What I Want You to See Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Catherine Linka

  All rights reserved. Published by Freeform Books, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  For information address Freeform Books, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  Grateful acknowledgment for permission to reprint an excerpt from “One More Down” performed by Mandolin Orange on Quiet Little Room, and written by Andrew Marlin (Party Fowl, BMI). © 2010 Andrew Marlin.

  Portrait illustration by Alessandro Pautasso

  Background photograph by Paul shuang/Shutterstock

  Paint strokes by DoinaZavadschi/Shutterstock, xpixel/Shutterstock

  Paint brush by Alexandru Nika/Shutterstock

  Foreground photographs by PanicAttack/Shutterstock,

  Rawpixel.com/Shutterstock

  Title letters by creative ideas/Shutterstock

  Designed by Jamie Alloy

  ISBN 978-1-368-00403-5

  Visit www.freeform.com/books

  To Lauren, Judy, Ed, and Pete

  CONTENTS

  Title page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Sketch #1–MOM, Febraury 21

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Sketch #2–IONA, February 21

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Sketch #3–ALL OUR BELONGINGS, March 15

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Sketch #4–SELF PORTRAIT, April 10

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Sketch #5–HAYLEY & ME, July 30

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Sketch #6–IONA, January 5

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  People see what they want to see and what people want to see never has anything to do with the truth.

  —Roberto Bolaño

  Think of Krell as an angry art god who requires human sacrifice.

  Our teaching assistant’s warning rings in my ears as I tear into the alley two blocks away from campus. It’s five of nine, and I’m cursing myself again for not buying a parking permit. I need to run like hell if I’m going to make it to class before Professor Krell arrives with his chai latte and scathing comments.

  The spot behind the abandoned florist shop is empty, so I park the Honda and grab my portfolio case. Then I streak down the alley past the machine shop and out onto the sidewalk, the big black case banging my legs the whole way.

  Of course the crosswalk light’s red, and a cop’s parked outside the homeless shelter across the street. I hammer the button on the light post. I can’t jaywalk, not with the cop sitting here. He let me off with a warning a couple days ago, but the fine is a hundred and ninety dollars I don’t have.

  The light changes and I fly through the crosswalk. Don’t stop, don’t stop, I tell myself even though my skinny-heeled boots are ridiculous to run in. I can’t be late for Krell.

  The art institute looms on the next block, four stories of gray cement and glass. I dash past the shelter and the scent of pancakes and warm syrup. I’m halfway down the block and picking up speed when the light turns red, which is good because by the time I get there, it should be green.

  My luck’s holding out, because as I smack the walk button the light turns, and yes! I might actually beat Krell to class.

  I power down the block past the corner of the CALINVA building and the words carved three feet high into its side: QUESTIONING. PROVOKING. AGITATING. I slam through the first set of glass doors and up the forty-foot-long ramp to the lobby.

  Whoever the sadist was who designed the entry, I’m pretty sure the skateboarders are the only people at CALINVA who like it.

  By the time I get to the top of the ramp and through the second set of glass doors into the huge cement lobby, I’m breathing hard, but I still have to get to the third floor. The elevator is notoriously slow, so I sprint for the steel stairs. I’m really moving now, but halfway up, my heel catches in one of the holes in the open weave.

  Son of a…! I jerk my foot to get free, and a slip of leather peels off my heel like a piece of tomato skin.

  But there are still people scurrying for class, so I charge up the last stairs and down the hall. And no no no. The door of Studio 322 is shut, which tells me that today, for the first time in weeks, Professor Krell’s on time for Painting Strategies 101.

  I crack open the door. Krell’s holding court at the front of the room, where a painting is propped up on a big wooden easel. Bryian Ahring slouches against the wall nearby, gazing humbly at him.

  Krell ponders the canvas, his face all angles and points from the widow’s peak in his receding hair to the slash of his brows, his sharp nose, and chin.

  I duck down, hoping he’s too caught up in his critique of Bryian’s assignment to notice me winding through the forest of students and easels. It’s not easy, because the floor is littered with backpacks, portfolio cases, and plastic toolboxes, and the heels on these stupid boots are so damn skinny I can barely balance.

  Finally, I slip onto my stool and set down my portfolio. My fingers refuse to lie still, so I take out a pencil and pocket-size sketch pad and with a few quick strokes capture the line of Krell’s stance and the tension in his shoulders as he contemplates Bryian’s painting. I glance at the canvas, wondering what Krell’s thinking.

  Jagged green rivers striated like agate radiate from a blob that looks like a thin section of human cells. It looks a lot like a painting we saw a few weeks ago on our field trip to the Museum of Contemporary Art, and I wait for Krell to tear into Bryian.

