“Think about the energy in Monet’s railway paintings,” he says. “The locomotives look black, but Monet built the blackness out of red, blue, and green so it has depth.”
I walk out of his office, my head spinning. I’ve been wrong about him. Not wrong about everything; Krell’s still an asshat, but now I wonder if his harsh and obnoxious comments were intended to help me.
I don’t think Krell was lying about wanting me to keep my scholarship. Adam must have heard wrong when he said Krell wanted Bryian to get the Zoich. Or maybe Krell was all set to vote for Bryian and changed his mind.
I can’t continue sneaking into Krell’s studio. Right now it feels completely wrong.
For the first time, I consider what Krell would have said if I’d asked him if I could copy his painting. The answer almost makes me sick, because there’s the tiniest chance he might have said yes.
The regret and confusion I feel after my meeting with Krell dog me through Color & Theory. I’m supposed to be such a talented observer, but I’ve been blind as far as he’s concerned.
As I walk through the atrium, a woman calls, “Sabine,” and I whirl around, wondering who’s so excited to see me, but I don’t recognize her. She dashes toward me, arms outstretched, her long black hair swinging. “I can’t believe it’s you!”
Her lips are bright red against her pale skin, and everything about her—the cut of her black pants and chartreuse swing coat, the perfect arch of her eyebrows—feels like a warning.
I take a step back, but before I can get away, she wraps my arm in both of hers and is walking me across the lobby. She’s smiling, her head bent toward mine, but her voice is anything but friendly as she says, “I’m Iona Taylor’s personal assistant, Tara Speer. I think you know why I’m here, so where would you like to have this conversation?”
The exhibition gallery’s empty, but Tara feels so dangerous I need to get her out of the building. “There’s a bench outside.”
“Perfect. Lead the way.”
She marches me down the entrance ramp, her grip tight on my arm. “I am not your average PA, Sabine. Not some simpering twenty-year-old who does coffee and dog-grooming runs. I’ve been doing this awhile, so I know how to dig into problems. How to investigate and rectify discrepancies.”
Just as I imagined, poor Lacy lost her job. Iona must have tired of sweet young things trying to break into Hollywood, so she hired Tara as her personal assistant.
When we’re outside, I nod to the right. There’s a small courtyard cut into the side of the building where there’s a bench no one uses.
Thankfully, no one’s sitting there today.
Tara releases my arm and we both sit down. I’m not surprised she doesn’t waste time on pleasantries, but launches right in. “You picked up Iona Taylor’s Valentino dress from the dry cleaner on February twenty-first, the same day you retrieved her Zanotti boots.”
I nod yes. Tara’s not at all what I expected, and I don’t know how I’m getting myself out of this.
“Iona wants them back.”
“I don’t have them.”
She screws up her face like she’s in pain. “I really hoped you wouldn’t say that. You know how much that dress cost, don’t you? Six thousand. And the boots were seventeen hundred. That’s grand larceny, Sabine. Iona could have you arrested.”
The street is swimming before my eyes. I’m trapped.
“What did you do with the Valentino?”
“I sold it.”
“Great. Just great. Did you sell it online? Take it to a consignment store?”
“I took it to Hollywood Redux in the valley.”
She whips out her phone and taps the screen. “Over on Victory. There’s a chance it’s still there. How much did you get for it?”
“Four hundred.”
She snorts. “Four hundred dollars. Too stupid to get a good price.”
How dare she judge me? “I needed the money. You don’t know what happened that day, do you?”
“No?”
“Iona didn’t tell you about Mom going to the hospital? She didn’t mention how she fired Mom while she was dying, packed up our things, and kicked us out?”
I watch Tara’s face shift as what I’ve said sinks in, but her feeling sorry for me lasts about two seconds before she says, “Oh, I get it. You think that selling her dress was justified. You think Iona deserved it.”
“Yeah, I did and I still do. I was seventeen. I had no mom, no money, no home, and I was sleeping in my car, because of her.”
Tara smirks, probably because she’s thinking that it doesn’t matter if I was justified. If Iona files charges, I could go to jail. “How much did you get for the boots?”
“I lied. I still have the boots.”
“Are they in decent shape?”
I shrug.
Tara shakes out her hair. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I will see if I can get that dress back from Hollywood Redux, and if I do, you will repay me what that costs. And you are going to return the boots and write the most abject, obsequious, groveling apology of your life and send it to Iona.”
I hate the idea of pretending I’m sorry. “What if Hollywood Redux already sold the dress?”
“You’d better pray they haven’t.”
Tara refuses to leave until my cell number is in her phone. “I’ll be in contact,” she says, and strides off.
Iona hired herself a bulldog, and Tara’s not going to stop until she’s satisfied. There’s no escaping her.
I’m late for work, so I haul my messenger bag onto my shoulder, and I’m not paying attention as I hit the sidewalk and almost bump into two of my classmates having a smoke break.
They glance back and forth at each other, and I realize they might not have heard every mortifying detail of my conversation with Tara, but they heard enough.
A block from Artsy, Tara’s text comes in. DRESS GONE—BETTER START WORKING ON YOUR REPAYMENT PLAN.
At work, I put my jacket and bag in the back room and throw on my green Artsy apron. The store is crowded with moms and kids buying card stock, glitter, and paint to make Christmas cards, so my manager assigns me to the cash register up front.
I ring up sales, wondering how the hell I’m going to come up with the money to pay Iona back. Unlike Krell, Iona has zero interest in my leading a productive, artistic life. Every time I think things are getting better, I find out I was wrong.
As I bag candy-cane-striped paper and Santa Claus rubber stamps, Mom is in my head. Karma isn’t some anonymous, mystical force, Sabine. It’s the energy you create from your choices. Bad choices breed bad endings.
Customers keep coming and a kid who can’t be more than five or six melts down in front of me. He wants the twenty-four pack of colored pencils and his mom will only spring for twelve. She drags him out of the line and over by the greeting cards, where he sobs and flails his arms, and she stands over him, waiting him out.
Right there with you, buddy.
By the time I get through the rest of the people in line, the little guy is back in front of me. His arms are sagging and his face is drained. He pushes a twelve pack of Crayola pencils up on the counter.