or maybe really early. With no windows and no clock, I couldn’t tell what time it was.

  “Get in the chair. We have forty minutes left. Amy!” Leila’s shaking, even her slick-straight hair is vibrating.

  “Herrick just arrived,” I point out.

  “I don’t give a shit about Herrick. I give a shit about you. Why are your eyes so puffy? Didn’t you sleep?” From the way she mutters this, I take it she’s not asking. She pulls a little tube from her makeup trunk and rubs a dollop of its content across both my lids. It burns like ice.

  “What the hell is that?” I exclaim.

  “Hopefully, a miracle,” she says. “Now don’t move until I’m done.”

  While Leila brushes and stabs my fac
e with crayons and mascara wands, Amy blasts my locks with hot air. No one talks. Chase is at the next station getting primped. Although his gaze is locked on the mirror, the line of his shoulders tightens as though he senses I’m looking. Last night, over dinner, I was tempted to ask him what his problem was, but that would exhibit insecurities, and New York Ivy has no insecurities. Powder wafts into my right eye and it tears up. I blink, but it still waters.

  Leila grumbles as she swabs my lash line with a Q-tip. “Look up.”

  Finally, I’m ready. My hair has been slicked down. It reaches far below my shoulder blades and shines like spun gold. The amethyst powder on my lids makes my eyes appear bluer and hooded instead of swollen from lack of sleep.

  “Tonight, six-thirty sharp. Not a minute later.” And then she’s gone.

  “What’s her problem?” I ask Amy, who’s masticating her lip.

  She gathers my hair in a high ponytail and wraps a ribbon around it. “Leila’s a perfectionist.”

  “So am I. It doesn’t mean you have to be nasty with people.”

  “Why aren’t you dressed yet?” Cara exclaims, stopping by my station.

  “She’ll be ready in five minutes,” Amy tells her.

  “Just hurry. I put your clothes in the dressing area.”

  On the purple velvet pouf, my assistant has laid out a pair of light jeans, a pearl-colored shirt, and white sneakers. I pull on the jeans while Amy helps me with the blouse, careful that it doesn’t snag on the ribbon in my hair or pick up pigment from my skin. I tie up my sneakers and reemerge after a glimpse of myself in the floor-length mirror.

  Cara is checking her bulky, neon-orange rubber wristwatch, the sort of watch I drooled over as a pre-teen. Now I aspire to sleeker ones, preferably metal and preferably brand-named. If I win the prize money, I’ll buy myself a diamond watch. And exotic fabrics from India. Maybe I’ll even go to India.

  As my mind travels to faraway destinations, my feet travel down one flight of stairs to a bright and grand hall with wall-to-wall oil paintings and statues. As I approach, the crowd parts to let me through. I hop onto a makeshift podium covered in navy fabric and join the lineup of contestants. The Masterpiecers’ anthem plays and quiets the straggling voices.

  Once the music stops, Dominic, who’s clutching a large glass jar, explains today’s test: solving a riddle that will lead us to a specific work of art. “Each contestant will take a piece of paper from this container. Under no circumstance can you show anyone besides Jeb. Jeb will film your riddles, then broadcast them to our faithful viewers. Now, let’s start with the girls.”

  Lincoln goes first, then Maxine, and then me. As soon as I unfold my paper, my gaze flies over the riddle.

  “My luminaries were shaped by bees and human blood.”

  What the heck are luminaries? Lights?

  A camera pops up in front of me, pressing down toward the paper like a dog snout. After everyone’s picked a riddle, and it’s been videotaped, Dominic says, “Ladies and gentlemen, please remember that you are not to help our contestants. You may follow them on their hunt, but do not offer clues or answer any questions, or they will be eliminated. Understood?”

  A loud yes resounds.

  Dominic grins. “The works you are looking for are on this floor and this floor only.”

  I’m about to pounce off the stage when Lincoln asks, “Do all our riddles lead to different ones?”

  “Of course,” Dominic says.

  “Can we jot down thoughts?” Nathan asks.

  “No pen, no paper. Use your minds,” Dominic tells him, tapping his temple. “Ready?”

  “Yes,” I say along with the others.

  “Let day number two begin,” he exclaims

  Lincoln leaps off the stage first and barges through the dense crowd of cocktail-attired people gathered in the long hallway, clearing a path for the rest of us. After we’ve all funneled through, the audience seams together and turns to follow. Heels and soles pound the floor. Most spectators keep out of our way, but some get so close, the camera crew has to corral them back. I try to ignore the rubberneckers as I move around the museum, but they’re always there, gaping, pointing, and whispering. It’s distracting. I remind myself that they are the people who made this competition possible with their money and their connections. Without them, I wouldn’t be here. The thought makes their presence more bearable.

  A painting captures my attention. It’s a seascape of crimson-hued waves thrashing against a large wooden boat with a setting sun in the background. The sun is a luminary, right? And the water is red, like blood. But there are no bees, so I move on.