  “See how the composition radiates from the center. The viewer is lured in and then . . .” Krell’s hands explode outwa
rd. “Movement! Electricity! Note the provocative use of color and shape. This is exactly the kind of work I expect in this class.”

  No, you’ve got to be kidding me. On my right, Taysha’s rolling her eyes. Okay, so I’m not the only one who thinks Bryian ripped off a Kerstin Brätsch.

  What is it with Krell and Bryian Ahring? Ever since we arrived at the California Institute for the Visual Arts, Krell has showered Bryian with more praise than any of the other first-years.

  Which would be a lot easier to take if Bryian wasn’t such a poser with his blue mirror glasses perched on top of his shaved head, and “humbleness” dripping off him.

  I unzip my portfolio and slide my canvas onto my lap. I worked my ass off and it turned out even better than I hoped. This time Krell has to admit my work is good.

  “I see Ms. Reyes has deigned to grace us with her presence.”

  Everyone turns to look at me, and I squirm in my seat. “Sorry.” I don’t bother to offer an excuse or explanation, because if anyone ever tries, Krell silences them with a hand.

  “Since you have my attention, Sabine, you may bring your assignment to the front.”

  I hold my canvas at my side and thread through my classmates. I barely know them, but Taysha nods at me, and Kevin from Kansas gives me a look. You got this.

  My stomach is a fish flapping on the floor.

  I am true to myself. I am true to my vision.

  I’ve worked on this painting for over a month, keeping in mind all the ways Krell’s faulted my composition, colors, or theme, and a couple of times all three. Since the first class of the semester, he’s made it clear my work’s not up to his standards. Safe, he’s called it. Timid.

  I place the canvas on the easel, and I take a position by the wall. At the very back of the room the lights flicker, and I realize there’s a maintenance guy on a ladder fiddling with one of the fixtures and he’s been in the room the whole time.

  “What is the title of your work?” Krell barks.

  I snap back to attention and see the smirk on his face. “Appetite.”

  My painting is a still life, a place setting for a fancy dinner party shot from above. Stargazer lilies artfully arranged. Three wineglasses, silver for four courses, and centered on a platinum-rimmed plate, a dead songbird beside a toasted slice of baguette.

  “Is that a photograph?” someone whispers.

  “Nope,” someone else answers.

  I take a deep breath and steel myself. As the artist, I am not allowed to speak, and I’m definitely not allowed to defend what I’ve done. All I’m permitted to do is answer Krell’s questions.

  He stalks back and forth in front of the easel, a finger tapping his thin lips. Then he pushes back his wrinkled linen jacket and poses, hands on his narrow hips. “The assignment was to be provocative! To get us to think, to respond to your art. And my response is: LAZY!”

  Heat surges in my chest. Lazy? I worked for weeks to express the light, to capture the reflective surfaces, to convey the texture of the iridescent feathers, the arched flower petals, the dull look in the dead bird’s eye.

  Krell jerks his head at the room. “Every. Single. Student in this room can re-create reality. It’s nothing more than simple drafting.”

  My cheeks turn hot and I know they’re crimson. Cadmium red #3 if I had to call it.

  Krell walks over to the front row and shoves his finger in Bernadette’s face. She jerks back, her blue eyes enormous. “What do you think of this painting?” he says.

  “Ah, I don’t know,” she stammers.

  He goes down the row. “You, Mr. Walker.”

  Kevin glances at me, determined to help. “It’s intriguing,” he says.

  “Why? Why is it intriguing?”

  “Because a dead bird on an expensive plate is bizarre and unexpected. Like Edgar Allan Poe.”

  Krell gives me a pitying smile. “Were you thinking about ‘The Raven,’ Ms. Reyes?”

  “No.” My leg jiggles, and I hold my head up even higher, hoping it will keep me from sliding down the wall.

  “Were you thinking about anything?”

  I try to swallow. I can hear my artistic statement in my head, every single syllable, but the words are stuck to my tongue like gluey papier-mâché.

  Appetite is about the powerful consuming what they want with no care for who or what they destroy. The ugly dead reality of a bird that was never meant to be eaten served up on the costliest china.

  Krell pounces on my silence. “This painting lacks daring, insight, and soul.”

  My eyes bore into the wall above everyone’s head while my legs turn liquid. I need to get out of here without losing it.

  “You may resume your seat, Ms. Reyes.”

  I lift my painting off the easel and lock my gaze on the floor, because one pity smile as I walk to my seat will send me crashing. I slide back onto my stool and wrap my long crocheted sweater across my body.

  Krell starts in on the next critique and I don’t look up to see who it is. I dig my nails into my palm, hearing him crow that the abstract is “bold” and “risk-taking.”

