Brenna, Brat (Detroit ABCs)

Chapter 1

A woman’s scream echoed through the room, bouncing off the high ceilings and old wooden floor before trailing off in a gasping, gurgling moan.

“Holy shit!” a man yelled, terror ringing in his voice.

I only sighed.

That scream was one of my boss’s quirky ideas. She firmly believed that she was very special and different, and she always had to prove it. Like, every time I saw her, she had a new hair color…until the day she shaved her head, and then she was all about wigs. Look at my new tattoo, she’d tell me, look at my new piercing! Was she talking with a British accent? Sure, she’d been born and raised in Detroit but she’d come upon this manner of speech totally organically. Had she mentioned that she was traveling to the Bass Islands—no, not the ones in Lake Erie, they were in Polynesia. What led her there? The fact that no one else ever went. She was eccentric and cool, didn’t I get it? She practically panted for attention.

She needed to be told to sit down and be quiet but sadly, I couldn’t be the one to do it since my paycheck depended on her. I kept my mouth shut about her hair, her travel plans, and (mostly) about the way she ran her art gallery.

But the man at the door didn’t know anything about my boss and her fun quirks, so he yelled again: “Holy shit!” Then he pelted through the exhibition space and he came right around the side of the black lacquer table that we were supposed to use for all our business dealings, even though it was too low for comfort and had no drawers to hold anything useful. Luckily, not too much actual business went on here.

The man put his hands on my shoulders. “Are you all right?” he asked loudly, directly into my face.

“Let me go,” I stated.

His brown eyes were huge. “What happened? Why did you scream like that?”

I sighed angrily, and yanked myself away from his grip. “Calm down,” I ordered. “There’s no need for a hero.”

“What—”

“That’s the sound the front door makes when it opens,” I explained. “We don’t have a bell, we have a scream.”

He looked at me for another moment and visibly swallowed. “Every time someone comes in and out of here it sounds like there’s a murder taking place?” he asked, and I nodded. “That’s sick.”

“No, it’s supposed to be unique,” I explained. My boss was a fool.

“Wow. Phew!” he breathed. He shook his head as he expelled the word. “I’m glad you weren’t dying.”

Had he really run toward the scene of a crime? Idiot. “No, I’m fine, not dead at all. May I help you?” I stared hard at him and then slowly and pointedly turned my gaze across the lacquer table, to where he was supposed to stand. We each got a side, since I worked here and he was a customer. Wasn’t he?

He didn’t seem to notice my hint, but he did step back slightly, giving me enough room to breathe. “I do need help. I need to get a gift,” he told me.

“Why?”

“Uh, why do I need a gift?”

“No, why would you come in here?” I asked. “This isn’t a place that most people would think of to shop for presents.” This wasn’t a place that most people thought of, full stop.

“I feel like I’ve looked everywhere else and I haven’t found anything,” he explained. “I was driving to my office on my way back from a meeting and I decided to try here. I hadn’t noticed this shop before.”

Yes, he was one of the billions of people on Earth who had never seen nor cared about the Alecta Alberne Gallery. The man glanced at the latest display set up on pedestals, which were sculptures created by a local Detroit artist who worked in unusual mediums. For this new collection, the medium was used gum, the discarded wads that you could encounter under desks, beneath drinking fountains, and stuck to your sole when you were having a particularly bad day. While supervising the installation, the sculptor had complained about an apparent downtick in people chewing it, because he’d really struggled to find his materials. He’d also complained about the lack of heat in the gallery that day, because there was something seriously wrong with our furnace. The low temperature made the pieces more brittle and fragile, but they remained equally as disgusting as when it was warm.

The customer squinted at the sculpture nearest us. “Is that a dog with its leg lifted, peeing? Made out of old gum?”

“It’s conceptual, a commentary on the loneliness and absurdity of urban life. Please feel free to look around the gallery,” I recommended. Please don’t stand here with me any longer, I also wanted to add, but again I could not. I was, after all, the employee who was supposed to sell things, even if I highly doubted that this guy in a tailored suit, half-Windsor knotted tie, and polished loafers was going to make a purchase. Conceptual sculptures of a dog peeing really didn’t seem like his cup of tea.

