7. Henry
7
HENRY
Amelie may be helping me— may being the key word there—but that doesn’t mean I’ll have my painting in time for the auction. Since I have no display-worthy pieces to choose from in my home studio, I’m on my way to my back up studio at the museum.
My dad, though he owns the place, is hardly ever there. The main office is often empty, so I dragged my paints there one night when I wanted a change of scenery. I’ve got three or four pieces stashed away, and I’m hoping one will be good enough to pacify him.
“Hi hi!” Someone says to my left. I glance over to find Liz walking in step beside me, headphones covering her ears. She’s got a large bag on her shoulder and a pink smoothie in her hand, seeming almost oblivious to her surroundings. “Lovely seeing you here.”
“Mmm.” I nod. “How did you find me?”
“I saw you when you walked past the smoothie bar. I assumed you were going home, and I don’t like walking by myself, so I was like, ‘ Oh, I’m gonna walk home with Henry . ’ It’s spooky alone and I have no one to talk to.”
“And a moment of silence would kill you?”
“Stone cold dead,” she says, nodding. “Where are you going?”
“The museum.”
“Ew. Why?”
“Because I need a painting for Dad, and my search isn’t going…as smoothly as I’d hoped.”
“Oh?” Liz removes her headphones and leaves them around her neck. “What are you doing to find it?”
“Just…asking around,” I mutter.
Telling Liz the truth is absolutely not an option. She and Amelie were friends, and Liz had to hear more about the whole thing than anyone else. I will not be telling her anything if I can help it. “It’ll turn up eventually, right?”
“Unlikely, but I admire your faith in society.” Liz elbows me in the side. “You want company?”
“If you want to watch me rifle through a stack of canvases for an hour.”
She shrugs. “Can I play music?”
“I suppose.”
“Then yes.” She claps her hands in front of her, picking up the pace as we cross the street to the museum. People are still filing through the front doors, and they won’t stop for a few hours. Liz and I walk inside, moving past the ticket collector and all the people with ease. They’re used to us at this point.
About a month ago, I couldn’t be here without people talking to me. Questioning me. Sometimes it was reporters, and other times, just people who were curious about me and what I did. I’m thankful for the interest, given that it’s what supplies me with work, but I was glad when it died down. I don’t exactly enjoy speaking.
Liz and I head up to the second floor. Sculptures litter the area, and Lizzy is so preoccupied with sucking the last bit of her smoothie out of the cup that she nearly bumps into one. She looks stunned as she maneuvers around it, as if this inanimate object has inconvenienced her. “I don’t like that one.”
“Why?” I ask, looking at the piece. It’s a snake wrapped around a body, so I guess I understand. Nobody likes snakes. Even more so when they’re harming someone.
“Because it’s gross! Imagine you get killed, and then when people tell your story, they’re like, ‘ Oh, poor guy! He got killed by a snake’ . That’s so dehumanizing.”
“That’s rude to anyone who has ever died via snake.”
Lizzy waves a hand at me and walks ahead.
When we reach the office, I unlock the door and step inside. This place is nearly as bare as my apartment. It’s furnished with a desk, a file cabinet, and two chairs, one of which belongs to the desk. Bills are stacked high on the file cabinet, but I don’t look at them. I always have the urge to, but I’ve refrained so far.
Liz tosses her bag onto the desk, and it makes a loud thunking noise. I’d guess she came from work, which means her laptop is in there. I don’t know how it isn’t broken yet. “Okay,” she starts, throwing her smoothie cup away. “Show me what we’re working with.”
I go to the closet where I keep my supplies and dig out the first canvas. It’s a piece I hate—a basic landscape, one that I did months ago out of sheer boredom. The same painting exists in every single home décor store I’ve ever stepped foot in.
“I hate it,” I say plainly. “Dad will, too.”
“He will,” Lizzy agrees, unwrapping a Twix bar she found in the desk. “Next.”
I lean the canvas against the wall and go back for another. We go through three of them, each one worse than the last. Dull. Bland. There’s no passion behind a single one of these.
By the fourth, Liz gives an exasperated sigh. “Is that all?”
“Yes,” I admit. “That’s all. But surely I could rework one of them?”
She gives a shrug. “You could , Hen, but do you really want to?”
“No.” I fall into the desk chair with a huff. “I’d rather start fresh than rework anything.”
“Then do that.”
“I don’t have time. A piece that I’m proud of could take weeks. Dad’s auction is, what, next weekend?”
Liz nods. “Yeah, but…does it have to be something you’re proud of? I think it just has to be done.”
“No. I’m not going to put an awful piece out.”
“It’s just for an auction, Hen.”
“I don’t care.” I sit up straighter. “It’s going to be under my name. I’m going to be proud of it.”
Maybe it’s ridiculous of me to care so much. Lizzy is technically right—it’s just an auction. Someone will buy the piece and I’ll never see it again. But I hate to think of someone owning a painting I don’t like. That I put no emotion into.
It’s art . It’s not supposed to be numb.
The only problem with that is, I’m feeling more uninspired than I have in months. It may have something to do with staring my past inspiration in the eyes earlier today, but that’s none of my business.
“I get it, Hen,” Lizzy tells me. “Really. If I had to publish an article I wasn’t proud of, I’d be heartbroken. I’m just reminding you that Dad doesn’t understand.”
I forget that she knows what it’s like to have a job like this. To have people constantly looking at what you do, judging what you create.
Lizzy writes for a fashion magazine. Started as soon as she got out of high school. I’m honestly convinced that she hates it, but she’s never said anything about changing paths. I let her complain about her boss, and she lets me complain about our dad. It’s a win-win.
Suddenly, Liz stands and dusts the chocolate off her lap. She grabs her headphones and places them on her head, then hikes her bag up her shoulder. “I should go. I need to finish up whatever I’m supposed to have done before nine tomorrow.”
I give a laugh. “You haven’t started it?”
“Nope. See you tomorrow.”
She leaves before I return the sentiment.
With a sigh, I stand from the desk and remove my coat. I’m wearing a button down under it, so I remove that, too, which leaves me in a white tank that I couldn’t care less about. It’s looking like my only option is to paint, or at least clean up one of these pieces, and I’d rather not ruin my nice clothes.
Revamping a piece that I hate is out of the question. I’ll end up annoyed, drained, and probably on the verge of snapping in hours. Working on something new, though? That sounds even worse. I feel like every creative bone in my body has been broken.
And still, I don’t have time to think up a different solution.
I crack open a can of paint, wash a brush, then drag out a new canvas.