The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

  “Is that your doggy bag for the restaurant?” Herrick’s joke is lost on J.J. In truth, it’s sort of lost on me too.

  “I’m not going to the restaurant.” He stops in front of me as he says this; as though it were my fault that he was voted off.

  Granted, I was the closest to failing, but I didn’t. He did. I fold my arms, which doesn’t prevent him from doing something totally unexpected. He hugs me. I keep my arms locked from sheer surprise, and because I don’t do hugs.

  “Good luck, Redd,” he says.

  And then he moves to Maxine and Lincoln, and repeats the hug-luck combo. He high-fives Chase and attempts to do the same with Herrick, but the latter doesn’t lift his hand, so J.J. slugs one arm around him and squeezes him.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?” Dominic asks.

  “Got a new paint job for a school in Harlem. Your show gives good exposure, Mister B.” He’s bobbing his head or pecking the air—it’s hard to tell.

  Dominic nods. “Glad you got something out of it. Send us a picture once you’re done vandalizing public property.”

  “Sure thing.” J.J. shakes Dominic’s hand, and then Brook’s. “They’re documenting the whole thing for Vanity Fair so you’ll definitely get an eyeful of moi.” He winks at Josephine, who rolls her eyes. “Miss Raynoir. A pleasure.”

  Instead of shaking her hand, he lifts it to his mouth and gives it a languorous kiss. She surprisingly doesn’t slap him, but she does wipe her hand on her jeans the minute he turns around.

  “Bonsoir, dear friends. May the best one win!” And then his assistant walks him back to freedom.

  I must watch the doorway a long time, because Brook clears his throat. “You need to get ready.”

  “I’m going,” I murmur distractedly.

  “Always hard to see someone lose,” Brook continues.

  “Actually, I was thinking the opposite.”

  Brook lifts one thick eyebrow. He probably thinks I’m cold, but that’s not how I meant it. I don’t care enough to explain that J.J.’s departure gives me hope, hope for doors opening in spite of losing the competition. I hadn’t thought about the exposure. I hadn’t thought there was any way into the art world if I didn’t win this competition or attend the Masterpiecers. For the first time since I arrived, I’m not worried about losing. The treacherous tunnel I’m walking through will lead back into the light whether through a gilded doorway or a pothole in the road.

  ***

  Dinner’s a big production. There are paparazzi lurking outside the museum when the gleaming black minivan emerges from the underground parking lot. Their lenses suck at the car’s tinted windows like leeches. It takes nearly running them over to dislodge them. When we pull up in front of an Italian restaurant downtown, there are more of them. They swarm toward the vehicle before we’re even parked.

  Along with three other broad-backed, suit-clad men, Danny, my driver from the airport, fends them off to create a safe passage for us. He shoots me this strange look, the sort of look Mom would give me when my stitching was sub-par. I wonder if it’s because of the press conference today. Even though I’m not a suspect, Aster is, and her actions reflect on me.

  The restaurant is a hole-in-the-wall that’s been reserved exclusively for us. The other tables have been pushed against the flower-papered walls and covered in overflowing baskets of fruit and dripping wax candles. The effect is lovely and romantic. I must gape around too long because when I move toward our table, the only vacant seat is between the Jackson brothers. “Fun,” I mutter under my breath as I slide into the chair. Lincoln is on Brook’s other side. She’s lassoed him into a conversation about pasta making. And here I thought that the only thing she knew how to cook was Meth.

  “So Kevin’s coming on the show,” Chase says.

  At first I think he’s talking to Maxine, who’s sitting on his other side, but then I realize she’s deep in conversation with Dominic.

  “Apparently.” I grab a breadstick from the basket in front of me and munch on it without looking at him.

  He angles his torso toward me. “Why do you dislike me so much?”

  I squeeze the breadstick so hard it snaps in two. One end falls right into the hand-painted presentation plate. “Let me see…you implied that I had a hand in Kevin’s elimination and that I cheated during the riddle hunt. Are those good reasons, because they sound like pretty good ones to me?”

  “I admit, I wasn’t the friendliest—”

  “No shit,” I say sarcastically.

  “But that’s because I know nothing about you.”

  “So you assume things.”

  “Yes. Just like you have your own assumptions about me.”

  I do.

  “Today, what you said during the auction, that you made the quilt for a dying friend. Was it true?”

  “It wasn’t for a friend.”

  “Who was it for? A boyfriend?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He leans back in his chair. “This is me trying to get to know you so I can stop assuming things.”

  “What’s the point? Soon one of us will be gone,” I say.

  Chase’s dark eyes keep studying me.

  When I can’t take his scrutiny anymore, I turn toward Brook. “There was a rip in the seam of my quilt. Was it damaged in transit?”

  Brook’s thick lashes sweep down over his eyes, which he’s trained on the platter of paper-thin cold cuts and salty chunks of Parmesan. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Who would?” I ask.

  He shrugs.

  “Didn’t you see the tear?” I ask.

  He finally looks away from the appetizers. “Doesn’t matter, does it? It’s no longer yours.”

  “It matters to me. I don’t want the buyer to be disappointed. Could I work on it before it’s sent off?”