I studied him and decided that no, he wasn’t drinking tea. He enjoyed cups of expensive coffee from an Italian machine that he had built into the wall of his kitchen.

“That’s amazing,” he said, and did I hear admiration in his voice? “Imagine how much time it took to chew all that.”

“The artist harvested his supplies during scouting trips to several foreign cities,” I said. “You can read about it there.” I pointed to a placard on the wall that described the process, and to my relief, he did walk over to read it. Good, he was out of my space and I continued scrolling through my phone. My one sister was having a problem…

Maybe it was important to explain that I didn’t have “one” sister. I had five of them and also a brother, and someone was always having a fit about something. Right now, it was Juliet, and usually she and I didn’t get along very well—to be honest, none of my sisters and I got along great, and I couldn’t stand my brother. In a sea of siblings, I was my own island: Brenna Atoll. Atolls were made of coral, if I was remembering correctly, so maybe they were too sharp to step on and people stayed away.

“That’s amazing,” the guy repeated as he read the posted information, and interrupting my thoughts. “I’m impressed by how much effort he put into his work. Remarkable.” He paused and turned to me. “Also, disgusting.”

I had to agree, but I was supposed to sell this crap. “It isn’t for everyone,” I stated blandly.

“No, my sister wouldn’t like it at all. That’s who I’m shopping for today. Her birthday is coming up.”

“That’s nice,” I said, just as bland.

“It bites for her to have it so soon after the holidays,” he said, shrugging. “Everyone’s just done with Christmas and celebrating the new year, and then there’s her birthday. January’s pretty bleak anyway, right?”

I nodded. Were we talking about an adult? “It sounds absolutely terrible.”

He looked away from the sculpture of two squirrels humping (that gum originated in Montreal) to eye me, instead. His expression was kind of questioning and it could have signified that I hadn’t hidden my sarcasm as much as I’d meant to. So I covered it by smiling and just like that, he smiled back, totally appeased.

“My mother usually throws a big party for her,” he reassured me, as if I was worried, and I nodded. Why would I have cared about any of this?

“They’re having one again this year and I need to bring a present that she can unwrap in front of the guests,” he explained.

Was there a huge gap in their ages? I guessed that he was in his mid to late twenties but it sounded like his sister was six years old. I didn’t bother to answer.

“I usually buy her something that’s not wrap-able, like lessons with a private chef, or a car, or…” He continued to name uber-expensive, super-amazing presents and if I were ever lucky enough to receive even one of those things, I would have keeled over in happiness. But he shook his head as he described her reactions to the jewelry, the trips, and the rest of the stuff he’d gifted to her in the past. His sister hadn’t liked anything he’d ever chosen, for various reasons that sounded ridiculous to me. Like, she thought that the lessons with the chef were a waste of her time because no one used kitchens anymore, the trip to the C?te d'Azur was a terrible idea because it too crowded there, and she didn’t like the diamond and platinum necklace because everyone knew she only wore rose gold that year.

“Carrington is picky,” he explained. “She’s hard to shop for.”

Picky? How about spoiled, overindulged, and undeserving? “So you’re thinking you’ll give her gum art,” I said. It seemed to be a reasonable consequence after turning up your nose at a trip to the south of France: you would now receive something that strangers had spat onto the sidewalk. “Did you see the one of the man regurgitating the half-digested hamburger? The materials were harvested in Bruges.”

“That’s a guy throwing up a burger? I thought this was all conceptual.” He looked at me and raised his eyebrows before he grinned again. “I’m going to have to say no, anyway. I want her to like the gift, not want to puke herself.”

I didn’t know why he’d care. From my short introduction to his sister, I didn’t even think that she deserved the gum…but, of course, part of my job in the gallery was to sell the art and I decided to do that. “Let me show you some other pieces.”

