What I Want You to See Page 2

  After Mom’s accident last spring, I couldn’t be the artsy, snarky friend that Hayley and her other friends expected. One day, while they complained for the hundredth time about the unfairness of not being allowed to use their phones during school hours, it hit me that my reality wasn’t theirs, and if they knew the truth about me, they’d label it, but they’d never understand it. I drifted away, and never drifted back.

  But as I look around this hall, I tell myself that these people could be my people; I just need to be sure who to trust.

  Bernadette’s leaning into Bryian, tilting her head and giving him her full and undivided adoration. She paid me a lot of attention the first couple weeks of the semester, asking what arts-high and intensive art programs I attended (none), who I know in the LA art scene (no one), and is one of the faculty mentoring me (I wish). But I guess I haven’t lived up to my hype as the Zoich Scholarship winner, because now she’s lost interest. Fine.

  Kevin from Kansas huddles by the wall outside class talking to Taysha. Today Taysha’s smoky-purple hair is wrapped in a cone of patterned cotton and she’s channeling Nefertiti, queen of the Nile, all cheekbones and attitude.

  As I head over to them, Bernadette tries to give me a look of sympathy, but I pretend I don’t see. Kevin slides his beanie off his head and shakes out his hair so his soft brown curls sproing around his face. “Hey, Sabine,” he says, and swivels, opening up the space between him and Taysha so I can join them.

  Kevin’s friendly to everyone, but I’d like to believe we’re actually starting to connect and he’s not just taking pity on the classmate who’s going under.

  “Ten seconds left,” he tells Taysha, who’s drumming a finger on the strap of her slouchy bag.

  She squints and says, “The Elusive Credence of the Peripatetic.”

  I have no idea what I’ve walked into, but I watch Kevin consider her answer. “It’s good,” he says. “Unintelligible and therefore profound, but for it to be perfect, it needs one more bullshit noun at the very end.”

  “Okay, give me a sec.” Taysha stares at the pleated concrete wall behind us like it holds the answer.

  “You want to join in?” Kevin asks me.

  “Depends. What are you doing?”

  He glances up and down the hall before leaning in conspiratorially. His eyes are chestnut brown behind his clear, round frames. “We’re playing Name That Ahring. You have to come up with the name Bryian Ahring will give his next masterpiece. Here’s a hint: bullshit adjective, bullshit noun, the words ‘of the’ followed by bullshit adjective, bullshit noun.”

  “Oh, oh, I’ve got it.” Taysha strikes a pose for the cameras. “The Elusive Credence of the Peripatetic Razor in Homage to Man Ray.”

  Kevin nods at me and we clap like fiends. “Genius, pure genius,” I tell her.

  “Yes, love the ‘homage,’” Kevin adds. “And the inspired allusion to French surrealism. You have elevated the art form of Name That Ahring.”

  “Thank you. Thank you. I accept your accolades, knowing I deserve them.”

  I catch myself smiling, because for this brief moment I’m one of the cool kids.

  Doors open up and down the hall as people change classes, and all of us reach for our portfolios and paint boxes.

  “I crave your boots,” Taysha says, pointing to my cinnamon-colored booties that now have a shriveled leather worm hanging off the heel. “Zanotti, right?”

  Taysha’s concentration is fashion design, so I should have known she’d recognize them. Now she’ll get the wrong idea that I’m rich. “Yeah, they’re Zanotti, but I didn’t buy them new.”

  “You found them at a resale shop?”

  “Actually, I snagged them at the Beverly Hills Presby-terian Rummage Sale.” The lie comes out so smoothly, even I’m impressed.

  “No, you didn’t! How much did you pay for them? Because if it was less than five hundred, then you basically stole them.”

  Guilt prickles down my spine. I keep a smile on my face as we walk into Color & Theory, thinking that even though I never intended to steal Iona Taylor’s designer boots, by the time I realized I had, I swore I’d eat dog crap before I ever gave them back.

  Mom is a coiled spring in purple workout gear outside the office at Beverly Hills High. With short quick strokes, I showed how her faded blond ponytail twitched and her feet could barely hold still, she was so eager to run back to the Taylors’ house.

