“Okay, I’ll be back in a few hours.” He kisses me quick, making my heart thrum, and dashes off with the others. Using the map, I find my way back to guest housing.
The room is small—like a hotel room or a small dormitory. The bed is a queen, luxurious compared to my tiny single back home. I shower first, getting off the dust and grime from carrying all the artwork in, and with my hair wrapped in a towel I get into soft, comfortable bed. I drift away easily, not waking again until I feel the dip of the mattress.
“Can I take a nap with you?” George whispers close to my ear. I nod and feel him climb in behind me. Soon his body is spooned against mine. I exhale, feeling a slice of contentment, wrapped in his strong arms.
The next thing I hear is the alarm buzzing and we both rouse.
“That was the best nap of my life,” George says, rubbing his face. He shifts in the bed and I can’t help but notice the hard arousal in his shorts.
“I like sleeping with you, too,” I say, about the awesome nap and waking up with desire in my belly. There’s not time now—no way I’m letting him be late for his show.
We both dress quickly and for the first time in my life, I feel grown up. Like a couple getting ready for a big night. There’s something jarring when George steps out of the steamy bathroom, scrubbed and clean. He doesn’t look like an awkward, too-big-for-his-frame boy anymore. He’s a man.
I see it in his face. The lines of his jaw and the way he turns me around and zips up my dress, fingers lingering against my skin. For once I can see the future—where things will go, how things could be once we settle down and go for our dreams.
I just have to figure out what mine are.
14
George
“Tell me about this piece,” a man says, holding a glass of wine. He’s studying a piece of street art created with spray paint and chalk. It features a black and white image of a fist holding a tiny red heart. Blood droplets drip from the grip and reshape to make a face of a boy. Tears slide down his face, dropping to the bottom of the canvas where a garden blooms wild and tangled.
“Uh,” I start, feeling exhausted. I’ve had to do this countless times tonight and it’s a strange process. Art is where I’ve always poured my pain and hurt. It gave the energy a place to live without saying the words. But these people want to know what it means. “It’s called Resilience and is a commentary about what’s created when the larger authority figure in his life squeezes the heart out of a child.”
The man, maybe in his fifties, looks me up and down. I’m glad the scar on my forehead is covered by my hair. “That’s a lot of emotion for a kid your age.”
“In my experience, age has nothing to do with trauma.”
Starlee leans against a nearby wall, watching the whole conversation. I don’t mind her presence; she fills me with a steadiness I never knew I could possess. She’s beautiful in her black dress and clunky boots. A black leather band wraps around her wrist three times, drawing my eye to the tattoo visible on her forearm. The same one branded in my skin.
I look back at the painting. It’d only taken me one night to create. A night where I was filled with anger and rage about my dad and everything he’d done to me and Charlie. I almost didn’t bring it because it felt so personal. In the end though, Ms. Peterman convinced me that it was essential to my portfolio and told me that if I had hesitations about selling it, I should just price it high.
The little tag next to the painting declares the price; five thousand dollars.
The man stares at the painting as though he’s absorbing it, taking in every detail. He rubs his chin and then suddenly says, “I’ll take it.”
“You will?” I’m stunn
ed. I didn’t anticipate this one selling at all—especially not at the inflated price. It’s not the first piece I’ve sold tonight, but it’s the most personal one. “I hope you enjoy it.”
I grab the tag and hand it to him to take to the cashier. Before he walks off, he hands me his card. Darnell Parker—Mansour Galleries, San Francisco. I look up but he’s vanished into the crowd. A moment later, Starlee is by my side.
“What’s that?” she asks, taking the card.
“He’s a major exhibitor in San Francisco—this gallery is down near the wharf. He gets thousands of shoppers in there every year. Most of the work he displays is well-known, but he usually carries one or two emerging artists.” I look up at her. “He just bought Resilience.”
“For five grand?” she asks, her face paling slightly. It’s big. Really big, and when Starlee takes my hand in hers, I realize it’s shaking.
She doesn’t offer congratulations. Doesn’t tell me that she’s proud of me, but I see it in her face—her green eyes. I feel it in the kiss she gives me and in her fingertips.
A weight lifts from my shoulders, the one placed there by my dad every time he told me I wasn’t worth it. That I’d never succeed.
I just proved to him and myself how wrong he is and I’ve never felt freer.
15
Starlee