She raises her shoulders. “Honestly, I have no clue. He seems nuts enough to do that. Herrick was telling me he has PTSD.”
My skin feels clammy. I press the blades of the air vent overhead shut, even though, deep down, I know the A/C isn’t to blame.
“Last night he said he had stuff on you. Does he?”
I think of the quilt Troy Mann bought from me. “We all have skeletons in our closet, don’t we?”
“I don’t.”
“Really?”
“I smoked pot. Still do sometimes. But that’s the worst drug I ever used ’cause I don’t want to end up like the low-lives who brought me into this world. Why do you think I’m on this show?”
Perhaps I misjudged Lincoln.
Her gaze settles on the bridge we’re crossing to reach Long Island.
“How did you get into chalk drawings?” I ask her.
“By accident. One of the guys I was dating—he was a teacher—decorated the wall of his kitchen with blackboard paint. One night, we smoked up a lot, and I mean a lot. So much that by the time we tried to have sex, he passed out on me. I couldn’t sleep, so I got out of bed and grabbed a piece of chalk from the kitchen counter and drew…all night.”
“What did you draw?”
“A landscape with swirly clouds and swirly hills and a swirly sun. A little like Van Gogh. I curled up in front of it, thinking it was the most beautiful thing in the world.”
“Let me guess…when you woke up the next day, you thought it was horrible.”
She shakes her head and her ponytail swishes. “No. I still thought it was beautiful, but I had no recollection of having done it. I wanted to erase everything and see if my hands could really master chalk like that, but my boyfriend forbade me to touch it. He told me to go down in the courtyard behind the apartment complex and train there.”
“Under the influence?”
She smiles. “If you call coffee an influence, then yes. But no weed this time. I needed to see if I could really do it.”
“And?”
“And a few of the people who lived in the building came down and sat with me while I worked. This dude practiced his saxophone and this old lady made me a sandwich.”
“How did your drawing turn out?”
She grimaces. “Eh. Wasn’t of the caliber of the night before. But it was good enough to make me go down and practice every morning for a month. Some of my boyfriend’s students came to film me. They were working on a documentary for school. You saw some of the footage on the first night.”
“Picasso’s Demoiselles d’Avignon?”
“Yup. That was my best one. That was the day my boyfriend told me to sign up for the competition.” She gets this distant gleam in her eyes.
“Are you still together?” I venture.
“Nah.”
“Why’d you break up?”
“Life.”
“That’s vague.”
Her cheek dimples. She’s probably chewing on the inside of it. I do that sometimes when I’m sewing. “He wasn’t ambitious like I was. It drove a wedge between us. Plus, as I said last night, I’m not really into monogamy and he was,” she says with a smile. “But it ended well. We’re still friends.”
“You’re lucky.”
“Lucky?” she asks, lifting a dark brow. The contrast with her light hair makes her eyes really pop.
“To have stayed friends.”
“You didn’t stay friends with your exes?”
“I only had one. And no.”
“I’d ask if you want to talk about it, but you don’t seem like the sort of girl who likes to share.”
“There’s nothing worth sharing. I was fourteen; he was fifteen. All we ever did was kiss and hold hands.”
“You’re a virgin?” she basically shouts.
Widening my eyes, I shush her, but unfortunately it’s too late. From the chuckle that escapes Herrick’s mouth, I know he heard Lincoln, which surely means that everyone in the van is now aware of my…inexperience.
Chapter Thirty-One
Aster
In the middle of scouring an enormous soup pot with a stainless steel scrubby, I see it! That thing in the warden’s picture that called out to me. I see it so clearly that the pot, which I’d tipped to the side to conquer the burned bits, slips from my wet hands. It makes a loud banging noise against the sink.
“Hey! Watch it! I’m already half-deaf,” Chacha says. She sticks her index fingers in her ears and rotates them as though trying to clear the wax. “Now my head is going to be ringing all day.”
“Sorry.” I tip the pot back on its side and scrub it with renewed vigor. When it’s clean enough to reflect my face, I set it to dry and wash the metal prep counters. An entire layer of grease comes off. I would have found that revolting if I hadn’t been so rattled by my discovery.