  As I tread through the chain of galleries, I glimpse a lot of suns and stars and moons, several lampposts and light bulbs, a hefty dose of oozing blood, but not a single painting containing bees. After an hour, I collapse on a banquette. Somewhere along the way, I managed to lose the camera crew and the audience.

  “My luminaries were shaped by bees and human blood,” I whisper, hoping that saying it out loud will help me make sense of it. It doesn’t. Checking that no one is around, I keep talking to myself, because too many ideas are playing leapfrog in my brain. “Okay. So…the light source was made by bees and blood. Maybe I’m not looking for bees and blood in the art. Maybe just light sources.”

  I sound silly…I sound like Mom. Always talking out loud to herself. I bat my lashes to dispel the sudden moisture caking my eyes and find myself staring right into a camera. Shoot. I strap on a confident mask that quickly decomposes when a rush of excitement booms out of an adjoining gallery making the camera crew race out.

  I lean my head back and close my eyes. Slowly, I tap my skull against the wooden headrest, hoping I can knock the answer into my brain.

  Can bees produce light?

  Can honey produce light?

  Or pollen? Pollen is yellow? Could pollen be considered light?

  What makes some bugs light up?

  “Think synonyms,” I hear someone tell me.

  I snap my lids up to find Brook sitting next to me.

  “Trying to get me eliminated?” I ask, my heart bumping around my ribcage. The gallery is empty save for the two of us.

  “No,” he says quietly. “Synonyms are the foundation of a riddle. It’s a fact, not a clue.”

  After a minute of silence, curiosity gets the better of me. “Who solved theirs?”

  “Believe it or not…Daisy.”

  “Daisy?”

  “I mean Maxine.”

  “No, I know who Daisy is. I’m just surprised—I thought it would be your brother.”

  Brook’s eyes darken. “He’s still searching.”

  “He’ll get it soon enough.”

  “He is pretty obstinate,” Brook continues.

  “I can tell.”

  “This is his chance to get what he wants.”

  I smirk. “If he wins, will he be allowed to attend the Masterpiecers or does he just get the hundred grand?”

  “He’ll be allowed to attend.”

  “Won’t that destroy the school’s policy?”

  “It will complicate it,” he says as I stare at the Jackson Pollock in front of me. The paint splatters remind me of the last quilt I sewed. I used splatters of silk and velvet instead of paint. “Is your sister also artistic?”

  “No. Not in the least.”

  He’s looking at the Pollock too. “You don’t talk about her.”

  “I came to compete in an art show, not to discuss my family.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Now can you please leave so I can concentrate?”

  “I’ll be quiet.”

  I’m about to tell him that it’s his presence I find troublesome, when I hear footsteps. My pulse skyrockets. I leap up and away from Brook before anyone can assume I was cheating.

  Chase is standing in the large doorway.

  Brook rises slowly and walks over to him. “How are you holding up?”

  “I thought the contestants weren’t
supposed to speak with judges or people from the audience,” Chase says curtly. The vein on his temple lobe throbs.

  “I can ask how you’re doing.”

  “Is that what you were asking Ivy? How she was doing?” His accusatory tone makes me livid.

  “Yes.” Brook pushes a shiny lock of black hair off his forehead. “I wasn’t giving her any clues, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  No one speaks and no one moves. The large gallery suddenly feels oppressive. I pretend to examine a painting when I hear loud applause.

  “Another winner. You two better hurry up,” Brook says, brushing past his brother.

  I walk off in the opposite direction. There’s no way I’m spending any more time cooped up in a room with Chase. Plus my painting’s not here. There are no light sources in any of the pieces hanging on the wall. As I cross the entire south wing, I start the unscrambling process anew.

  Bees can’t produce light.

  Blood can’t either.

  What’s synonymous with bees? Besides bugs and honey.

  Pollen…honeycombs…buzz. I keep buzz in mind. Filaments buzz.

  Or maybe it’s a painting that was buzzed about.

  Maybe it’s a painting that was killed for!

  My pulse quickens because I think I’m onto something. I commit this thought to memory then move on to the verb.

  What’s tantamount to shaped?

  Formed. I try it out in the riddle.

  My luminaries were formed by bees and blood.

  Ugh! It doesn’t make more sense. I think up more synonyms. My brain halts on the verb molded.

  My luminaries were molded by bees and blood.

  My nose wrinkles at the idea of a painting fashioned with blood. A few years back, a painting was made with excrement, so maybe there’s one made with blood and dead bees. I check the label affixed to the wall in front of me. It’s a Dubuffet created with plaster, oil, tar, and sand. Tar…weird. I didn’t know artists used tar. The next painting is a combination of acrylic and wax. I get this niggling in my skull and read it again. Wax. Bees make wax.

  I check the work associated with the plaque, but can’t find anything resembling a light source. It’s a painting representing waves or squiggly lines. Not my painting.