Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Max, Now
I’m slammed by memories of sitting in this very room the second I step inside.
The desks are newer and in a different configuration than the rows I remember.
Paintings and sketches I don’t recognize clutter the walls.
And yet, entering this classroom, I feel the same as when I stepped foot in The Mirage last week.
This place was a sanctuary. Here, I was me.
Some students notice me, and they scoot their chairs across the squeaky linoleum to face the front while gathering their art supplies.
Others continue their shared conversations and laughter like I’m invisible.
Summer school means a mix of overachievers on the path to graduate early, kids who flunked a class but want to graduate on time, and students looking for an arts credit to boost their college resume.
No way will I let these teenagers eat me alive for the next three months.
I am Max Weber, out-of-work curator of art. Hear me roar.
I straighten my posture and plaster on a smile with the express goal of winning every single one of them over before our hour and a half is up—regardless of why they’re here, how much they enjoy art, or how talented they think they are.
“Hi everyone,” I announce, which gets more of them to turn to the front. “I’m Max. Not Mr. Weber. Never Mr. Weber. Call me Max.”
“You’re the instructor?” a blonde girl in the front asks. Mercifully, the kids are required to wear name tags on the first day, and I squint at her rectangular sticker: Zoe.
“I am.”
“What happened to Leslie?” she asks while adjusting her wire-frame glasses.
“Maternity leave,” a boy named Xander in the middle of the room chimes in, his eyes on me but his hand bouncing over the page as he doodles.
“Man,” someone in the back says. “Ms. Fairchild was the best.”
Ignoring the mumbles of disappointment from some students, I snag a marker and write “Art as Self-Expression and Self-Exploration” on the whiteboard. “Here is the syllabus.” I send a stack of papers down the rows for them to take one and pass along. “As you’ll see, the first week—”
“Where are you from?”
“What sign are you? Also your moon and rising—”
“Can we eat in here?”
“Are you married?”
“Do you give extra credit? Ms. Fairchild always—”
“How old are you?”
The rapid-fire questions explode from all corners, and the moment I open my mouth to answer someone, three more people ask something else.
“Okay, whoa,” I say over them. “Look, you don’t have to do the thing where you raise your hand to talk, but what if we start with the syllabus, and then you can ask questions after?
” The paper in my hands vibrates like a flag in a hurricane, so I set it down on the teacher’s desk.
There is no reason to be nervous. These are kids, and it’s an easy gig.
“And to answer your questions: Harlow, Pisces, but no clue about the other ones, no, no, maybe, and twenty-six.”
A semi-content murmur passes through the group of fifteen students. Tough crowd.
“I’m a curator. Until recently, I worked in Dublin.” All of their eyes are on me, and I clear my throat. “I’ve organized exhibitions around the world. My career focus is contemporary art on a global scale.”
“Why would you leave Europe for this place?” Xander asks with a snort.
This kid is me twelve years ago. I want to say, I know, right? but I surprise myself by coming to Harlow’s defense.
“There’s actually a lot of art happening here.
” I echo what Eleanor told me at lunch the other week.
Not that I buy it, but I have to make these kids believe that anything’s possible.
That’s what my teachers did for me. “You know, when people want to get away from their lives and create something, they often come out here.”
“Are you an artist too?” someone named Avery asks.
“My art is just for me.” I sit on the desk, confident I’ve earned everyone’s attention. “I curate.”
“Why?” another person in the back asks.
“I like creating an experience. A story.”
Sophomore year, I helped select pieces for on-campus shows at my university, and I not only liked it, but I was good at it too. All those years of training to be the most affable guy in the room gave me people skills, and all the geeking out on art meant I understood craft.
“Show us something you’ve done.” Avery crosses their arms and leans back in the chair.
“Are you any good?” someone else asks.
“You’re going to have to trust that the school hired me for a reason.”
“Make something!” another kid taunts.
“Yeah!”
Conversations pop up again—agreement and giggles and gossip. As annoying as they are, I respect the tenacity. I’d probably be a little disappointed to have a group of students who didn’t believe in questioning everything.
I lift my messenger bag of supplies from the chair onto the desk with a thud.
These were backups for kids who might need them, but I guess I’m using them to prove something.
“Medium?” I glance up to see fifteen faces who definitely didn’t think I’d take them up on this challenge.