Sales weren’t what I spent most of my time doing here because we hardly made any. I had other responsibilities, like everything else that it took to keep a business going. Besides my boss, Alecta, there was one other employee, the moron Dion who was her nephew. During the two years that I’d worked at the Alecta Alberne Gallery, there had been a few other hires that had come and gone. They’d flitted around and tried to use big words about art movements that they didn’t understand before quitting, mostly without giving notice. Anyway, someone had to make sure that the bills were paid so that the lights stayed on and the furnace could keep struggling, and someone had to talk down the temperamental people who displayed their work here. Someone had to make sure that they (and the normal, well-adjusted ones, too) got paid appropriately.

“How about this?” I suggested to the guy. He stared at the sculpture I’d indicated, a three-dimensional wall-hanging constructed of polished steel and shards of mirror that made it reflective from every angle. It was called Ego and from what I’d heard of his snotty sibling, it seemed perfect for her. I talked about it for a while, giving some background on the artist and my own thoughts on the piece. I referenced the other works and movements that had influenced it, too, but I didn’t share my thoughts about his sister.

He studied the sculpture as he listened. “This is amazing,” he said as I finished.

I nodded, because it was by far our best offering. The only reason that it was here was because the owner of this gallery sold drugs to the sculptor, and Ego was part of their payment plan.

“Think how difficult it was to attach all these tiny pieces of glass,” he mentioned, leaning forward and frowning slightly. “It must have taken so much time.”

“This artist is known for her meticulous work.” She was also known to me for setting a garbage can on fire in the alley behind the gallery when Alecta had been late with a drug delivery. I had put out the fire with a hose and told her to be on her way before I called the police, a message which hadn’t gone over well.

“I love it,” he said. “I think Carrington will, too.”

It was the second time he’d said ‘Carrington’ and somehow, it was niggling at me. I felt like…did I know that girl? “What’s your last name?” I asked, and he told me it was Bates. No, “Carrington Bates” wasn’t ringing any additional bells.

“Would you like to know my first name?” he asked me. He tilted his head and got a little smile, and I saw that he was an old hand at the flirting game. Well, it made sense. He was good-looking in that preppy, “I play squash with friends and drink single malt” way, and he was also tall, and also more muscular than what I would have credited to an average squash player. Not that I’d ever met one, but I had an imagination. He had nice brown eyes, which I did enjoy, and he had nice brown hair, too, thick, shiny, and lighter than those eyes. More of a chestnut color, I decided. His suit—I had to give it to him, it was incredible. If it wasn’t bespoke, I would have been very surprised. He wore it well, but he looked like he would have been more comfortable in a shooting jacket and field boots.

“Ok,” he told me when I didn’t respond, “I can see that you’re dying to know, so—”

I held up my hand. “I bet I could guess,” I said, and his brown eyes widened.

“Go at it,” he encouraged.

I was bored, so why not play a game? “Is your car parked at the curb?” I asked.

“Yes, but please don’t open the door to see it,” he said. “I don’t want to hear that scream again.”

I looked out the window instead and spotted a sleek import, German and very new. It was one of the big, nice models and not a down-market version that had the name and the logo, but used an engine they’d taken from their motorcycle line. “Hm,” I mused. “Where did you grow up?”

“Bloomfield Hills,” he answered. His eyebrows raised. “Is that going to help you guess?”

“It will,” I told him. “I already know which private school you went to.” I told him and knew I was right because he smiled when he heard it.

“Ok, I’ll give you that,” he said.

“What are your parents’ names?” I asked next.

“Are you hoping I’m a junior? That would be all too easy,” he said, and my lips twitched. He’d drummed his fingertips together like an old-time spy movie villain. “They’re Vanessa and Ghregg, spelled G-H-R-E-G-G.”

“Holy Mary. His name is Guh-hu-reg-guh? Did your grandparents not understand that in the English language, the H is unnecessary and one G is plenty?”

“Tell that to ‘ghost’ and ‘aggravate,’” he said, and laughed. “I’m not Guh-hu-reg-guh junior. So, who am I?”

I thought for a moment. “You’re not Ghregg the second, but you are second-generation wealth,” I stated. “You’re used to having money because you grew up with it, but this lifestyle isn’t so long-standing that you drive your grandfather’s vintage Land Rover and wear his Yale class ring.”

