I never told Daddy that Christopher and I wrote letters. At first I wasn’t sure what he would think about it. And then it became weird to mention, as if I’d been keeping a secret. That’s what the letters were—a secret. An escape.
A lifeline, like the red and white round buoy.
The exhibit becomes bigger than I thought it would, once my mom finds out about it. She invites every friend and enemy she ever knew in New York City, and the whole thing blows up. It would have been nice to have a small show filled mostly with the art scene, people who would appreciate the work more than the champagne.
But I accepted my mother’s ambitions in society a long time ago. As Christopher said once, It’s not exactly a hardship. Even if I do have to dive into cold water.
All the pieces for the show are packed into foam-padded crates stacked along the foyer of the penthouse suite. Daddy’s paying the bill, of course. Mom’s last divorce gave her the smallest payout yet, which had less to do with a prenup and more to do with the man’s failure in the stock market. Only the main piece remains propped against the window, surrounded by tubes of paint and a disarray of brushes. I can’t seem to stop myself from dabbling at it, even though I’ve lost any perspective on whether I’m making it better or worse.
Mom breezes from her bedroom in a casual blouse of ivory silk and skinny jeans, the perpetual cloud of Chanel achingly familiar. “Oh, baby, are you still working on it? It’s perfect, you know.”
I twirl a dry paintbrush in my fingers. “This is the one they’ll write about.”
She comes and gives me a kiss on the forehead. “I’m so proud of you. Everyone is going to be blown away by your talent.”
Despite our weird money issues, I love my parents. Mom always supports me, and even if she can’t settle down to save her life, that only makes her human. Daddy is puzzled by everything I do, but he’s coming to the exhibit. Cancelled a business trip to Japan to be here.
The fact that they’ll be in the same room for two hours is cause for concern, but at least neither of them are married to someone else right now. That makes it ten percent less likely to devolve into a screaming match by the end.
I sigh, flopping back onto the oversize leather couch. “Don’t worry about me. I just need to stare at this for approximately twenty-four more hours, and then I never have to see it again.”
Mom checks her lipstick in a gold-leaf mirror. It’s already perfect, of course. “Are you sure? I can stay in tonight. Sandra and the girls will understand.”
“No, you should definitely go out. We haven’t been in NYC in forever.” It was back to LA after the relationship with the German count ended, and thank God for small favors.
She smiles. “You’re the best daughter.”
“I really am.” I blow her a kiss. “Now go have fun. That’s an order.”
After putting a few smudges of Atomic Red on my cheeks, she floats out the door. It will be good for her to meet her girlfriends, even if they are a pack of conniving hyenas. She hasn’t been this excited since before Robert the day trader asked her to marry him.
And besides, it wouldn’t help for her to hover over me. I really am going to drive myself crazy in the final hours leading up to the exhibit. This piece will get auctioned off at the end of the night, and the money will go to a charity to help victims of rape and abuse. There’s every chance that Daddy will be the highest bidder, not because he likes the painting but because money is the only way he knows how to show his support of my weird interests. Even knowing that, I can’t help but obsess over this piece.
The other pieces show Medusa in various stages of her life; with her three Gorgon sisters, beautiful and pristine, being held down by Poseidon, being cursed by Athena for the “crime” of being raped in her temple, her hair turned to snakes, her face turning every man to stone. You would think that’s enough tragedy for the Greeks, but then they had to behead her.
The other pieces tell the story of her life and death, but the centerpiece of the show is a simple portrait like the one that appeared on the wall of the gymnasium, sprung from my rage and fear and helplessness, the look in her eyes mirrored in every girl who walked the hallways with me.
I had only a few hours between when the custodians went home and when school staff arrived in the morning, which meant I had to work fast—and that was good; the time limit gave me the intensity I needed to complete the piece. The painting in front of me is good. Maybe even my best work, but there’s something missing. A sense of necessity. That I would have painted the wall of that gymnasium or died trying.
Maybe it’s impossible for something created to exhibit to match that intensity.
Or maybe I’ve just failed at art in a spectacularly public fashion.
My phone vibrates with a text from across the room. It’s probably Avery, my best friend from Smith College, who’s staying at a hotel in Times Square. If she offers to get drunk with me, that’s how I’ll be spending tonight, I already know.
It’s Christopher.
Two words and suddenly I can’t breathe. Is he texting me to wish me good luck the night before my big show? Does he even remember that it’s tomorrow? Or is this some random Christopher in a city that must have thousands of them, who somehow got my number and is now going to send me an unsolicited dick pic?
My hands are shaking, which I prefer to attribute to nerves about the upcoming show than about the fact that Christopher is texting me for the first time. Heyyyy, stranger.
There’s a full two minutes, during which my heart beats approximately twelve thousand times and I think of ten terrifying ways he might have been injured after texting me.
I’m at the airport about to get in a cab. Do you have plans for dinner or are you going to an uber hip artist spot where they drink kombucha and complain about capitalism?
A smile spreads over my face before I can stop it. He’s here in New York City. For me. And he’s possibly inviting me to dinner? The suite suddenly becomes a fun-house mirror, everything in all different shapes, leaving me dizzy and out of breath.
Actually I’m in my hotel room, thinking about slashing this painting, but they only sent up a butter knife with room service. After a moment I send another text, You can come hang out if you want. There’s no kombucha but we can raid the minibar.
No vandalism until I get there.
I might have a sensitive artist’s soul, but I’m still a girl.
A girl with an unfortunate, painful, and totally inappropriate crush.
Which means I spring up and raid my closet for something other than a paint-splattered tank top and ripped shorts. I pull a brush through my hair, which is about all I can do before falling back on my bed, wondering why I want to impress someone I barely know. It’s not like I’ve never been on a date before. I’ve been on lots of dates, with frat boys who think I’m going to fawn over them for knowing how to kick a ball or making a reference to Kant. Whatever.
I don’t think Christopher has ever tried to impress me. I also don’t think he wants to get me into bed. At least, he had me naked once and didn’t try anything. So where does that leave us? I’m not fifteen anymore, if that had ever been what kept him away from me. I’m eighteen now, and ironically more fully aware of my cluelessness as a sexual being than I was back then.