by Lily Summers
“They’re so not me,” I say.
“But they could be you,” she retorts. “For tonight, you could be Secret Agent Mia, super sex spy. Just try them on. They’ll make you feel like the sultriest seductress to ever seduct.”
“Seduce,” I correct her.
“Whatever. Give them a try, and if you hate them, I’ll let you wear the stupid jeans.”
I snatch the packages from her and close myself up in the bathroom. From down the hall, I hear her yell, “And they must be worn with a thong, no exceptions.”
The mirror mocks me as I strip down and do my damndest to figure out how the hell this contraption works. Eventually I get all the loose bits untwisted and the stockings hooked in place. I huff and turn around every which way to look at myself.
And wouldn’t you know it, my ass looks fucking amazing.
“Huh,” I say.
“Told you,” Audrey says from the other side of the door.
“Quit creeping on me,” I say, too stubborn to tell her how right she was. The look she gives me when I exit the bathroom with the stockings still on under my dress says it all.
When we pull up to the shop above the MAG, the crowd’s already thick under the outdoor heat lamps they brought in for the event. Tables lined with linens and covered in hors d’oeuvres are off to one side, alongside two bartenders serving a variety of drinks.
I’m so used to finding Ezra at the center of the party that I’m scanning the crowd before I realize he’s probably inside for the reveal.
I’m thrilled that he gets to have a proper introduction, but I really wish he were here to run his hand along my spine and absorb some of this nervous energy. Maybe I could help ease his, too. I wonder if the MAG has a supply closet.
I walk toward the bartending cart and Leon materializes from the mass of art aficionados.
“Mia, thank God,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “People keep trying to talk to me about Matisse and Dali, and the beer selection is absolutely abysmal. Dos Equis and Guinness? Kill me now.”
“At least it’s not Budweiser. You could always try wine?” I suggest.
“Bite your tongue,” he says, looking sidelong at the bartender like the guy personally insulted his mother. “The only wine I drink is whatever leeches out into sour ale from the barrels its aged in.”
I chuckle as I make my way to the cart. “Alcohol elitist.”
“I’m an alcohol purist,” he corrects me.
I order one of the specialty mixed cocktails – something called a Georgia O’Keefe that’s supposedly a take on a Fuzzy Navel, but… pinker. I don’t have to think about that too hard. It tastes like a sugar-dipped grapefruit.
Leon and I brave the sea of people until we find Duke and Audrey near the door to the record shop. They’re not letting anyone into the building yet, so it’s eerily deserted inside when I look in the window.
I’m not sure why that’s making me feel uneasy.
“So, does anyone have any idea what we’re walking into?” Audrey says. “I mean, it’s not going to be like that exhibit I read about where the artist used actual blood and feces, right? I’m all for free expression, but I don’t know if I could hang with that.”
Duke laughs. “I can’t speak for the other artists, but I do know that’s not how my dude Ezra operates.”
“Has he told any of you what he painted?” I ask. It’s driving me up a wall not knowing, even though we’re moments away from the unveiling. I can’t wait.
“Nope,” Leon says. “He hasn’t said a word, not even after I got a few drinks in him.”
Duke nods. “He’s been walking on air ever since he finished the thing. I’m pretty sure keeping it quiet has about made him bust a gut open.”
He didn’t even tell his best friends about the painting? The intrigue keeps building. If I don’t get to see it soon, I feel like I’m the one who’s going to bust a gut.
I finish my fruity this-is-totally-a-euphemism-for-vagina drink and go to get another. The booze doesn’t make me less eager for the doors to open, but it does relax me a bit.
The bartender’s barely finished mixing when I hear the director’s voice carrying over the crowd, which goes miraculously quiet. I pay for my drink and weave my way back through to my group so I can hear her better.