“You’re correct. My grandfather drove a Chevy Impala and he never even stepped foot in Connecticut. Double Ns in that word,” he noted. “How did you know that?”

“You have your suits custom-made and you know what you like,” I said, looking him over. He made good choices, too. “But I bet that your parents were worried about fitting in. They bought a big house and then they hired an interior designer who overcharged them to make it look ‘right.’” He seemed intrigued, so I continued. “They checked to see where their friends were vacationing before they booked trips and they paid attention to what the other parents drove at school pick-up before they leased their cars. They lease instead of buying, because they want better, fresher models all the time,” I pointed out.

He whistled. “You’re spot on. Every time I look up, my mom is paying a decorator to redo her house.”

I nodded, noting that it was “her house” and not “theirs” anymore. “You and your sister were canvases for them to demonstrate their new status. But they might have loved you, too,” I added.

“Thank you for acknowledging that,” he said. He seemed to be biting back another laugh.

“You both had to dress right, to talk right, to have the right friends, et cetera, et cetera.” I looked him over, thinking. “They wanted to give their children names that showed how they’d come up in the world, so their choices had to sound fancy and important. Weighty. They went with a surname for your sister and I bet they did for you, too. Your mom probably wanted to have a boy and a girl with the same initials, so yours also starts with the letter C.”

“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “Can you pick stocks and football winners for me?”

“Cameron,” I guessed. “Collins. Crawford.” He wasn’t showing any recognition, so I kept going. “Cabot. Carter. Campbell.”

His head jerked. “Damn!” he repeated. “You got it.” Then he offered his hand. “Campbell Bates. I would try to deduce what your name is, too, but I’m not clairvoyant and we would be here all day.”

“I’ll just tell you,” I said, and shook with him. “I’m Brenna Curran.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Campbell Bates told me, and I nodded graciously. “Are you that good at guessing everything?”

“It’s not really guessing or second sight,” I answered. “I notice little details and then I extrapolate.”

“That was good extrapolation, then.”

I shrugged my shoulder. “My sisters would say I should keep my thoughts to myself. They tell me it’s rude.” They actually said that I was a brat. Brat, instead of Brenna, was what they often called me.

But Campbell didn’t seem mad, although my performance might have been a little bratty. I’d insulted both him and his family, but if the shoe fit? Anyway, I didn’t think I’d messed up my sale, but maybe I’d done exactly that. I’d gotten caught up in my cleverness and forgot about it, and it had been a mistake. I wanted the money and I could have lost it by messing around.

To test this, I asked, “Are you still interested in Ego ?” He said yes, which was good. “Then I’m going to need some assistance to take it off the wall,” I mused, and thought of my coworker Dion. He was never of much assistance.

“I can help you.”

“No, the crew here will handle that.” We were supposed to be professionals, after all. “We’ll need to package it, too. If you want to put down a deposit, I can start the process.” I waited, but he was nodding as I spoke.

“Sure,” he agreed. There was no tag on the piece, so I told him what it was going to cost. I thought it was a fair price, but also way more than I would ever be able to spend at one time. He didn’t blink.

“Will you need it delivered?” I asked.

“I can come back with a bigger vehicle. I own another one, but it’s nothing cool like my grandfather’s old Land Rover,” he said, and grinned at me. He took a wallet out of his back pocket and handed over a card.

“We close at six,” I stated, and ran the huge charge. For some reason, the thought of him interrupting me again wasn’t overly irritating. I watched his car pull away from the curb and considered his return for a moment before I started to figure out what we were going to do about his purchase.

“There’s no way,” my coworker Dion announced when I discussed the problem with him. He held out his hands, showing me his soft palms, and then he rubbed them over his biceps, as if those muscles were aching from even the thought of putting in effort. “I’ll strain myself.”

“You’re going to have to help me,” I said. “You work here, don’t you? I have to pack it up.”

“You really sold a piece?” he asked skeptically. It was kind of strange for this gallery, where most of the profits were coming in through the narcotics business on the side. “Alecta should give you a commission,” he told me when I nodded yes, but he hadn’t said that she “would.” We both knew that his aunt was iffy at best about paying people, and that money matters around here were messy in the extreme. “If I help you now, then you need to give me twenty percent of that commission.”