“Don’t be shy. You want to know what I can do, so let me show you. Medium?”
“Charcoal,” Zoe blurts out.
“Great. What am I drawing?”
“Landscape,” Avery says. “No, wait. Portrait.”
I retrieve a pad of drawing paper and sit at the desk, some sticks of charcoal at the ready. “Someone set a timer for two minutes.”
“That’s it?”
“Believe it or not, I’m here to teach a class. So yeah, two minutes.”
Someone says, “Aaand go,” and a thrill courses through me like an electric shock.
I don’t have a subject or pose or anything in mind, which terrifies me—especially with a captive audience of teenagers—but the moment the willow charcoal hits the page, I tune the world out.
My muscles work on their own, and every stroke lights up another part of my brain.
Everything looks clearer, like I’ve replaced a light bulb in a room where I didn’t know it had burned out.
Drawing is meditation—heightened senses but inner calm.
I reach a point of total relaxation, even though my hand continues to move as my fingers deftly smooth and blend.
The timer buzzes, snapping me back to my body and the space. Every student has gathered around my desk—some of them recording on their phones, others simply staring with slack jaws.
“Whoa,” Xander whispers.
“You’re, like, really good!”
Satisfied, I rub my hands together to get rid of some of the gritty crumbs and charcoal dust.
“Who is that?”
On the paper, a familiar face stares back. Freckles, long, wavy hair, and a coy gleam in her eyes.
“A friend of mine.”
“She’s pretty,” Zoe says.
“Will you teach us how to do that?” Xander asks.
“Maybe.” I admire the half-circle of them, each kid so energetic and eager. “If we can get the syllabus out of the way first.”
We go through the lessons, and I detail my plans from Van Gogh to Frida Kahlo, plus a sprinkling of some of the most notable art movements.
“On the final page,” I say, “you’ll find the grade breakdown.
Your end-of-summer project is a portfolio, so as long as you keep up, you’ll be well on your way to passing, and you’ll have exactly what you need to apply to schools and art programs, or to get your work into an exhibit. ”
“Tons of those happening around here,” Xander mutters under his breath.
“You have to have a portfolio if you want to submit your stuff anywhere,” Zoe says, snapping at him.
“Don’t you, uh…” I flip through the papers Eleanor gave me this morning. “Isn’t there some kind of showcase?”
“They stopped doing those in the summer like two years ago. Now it’s only for the fall and spring semesters.”
“Okay. Well, then you’ll have that locked down once the next semester starts.”
Some shrugs, some nods. I get where they’re coming from—the showcases are a big deal.
Having to wait a few extra months until the fall semester one takes place must feel like an eternity for a sixteen-year-old.
While most of the enthusiasm comes from supportive friends and parents, the event holds weight for students since art exhibits aren’t a regular occurrence in Harlow.
And then something clicks.
If I want to guarantee I’m first in line for the job at Tate, then I know exactly what I need to do—and who I need to talk to.
When Daisy opens the door to her casita, her eyes have a glossy, pinkish haze that makes every muscle in my body stiffen. The eight years apart vanish, and on instinct, I step forward to wrap my arms around her and examine the sorrow in her face.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” she says with a sniffle. “What’s up?”
“You’re not fine.”
“What did you wanna ask me?”
“Hey.” I can’t think about anything, including what I came here to ask her, until she’s okay. Seeing her upset guts me. “Talk to me. What happened?”
She folds into my embrace, and my lips brush her forehead, firing a shot of warmth through me.
“I’m a very good listener.”
“I know.”
After a beat, she slips out of my hold, and I fight the urge to wrench her back into me.
Daisy welcomes me into the home I haven’t stepped foot in since high school.
She’s updated some furniture, but much remains the same.
I half expect her mom to poke her head out from the kitchen, and my throat tightens.
Daze has added knickknacks and framed photos scattered among colorful gemstones, and a golden glow from twinkle lights and vintage lamps illuminates the room. And the smell…it’s something flowery but mysterious.
Without me asking, she hands me a mug of water. The cup has a drawing of Harlow on it and says I’ll never desert you. Daisy gestures for me to sit on the couch and takes the mauve velvet lounger across the coffee table, crossing her long legs.
“What’s going on?” I ask her.
“It’s about Freddie.”
As if she summoned him, her chunky cat—technically her mom’s—stirs from his sleep and gnaws on his front paw.