  I switched partway from a drawing pencil to Prismacolor cloud blue for her eyes, then fringed them with almost invisible lashes. Switched again to Prismacolor black grape for the blurry dragon-claw tattoo creeping out from under her collar, the last remnant of her old life.

  Gazing at it now, I remember the feel of the pencil scratching across the paper’s rough weave. I chose the texture to suggest Mom’s skin was as flawed as her past.

  No matter how many times I look at this sketch, I’m never ready for where it takes me. The memories of this day…the details spiral in my head.

  Mom dropped the keys to the Honda in my hand. “Thank you for picking up Iona’s boots. I can’t see stilettos working on snow, but Iona says she needs them.”

  The shoe repair was miles away and I wasn’t looking forward to fighting the traffic on Olympic. “Of course Iona Taylor would insist on her boots being professionally waterproofed. She can’t use spray-on crap like everyone else?”

  The creases around Mom’s mouth deepened. “Sabine—”

  “I don’t understand why you put up with her.”

  “First, it’s my job, and second, I do not have the luxury of disliking the person I work for and whose house we live in.” Her gaze held mine, but I refused to give in.

  “She’s a total narcissist.”

  Mom pursed her lips and slipped a strand of my hair behind my ear. “People are complicated, honey. If you could look past your feelings, you’d see another side of her.”

  “You always make excuses for her. You should quit working for the Taylors after I graduate.”

  “Enough. Right now I need to go back to the house and pack their bags before the limo comes at four.”

  She drew me into a quick hug. “I know I’m asking a lot, making you stop at both the dry cleaner and the shoe repair when you’re trying to get to the gallery early.”

  “Hayley’s coming at five and I need time to get changed in case I meet Collin Krell.”

  Her eyes pinched, and I knew it was because I invited Hayley to the opening of Krell’s show, not her, but then she smoothed on a smile. “My girl’s going to study with Collin Krell.”

  “Mom, don’t say that. I haven’t gotten in yet.”

  She gave my arm one last squeeze then she sprinted down the cement steps. Her legs were pumping before she hit the street.

  I close my eyes, wanting to hold on to this moment forever.

  I’m still licking my wounds from Krell’s critique when I’m deep into my shift at Artsy. The after-school rush of moms and kids desperate for art supplies for school assignments died out at 5:30, so the store’s quiet except for the alternative rock playing in the background.

  The display of Lascaux professional acrylics needs restocking, so I carry several cartons out from the back. I unlock the display case and, one by one, take the silver tubes of paint and slide them into the slots in the case like I’m hanging Christmas ornaments.

  Dioxazine Violet Light. Cobalt Blue. Cerulean. Hansa Yellow. Their names are like music the way I hear them in my head and imagine the colors gliding across a canvas.

  I’m extra careful not to dent the metal tubes or damage the paper labels. Each tube, even the smallest one, costs way more than what I’m paid to hang them up.

  When I get to the Phthalo Turquoise Blue, I rub my finger over the blue-striped label. I can’t mix this color from the cheap acrylics my stipend pays for. It’s perfect, the way it has depth, but isn’t overly bright, so a painting doesn’t end up looking like the cheap stuff people hawk on the sidewalk at Venice Beach.


  I weigh the tube in my hand, overwhelmed by the feeling that I need this. The taste in my mouth turns to tin and the feeling won’t quit. I drop the tube in my apron pocket and reach for the carton of Oxide Black.

  What the hell are you doing? Put it back.

  “Excuse me.”

  I jerk and the carton I’m holding goes flying. A dozen tubes hit the polished concrete floor, and I dive to pick them up before Barney, my manager, sees. The customer who surprised me crouches down until we’re eye to eye, and as I take in his face, I think I remember him from CALINVA.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. His eyes are dark and liquid with long, thick lashes, and a thin scar zigzags through his left eyebrow, cutting it in two. He plucks a tube out from under the metal shelving and sets it gently in the carton by my knees.