“No way,” I responded immediately. “I’d rather return the deposit to the customer.” I helped Dion all the time, by figuring out where his rent money would come from, by giving him good advice about things like keeping food in the house so he didn’t get hungry, and by listening to all the stories of his romantic/sex escapades. He owed me. Also, besides making some illegal deliveries for his aunt Alecta, he did next to nothing for the paycheck he received.

“Fifteen percent,” Dion bargained.

“No.”

“Ten.”

“No.” I examined my nails. I had six siblings; I could argue all day long.

“Seven percent?” he suggested, and I didn’t bother to answer. “Fuck, fine! I’ll help you,” he said, as if he were granting a favor or a wish, and not as if he worked here just like I did. Unfortunately, something we had in common was that neither of us was overly tall, so we had to stand on chairs because, of course, there were no actual step stools or ladders in this place. Even more unfortunately, he had been right about being weak.

We really struggled. We also almost dropped it, twice, and the whole process was so much harder than I had envisioned. I barked orders as Dion whined and moaned a lot, which led to us fighting. The argument got even more heated than the time last summer when the used-gum artist had tried to sell Alecta on a different installation of sculptures made of animal scat. Both Dion and I had fought hard (and loudly) to prevent that, and even my boss had retained enough sense to say no, eventually. It had been the middle of July and there was no air conditioning in the building. The thought of the smell…I’d also talked to my oldest sister Nicola, a nurse, and she had provided me with a list of communicable diseases from poo exposure. Last but not least, I’d threatened to call both the Detroit Health Department and Alecta’s mom, who was the owner of the building. That had put an end to the scat art show.

Anyway, eventually Dion and I succeeded in removing Campbell Bates’ purchase from the wall and luckily, it fit into the crate I’d dug up from the gallery’s scary basement. We weren’t professional enough around here to custom-build our cases (and we also didn’t make enough sales to have a real art handler on call to do it for us). Alecta had squirreled away a lot of materials down there, enough to provide sufficient cushioning for the sculpture (I hoped) but Dion refused to go fetch them with me. I had to traipse up and down the dark and dusty stairs about a million times by myself, which I didn’t enjoy.

No, I didn’t like that at all and it resulted in me being very red in the face and sweaty, although it was January in Michigan, because the temperature was hard to control in this building and the basement was hotter than Hades. That was not how I wanted to look, so I went into the tiny, grimy bathroom (where the sink was broken) and tried to enact repairs.

Dion eyed me when I emerged. “Better,” he sniffed, “but not great.”

“Your shirt makes you look sallow,” I told him, and now he turned as red as I had been before I’d fixed the problem, except his skin was darker so he disguised it better. As someone who was porcelain white myself, I showed it all.

In fact, Dion was so annoyed and hurt by my comment, he announced that he had to leave the hostile work environment I’d created. But really, it didn’t ever take much to send him on his way, out to the car he parked in the loading zone in front of the gallery. I would also have liked to skip out on my job whenever I wanted, but I didn’t work for my aunt doing drug deliveries, so I didn’t have the same flexibility in my hours.

Campbell Bates showed up just when he’d said he would, shortly before six when it was very dark outside and I was very ready to leave, too. He warily opened the door of the gallery but I had disabled the scream for him, and for my own well-being. There were only so many times you could hear that without suffering some mental damage.

He had added an overcoat (cashmere, not a blend) and leather gloves to his ensemble and again, he looked great. His clothes did, I meant. “Hello, Brenna,” he greeted me with a smile, and I thought that he was very, very good at this, “this” meaning women and flirting. Because I, who was nobody’s fool, had smiled right back at him, and I’d also been in that disgusting bathroom for half an hour to fix myself and had allowed Dion to mind the front of the store while I did it. Someone could have walked in and stolen every piece in the gallery, all that wretched gum art, and my coworker wouldn’t have lifted his eyes from his phone even once.

