He laughs, so at least he’s not offended by my rudeness. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve been following your portfolio”—What does that mean, what does that mean?—“and I’m really impressed with how you’ve evolved. I’d love to talk more about this project, if you’re interested.” He produces a business card from a slim steel wallet and passes it over. “Please give me a call.”
“Yes,” I say. “I mean…I will. Thank you. Wow.”
He grins again, showing white teeth. “Great. Well, I’ll let you get back to all your adoring fans. Looking forward to hearing from you, Elisheva.”
I watch him go with my heart still beating a thousand times a minute. It takes all my concentration not to just stand here grinning in front of my exhibit like a complete weirdo. But also like…holy shit.
I’m sweating a little bit still, so I sneak off to the washroom to splash some cold water on the back of my neck—this mascara isn’t waterproof—and give myself a little calm-the-hell-down speech.
When I return to my exhibit, Wyatt is there. He’s facing away from me, looking at the photos with his hands clasped behind his back. My gait falters for a moment. I could just…walk away. He hasn’t seen me. I could avoid him and hide over at Michal’s spot until he goes away.
But it’s not like I’ve done anything wrong. I refuse to feel embarrassed about this forever.
So I press my shoulders back, inhale, and make myself go up to him.
“Turned out pretty good, right?” I say.
He nods, still gazing at one of the photos—one I took in Crown Heights after I met Dvora, the street busy with post-Shabbos shopping, the men walking in pairs with their hatted heads tilted toward each other in deep conversation, plastic bodega bags slung over their elbows. The women with their strollers and shopping, children skipping along in their wake.
“It’s fantastic,” Wyatt says at last. “This is really good work, Ely. It’s evocative.”
Henrik Andersson thinks so too. I bite my tongue over that. The last thing I want is to seem like I’m bragging. “Thank you.”
“I saw Henrik Andersson over here earlier. He looked impressed.”
Well, so much for playing coy. A smile finds its way onto my face despite my best efforts. “He gave me his card. Looks like your cockblocking at Carolina’s show failed after all.”
The grin that splits Wyatt’s face is immediate and hopelessly earnest. “That’s great. You deserve it. So much. I’m so happy for you.”
He says it with the kind of gusto that is contagious. And if I weren’t already half-giddy from Andersson’s offer, I’m sure I would be now. “I know. I can’t believe it. I keep thinking there’s no way this is really happening. Like I’ll call him and he’ll change his mind.”
“He won’t change his mind. He has a good eye, and he knows talent when he sees it.”
Coming from Wyatt, that means a lot. And I might be a creep, but I know from reading Wyatt’s Wikipedia page that he’s been exhibited in Andersson’s gallery himself. It was one of his very first major breaks, in fact.
I’m still smiling like a freaking moron, no matter how bad I try to get myself under control.
“Don’t do that,” Wyatt says.
“Do what?”
He gestures toward my face. “You always cover your mouth when you smile.”
I’m pretty sure the observation just made me flush bright red, and I have to resist the urge to cover my mouth yet again as I force an awkward laugh. “Sorry. I guess I’m just self-conscious. I have big teeth.”
“You have what?”
“You know. Big teeth. The dentist said they were two standard deviations above normal size.”
Wyatt shakes his head very slowly. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Um, I think I would know, not you.” His lips quirk up at one corner. “Besides, I like your big teeth.”
God. Okay, now I really am turning into a tomato. Maybe instead of covering just my teeth I should cover my entire face next time.
The silence that punctuates his words is unbearable. If we were alone, I might— I don’t know what I’d do. But we aren’t alone, we’re surrounded by total strangers, and I’m still so high off getting Henrik friggin’ Andersson’s card that I’m not sure I’m even thinking straight.
“Did you put in a good word for me?” I can’t help asking. Because maybe that’s all that offer even was: the nepotism of the art industry, Wyatt’s good fortune trickling down to me, his protégé.
“Nope. I don’t do referrals, as a general rule. This was all you.”
All of a sudden there’s a wet heat prickling at my eyes. I turn away from Wyatt and pretend to be staring at my work again, although I’m sure I don’t do a very good job hiding my emotions from him. He knows me too well at this point.
His hand finds my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Like I said, you deserve it. You’ve earned this, Ely.”
“I tried,” I say. “I tried really hard.”
“I know.” He hesitates for a moment. Then says: “Are you coming back to Parker next semester?”
I shake my head. “I got a job. So I’ll be around but not…here.”
He’s silent for long enough that I have to actually look at him again. Wyatt’s expression, for once, is unreadable. I can’t dissect a single interpretable emotion from that face.
“What?”
“Are you leaving because of me?” he asks. He keeps his voice low, as if—despite the bustle and loud murmur of the gallery crowd—he’s still worried about being overheard. “I know you were invited. Am I the reason you aren’t staying?”
I make a face. “Don’t be a narcissist. Not everything’s about you.”
“Why, then?”
Trust Wyatt to be completely undeterred by my name-calling. I blow out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know. I want to focus on my original ideas, not assignments. My scholarship money ran out, and I don’t want to pay tuition. The Sotheby’s job pays great. I just got the card of a curator at a major museum. Pick your favorite reason; there are a million of them.”
“Well,” he says, “I’m happy for you. And I think you’ll do just fine, with or without Parker. Although I’ll miss you.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’ll miss me? I’ll still just be an L train transfer to the G, transfer to the 7, transfer to the N/W, and then a nine-minute walk away.”