  “I don’t normally freak out like that,” I say, picking the last tube off the floor. “I was in the zone.”

  He nods and cracks a smile. “I know the place. I spend a lot of time there.”

  Current ripples between us. His gaze is about to make me blush, so I stand up and he does, too.

  He’s holding a ripped piece of sketch paper covered in what looks like scribbled words, and I sense he’s about to show it to me when he says, “Your name’s Sabine, isn’t it?”

  My muscles tighten along my spine. He’s not one of my classmates, so if he knows who I am, that means people are talking about me. “Yes?”

  “You didn’t deserve what Krell said to you today. I think your painting is a provocative comment about wealth, power, and privilege.”

  For a split second, I bask in his compliment, but then I feel sick, because the only people who’ve seen my painting were in that classroom. Crap. Tell me no one in class filmed Krell eviscerating me. “How did you—”

  “I was on the ladder in the back during your critique? The guy replacing the light?”

  “Oh.” Great. The maintenance guy’s an art critic.

  Either he reads my face or he reads my mind, because he gives me an embarrassed grin and thrusts out his hand. “Adam. Master’s candidate and work-study grunt who earns his monthly stipend changing lightbulbs, prepping canvases, cleaning studios, and buying supplies for faculty.”

  So he’s a grad student. I smile back as his hand closes around mine. “Nice to meet you, Adam.” I nod at his other hand holding the paper, and note the slivers of indigo blue paint that frame his nails and tell me we’re the same species: painter. “Looks like you’re on a supply run.”

  His eyes flicker like he wasn’t expecting me to get down to business so quickly. “Yeah, but I can’t make out half of what Ofelo’s written here.”

  Adam and I walk the aisles together, debating Ofelo’s slashes and squiggles as we gather the sculpture instruc-tor’s supplies. Adam shares stories about different faculty members’ quirks, and as we chat I feel like a CALINVA insider instead of a flailing first-year.

  I take in Adam’s features, cataloging his curly hair, olive skin, cheekbones, the fullness of his lips, and the slight bump on the bridge of his nose. A tiny silver cross dangles from his ear. If I had to guess, I’d say his family’s Greek.

  It’s only when he stands in front of me at the cash register that I begin to the read the lines of his muscles under his clothes. He’s not cut, not like a guy who works out at a gym, but he’s solid like someone who’s worked construction or a job where he did a lot of lifting.

  Adam gives me Ofelo’s account info and I ring up the sale. He thanks me for the help and I tell him no problem, and he turns as if he’s going to leave, but then changes his mind.

  “You don’t know why Krell targets you, do you?”

  I freeze, because deep inside I’d hoped I was wrong. That Krell wasn’t targeting me. That I was being overly sensitive to his comments. But now I know those fears are real and I can barely hear myself answer, “No. No clue.”

  “Krell never votes for a woman to get the Zoich Scholarship. His pick was Bryian Ahring.”

  Whoa. I got the prestigious scholarship Krell wanted for his favorite. “So you’re telling me no matter how hard I try, Krell will never believe I deserve the Zoich.”

  He shifts the bag of Ofelo’s supplies to his other arm. “I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but I believe a person’s better off knowing how their opponent thinks.”

  “No, I appreciate you telling me,” I lie.

  “No, you don’t.”

  He looks so guilty, I let him off the hook with a smile.

  “Listen,” he says, “Krell’s a dick, but you’re only the what—third woman to be awarded the Zoich? If anyone can prove to him that he’s wrong, it’s you.”

  I watch Adam stride down the sidewalk, moving in and out of the light of the streetlamps. It isn’t until he’s out of sight that I go back to hanging up the acrylics.

  “Opponent” isn’t the word I’d hoped to use for Collin Krell, but I comfort myself with the thought that I could be the girl who shows Krell he’s wrong.

  It’s almost eight by the time I get back to Mrs. Mednikov’s house in South Pasadena. The yellow Victorian sits on the corner and there’s never a spot out front, so I pull onto the street alongside it and park.

  I turn off the engine and let my head fall back against the headrest. My legs ache from standing, and it’s almost too much effort to get out of the car so I can go inside and collapse.