  “It’s already been sent.”

  “What if the buyer returns it?” I ask.

  “He won’t.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Ivy, relax.” He lays his hand on my forearm. His fingers are cold. “It was a small hole. No one will see it.”

  “So you did notice it!”

  “What did Brook notice?” Josephine asks.

  “Nothing,” Brook says, removing his hand.

  “The rip in my quilt,” I say.

  “I thought it was intentional,” Josephine says, spinning the large diamond ring around her thin finger.

  “Why would I intentionally put a hole in my quilt?” I ask.

  “Modern art,” Maxine says, as the waiters place gold-rimmed plates topped with an assortment of pasta in front of us. “You could shred one. I’m sure it would sell well.”

  “That’s an idea,” I say.

  I look down at the mounds of pasta on my plate. The raviolis are large and beet-colored; the linguine, green and deliciously fragrant; the gnocchi, ridged and glistening with a melted butter and herb mixture; and the square of lasagna, still bubbling with cheese.

  Not only was Aster trying to sabotage me, but she damaged my work. The guilt that has gnawed at me since I made her sign that paper giving me power of attorney over her vanishes. Aster can no longer be left to her own devices. She is lost in the debris of her mind. I’m angry because she’s my twin, and I love her more than anything, but I also hate her more than anyone. I crumple the napkin in my lap and set it on the linen tablecloth. Wordlessly, I rise and head to the bathroom before my wet eyes can expel the tears.

  Lincoln walks in moments after me. She disappears into one of the stalls and emerges before I have time to escape. Over the sound of running water, she asks, “How did the press conference go?”

  “Fine,” I say, tossing the embroidered hand towel into the wicker basket below the sink.

  “No one really believes you got him disqualified.” She turns off the water and dries her hands against her eggplant suede skirt. I’m about to tell her that she shouldn’t wet suede when she adds, “You
didn’t, right?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And your sister?”

  “What is it you heard, Lincoln?”

  “That she’s talented with computers.”

  “A lot of people are talented with computers,” I counter.

  She shrugs. “Chill, Ives. I wasn’t accusing her of anything.” She rests her hands on her flat belly. “I’m stuffed. The food was so delish, wasn’t it?”

  I nod and brush past her.

  When I get back to the table, Josephine’s gone and Dominic resembles my iced water. Tiny drops of perspiration drip down the sides of his face.

  “What did I miss?” I ask Brook.

  “The usual…Dom and Josephine had a disagreement.”

  “Over what?”

  “God only knows. Josephine’s been acting strange for a while now. I think she might be pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?”

  “I know, right? Not really the maternal type—”

  “Is she married?”

  “Engaged.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Not many people know.”

  “Is he in the art world?”

  “No. He’s some big shot businessman.” He takes a sip of wine. “What about you? Any boyfriend back in Kokomo?”

  “No.”

  “That’s surprising,” he says with a brazen smile.

  Heat smears my cheeks. I grab my glass of water and take a gulp that goes down the wrong hole when Brook’s hand grazes my thigh. I cross my legs to shift it off because Chase is staring. I’m the source of enough gossip already.

  No need to add fuel to the fire my sister has kindled.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Aster

  I scoop up oatmeal and let it plop back down unceremoniously into my plastic bowl. It’s lumpier than usual, and settles in clumps on the filmy surface.

  “You look like you didn’t sleep,” Gill says. Her gaze vacillates between my porridge and my face.

  “I have to go do meditation. Want to come with me?”

  “To meditate?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know how to meditate,” she says.

  “I don’t either, but the shrink thinks it can help me. I’m bored just thinking about it.”

  “Well, now that really makes me want to go.”

  I smile, and then catch sight of a black mullet. “Hey, Cheyenne,” I say sweetly.

  She wobbles to a dead stop.

  “Got something for you.” I chuck a tampon at her. Over dinner, I asked Chacha for a box instead of the chocolate. “It’s more absorbent than a pillow.” I make sure my voice carries even though the cafeteria is totally quiet.

  Cheyenne blushes so hard that all three hundred pounds of her turns cherry red.

  Gill’s face splits into a wide grin, as do many others. The only ones not partaking in the contagious glee are Cheyenne—for obvious reasons—and the ladies sitting at her table. They’re all firing me vile looks, which will surely be accompanied by some form of retaliation.

  “So, meditation?” I ask Gill again as though Cheyenne had never walked by and I hadn’t just embarrassed the shit out of her.

  “Can’t believe you just did that. You have some serious balls, Aster.”

  I can’t believe it either. “I met the warden yesterday.”

  Gill bites her lower lip with her buckteeth. “What did you think of him?”

  “Seems nice enough.” I play around with my porridge again. “He knows my sister.”

  “He does? How?”

  “She paid him a visit when I was booked. Asked him to be nice to me.”

  “That’s chill of her.”

  I nod, inspecting my nails.

  “I have some cream in my room. It’s real hydrating.” She tips her chin toward my hands. “If you want some.”

  “Um…sure.”

  “Do you garden?”

  “Garden?”

  “You know, plant flowers and shit.”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because when you got here, your nails were all torn and dirty. My aunt—she raised me—well, her nails were always ripped from growing vegetables outside our motor home.”