“We’re thrilled by the featured artists in this year’s showcase,” she says, hands clasped around the microphone she’s using. “Our local talent is always impressive, but this year, the artists have outdone themselves across a breadth of styles and mediums. The featured artists are on display throughout the gallery, and we invite you to browse their work before we gather for the unveiling of our New Discovery Artist of the Year.”
My heart does a flip in my chest. She’s talking about Ezra.
“The doors will open momentarily, and we ask that our guests come down the stairs single file. Please enjoy the showcase!”
She hands off the microphone to one of the other staffers and goes back inside. Our group is one of the first through the door, and we make a beeline through the music displays for the gallery. I’m amazed I haven’t spilled my drink, I’m moving so fast.
Like the director said, the gallery has been rearranged to accommodate the new exhibits, and each featured artist stands near their display to take questions or chat with viewers. My eyes immediately scan for Ezra, and my pulse quickens when I see a huge draped painting at the end of the display maze, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
A not-insignificant part of me screams to go straight for the hidden canvas and peek at what’s beneath. It takes everything I’ve got to reel the feeling back and act like a civilized patron of the arts.
It’s painful to pretend I’m not itching for the final exhibit, so I try to distract myself with the other artists. I pass incredible art in a variety of mediums, from sculpture and oil pastels to photography and textiles. I pause near a tattoo artist whose display features a number of live subjects in various stages of undress to show off her work.
“This is gorgeous,” I say, gesturing at a woman’s bare back. Line art of a crumbling tower covered in flowering vines rises alongside her spine. Bleeding ink like dripping watercolor washes over her skin. “What’s your inspiration?”
The artist dips her head and smiles. “The skin’s a canvas with its own story. Our lives are etched over its surface in scars and freckles. I find the story and I bring it to the surface.”
I nod in understanding. I wonder what story my skin would tell.
I wonder what story Ezra’s canvas tells.
At last, I’ve made it to his covered piece, and I sip nervously at my drink as the crowd starts to congregate behind me. I’ve made sure I’m front and center so Ezra sees me. If I’m this nervous, I can’t imagine how he must feel.
The director emerges again and I grip the stem of my glass so tightly my fingers hurt. I feel like I could vibrate through the floor.
She raises her hands and the murmuring of the crowd falls to a dull hum.
“Every year, we receive dozens of applications from new and up-and-coming artists, and every year it’s a struggle to select our featured New Discovery Artist. This year, however, we received an application utilizing a medium we’ve never showcased before, and it caught our attention immediately. This artist’s perspective on the world around him is fresh and unique. His visual metaphors are stunning. I could go on, but rather than bore you with a lecture, I’ll let him show you the original piece he created for this showcase.
“With no further ado, allow me to introduce Ezra Teel, unveiling his painting utilizing canvas and aerosol paint.”
The audience applauds politely, but no one’s as loud as Leon and Duke, who whoop happily as Ezra comes out grinning and waving.
I’m likely biased, but he’s easily the most handsome man in the room with his hair neatly tied back and his face radiant with excitement. He catches my eye and his face takes on a softer quality. Almost without thinking, I brush at my skirt, revel
ing the top of one of my garter stockings, and his eyebrows tick up.
There’s no time for flirting, though. The director, who’d been applauding with the crowd, quiets us again.
If I have to wait ten more seconds, I really think I might scream.
“Ezra,” she says. “Would you do the honors?”
“Absolutely,” he says, gathering up an edge of the cloth.
The director turns to the rest of us. “This is ‘The Purple Girl.’”
Ezra pulls the cloth away and it flutters to the floor like a ghost.
There, staring back at me from the enormous canvas, is my dead sister, rendered in a dozen shades of violet and blue.
My glass slips from my fingers to shatter against the floor, and the gallery goes quiet as a graveyard.
24
I’m not sure how I manage to navigate through the tightly-packed mass of people in my cocktail dress and heels, but somehow I do. A hand reaches out to touch me, to stop me, and I jerk away and past it, banging my shoulder against the stairwell as I climb the steps as fast as I can.