“Lunch is ready so I go,” she says. “I like to shower after I cook. You take the ice off the shelves, okay?” She points to the steel door in the middle of the white ceramic wall.
I nod, but then ask, “Isn’t shower time before dinner?”
“You’re not the only one with privileges, Redd. Stick around long enough here, and you get special treatment. Been here twelve years.” She takes off her apron and hangs it on a hook. “Beat that.”
Before she leaves, I ask her, “Where’s the ice pick?”
She smiles. She’s missing her left canine. “No ice pick. That’s a weapon.”
“Don’t you use knives?”
“Yeah, but only when a guard’s around. They’re locked up if not.”
“Well, how am I supposed to de-ice the freezer then?”
She claws at the air between us like a rabid cat. She even hisses. “Use your nails, Redd.” She laughs at my shocked face, and keeps cackling long after she’s vanished from sight.
I stare down at my nails, which are soft from the warm tap water and chipped from the metal sponge. I won’t have any left by the end of this chore. I’m not vain or anything, but ripped and bleeding nails hurt. I crush them into my hand at the memory of the dark closet and the wooden door I clawed at for hours. And Ivy doesn’t get why I despise our mother.
I look around for something to use and my gaze falls on the steel scrub. I pick it up and walk to the freezer door, which I prop open with a rollaway metal island. I lock the wheels in place, turn on the lights, and step in. The coolness feels divine against my balmy skin. It must be close to ninety degrees in the kitchen, what with the stove and halogen bulbs on.
There are four rows of shelves, each coated with several inches of snow-like ice. I start by taking down all the packages and boxes from the shelves before getting around to scrubbing. After several grueling minutes, the only thing I’ve managed is to scrape off a few flurries. I return to the kitchen, check around for something else, anything else. When I spot the clean soup pot, I get an idea—not brilliant but worth trying.
I fill it with water and heat it on the stove. Once it simmers, I bring it into the freezer and splash the shelf. The water instantly melts the ice. It’s magical. I’m so proud of my ingenuity, that I head back out and repeat the process. After thirty minutes, half of the freezer is defrosted. For a proud second, I gape at my handiwork, but then my pride vaporizes when the lights turn off and the door bangs shut. I race toward it and grope for the indoor latch—because I assume there is one. The second my fingers close over it, I expel a deep breath. I twist it and push against the door, but it doesn’t budge. I do it again. Still nothing. Again. Nothing. And again. Nothing. The latch is broken.
I yell at the top of my lungs, hoping someone, anyone will hear me, but it’s midmorning and everyone’s still out in the yard. I slam my fists against the door out of frustration and then stick my forehead against it and focus on breathing.
I need to stay calm. Chacha will be back soon. She’s only taking a shower. How long can a shower last? And then there’s lunch to be served. I’ll be here for an hour max, maybe two. I can’t freeze to d
eath in that amount of time…can I? How long was I at the park that day after I lost the baby? It was really cold too. I didn’t die however deeply I wished to.
I lower my sleeves, find a spot on the floor still warmed by the boiling water and hook my arms around my knees to conserve energy. But it’s a mistake, because soon the bottom of my pants is soaking wet and cold. The dampness has even penetrated my underwear, all the way to my skin.
I start humming that song Ivy hums to me. I don’t know how many times I sing it, but my teeth are clattering. I clamp my mouth shut before the enamel shatters. Suddenly, I hear voices outside and I leap from my spot on the floor. I pummel the door and scream. My heart pounds in time with my fists. I’m not going to freeze to death after all.
But the door doesn’t open. And no one answers me. Or rather there is an answer to my loud plea—laughter. Not the cackling sort. It’s a laugh I’ve never heard before, yet I know exactly whom it belongs to.
Cheyenne.
Suddenly, the rage I felt the night she soiled my pillow fires through me and I shake. I’m going to kill her. I scream until my voice becomes hoarse, and still I yell. I don’t tremble anymore. To say the truth, I’m so angry that I don’t feel the cold. I don’t feel much of anything except the thrashing in my ribcage. My heart’s going to fracture one of my ribs if I don’t calm down.
