Chapter 11 – ANNA
11
ANNA
“ I ’ll probably be here for a while, so you don’t need to wait for me.”
I tried to meet David’s eyes in the rearview mirror. It was hard to do through his dark sunglasses.
“Let me know when you’re finished and I’ll bring the car around.”
I bit my lip and nodded, knowing I wasn’t going to win this fight. I thanked David and got out in front of The Drift, Mrs. Wu’s art gallery.
Olivia Wu was my art teacher back in high school. She was the first person to notice my interest in photography. The one who showed me work by famous photographers and who taught me how to use a dark room. I used to spend all my free periods in her art room, browsing her black and white photography books and asking her questions about lenses.
She retired from teaching a few years ago and bought a local gallery when it became vacant. I looked it up online, browsing through all the pieces she’d chosen. As the curator, she seemed to favor modern artists, but something in the pieces she showcased had the same feel to some of my work. Evoked similar emotions. At least, I hoped they did.
I planned on dropping a huge check purchasing some art pieces here. I wanted Mrs. Wu to get the commission, and it had the added bonus of probably pissing off my father. He clearly intended me to use my new credit card for clothes, manicures, and lunches with my society friends. A bill for tens of thousands spent at The Drift would probably make his shriveled little heart explode.
Whatever. After his very obvious setup for me with the state senator, he deserved it.
He was barely speaking to me, which was a new but very welcome punishment. I knew it wouldn’t last, but I intended to enjoy every second he wasn’t shouting at me.
I’d visited The Drift a few times before, back when it still had the old owners. Mrs. Wu had obviously done a lot of renovating when she took over, making the space her own. She’d changed the walls from a distracting teal green to a pale charcoal color, which let the pieces stand out. Her expertly placed lighting drew the eyes to each individual photo, which meant that the smaller, more subtle pieces weren’t overwhelmed by the bigger, flashier ones. Each painting or photograph existed in its own, perfect little bubble.
An assistant greeted me at the door, but I told him I would rather browse alone, and he nodded his understanding before backing off.
Mrs. Wu chose an eclectic display that somehow seemed to fit together. There were landscapes with strange, ghostlike shapes hidden in them, next to close-up portraits where the person’s face was lit like its own landscape in a way.
I was lost in the photos when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun to see Mrs. Wu, wearing funky red glasses and a cool black jumpsuit. She had always seemed like such a grown-up when I was in school, but now I saw that she was only in her early 40s.
“Anna Vaughn!” she said warmly. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”
“It’s good to see you, Mrs. Wu,” I said.
She laughed aloud. “Please, call me Olivia. You’re an adult now.”
“I guess so, even if I don’t always feel like one.”
“Here’s the secret,” she said, looking comically around. “You never will. But don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”
I laughed, then gestured to the space around me. “The gallery is incredible. I love the work you curated here.”
Olivia beamed at me. “I’m glad you think so. I try to feature local artists whenever I can. You know, I was just about to make a cup of tea if you want to join me? I’d love to catch up.”
I could see in her eyes it was a genuine statement. She was always that way. Caring . Genuinely caring about anything and everything in her students’ lives and the things they said or didn’t say.
I nodded. I was hoping I’d run into her, but this was even better.
“I’d like that.”
Her office was a medium-sized room off the gallery’s reception. A velvet couch huddled against one wall with a structural coffee table in front of it. The desk was lush oak and art pieces tastefully garnished the walls of the room.
She left for a few minutes, then returned with a classic ceramic teapot. She poured me a cup, which smelled amazing, like orange peels and cinnamon.
“So!” Olivia said cheerfully. “What have you been up to since graduation?”
The familiar heaviness set over me. The lie about building houses haunting me again and again. I had repeated it to so many people, but for some reason it felt wrong to tell my old teacher. Like it was a bigger betrayal of my younger self.
“Oh, I’ve been doing some traveling,” I told her. “Working in St. Louis for a while.”
Olivia’s eyes scanned my face, like she was searching for something. She must have realized that I don’t want to talk about my past, since she politely changed the subject.
“I’ve been in the gallery for three years now,” she said. “I love the work, and I get to guide artists who are more advanced in their careers. But I’ll be honest, I miss working with students. Being a mentor was so rewarding.”