Have I taken a breath since I saw Iris’s eyes? Does it matter?
The tears stinging my eyes send a fresh wave of agony over me as I leave the shop and hit the cold night air. The heating lamps are already disassembled and being packed away. For a moment, I stand near the street, swaying on my feet.
I recognized the shape of Iris’s mouth and the color highlighting her hair immediately. No one here knows about her, no one knows that I draw her to keep her close. No one but Ezra.
And he took her from me. Without asking. Without thinking.
What right did he have to see the way I memorialize her, how I preserve her on the page, and show her to the world? Of all the subjects for his public debut, he chooses her?
I can’t protect her this way.
There are a few people outside smoking and giving me odd looks. I can’t be here. I need to get away.
I pull off my heels and start walking barefoot down the sidewalk, not paying much mind to the pebbles beneath my feet. Maybe I’m bruised, maybe I’m bleeding. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is being not here.
Unfortunately, I only make it half a block before someone stops me.
It’s Ezra. Who else would it be?
For the first time, the sight of him makes me feel sick.
“Mia, what’s going on?” he says. “When I imagined all the different reactions you might have, bolting from the room was not one of them.”
My hands clench into fists at my sides. I make my voice cold as the Arctic. “You painted my sister.”
“Yeah,” he says, clearly befuddled. “I wanted to pay respects, to honor her. For you.”
“You shouldn’t have.” The words fall out of me dripping in sarcasm. I’m shaking. I squeeze my fists even tighter to make it stop.
He takes a step back and rubs his neck with one hand. A steady buzz of traffic mutes the world around us. “Look, why don’t we go back to the party, okay? You can give the painting the whole art nerd critique if you want. Pick apart whatever I did wrong. Duke and Leon will get a kick out of it.”
He doesn’t get it. He thinks I’m annoyed, not betrayed.
I twist my fingers into my hair. I wore it down tonight. For him, because he likes it better this way. I yank it up and feel the sting in my scalp.
A couple passing on the sidewalk slows to peer at us. They’re dressed up, ready for a night on the town, just like us. Unlike us, they’re happy, solid in their trust in each other. I glare at them. Ezra keeps talking, trying to keep it light like I’m not breaking apart inside. “Come on, Mia, lay it on me. Did I go too Picasso’s Blue Period with it, or what?”
My icy exterior breaks, fire taking its place. He wants me to lay it on him? I will.
I stare him in the face and say, “She wasn’t yours to honor. My sister isn’t a rung for you to climb on your way up the success ladder. You took something personal, something that was between us, and you displayed it on a wall for total strangers to see. You broke my trust without so much as a second’s thought.”
Hurt passes over Ezra’s face like a raincloud. “How can you say that? Of course I thought about it. I did this for you. I thought you’d love it.”
“I don’t!” I’m yelling now, waving my hands to hammer my words home. The people standing outside the gallery are rubbernecking, but I don’t care. “I don’t love it, and I didn’t ask for it.”
He reaches out for my hand and I jerk it away. I watch him flinch at the anger in my movements.
“I thought this would be a good thing,” he says, his brow furrowing in frustration. “Maybe sharing Iris with everyone will help. It’s a talking point, a way for you to let other people know what happened.”
I chuck my shoes at the ground beside me. “God damn it, Ezra, that’s not for you to decide. You don’t get a say in what I share or how I share it.”
“Well why not?” he yells back at me. “Why are you so damn closed off? You have people here who adore you, but you won’t fucking talk to anybody. How are you supposed to heal if you don’t let it go?” He hits his fist into his palm to punctuate every word of “let it go.”
It’s like he punched me in the solar plexus and I stumble back. I’m winded for a few seconds before I can respond.
He looks down at his hands and drops them like he’s only just realized what he did. But it’s too late.