  Thank God I don’t have to waitress tonight. But I do have four hours of work for class tomorrow.

  The lights are on in Mrs. Mednikov’s living room, and it looks like a scene from a hundred years ago when art collectors hung paintings with the frames touching each other all the way to the ceiling. The canvases in her house are mostly abstracts, and a few landscapes and nudes, all done by scholarship students who lived here before me.

  I run my gaze over each painting. All the artists are talented, especially whoever painted the dark blue abstract that looks like a turbulent sea, but I swear I’m as good as any of them.

  Lacking in daring, insight, and soul. You just don’t say that to people. You don’t run a knife through them and expect them to give you great work. Well, apparently you do if you’re Collin Krell.

  If Adam’s right, and Krell’s pissed I got the Zoich Scholarship instead of Bryian, he could make my life hell for the rest of the semester, not to mention the next four years, since he’s the department chair.

  Or, even worse, he could already be dropping hints to the rest of the faculty that my performance is disappointing, that I’m not growing as an artist, that as he suspected, giving me the Zoich Scholarship was not a wise investment.

  I don’t know how, but I’ve got to get Krell on my side.

  Trees line both sides of the street, but I catch a view of Mrs. Mednikov lowering the shades on the tall windows on the second floor. My landlady comes down the stairs and works her way through the main room until one by one the paintings disappear behind long white shades. Wait for it, I think, and she reaches for the last shade next to the kitchen and pulls it down halfway. Every night, the same thing.

  I finally get up the energy to unload my gear from the car. I thump up the wood steps, and when I open the kitchen door the scent of onion and dill envelops me. A pot of magenta-colored soup simmers on a stove decades older than I am.

  Mrs. Mednikov stands at the counter, slicing a loaf of dark rye. She’s got to be over eighty, but she stands straighter than I do, and draws the knife through the bread so elegantly that if I didn’t know she was once a dancer, I’d guess it from watching her slice.

  “Long day?” she says, her accent drawing out the word “long.”

  “Do I look that bad?”

  “You look tired. There’s soup if you’d like to join me.”

  “Yes, I’d love some.”

  It’s a play we perform most nights: Mrs. Mednikov pretending she made too much food and inviting me to join her, and me pretending I’ll scrounge around and make my
own dinner if she doesn’t. I’m not exactly sure what started it, maybe me showing up the first night with nothing but a jar of peanut butter and half a loaf of bread.

  I cross the little hall and stow my gear in my room by the kitchen. When I open the door, it barely clears the bed, but after months of sleeping in my backseat, I give thanks every day for this tiny, yellow room with its door and window, and space for all my stuff in the dresser and closet.

  I peel off Iona Taylor’s boots, vowing never to wear them to CALINVA again, then pad back into the kitchen. It’s dark now except for the light over the table set for two.

  Mrs. Mednikov sets a large bowl in front of me, and a white dollop of sour cream floats in the purplish-red soup. I swirl it with my spoon so it makes a bright pink comma. “My mom used to make borscht.”

  “I could not resist the beets at the farmers market this morning,” she says. “So fresh.”

  From where I sit, I have a clear view of the half-closed shade. I point my spoon at the window. “Can I ask why you do that?”

  Mrs. Mednikov shrugs and gives me a smile. “An old widow’s habit? Many years ago, the FBI suspected my husband and his friends of being Communists. Agents would come to the house looking for Boris, and if he was not home, I would pull the shade closed to warn him.”

  “And you keep doing it, because…it reminds you of him?”

  “Yes, it reminds me of a wonderful time in my life.”

  “When you were harassed by the FBI?”

  “When I was young and passionately in love. Now you,” Mrs. Mednikov says, and leans across the table. “I’ve waited patiently to hear how your instructor liked your marvelous painting.”

  “My instructor loathed my marvelous painting.”

  “No! How is that possible?”

  I twist in my seat and can’t bring myself to tell Mrs. Mednikov what Krell said, because what if I see a flicker in her eyes telling me she agrees?