“Wow. How cinematic, and yet untrue.”
“Clearly. If it was true, you wouldn’t be wearing this.” She pokes a finger through the hole in my sleeve.
It feels like a miracle that the rumor’s so outrageous; still my heart thuds in my chest. “What else?”
“You lifted Kylie Jenner’s purse off her chair at La Petite Tomate and sold it on eBay.”
I struggle, but keep smiling. “Again, not true. Any others?”
“Just one more,” she says quietly.
My heart stops. “Tell me.”
“It involves Iona Taylor and a pair of designer boots.” The look in Taysha’s eyes says she wants to help.
I nod, and rest my hands on the sink to steady myself. “What else did you hear?”
“That Iona tossed you out on the street after your mom—”
I suck in a breath and focus on the ceiling. “You can say it: She died. She was run over and the guy never even stopped.”
“Oh, baby, I didn’t know.” Taysha curls me into her arms and hugs me fiercely. She blankets me with “so sorry so sorry so sorry,” and I surprise myself by how intensely I hug her back. I feel her caring flow into all the empty parts of me, and ever so quietly she says, “How can I help?”
She means it. She’s not saying it to say something, and I wonder why I took so long to confide in her when she’s so much more deserving of my trust than Adam was.
“So have you ever tried making a Valentino knockoff?” I joke.
“Not yet, but I’m up for putting my skills to the test.” She makes a mean Iona face and mouths the word VAL-EN-TIN-O.
She’s trying to make me smile, but I can’t. My head feels so, so heavy. “This is such a mess.”
“We’ll find a way,” she promises.
I’m calm now, but I’m not quite ready to let go of her. “Does Kevin know about the rumors?”
“I don’t know what he’s heard, but you should talk to him before they get any worse.”
“I don’t see how I’m going to get through this semester. Everything feels impossible right now.”
Taysha loosens her hug and steps back. She takes hold of my shoulders. “You cannot be wrecked. You are a survivor.”
At last I smile.
“Now, promise me you will change out of that nasty getup you’re wearing before Krell’s reception tonight.”
The entire school will be there for Duncan’s unveiling. Students, faculty, administration, guests, Adam, and the girlfriend he never mentioned. Just thinking about him makes me angry all over again.
“I don’t think I should go. Stay out of sight. Let the rumors die down.”
“Oh no no no. You will be there. You need to get your face and name in front of the faculty. Remember what I said about the faculty choosing who they mentor?”
“Okay; okay, fine.”
Taysha slides her hands down my arms until she’s cradling my fingertips. “You cannot be wrecked. Remember that.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Now, I really need some coffee before next period.”
We go down to the coffee bar, and once I’ve got the biggest cup they sell, I spy Kevin sitting to the side with a calculator and a textbook thicker than any I’ve seen around here. His cheeks are usually pink, but right now they’re pasty white. He’s scruffy and not in a good way.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey yourself. You feeling better?”
I want to get to him before the gossip does. “Yeah, the hatchet-to-the-brain feeling’s gone.”
“Good to hear it.”
It’s very un-Kevin for him not to invite me to sit with him. “You seem really busy.”
“Intro to Engineering test in”—he checks his phone—“two hours and thirty-five minutes.”
“I’ll let you alone. Maybe we could talk later?”
“You going to Krell’s thing tonight?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Good. We’ll catch up then.” Kevin ducks back into his book and I look around for Taysha. I don’t see her, but I do see Bernadette chatting up our rarely sighted TA, Fitz, and two tables over, Bryian glaring at the back of Bernadette’s head.
So much for that romance.
For the first time, I actually feel sorry for Bryian. Apparently, we both trusted the wrong person.
I traded my Friday-night shift at La Petite Tomate for Sunday brunch so I could attend Krell’s reception at CALINVA, so I can’t fall back on that as an excuse for not showing up.
I push through the glass doors and start up the long concrete ramp to the main entrance. The floor-to-ceiling windows on my left look out over the street, while on my right, and level with my head, a long glass wall runs the length of the gallery.
The party for Krell is packed. I pause partway up the ramp, struck by an impulse to turn around. Adam’s somewhere in there, his girlfriend probably orbiting him like a satellite.
You hurt my feelings, but you didn’t break me.
I cannot be wrecked.
I check my reflection in the window overlooking the street. Normally I don’t bother with eyeliner, but tonight I want Adam to regret how he toyed with me. My eyes are dark-rimmed and enormous, and the deep-cut, midnight-blue halter under Hayley’s cast-off leather jacket…Let’s just say I can hold my own with any of the girls here.
I start back up the ramp and take in the crowd. The entire school’s come out, and according to Taysha, the guest list includes trustees, art dealers, critics, and some of LA’s biggest collectors.
Krell’s painting hangs in the center of the long wall that runs the length of the gallery, and even though the piece is five feet tall, I see only the top over people’s heads.
When I push through the glass doors into the lobby, the sound of people talking and laughing hits me like a wave. The art gallery is so full, I have to wade in slowly.
Krell stands by his painting of Duncan, and I get glimpses of him between the layers of adoring fans. His wife, Rachel, and the dean are chatting nearby, and Rachel is wearing Taysha’s necklace.
I scan the crowd for Adam and feel myself relax when I realize he isn’t here. Still, it’s early.
Taysha’s hanging with some of the first-years, so I head in that direction. Tonight her smoky-purple hair is a cloud, and as the sea of people around her parts, I get a full view of her outfit.
The blouse crisscrosses over her breasts, and the left and right sides are different prints that both command attention. One long dolman sleeve is a bold black-and-white tribal, while the other is hot orange, green, red, and white. Taysha’s claret-colored leather skirt is belted high up on her waist. The look is fierce and uncompromising.
When I get up closer, I realize what I see in the colorful print. Coke. Fanta. Heineken. Sprite. The colors and logos are blown up, layered, distorted, and sliced into irregular shapes. “You designed this print yourself, didn’t you?”
“Indeed I did. I wanted to honor the creativity of African tin artists while making a statement about corporate colon-ialism.”
“The fashion-design faculty must be blown away.”
“I’ve raised some eyebrows, but I’m looking beyond the faculty. There could be a designer or a collector or even a blogger here tonight who can boost my profile.”