  I don’t get it. I thought CALINVA loved my work. You don’t give someone a full scholarship if you don’t think they’re amazing. So why is it that for the last six weeks, Krell has slammed every single piece I’ve shown him?

  Angry tears pool in my eyes, but I blink them away, because I will not, absolutely will not cry in front of these people.

  When the bell rings, I’m out the door first and flying for the exit. I’ve got an hour before Color & Theory, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend it fending off sympathetic classmates in the student lounge.

  CALINVA is five blocks south of the trendy main drag of Old Town Pasadena, so I take off in the other direction. The last thing I want is to run into anyone from the institute or the art supply store where I work.

  It’s heating up, so I tear off my sweater and stuff it into my messenger bag. Then I head for a taco truck parked a couple blocks away at a construction site.

  I’m almost to the truck when “Hey, smile for me, sweetie!” Come-ons and kissing sounds rain down on me.

  I swear if any of those guys get down from that roof and come over, I will slam them with my portfolio case. I pull out my wallet and check how much I’ve got, considering it’s got to last until Friday and this is only Monday.

  I pay for a can of guava juice, then park myself on a low cement-block wall in front of a battered office building. I roll the icy can over my forehead while Krell’s insults burn in my ears. My work lacks daring, insight, and soul.

  What am I going to do? I can’t avoid him for the next four years; he’s the head of the department.

  Oh God, what if I lose my scholarship?

  I flash back to Irina Gonzales in the student-aid office. “Do you understand that the Zoich is a merit scholarship, Sabine? That it can be revoked if your performance does not meet expectations?”

  And what do I do, then? Go back to sleeping in my car, being the girl who scrubs toilets in an office building at midnight, who carries plates of ribs to half-drunk diners, and charges twenty bucks for a pet portrait at the dog park?

  My chest starts to tighten, and my lungs feel like they’re shrinking. I spread my fingers over the surface of the juice can, telling myself to focus on the sensation of coolness. Be in the now. Look around you. What do you see?

  I draw my eyes over the truck, taking in the crudely painted combo plates and faded menu on the side, the grease-blurred window, and the beefy arms of the man working the grill. A composition forms in my head with the window as the focal point, and I’m about to reach for my sketch pad when a woman saunters out from behind a building across the street.

  Black pants and black tee, she stands out in the bright sunlight like a black line on a white page. A band of fake fur rings her light hair. She walks over to the light post on the corner and leans against it, clutching a handmade cardboard sign that reads GOD BLESS YOU! I’M JULIE. I HAVE CA
NCER. PLEASE HELP.

  She’s facing my way and I try not to stare, but I can’t take my eyes off her. Her tan cheeks are donut plump around her sunken mouth, and the only word that comes to mind when I look at her closed-lip smile is “beatific.”

  There is something transcendent about this woman whose skinny pants are almost fashionable, and whose bare feet and hands are black with dirt. Grace and goodwill flow off her like vapor off dry ice.

  I fumble with my sketch pad, knowing I can’t possibly capture what I’m seeing in pencil, and I put it away. I feel for my phone, then gather up my things and cross the street, sure Julie will walk away before I get there.

  As I get within ten feet of her, I realize I’ve been so caught up in her smile I missed how she’s stroking a white rat perched on her shoulder.

  My phone is right in my pocket, but I hesitate to take it out, because I hated the student at my high school who treated homeless people like props for his AP photography portfolio. Is it using Julie to want to draw her?

  I wish I had an extra ten to give her, but I don’t. I unbuckle my messenger bag. “Do you like apricot bars?” I say, and hold up a small paper bag.

  Her eyes crinkle even deeper. “Apricots? Yes, I love them.”

  Even up close, I can’t quite tell how old she is. Forty? Sixty? I hand her the bag. “My landlady baked them. She’s a really good cook.” I pause, because I almost hate myself for asking, but, “Would it be okay if I take your picture?”

  “Go ahead, dearie. I don’t mind. A person takes your picture, it means they see you.”

  I step back and she tells me to be careful to get Sweetie, her rat, in the picture, so I do. I take five or six shots, and then, feeling awkward, pocket my phone and thank her.

  “Have a blessed day,” she answers.

  I walk away, thinking who am I to take her picture, that I of all people should know better than to do that.

  CALINVA’s right up ahead, and the last thing I want to do is face everyone who witnessed my critique, but I tell myself: Suck it up and keep going. You’ve survived a lot worse than this.

  And once you figure out what Krell wants, you can get him off your back.

  When I get back to CALINVA, the first-years are milling in the hall outside Color & Theory. I hesitate on the edge of the group, because even though I know their faces and names, I haven’t really put myself out there to make friends.