I barely see Adam before he rushes upstairs to paint. His landlord hiked his rent, and he’s doing extra gigs with the photographer he works for so he can hold on to his place while completing his painting to show Gavin Brown.
The morning after Halloween I’m parked, bleary-eyed, on a couch in the student lounge, trying to form a coherent thought about Gerhard Richter’s blurred photography paintings while Kevin’s flopped beside me.
Kevin holds his head between his hands. He smells of beer and the faint lines of painted whiskers stain his cheeks. “You missed a great party.”
I nudge his coffee a little closer. “Yeah, I don’t really do parties anymore, but I wish I could have seen you as Goldsinger’s cat.”
“Schrödinger’s cat.”
He’s so pitiful, I’d like to give him a hug, but instead I pat his shoulder. “You explained it, but I still don’t get it. How can the cat be alive and dead at the same time?”
“It’s not a real cat,” Kevin moans. “It’s a paradox.”
I sip my coffee, relieved he doesn’t ask me about last night. Around eleven, my heart almost stopped when someone tried the door handle of Krell’s studio. I’d just picked up the heat gun, but I hadn’t yet turned it on, so I carefully set it down and texted Adam. He told me not to panic; it was probably the security guard, checking that all the doors were locked. We joked about it later when we were cleaning up, but I’m still not quite over it.
The thing is, I can’t tell Kevin any of this, because he’d never understand why I was there. And I’m pretty sure he’d hate Adam if they ever met.
I can hear it now. That guy’s a poser, Sabine. He’s so pre-tentious.
Wrong, Kev. Adam’s not a poser, he’s got real talent. A major art dealer has scheduled a studio visit with him.
I cover my cheeks with my hands so Kevin won’t see them turn pink as I remember Adam’s hand on my back when we were saying good night.
Kev slurps his coffee, wincing at how even that small motion hurts. He slumps deeper into the couch. “Sunday, two weeks from now. I’m going someplace special. Want to come?”
I’m intrigued that he hasn’t said where. “Maybe. Where are you going?”
His pained smile says he’s not telling. “Here’s a clue. It’s transformative.”
“Oh. Hell no. You’re a Scientologist.”
He laughs, then groans, then digs his thumbs into the pressure points by his eyes. “No, I’m Lutheran and I said transform, not convert.”
“Fine, I’ll go with you to this mysterious place as long as there’s no conversion.”
“Promise, no conversion,” he says, crossing his heart. He closes his eyes. “Think I’ll take a little nap.”
I dig out my earphones, but before I have them in, Kevin’s asleep. I get the feeling he likes me as more than a friend, and the last thing I want to do is mess things up with him.
A part of me feels bad, keeping secrets from him, but I don’t need Kevin judging me. I’m doing what I need to do to stay here. Kevin doesn’t have to worry about losing a scholarship, and he doesn’t have to worry about Krell, because Krell doesn’t mentor the sculptors; Ofelo does.
And I know what I’m doing with Duncan is right, because I see the progress I’ve made, how my technical skills are stronger, and the way I use color is more confident, more experimental. I’m close to a breakthrough, to discovering what will take Julie to the next level.
Plus, it’s not like I’m going to keep doing this forever. In three weeks, painting Duncan will be past tense. Over and done.
The next three nights, the security guard is back, rattling Krell’s door handle and making me jump each time. Adam tells me to relax. He thinks it’s Chuck, the new guy, trying to show his boss he’s doing his job.
Adam’s convinced Chuck won’t enter Krell’s studio. The security staff might have keys to get in, but Krell’s intimidated most of them into staying clear of him and it.
The deadline for our Color & Theory papers is coming up, so this morning Kevin and I trade laptops during break so we can give each other feedback on our first drafts. Kevin tackles my thoughts on Lois Lowry’s The Giver and Gerhard Richter’s blurred photograph paintings, while I review his about Orwell’s 1984 and Franz Kline’s abstracts.
I’m only halfway through Kevin’s paper when he’s finished mine.
Kevin rests his chin on his hand and stares off into space. He’s been growing a beard and it creeps along his jaw, curly and untamable.
“That bad?” I say.
He snaps out of his dream state and scrolls up the screen. “No, I think you’re on the right track. I like how you compare the way Lowry and Richter use black and white to show the lost connection between people and their pasts. And I especially like when you posit that ambiguity in novels and abstraction in paintings both force the viewer to draw their own conclusions.”
“That’s a relief. I was afraid it was total bullshit.” I spy Taysha run-walking through the lobby, making a beeline for our table. “Did you really just say ‘posit’?”
“I could have said ‘hypothesize,’ but that would have sounded grandiose,” Kevin replies.
I roll my eyes at him as Taysha drops into the seat across from us. She leans in, hands splayed over the orange plastic tabletop. “Mona in the administration office just told me one of the grad students got kicked out this morning…for stealing art!”
A grad student? “Did Mona say who?”
“No, she wouldn’t tell me his name, but apparently this guy went through Ofelo’s trash and pulled out piles of sketches, then sold them online.”
My chest feels tight. Adam cleans Ofelo’s studio, and I know he’s hurting for money, but it couldn’t be him.
Kevin takes off his glasses and rubs them on his shirt. “What an idiot. How could he think he wouldn’t get caught?”
The punishment seems way too harsh for what the guy did. “I can’t believe they expelled him. I mean, Ofelo threw the sketches away. He didn’t care about them.”
Now I wonder if that’s why the security guard’s been checking Krell’s door every night; he’s been looking for this guy.
“Au contraire,” Taysha throws back. “Ofelo intends to press charges unless the guy turns over all the money he got for the sketches or gets the drawings back.”
“If I was Ofelo, I’d go right to the police,” Kevin says.
“Hold on,” I say. “I get why CALINVA kicked this guy out, but why is selling Ofelo’s trash a crime?” It’s barely out of my mouth before I wish I could take it back.
“Do I really have to explain it to you?” Taysha says.
“No, I get it. The sketches are Ofelo’s intellectual property. Nobody wants their creative ideas stolen and sold behind their back.”
Kevin hands me my laptop and reaches for his. “We should get to class.”
I slide Kevin’s laptop over and slowly pack my stuff. “Save me a seat,” I tell Kevin and Taysha. “I’ll be there in a sec.”
HOW’S IT GOING? I message Adam, but he doesn’t answer. The atrium’s crowded with people heading to class, and I circle the room, hoping to spot him, but he could be working the loading dock or stretching canvases in the shop or miles away picking up supplies.