“Who the hell are you to tell me how to mourn?” I say. “You’ve known me, what, a few months? She was my sister, and you have no idea what I went through when she died. What I’m still going through. I keep my sketchbooks hidden for a reason. They’re memories and dreams that belong to me, they weren’t for you to mine for inspiration.”
He holds his hands out in false surrender. “I’m so very sorry that I tried to create something special for my girlfriend. My bad for painting award-winning art in honor of your sister.”
It’s the first time he’s ever called me his girlfriend out loud, but I don’t care. His mocking tone makes me see red. I tense up every muscle in my body. “Don’t you put up that bullshit front with me,” I say. “Did you forget who had to twist your arm to even apply for this contest because you thought you weren’t good enough? This was supposed to be about taking a risk, but you’re still hiding. You borrowed my demons instead of revealing your own.”
“What makes you think —”
“This wasn’t in honor of my sister. It was a way for you to stay anonymous, and you used me to do it.”
He deflates under the weight of my words and I feel both victorious and ill over it. When he opens his mouth again, the anger’s gone out of his voice.
“Mia, that’s not… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Yeah, well, intentions mean fuck-all,” I say. “You took something that didn’t belong to you, and you have no idea what it’s like not to be able to protect your kid sister.”
His hand goes to the side of his ribs, like they’re hurting him. “You’d be surprised,” he says.
“I don’t want to be surprised anymore,” I say, my fury finally draining out of me and leaving me weak in the limbs. There’s nothing more to say. I hurt down to my very soul. This is what I get for trusting someone. I’m alone, betrayed, and devastated. Again. I turn around and walk away from him.
“Don’t follow me,” I call over my shoulder.
He doesn’t.
As soon as I get inside the apartment, I dump my shoes unceremoniously on the floor and immediately strip off my dress on the way to the bathroom. I run the water in the shower as hot as it will go and struggle to unhook the garter stockings. A sobbing laugh bubbles out of my throat and I wondered why I even bothered to wear them tonight. I told Audrey they weren’t me.
I’m not sure I even know who “me” is anymore.
Once I’m naked, I stand beneath the scalding water and let it turn my skin pink. It’s easier for me to ignore my tears when I�
�m being pelted by hot water and steam.
Afterward, I barely manage to crawl into a pair of sweats and sit on the floor near the foot of my bed. My fingers itch with the need to draw, so I pull out one of my sketchbooks and grab a piece of charcoal.
I hold it over the white page.
Nothing comes to me.
I’m burning up inside with the need to spill my emotions out, but my hand won’t cooperate. I try to force it and the lines come out stilted and wrong. It’s a jumble that amounts to exactly nothing.
In my mind’s eye, I struggle to find Iris’s smile.
There’s nothing there. It’s all slipping away.
Ezra broke so much more than my trust tonight. He took the art from my hands.
25
As the morning light starts to turn the horizon orange, I pull into my parents’ driveway.
I drove for three hours in the cheapest rental car I could find and now I can’t force my hands to release the steering wheel. I’m gripping it so tight that my fingers ache. I didn’t tell my parents I was coming, but I can’t imagine they’ll mind. That’s not the problem.
The problem is that this is the first time I’ve been home since I moved to Portland, and that’s intentional. Every time Mom’s tried to get me to come back, I’ve pulled out excuse after excuse because I know coming home isn’t only about coming back to the familiar – it’s about coming back to all the pain I left behind. Now that I’m here, I know Mom will try to convince me to visit Iris’s grave, and that’s not something I feel ready to do, even after all these months.
But now Iris is fading from my memory. Her laugh is less loud, her eyes less bright. I couldn’t even draw her last night, and that’s not something I can lose.
I don’t deserve to forget.
Time to bite the bullet. I get out of the car and grab my hastily-packed duffle bag out of the trunk before I head up the walkway to the front door. Even in the pale sunlight, I can see that Mom’s planted her yearly red and orange mums in pots along the path, and the white dahlia bushes near the house are bursting with flowers.