  I drop the spoon. The rounded part sticks to the porridge for a second before toppling off the side of the bowl and clattering onto the steel tabletop. “I’m just not good at taking care of my nails.”

  “I’d be glad to take care of them, Aster,” Gill says. “If you’ll let me.”

  I blink.

  “Sorry to interrupt your moment, Inmates, but you got a visitor, Redd,” the potbellied guard says.

  One of Gill’s tawny eyebrow lifts.

  “I thought I needed to go meditate?” I tell him.

  “After,” he says.

  “Gill will join me for the meditation.”

  “Does she have permission?”

  “Miss Pierce suggested creating a meditation circle. Hard to create a circle with only two people. Unless you plan on joining, sir?” Where is this cockiness coming from? The despair of lockup?

  His face colors a little. Only his scar stays white. “Get your skinny ass off the bench, Inmate. I don’t like to wait.”

  I shoot up. “See you later, Gill.”

  A smile floats across her face. I wonder if giving her hope is wise. She’s sort of a wacko.

  Driscoll leads me to an area I haven’t been to yet. There are four identical rooms with glass walls on the hallway side, and brushed cement everywhere else. Each contains one table with two iron chairs.

  When I spot Josh, I swivel toward the sergeant. “I don’t want to see him.”

  He just grunts, beeps the door open, and shoves me through. “You got fifteen minutes, Officer Cooper, then I need to take her to her shrink appointment.”

  Josh looks up. His expression is so grave that my mind somersaults to my twin.

  The door slams shut behind me and I jump. “Wh-what’s going on? Is it Ivy?”

  “Sit down.”

  Legs trembling, I take a seat across from him.

  “Aster, did you doctor the photos of Kevin Martin?”

  “Who?”

  “The contestant who was eliminated. Did you do it?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because the media is claiming you might be behind the fake pictures.”

  “They’re fake?”

  “Are you playing dumb?”

  “No!”

  “Isn’t Photoshopping part of your job at the ad agency?”

  I snort. “Yes, but I didn’t do it.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes! Anything else you came to accuse me of?”

  He rubs his neck, or more precisely a spot that’s purple and swollen.

  “Is that a hickey?” I exclaim.

  “What?”

  “On your neck.”

  “Oh that…I cut myself shaving.” His jaw reddens so quickly that I know he’s lying.

  “Are you seeing someone?”

  He inhales deeply. “Do you really want to know?”

  I bite my lip because it’s started to wobble. “Since when?”

  “Let’s not talk about this—”

  “Since when?”

  “A month.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Aster,” he whispers.

  “Well, is it?” My voice is surprisingly steady.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do I know her?”

  He rubs the hickey again, and then he nods.

  “Who is it?”

  “Heidi.”

  “The floozy from Dairy Queen?”

  “Don’t call her that.”

  “You’re the one who told me she slept around. She’s going to give you HIV.”

  He widens his eyes. “Goddammit, Aster! You and I are no longer together.”

  I recoil as though he’s slapped me. And then I start bobbing in my chair, forward and backward, like a reed caught in a tempest. I need Ivy. I want her t
o come home. She’s the only one who gives a shit about me.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ivy

  I wake up sweating. Without windows or a watch, I have no idea what time it is. For a second, I think it’s the middle of the night, but I hear noise—chatter—so I assume it’s not. I throw the covers off my legs and head toward the shower. I’ve had the nightmare again—the one where my sister comes at me with a kitchen knife while I’m sleeping, but it’s not my sister, it’s my reflection, and I stab a mirror. It shatters, but then it mends back together.

  Trembling, I twist my damp hair up into a bun and step into the warm spray. I let the water tumble over my forehead and drip into my open eyes, hoping it will blur the dream and wipe my mind. It doesn’t, so I get out and don the khaki shorts and white tank I brought with me, then head for breakfast where they’re serving pancakes and waffles topped with real maple syrup, not the imitation corn syrup that’s dyed brown. It’s a true feast. As I ask for a second serving, Herrick’s assistant walks in and hands each one of us a fabric bag with the Masterpiecers’ logo. Inside, I find a beaded turquoise bikini, a pair of silver sunglasses, and a bottle of sunscreen.

  While Lincoln, Herrick, and Maxine return to their rooms to change, Chase and I remain in the living room.

  “Excited to go home?” I ask.

  “Home?”

  “Don’t you live with your brother?”

  He looks like the orange juice he’s chugging has turned sour. “Hell no. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “I don’t know. I just assumed. Do you live with your parents?”

  “At twenty-one, that would be a little sad, don’t you think?”

  I bristle. “I still live at home.”

  “By choice?”

  I say, “Yes,” even though it’s not a choice. I wouldn’t be able to afford paying my own rent. “Mom’s not there anymore and Dad…well, he doesn’t live there either.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He left before we were born. I don’t think he ever knew Mom was pregnant.”

  “So you’ve never met him?”

  I shake my head.

  “And you’re okay with that?”

  “How could I not be okay with it? I don’t know his last name. How could I find him?”

  “Your mom never told you his full name? Was it a one-night stand?”