“Hello,” I answered, very coolly. I wouldn’t fall for this crud, even if that name game we’d played had been fairly fun, and even if he was fairly handsome…actually, he’d crossed the line from “fairly” into just “handsome.” He had crossed it, and gone well beyond.

“Your piece has been packaged and is ready to go,” I informed him. “I’ll need your card for the balance due, and then your purchase is complete.”

“Great,” he said. He hadn’t lost the smile, although I hadn’t been welcoming in the least. As I’d said, he was good. He whipped out his card again and the charge went right on it with no trouble at all. “I think my sister will really like this,” he commented.

Judging from what he’d said about her past history with presents, I disagreed, but I nodded and carefully documented the sale. I was going to force my commission out of my boss whether she wanted to pay me or not. If I had to extract it through alternative means, like by stealing her drugs, then I would. The atelier upstairs still had furniture which I could resell, too, or—

“What do you think?” Campbell asked.

I had been thinking of more ways I could get my money and I must have missed something. “What do I think about what?”

“I said, after your helpers load the sculpture, do you want to get dinner? There’s a good Italian place a few blocks west.”

Dinner together, him and me? I focused on the other problem in what he’d said. “Our loading crew has left for the day,” I admitted. That “crew” consisted of Dion and his weak biceps, so I wasn’t sure how helpful he would have been anyway—but I was now on my own, and someone had stolen our dolly when someone else (Dion) had left it in the alley by mistake.

Campbell looked at the crate. “I don’t think I can carry that by myself. It’s not the weight, it’s the size. It’s going to be unwieldy.”

“If you can take one side, I can deal with the other.” It probably would have gone this way even if Dion had been here, but at least he could have held the gallery door for us.

“You’re going to do it?” He looked doubtful, but who did he think had removed it from the wall? Well, probably the “crew” I’d pretended we employed here, but I was the one with cuts from the polished metal shards and broken mirror pieces. We’d found a pair of gloves but Dion had insisted on wearing them and I had been gracious about it. I hadn’t pushed him down and taken them for myself, in other words.

“Let me get my coat,” I said, which wasn’t as nice as his (mine was a cashmere blend, purchased at a thrift store but a great cut). Then I propped open the door, since there was no Dion to hold it, and I approached the crate. I knew how heavy this would be…no, I realized when we both lifted our sides, I had not known. It was much, much worse than the sculpture alone, and I tried not to groan or fall down under the weight of it.

“You all right?” he asked me, and I nodded. I was not. We made it to the door, where we had to angle it to fit through and I almost let the stupid thing go.

“I’m fine,” I snapped, although he hadn’t asked again. He nodded but in the light from the gallery (the one above the door had broken, making it way too dark), I could see that he seemed concerned. I redoubled my efforts to appear as fine as I had claimed to be. Eventually, we did make it to his very, very nice SUV that was parked in the loading zone just outside. He had opened the back when I’d propped the shop’s door, so we were able to slide the sculpture carefully into the cargo area and then I tried not to pant or rub my arms like Dion had. That had been so freaking heavy, I’d thought my limbs were going to detach from my body.

Campbell didn’t appear affected in the least, as if hauling dirty wood boxes was a normal task for him. It wasn’t, not in that suit. He dusted off his gloves against each other and then wiped some streaks from his gorgeous coat. “Dinner, then?” he said.

I looked at him for a moment, considering, and he nodded as if he understood. “You have a boyfriend,” he stated.

“No,” I answered. “I’m single.”

“You just don’t want to go out with me?” he asked, and he was smiling as he said it. It seemed as if he was amused by the idea, and not offended at all.

From the time he was born, he probably hadn’t heard the word “no” very often. His parents, the wealthy spendthrifts? They wouldn’t have thought to say it. I imagined him gliding through the years as teachers and professors helped him, girls and women gushed over him, and employers hurried to open doors for him like Dion should have when we’d carried out the crate.

He was charming and handsome, and I didn’t know what he was doing right now—I didn’t get it anymore, and I was uncomfortably out of my depth. I paused, and then said, “Exactly. I just don’t want to go out with you.”

