Ms. Newsom finally appears and we file into class. As I take my seat, I am more and more certain this was Adam’s work. The red paint obliterating the badly rendered shoulder and mistakes I made on Duncan’s eye?
But the tagger writing MURDERER? The word is so…so attention grabbing. Unless that’s Adam’s game: Distract the viewer. Get them to focus on Duncan Pyne. The pressure in my head takes hold right behind my eyes. What am I not seeing?
With Krell still in Miami and no class first period, I take my time getting to CALINVA the next morning. I need to stop by Secure Storage before Color & Theory because Marco, the guy who helped hang Seen/Not Seen for the First-Year Exhibition, wants to go over Casey Stiner’s instructions for how my painting will be shipped to her office.
I haven’t been in Secure Storage since the day I went looking for the real Duncan. Despite the fact I have a legitimate reason to be here, when I step inside my shoulders tense like I’ve returned to the scene of the crime.
I glance sideways at the steel locker where Adam stored my copy of Duncan, but no, it hasn’t miraculously reappeared.
Marco stands at the big worktable, stretching a tape measure over an acrylic. He peers over his glasses at me, and the metal tape measure rolls up with a snap. “You’ve created quite a stir.”
I set my portfolio and messenger bag next to the work-table. “I have?”
“Indeed. In the seven years I’ve been here, you are the only student to sell a painting during a First-Year Exhibition. Don’t think the faculty didn’t notice.”
I try to hand him Stiner’s letter, but he waves me off. “Ms. Stiner emailed us instructions as well. Here’s the bad news: A properly constructed crate for a painting the size of yours runs about two hundred.”
“Ouch.” My shoulders sink as I mentally subtract the money from the legit amount in my bank account, not the six grand that doesn’t belong to me. “When do I need to pay you?”
“Never. The good news: We found you a previously owned crate.” Marco beams, and points to a nearly new wooden crate leaning against the wall.
“You guys are the best,” I say, and hold up my hand, inviting him to high-five. He slaps my hand and says, “You can tell Stiner that her driver can pick the painting up on Friday,” then reaches for his tape measure. Clearly, we’re done.
“Thank you.” I go to grab my bag and portfolio case, when a guy saunters in carrying a cup of coffee. The smell of cigarettes pours off his gray-green coveralls. “Marco, you hear the latest about Miami?” he says.
“No, what’s up?” Marco answers.
I slowly pick up my messenger bag.
“Listen to this: ArtHype is saying the tagging of Krell’s painting could be a slam at Krell, not Duncan Pyne.”
I lift the strap of my bag over my head and set it on my shoulder as my pulse takes off like a rabbit.
Marco peers at this guy, his head twitching in disbelief. “They’re saying Collin Krell is guilty of murder?”
I feel like I’m about to be sick and I snatch my portfolio off the floor. Adam did this; I’m sure of it.
“Blows your mind, right? Yeah, they were contacted by”—he rolls his eyes as he air-quotes—“multiple sources who claim CALINVA hushed up that kid’s suicide last year after Krell verbally abused him into diving off the roof.”
I’m trying to hold myself together, but I can’t get out of that room fast enough. “Unbelievable,” I hear Marco mutter as I reach the door.
When I hit the hall, the walls feel like they’re closing in. I dash into the lobby, keeping my head down, hoping to get outside without anyone stopping me. I skirt around people, and they’re all talking about Krell.
“Man, you’d really have to hate Krell to go to ArtHype like that.”
“To come right out and declare Krell’s a murderer! I bet it was second-years. They despise him after what happened to that guy last fall.”
“What the second-years just did, attacking Krell, that is not going to play well with the administration. They better pray they don’t get kicked out.”
I can’t breathe. I need to get out of here. The ramp is so close, I’m only steps away when someone clamps onto my arm. “Sabine!” he says, and I jerk away before I register it’s Kevin.
“Kev. Ah, hi.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He’s hunched over, rubbing his palms together like he’s a fugitive on the run. “My dad’s here—”
I suck in a breath and scan the lobby, trying to control my panic. “Where is he? I don’t see him.”
Kev nods at the plate-glass wall between us and the gallery. “He’s looking at the show. Could you come meet him?”
His dad stands in front of Unresolved, a roller bag and backpack at his feet. His arms are crossed, and even from here, the tilt of his head and slumping shoulders announce that he’s not pleased.
As much as I want to help Kev, I really want to get out of this place. “I’m sorry. I forgot something and I need to go home and get it right now. If you’re still here when I get back…?” I take a step toward the exit.
The hope in Kevin’s face dissolves. “Yeah, yeah, sure. He’ll be around for an hour or so before he has to catch his next flight.”
I hate myself right now, but that doesn’t stop me from saying, “If I’m not back before he leaves, text me the gory details, okay?”
Kevin gives me a limp smile. “Later.”
I throw myself through the glass doors and plunge down the ramp. But I’m barely halfway down when a glimpse of Kevin and his dad stops me. I don’t have to hear a word of what they’re saying to know the visit’s not going well.
I can’t abandon Kevin when he never asks me for anything.
I shake out my hair and twist it back up. Chin up, I enter the gallery as Kevin reaches out and hits the switch to activate Unresolved. The canvas strips begin to flip, and I hang back so his dad can see the pattern break and re-form before I interrupt them.
“So the pattern’s random?” his dad says. His tone is curt and unimpressed, like Krell on a bad day.
“No, actually, each strip of canvas corresponds to a musical note,” Kevin answers. “Each is a key on the piano. The program is translating a jazz piece right now.”
His dad’s salt-and-pepper hair is buzz-cut, and I wonder if that’s one reason Kevin leaves his long.
I edge closer, unsure if this is a good time to interrupt. Mr. Walker’s narrowed eyes bore into the canvas. “How long did you spend tinkering with this?” he asks.
Tinkering. I can’t believe he said that, as if what Kevin’s done isn’t brilliant and inventive.
“Six weeks, more or less.”
“How’s your engineering grade?” his dad snaps, and even I flinch.
“Decent.” Kev seems like he’s keeping his cool, but I know he’s upset.
“Be specific!”
Kev mumbles something, and his dad replies, “Seventy-four? You’ve never had a seventy-four in your life!”
“Yeah, well, the highest grade in the class was an eighty-two. Caltech’s a few notches higher than Kansas State, Dad.”