Right. I’m either the greatest optimist the art world has ever seen, or I’m lying to myself.
The rest of the day I sneak peeks at my phone. Krell goes from one interview to the next, chatting up reporters, critics, and bloggers from the US, Europe, and South America. The words “breakout” and “rising star” seem to appear in every profile.
I’m wrung out from reading all this, so when I get back to Mrs. Mednikov’s and find an envelope on my bed, my first thought is, Damn. What now? I wave the envelope at Mrs. Mednikov, who’s standing a few feet away, sprinkling paprika into a pot on the stove. “It’s from a law firm.”
Since Tara hasn’t gotten back to me about painting Iona, I guess that’s a no-go. It wouldn’t surprise me if this was Iona’s next move: to sue me to get back the cost of the dress I sold.
Mrs. Mednikov wipes her hands on a towel and comes over. “Why are you nervous? Look. Stiner,” she says, tapping one of the names on the return address. “The woman who bought your painting.”
“Oh. Right. I can’t believe I didn’t see that.” This has nothing to do with Iona. It’s good news.
Mrs. Mednikov stands over my shoulder as I tear open the envelope. A pale yellow check peeks out of a folded piece of creamy stationery.
I gasp. “My first sale.” I run my fingers over the numbers on the check. “Pay to the order of Sabine Reyes. One thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars.”
“I tried to get you more,” Mrs. Mednikov says. “But this lawyer, she is tough. If I were to commit a crime, I would hire her to defend me.”
I raise an eyebrow and scan the letter that came with the check. “Any idea what kind of crime you’d commit?”
She smiles, considering the question. “It would be a crime of passion. A murder, perhaps. Very dramatic.”
“Remind me not to make you angry.”
“I doubt you would be foolish enough to cross me.” Mrs. Mednikov gives me a wink and retreats to the kitchen.
Stiner has sent detailed instructions on where and how to send Seen/Not Seen. The woman leaves nothing to chance.
I pull out my phone, take a pic of the check, and send it to Kevin with a one-word text: SCORE!!!
This windfall means I could give some money to Julie and start paying Iona back if I have to. I could even treat Kevin to Korean-Mexican fusion. I pull up my bank account to check the balance, which I hardly ever do since I live off my tips day to day.
When the screen comes up, I see the balance and shake my head. This isn’t my account. It can’t be. There’s over six thousand dollars in there.
I log off and try again, because what if there was a glitch or I put in someone else’s information by accident?
The same screen comes up. Oh shit.
Six thousand dollars. No. This…this…this is wrong.
I click over to a screen that shows deposits. Oh no no no. Two deposits for three thousand each? The first on the day that Adam went missing. The second a few days later.
I exit the screen and shut the door to my room. My hands are trembling, and I lean into the wood. Six thousand? That’s exactly what I told Adam I owe Iona.
No way he did this to be nice. He’s way too calculating.
Oh God, I took money from Adam. Even if I didn’t know it, the money’s been in my account for days.
What the hell do I do now? I shove my hand over my mouth because I can feel the vomit rising inside me. I can’t call the bank. Start an investigation that could lead right back to me?
I don’t want the money, but I can’t give it back. Who would I even give it back to? Krell?
I can stuff it in a bag and leave it outside the homeless shelter. Let it do some good. But that won’t solve the problem, because even if I get rid of the money, there will still be records showing it was in my account.
Take a deep breath, take a deep breath, I tell myself, trying to force down the nausea. No one but you and Adam and the scumbag who has Krell’s Duncan knows it was stolen.
I melt against the wall and let it hold me up. You’ve got to hold on, I tell myself. It’s almost over. The nightmare’s almost over.
But then the phone in my hand buzzes, and I shriek like I’ve got a wasp on me and fling it onto the bed.
For a moment, I’m sure it’s Adam, that thinking about him has made him swoop out of hiding to taunt me. I lean over the bed, and the phone buzzes again.
“Are you all right?” Mrs. Mednikov asks through the door.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Sorry for the noise.”
The stupid thing’s not going to stop until I turn it off or answer it. I curl a finger under the phone and flip it over.
There’s a pic of the Komodo food truck and NEXT TIME YOU’RE BUYING.
I exhale. It’s only Kev. YOU KNOW IT, I promise before I turn off my phone.
The check from Casey Stiner slides off the bed onto the floor. I pick it up and set it on the bureau by my portrait of Mom. The way Mom’s bent over her guitar it’s like she’s staring at the check at her feet.
I’m disappointed, Sabine.
I drop on my bed and bury my face in my hands. I know I messed up, I know it, but I told you I wasn’t ready. I told you I couldn’t do it alone.
And I’m back in that moment in the hospital when she let out her last breath, and I realized she was utterly and completely gone.
My heart tears loose, but Mrs. Mednikov is right on the other side of the door. Shoulders shaking, I hold in my sobs and let the tears fall.
None of this would have happened if you were here, Mom. You’d have figured out what I was doing with Krell’s painting and made me stop. You’d never have let me be so stupid.
Please, Mom. I’m so, so lost, and I know I need to fix this, but I swear I don’t know how.
Adam’s money is still dragging on me as I walk up the entrance ramp to CALINVA the next morning, but I stop for a moment to look at Seen/Not Seen. I’m so proud of what I’ve done. Not just because Julie loved it, or Krell was impressed, or Casey Stiner bought it, or even because Gaereth Wattleberg, the Gaereth Wattleberg thinks I’m an artist to watch. I’m proud because I pushed myself to go further, and I got people engaged, got them to reconsider who Julie is.
As I soak in Julie’s portrait, I see what I can’t believe I didn’t see before. Every painting is the painter, their inner life splayed across the canvas. This is even more of a self-portrait than the one I just painted.
The disconnect I feel between who I thought I was, who others think I am, and the truth is right in front of me. Only in my case, it’s reversed. The real me hangs off the canvas, ragged and torn.
Suddenly I can’t stand that the painting is here where my friends and classmates can see it. I’m about to go ask Marco when the exhibition’s being taken down when I see Keiko coming up the ramp, practically standing on tiptoe to see through the windows, and I realize my classmates are so excited to see their own paintings, they couldn’t care less about mine.
I walk in the lobby and start looking for a familiar curly head, because I could really use a dose of Kev today, but then I spy David Tito, Bryian, and Birch outside class on the second floor and remember it’s Tuesday and Kevin’s not here, he’s over at Caltech. Damn.