He slides through the crowd until he’s beside me. “Your landlady is negotiating your first art sale.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all. She overheard that Casey woman say she wondered if you’d donate your painting to be auctioned at a gala for the homeless shelter. Stephania told her in no uncertain terms that she owns your painting and that if the shelter wants to auction it, they should get a wealthy trustee to buy it from her first.”
I burst out laughing. “Did she name a price?”
“She’s asking two thousand, but I think she’d settle for seventeen fifty. Given the quality of the work and the size of the canvas, it’s a fair price for an unknown artist.”
“You’re serious.”
Peter nods at Mrs. Mednikov. “Look. They’re shaking hands. Congratulations. Well done.”
I’m still shaking my head when Mrs. Mednikov strolls over looking like the cat that ate not just one canary, but an entire aviary. “You heard that I sold your painting?”
“Yes, I can’t believe it.”
“The deal is not quite done, but almost,” she says. Mrs. Mednikov shows me the business card she’s holding. “She’s a lawyer for rich criminals.”
I glance at the card. “So I guess she can afford to buy my painting.”
“The money will go to you, you understand.”
“But it’s your painting.”
She reaches for my hand. “I will rest better if I know you will not struggle so much.”
My eyes fill. “Oh, Mrs. Mednikov.” For the first time in months, these are happy tears. It’s not just the rent or car insurance the money will cover, it’s knowing someone actually cares.
She whispers something in Russian and kisses both my cheeks. Then Peter and Chelsea escort her away.
I can’t wait to share the news with Kevin and Taysha. I’m so high from the sale, I finally start having fun, greeting faculty by name and answering questions, chatting up bloggers, and taking selfies with Taysha fans.
A couple hours later, the crowd thins, until all that’s left are my classmates, several of whom are flopped on the floor, their laughter burning like methane.
Taysha and I lean on each other. “We survived,” she says.
“You have a good night?” I ask.
“Yeah, I made some good contacts. You?”
“My landlady might have sold Seen/Not Seen.”
“What!” Taysha slaps me on the head. “When did you plan on telling me?”
“Ow. I’m telling you now.”
Just then Krell reappears. He stands in the center of the room, and we all go quiet.
“Congratulations, everyone, on a fine show,” he says. “Your hard work paid off, as the faculty was very impressed with the caliber of your work. But they weren’t the only ones. I understand that a sale is pending for Ms. Reyes’s painting, Seen/Not Seen.”
Krell pauses and beckons to me. My exhausted fellow students peel themselves off the floor until they’re standing. I smile and nod as everyone claps, surprised at some of those clapping hardest, like Bryian and David Tito, people I didn’t expect would be happy for me.
“But Ms. Reyes is not the only one to experience success this evening. One of your peers has been offered representation by the Ankarian Gallery. Bryian, will you please step forward.”
We start clapping for Bryian, and Taysha bumps me. “Check out Bernadette,” she says.
Bernadette’s clapping, but her face is as pink as her hair. “Oooo. They are never getting back together.”
“Bryian’ll be lucky if he makes it to the parking lot alive.”
Krell waves us to silence. “I wish I could stay and celebrate, but I’ve got a plane to catch. Your final assignment, a self-portrait, is due when I return next Friday from Art Basel Miami. Until then, create!”
The buffet in the back of the room, which I never got a chance to even look at, is trashed. Kevin comes back from it, holding up a lonely Wheat Thin. “I’m starving, but this is all that’s left. You want to get a pizza?”
“Aren’t your friends waiting for you?” Isn’t that girl waiting for you?
“Nah, they’re holding a big D and D party. They took a break to come to the show.”
Yes! I resist the urge to fist pump. “Pizza sounds amazing.”
We grab our stuff and head out. “So, tell me all about the sale,” Kev says. I launch into the story of Casey Stiner, expert negotiator, meets Mrs. Mednikov, indomitable old lady, but my eyes are on Bernadette, who’s ahead of us as we start down the ramp.
She’s thrown on a black motorcycle jacket, and her fog-gray dress billows behind her as she heads for a burnt orange Maserati parked right outside. Too bad Taysha’s already gone, because she’d know exactly who the guy is who drives Bernadette away.
Kevin and I come out of the building, and we’re about to head into the parking lot when I see Julie standing across the street. She’s wrapped in a striped blanket, looking up at CALINVA.
I reach for Kevin. “Hey, I know you’re starving, but I can’t leave just yet. Why don’t you go without me?”
Kevin looks from me to Julie and shakes his head. “No, I’m not in a hurry. I’ll stay.”
The street’s empty of cars, so I dart across. I haven’t spoken to Julie since the night I scared her, so I slow as I get close, afraid she might run away.
Sweetie’s curled around Julie’s neck, nestled in the folds of the blanket. “Hi, Julie, I haven’t see you in a while.”
“Florence said I could come see my painting.”
“I’m glad you came. Why don’t we cross the street so you can see it better?”
“Who’s that man standing over there?”
Kevin’s spotlit by the entrance. “He’s my friend Kevin.”
“He has a good aura, not like that other one.”
I shiver, knowing she means Adam. “Yeah, you’re right, Kevin’s a good guy.” On impulse, I ask, “Is the other one—is he around?”
Julie reaches from underneath her blanket and pats my arm. “You’re safe now,” she says, and a weight lifts off me. I’d love to believe Adam is far, far away.
We cross the street together and I guide Julie to a place on the sidewalk that gives us the best view of my painting.
“That’s me,” Julie says, breaking out into a huge smile. “And you even got Sweetie in there.”
She studies the painting, her eyes moving over the canvas, and I wait, afraid of what she’ll say about the ragged, black-and-white portrait attached to it. When she speaks, her eyes turn sad. “That part there hanging down. That’s old me. I like how you showed she’s not part of me no more.”
I dig my hands deep in my coat pockets. I can’t find the words. Julie seems like such a gentle soul, but I get the feeling, and I could be wrong, there’s something dark and violent in her past she ran from. Her need to be in the open. Her fear of anger. Her wanting to help.
I start thinking about how to share some of the money I’ll get for the painting with her. “A woman wants to buy it,” I tell her.