“She does? My painting?”
“She thinks it can help raise money for the shelter.”
“And bring blessings upon the world.”
It’s so Julie, her saying that. I look over at Kevin, watching us and he’s smiling. “Julie, is it okay if I leave you now? My friend’s waiting.”
“She must be so proud of her girl.”
Julie’s eyes are glued to the painting and I’m thrown, because I have no clue who she’s talking about. “Who’s proud, Julie?”
“Your momma. She’s got to be proud tonight.”
I sway on my feet and suck in a breath. “Thank you.” I pat Julie’s bony shoulder through the blanket and then say, “Be safe,” and walk toward Kevin, carefully putting one foot in front of the other, because I hope, I really hope Julie’s right.
When I reach him, he tosses his head at Julie. “She likes it.”
“Yeah, she does.”
“Still up for pizza?”
“I’m starving.”
As we walk to the car, Kevin says, “You think we could find her later?”
“We might. Julie usually stays right around here.”
“So if we pick up an extra slice, we can bring it to her.”
I didn’t see the glow around Kevin when Julie mentioned it earlier, but now I do. The way I feel about him at this moment, the light he radiates, it isn’t a mere aura, it’s an aurora borealis.
I smile through my shifts at Artsy and La Petite Tomate on Saturday, reliving the exhibition, Julie’s joy when she saw Seen/Not Seen, and the hours Kev and I lingered over pizza. It feels like Christmas lights are wound around my heart, and their blinky brightness fills my chest.
Taysha’s soaring, too, and she messages me nonstop.
9K VIEWS OF ZOETROPE COAT!
12K!
15K! INDIE ACTOR WANTS TO BORROW 4 SUNDANCE FILM FEST.
Kevin sends me shots of his self-portrait as he works. He’s a smiley-faced blue robot gobbling down tacos. WHAT DO YOU THINK?
RESEMBLANCE IS UNCANNY! I message back.
I don’t have time to think about my self-portrait until after I finish the brunch shift on Sunday. By the time I get back to Mrs. Mednikov’s, my hair reeks of bacon, but there’s only a couple hours left of sunlight, so I make some coffee and go out to the porch to start in on the assignment.
A canvas board waits on the easel and I face off with it. The empty white square stares back defiantly. I spill my drawing pencils out on the little table and pick through them, because it might sound silly, but the right pencil makes a difference.
My hand circles the canvas board, and the charcoal pencil hovers over the surface. Round and round it goes, but won’t touch down.
“Argh!”
The terrier next door starts yapping and won’t stop. Oh, shut up, would you?
I pick up the makeup mirror I brought out and try a frown, a glare, a soulful gaze, a tentative smile. Painting what I look like is easy. But a self-portrait isn’t a mirror. I’m supposed to go deeper and reveal what’s under the surface, my true self.
I swap out pencils, choosing one that’s easier to erase. My hand sweeps over the canvas, barely brushing it before my head falls back and I stare at the ceiling.
Who the hell am I?
Last year, I would have said I’m a talented artist, I’m a good person, I’m honest, I’m loyal to my friends.
But would a good person have set Krell up so his painting was stolen?
I’ve pushed away thoughts about Krell all weekend, but now I check my phone. It’s seven o’clock in Miami, and the opening reception at Art Basel is about to begin. The booths are up and the artwork’s on display. Krell’s probably walking the exhibition hall right now.
He knows his painting like he knows his own face, so the only way to explain why he didn’t realize the Duncan at his reception was a copy is that he was distracted when he saw it.
But he’ll be at the art fair for almost a week. At some point, he will look at Duncan and realize something about it is off.
I pick up my cup, but the coffee’s stone cold, so I throw open the screen and toss it on the lilies. Krell’s not blind; he’ll see where I didn’t get it quite right. Not to mention the part on the shoulder Adam must have done.
And then? When he clues in that the painting’s a forgery?
A ridge of pain takes hold of my shoulders, and I slowly roll my arms and move my head from side to side, trying to work out the cramp.
What an idiot I was, letting Adam convince me Krell would stay silent. Krell’s not going to do that. He’ll go right to Barry Ankarian, and Ankarian will have to pull the painting from the show and concoct a convincing story to head off the scandal so it doesn’t sink his gallery.
The pain’s dug in. Dammit. I fold one arm over my chest and pull with the other, trying to force the cramp free.
Krell might be in shock, but Ankarian will be pissed. Because even if the insurance pays out, he’ll have to tell the buyer what happened.
I picture him at Krell’s reception, eyeing the crowd, sorting us into those who are worthy of his attention and those who are not. With an ego like his, he’s not going to let this go. Not when he’ll have a million reasons to hunt down the person who painted the copy.
And of course, the investigation will start at CALINVA, because no one outside it even saw Duncan until the day before Krell’s reception when it was sent out to be photographed.
I stretch my arms out in front of me, only now seeing that my fingertips are black from my charcoal pencil. I spit onto a paper towel and try to wipe off the residue, but it clings to my skin.
Krell will narrow down the suspects to painters with the strongest technical skills. I run through the first-years. Me, Bernadette, and Bryian will be the top suspects, but I don’t know the upper classes or grad students well enough to guess who else they’ll target.
Whoever’s in charge of the search will probably check security tapes to figure out which of us got into Krell’s studio when he wasn’t there. I try to picture the halls. I don’t remember any security cameras, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.
My chest tightens as I recall one by the back door on the pole with the security light. Shit. I’m on tape going in a door that students don’t normally use.
No, wait; that’s good. If there’s a tape, Adam’s on it, too. It proves he exists.
But Adam’s gone, and my fingerprints are all over the painting. I’m so, so screwed, but there’s nothing I can do.
I shut my eyes and count to five as I breathe in, hold the breath, and slowly release. Again. Again. My heartbeat begins to slow.
God, I want this over.
When I open my eyes, it’s no surprise the canvas in front of me is still blank. But I’m clued in to who I am: a liar.
And unless I admit that, I’m stuck.
Fine. “I’m a fraud,” I whisper. I say it again, a little louder. “I’m a cheat.”
My pencil circles the board twice then touches down. A vision forms in my head and flows through my fingers, and a sketch emerges: my face as Raphael would draw a Madonna with lowered eyes and a gentle smile. From the neck up, I appear innocent, happy even.
But the hands I draw hold open the doors of the wood cabinet that is my chest. A bluebird wheels out of it, fleeing the burning house that consumes the inside.