I hear more noise outside. I pound my fists harder and scream louder, but my voice no longer carries much sound and my arms are tired and frozen. My hope dissolves as quickly as the ice earlier. I walk to the back of the freezer, pick up the soup pot, and throw it against the door. It makes a loud clatter. Someone must have heard that. Still no one comes.
The noise beyond the door is deafening. It’s lunchtime, which means that I’ve been in here for at least two hours. I pick up the soup pot and throw it again. Uselessly, it clangs to the floor. I try to do it a third time, but my arms are too stiff and it crashes before reaching the door. It still makes noise though. So I do it again. I lift it, drop it, lift it, drop it. Over and over, until my arms feel like they’re about to rip from their sockets.
I sink down and tug my arms through my sleeves to rest them against my bare skin. I need to keep my extremities warm. For the first time in my life, I’m thankful for the amount of hair on my head. I curl my toes, in and out. At some point they stop moving. I try to jiggle my legs, but they feel heavy…so heavy.
Maybe I should get up and walk to keep my body temperature up, but then I’ll breathe a lot and might deplete the air of oxygen. I try to get up anyway, but I stumble. I can’t lift my heavy, rigid body off the cold, steel floor…and I’m so tired…my lids feel like iron shutters…my forehead tingles…everything’s very black…black like molasses…thick like molasses…shiny like molasses…sticky like…
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ivy
The beach is a wide strip of creamy sand bordered on one side by the Atlantic Ocean and on the other by tufts of long, wild grass. Even though the sky is light, the sea is deep cobalt, the same shade as one of the fabric rolls in Mom’s secret drawer. Small waves lap the shore, dragging along broken shells, slimy algae, pale rocks, and sticks of all sizes. It’s wild and briny—not the sort of beach I dream about with turquoise water and white sand—but it’s a beach nonetheless. As I watch the landscape with its swooping, loud gulls, an idea for a quilt flourishes in my mind. I snap my lids to store the image in the depth of my imagination.
The show has set up a row of striped tents that resemble vintage popcorn boxes to house port-o-potties and changing rooms. Further down the beach, there is a pleated organza big top underneath which several long wooden tables are being decorated with copper pots overflowing with rosemary and lavender, and ceramic bowls piled high with yellow lemons. Acoustic music trickles out of speakers. It mirrors the landscape, sounding like breaking waves and the balmy breeze.
Our assistants come toward us to take our shoes and spray us with sunscreen. Then they hand us the mesh bags we used yesterday and lead us to the cleared spaces on the sand destined for our works of art.
The camera crew is in place. They wait for Dominic’s signal to begin taping. In front of Dominic, amidst the packed crowd, I spot the star-maker, Delancey. In spite of the sweltering heat, he’s wearing a white pin-stripe suit with shortened pant legs. I haven’t seen him since the first day, but I bet he’s been here all along, meandering around us like the rest of the audience. To say the truth, I’ve been so focused on competing that I’ve barely looked at anyone. I scan the faces surrounding us. Some look vaguely familiar—either from the silver screen or from the tabloids.
A photographer has his camera ready on a tripod. It takes me a second to recognize Patrick Veingarten. He waits for Dominic’s signal like everyone else. It comes in the form of a launching of white helium balloons. There are five of them just like there are five of us. I tip my face up and watch them sail away, chalky dots against the bright blue.
I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and set out. I’m still not sure what I’m going to make, but I know something will catch my eye and jumpstart my creative juices. I tug my fingers through the swaying tall grass that looks bluish-lilac up close. I break off a piece and inspect its elasticity and strength by tying a knot. It’s sturdy, so I grab a bunch and place them into my bag. I spot Kevin not far from me. He’s pulling out bundles of the grass, so many handfuls that his piece will surely consist of only that, which spurs me to find some other material to use.
I walk further away from the water line, kicking branches and twigs off my route. A broken slab of wood calls out to me. I bend over and pick it up. When I stand up, I find myself nose-to-nose with Patrick. Well, maybe not nose-to-nose, but nose-to-camera. His index finger is poised on the shutter release.
“Hi,” he says. His bald head shines in the sun.
