“Sorry,” I said, not feeling sorry in the least. “I should go listen to some death metal and watch some Russian fail videos to make sure I’m grimacing for the rest of the day.”
She laughed and shook her head. “You know what you should do? You should go through some of that mail on your desk out back. It’s getting out of control. I’ve done what I can for you—I opened it and sorted it into piles. But I’m not your secretary, either, you know. And the pile just keeps getting bigger and bigger.”
“Right,” I said. “I know. I’ll get to it. And I appreciate you going through it and at least getting me started. That makes it a little less daunting.”
She smiled. “You sure as hell don’t strike me as the type to be intimidated by a pile of papers. They’re on your desk.”
But it was intimidating, if only because I knew how long it was going to take me to go through all that shit. It would be so much easier to just chuck it all in the trash—I mean, recycling bin.
I walked back to the office, where I was confronted by that looming pile of papers. A lot of it I was actually able to get rid of, almost right away—the credit card offers, the junk mail, the grocery store circulars. That took care of a lot of it, and I immediately felt better.
There was a small stack of envelopes that Helena hadn’t opened, with a Post-it note on top: These look official and/or finance- related—thought I’d better leave them for you. H.
I picked up the first envelope. It was from the bank that I’d taken out a loan with to start the business. I had the loan payments automatically deducted from my bank account each month, so I hadn’t received much correspondence from the bank, other than the monthly statements, which I didn’t look at but saved in a folder for the accountant. I opened the envelope, pulled out the papers, and was about to slide them into the folder. For some reason, though, I looked at the first page before I put them in, and I saw: 00.00. As in, that was the statement balance.
What?
I looked more closely. The loan was completely paid off, but I hadn’t expected that to happen until late next year.
It must be some sort of clerical error. I didn’t feel like getting on the phone with the bank, but I knew if I didn’t, I’d forget about it and then this would
probably come back to bite me in the ass. Even though it was clearly the bank’s mistake.
“Fuck,” I said, probably more aggravated than I should be. But who the hell wants to spend half their day listening to shitty Muzak while they’re on hold with their bank? But I’d have to take care of it. Just not today.
I have a girlfriend.
Today, I was feeling too good to deal with any of that shit.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chloe
I was on my way back home from the art center when I got a call from Claudia, my mom’s friend and owner of the gallery where the art show was going to be.
“Chloe!” she said. “How are you?”
“Hi, Claudia. I’m good,” I said. “Just leaving the art center right now, actually.”
“Oh, that’s great. How is your piece coming along?”
“I had a few false starts,” I said. “But it’s coming along pretty well. It should be ready in time for the show.”
“Excellent. I’m expecting a really great turnout. The last show we had went so well; this one shouldn’t be any different. It’s a really exciting opportunity.”
“I’m definitely looking forward to it,” I said, pulling into the parking lot. “I’m a little nervous, actually.”
“Oh, that’s entirely normal. You’re not the only one, trust me. But you’re talented, and there is no doubt in my mind that whatever you’ve come up with is going to be absolutely phenomenal.”
It made me feel better to hear her say that, until I remembered that she’d never actually seen my work before and was just going off of whatever my mother had told her. I sighed. “Well, I really do appreciate the opportunity you’re giving me.”
“Of course! Your mother couldn’t stop raving about your work, so it was a no-brainer to give you a spot. I love having the chance to help out up-and-coming artists. You wouldn’t be the first one that I’ve helped, you know. Think about what you’d like to price your piece at, too. Oh, I’ve got to run, dear, I’ll talk to you soon.” She hung up before I could reply.
I tossed the phone down onto the passenger seat; my head felt like it was spinning a little. I knew I should just be grateful for the chance to actually be in the show, but I felt myself starting to have doubts about the whole thing. There were probably a lot more artists who were more worthy of having a spot in the show than I was, yet just because my mother was friends with Claudia and “couldn’t stop raving” about my work, I was given the spot.
When I got home, both of my parents were there, waiting for me, it would seem. They were sitting in the living room, my father in his wingback chair, my mother on the couch.
“Hi,” I said.