***
I sat and stared out the window as Mr. Vanner drew examples of something easily ignored on the board. I daydreamed about what it would be like to live in Faerie, back before all of the bad stuff began. I wondered what could have happened to two great monarchs without a single person knowing anything. It was all very strange and the mystery consumed me. Maybe the new Queen had something to do with it? Everything had gone downhill when she became ruler.
"Avery," whispered someone next to me. I quickly snapped back into realty—I hadn’t even opened the book in front of me. Class was almost over and I hadn't learned a thing. I looked over at Max, who gave me a very annoyed look.
"What's your problem?" I hissed at her. I was so tired of her glares and the quiet comments under her breath that were just loud enough for me to hear. If that was her version of civil then what’s the point?
"Where are you lately? You're always daydreaming. And you've been late a few times," she accused. Why did she care?
"That's none of your business, Max," I snapped. "Why are you so concerned anyway? I thought you could never be friends with me." Just then, the bell rang and everyone started to get up and leave. Max put her things in her bag with frustration. She threw it over her shoulder and turned to me.
"I don't want to be friends with you. I only care about your behavior in school because you’re the only real competition I have. If you start to slack then things will become too easy for me and people will think that I didn't work hard enough for my education. And no one works as hard as I do!" God, she was on the verge of psychotic—I could almost see a vein protruding from her forehead.
"Okay, okay. Lighten up, Max, geez, sorry." I held my hands up in defense and she backed off at once, apparently realizing how ridiculous she sounded. Max seriously needed some friends, or a life or something, a therapist at the very least. She turned in a huff and stormed out of the studio, heels digging into the floor and blonde hair swinging back and forth. A typical Max exit.
I headed over to the gallery after school. It was Tuesday and I had to receive the freight shipment for the week. Around seven o'clock I emerged from the stock room and headed over to Celadine’s office.
"Hello, darling. Was there a lot to receive this week?" Celadine asked as she looked up from her desk. Even with no make-up, thick framed glasses, and a paint covered t-shirt, she appeared stunning. Her violet, cat-like eyes were always kind and welcoming to me, and she always talked to me as if I was the most important person in the world. She was the best boss ever.
"Nope, no more than usual,” I replied. “How did we do with the Gregory showing last week?" I asked.
"Marvelous. His work wasn't my cup of tea, so to speak, but it was a hit with the upper-class women and their tennis playing husbands." Celadine was probably just as rich as, or more than any of those upper-class people. But she never flaunted it. She took comfort in lavish things like traveling, and nice dresses, but that’s about it. You’d never catch her mingling with trophy wives or other rich people. "Avery, I have a very important show coming up next weekend and I would like you to be more involved in this one."
"Okay, sure, I’d love to. Which artist is it?"
"It's Mat Mitchell."
"Celadine that's great!" We had been trying to get him to choose our gallery for the launch of his new line. Mat Mitchell hadn't put out anything new since the eighties, so his new work was highly anticipated.
"Yes, I am very excited. Here is a list of the things I need you to take care of," she instructed as she handed me a small notebook. "Take your time―I want the best of everything. Let me know if you need any help. Mona will be here during the day as well."
"Thanks Celadine. I'll get started on this tomorrow. I'm taking off for the night; do you want me to finish anything else before I go?"
"No darling, have a good night. I'll talk to you later this week." She pecked me on my cheek and opened the door for me. "Have a good day at school tomorrow."
"Thanks, goodnight," I said and left.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JACK
Iron & Wine Page 18