“You shaved your mustache.”
He smiles. “I shaved my mustache.” He snaps another picture of my face, then one of my hands wrapped around the piece of wood.
“Wasn’t it your trademark?” I ask.
“It was, but I turned a page in my life, and in this new chapter, I don’t have a mustache.”
I raise a skeptic eyebrow, which he captures on camera. Still smiling, he winks and walks toward the other contestants. If I cut off my hair, would I be starting a new chapter also? At least, I would no longer be mistaken for Aster. No one would ask if I was the twin at the wheel of the Honda.
I stick the plank in my bag and meander back down to the beach, fingering the curled tip of my ponytail. I’m not careful and trample a twig. A sharp, stabbing pain makes me curse and sink to the ground to inspect my sole. Sure enough, it’s punctured, and blood beads over the surface. I look for Cara, and see her chatting with another assistant. I wave. She doesn’t see me, but a middle-aged man in a pink polo shirt and checkered shorts does, and waves back.
Idiot, I grumble. Since he’s the only person whose attention I’ve managed to grab, I gesture him over. He races toward me.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to talk to you,” he says, swiveling his face around like an alarmed puppy.
“Can you just get my assistant? I need a Band-Aid.”
He catches sight of the trickling flow on my foot. “Right away.” He jogs back toward the shore, but does a U-turn. “Which one is she?” He runs in place, which just looks odd.
“The peroxide blonde with the short hair,” I say, pointing her out.
“Righty-o,” he pants, and runs toward her. Still running in place, he taps her shoulder and aims his entire right arm toward me.
Cara disappears into one of the popcorn tents, reappears, and trots toward me. The first aid box in her hands reassures me that the guy wasn’t a total idiot.
She kneels beside me and takes my feet in her hands. “It’s not too bad.”
“It hurts like a bitch,” I say.
When she sprays antiseptic on my skin, a shrill scream jerks out of my throat. She eyes my sole more carefully. �
�Actually, the shard is pretty big.”
“No kidding,” I mutter.
She grabs a pair of tweezers from the medical kit and proceeds to dig through my skin for the sharp piece of wood. I clamp my teeth shut to avoid yelling again.
There’s sweat on her brow. “I don’t know if I can get it out. Maybe—”
“Give me that,” I say, wrenching the tweezers out of her hands.
Trying not to flinch, I press my thumbnail against the butt of the shard to coax it out. Slowly, it moves back the way it came, and soon, the end of it appears like a baby squeezing out of its mother. I snap the tweezers around the shard and pull it out. It’s no longer than my smallest nail, but it’s sharp as a stake.
Cara, who’s turned a little pale, soaks a fresh piece of cotton with antiseptic and applies it to my small wound, then she dabs some cream and covers the area with a large waterproof bandage. My foot throbs, but I stand up and walk on it. That’s when inspiration hits. I pick up every piece of wood I can find, from twigs to branches.
When the mesh bag is about to burst, I return to the beach and dump out the contents in the space I was allotted. Lincoln is kneeling, a small piece of wood clasped in her hand. She’s drawing or writing. Herrick is building a wall out of seashells. It’s intricate, but doesn’t look stable. Chase has been digging: inside an enormous hole, he’s sculpted hills and towers. He’s building a sand castle. I smile to myself. Good dealers don’t make great artists. But my amusement fades when I see the beginnings of Kevin’s work. He’s weaving the tall grass together and it’s starting to pool at his feet like a rope.
Forgetting all about my foot, I commence, praying that the structured piece I’m planning will hold. I take two twigs and weave a stalk of grass around the ends to keep them together at an angle. Surprisingly, it works. I take another stick and then another, positioning them this way and that until I have something that resembles a small web. I keep at it until I run out of wood. I lay my piece down and pick up my bag. Fueled with excitement, I race back toward the long grass and tear more stalks and replenish my stock of wood. I step on a small seashell on my way back, and my foot pulses with pain, but I push on. The sun is no longer high in the sky and Lincoln and Chase are no longer crouched on the sand. Both are finished, and are being interviewed by Josephine in front of one of the cameras.
The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) Page 18