“Even when you’re mentoring a bunch of spoiled kids with their parents’ credit cards?”
“Even then. I know there are a few who pursued art as a career. I’d love to see what kind of work they’re doing now. I’d love to see your photography, for example. I remember how committed you were. There were a few shots I can still see vividly in my memory. You had that natural eye for it. I always wondered if one day I’d see your portfolio pass my desk.”
I felt my cheeks heat with embarrassment. “I can’t believe people still remember how into photography I was. Lots of kids had cool hobbies back then.”
“But not all of those students had real talent.”
Olivia gave me a piercing look over the edge of her teacup. “Trust me. I know the difference.”
“I’m not sure how much I did with my talent,” I said, glancing down. “I mean, I kept taking photos, but they were just of the people in my life mostly.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself, Anna. Some of the best art is focused on our personal lives. Did you keep working with film?”
“Whenever I could. I couldn’t always?—”
I stopped myself before I could tell her I couldn’t always afford film. It seemed presumptuous, somehow, to talk about that time now that I had access to unlimited cash.
Olivia sipped her tea and gazed at me thoughtfully. “I’d love to see them, if you ever have the time to bring them by.”
“Oh, I don’t know, I really don’t think they’re?—”
“Don’t worry about what’s good. I’m the gallerist—that’s my job. Satisfy my curiosity. I’d really love to see what you’ve made and I think you owe me after promising to keep in touch and then vanishing from the face of the earth for—what is it—six years?”
I laughed hollowly, knowing I couldn’t say no.
I knew she wasn’t just being nice. She really did want to see my work, no matter if it was shit or not. She’d be honest with me, tell me where I might’ve gone wrong, where I could improve. She’d praise the things I got right.
I missed that kind of constructive feedback. Didn’t realize I was craving it.
“Well, when you guilt trip me like that…” I trailed off.
She smiled coyly. “Fabulous. Shall we make a date then? Say early next week?”
I knew if I thought about it too much, I’d chicken out. So I went straight home and put every reel of film I’d collected over six years into a grocery bag, then had David drive me to a photoshop to get it all digitized. When I pulled out Dad’s credit card to pay extra for the rush job, I didn’t feel a moment of guilt.
After I made an appearance at dinner for Mom’s sake, I hurried up to my room to review the photos. I clicked through the thousands of photos, giving myself just a few seconds to decide what I was interested in looking at again. I ended up with about four hundred that I didn’t hate on sight.
Once I really took the time to look at them, I found myself entranced. I’d captured every woman who worked with me at the Butterfly Room, women who knew me—the real me—better than almost anyone here at home.
There was Vanessa, the 30-year-old single mom who taught me that men tipped more when you wore red lipstick. She loved the camera, and I’d taken dozens of photos of her. There she was painstakingly applying liquid eyeliner, putting Band-Aids on the blisters she got from her six inch heels, video calling her sons to sing them a goodnight song.
Then there was Zara, the girl who started on the same day as me. I’d never met anyone who was so tough and vulnerable at the same time. She’d curse out any customer who touched her without permission, and stay stone-faced when we were overwhelmed. But she cried whenever she heard a sappy love song.
Here she was pouring out a line of shots, hiking up her cocktail dress, pulling out twenty dollar bills she stuffed in her bra.
But some of my favorite photos included me. Not me alone, but me slotted into a group shot with my coworkers. There I was, snapping a photo of eight of us just before service, primping in the mirror behind the bar. Or when I posed with Zara, both of us pretending to be Jessica Rabbit.
Maybe that was what made lying about where I’d been so horrible. It was like I denied these women, this life I’d built, every time I pretended to be some house-building do-gooder. Because when I looked back at my time in the Butterfly Room, I didn’t feel embarrassed. I felt proud of how hard I worked, and nostalgic for a time when at the end of the day, it felt like I really did something.
I whittled the whole thing down to fifty pictures. My favorite ones implied a mystery or a bigger story, feeling like I captured a moment of a life so complex, you have to imagine the rest of it.
These were women that the rich people in this town would write off immediately, but in these photos, they were powerful and captivating.
Maybe my photos should be seen after all.