Campbell Bates took that in stride. “Fair enough,” he said. “Thanks for helping me pick out the sculpture.” He closed the back door of his SUV and started to walk toward the driver’s side, and suddenly, I didn’t want him to leave like that.

“Wait! Don’t go,” I told him. I hurried to the stupidly low counter in the gallery and grabbed some scraps of paper, scribbling briefly on one and then stapling them all together before I went back out into the darkness. He had followed my instructions and still stood there.

“I forgot to give you your receipt,” I announced. “I attached some information about the artist and also a business card.”

He took the papers and nodded. “Thanks.” Then he said, “Bye,” and he got into the car, and that was it. The SUV drove away and I busied myself with the closing procedures that I’d devised when I’d started working here after college, two years before. I’d typed up a list of how to open, too, and everyone was supposed to follow the routine, checking off each item as it was accomplished. Prior to my arrival, Alecta had sometimes forgotten to even lock the door—at least, that was what her nephew Dion had reported to me, but he’d been angry when he’d said it. It had been an unusual day when she’d made him stay to actually do his job in the hours dictated by the generic contract he’d signed when she’d hired him (it was a document they’d found on the internet and that still said “[business name]” instead of “Alecta Alberne Gallery” as the employer).

In any case, it didn’t take too long to shut everything down, not even with the extra mess I’d created when I’d packed the sculpture. I wondered if that girl, Campbell’s sister, would like it. Carrington, I repeated in my mind, and wondered again why it seemed familiar.

When I got home, back to the building that housed my studio apartment, I ran upstairs and quickly flicked on the overhead light. Then I turned on three table lamps and a floor lamp, too, because it always felt dark in here and I hated that, I hated the dark. The apartment itself was small but I didn’t mind the size. When we’d grown up, all six of us girls had shared a room with bunk beds while our brother, the prince, had a single next to it. I got used to making do with just a little bit of space, and while my other sisters had been thrilled to get their own places and move out, I hadn’t really minded us being together. Recently, my big sister Juliet had temporarily lived with me and no, she and I didn’t get along, but it had been fine except for when she was rude and thoughtless.

Without the bustle and noise of all my sisters, this room always felt empty, except that Cleo was there waiting for me. “Hi,” I told her now. “It’s better with the lights on, isn’t it?”

She was a good listener but in terms of conversation, she fell a little short.

“It was a more interesting day than I usually have,” I continued. “I splurged and got a really good sandwich at the deli for lunch but I grabbed salt and vinegar chips by mistake. That’s not the interesting part, obviously.” She was patiently waiting. “This afternoon, a guy came in to buy a present. Isn’t that funny? He came to the gallery to buy something. We haven’t sold squat since the Ione Szczupakiewicz-Hughes exhibition and she’ll never show with us again. Alecta was so late in paying her that she almost had to sue to get her money.”

Cleo stayed silent.

“Anyway, this guy came in and bought a sculpture for his sister. It was our nicest piece and also the most expensive. When I get that commission, I’ll definitely have enough for the new sewing machine.” In my mind, it was “when” and not “if” I got the money.

“He asked me out,” I mentioned, then I looked over at her. “I said no. Clearly I didn’t go, since I’m here and not eating dinner with him. I’m not interested in someone like that, some frat boy whose life is dependent on his dad’s big wallet.”

I knew that she agreed with me, even if she didn’t actually say so.

“Yeah, it was a good decision not to get involved with someone like him. He probably has a different woman for every night of the week. And what’s today, Wednesday?” I snorted. “I don’t want to be someone’s Wednesday girl.”

It turned out, however, that I was no one’s girl on any day of the week. No matter.

I picked up my phone and looked at the messages that had piled up on it. “I don’t want to hear another word about diaper rash and teething,” I announced to my siblings in our family group chat. My oldest sister Nicola was married and had a baby, and Sophie was engaged and was helping to raise our brother’s kid. Both of those sisters were totally engulfed by motherhood and relationship stuff. Addie, the next oldest, was recently married and had lately been walking around smiling like a ninny. But when she was asked what was up, she always answered, “Nothing! I’m not smiling.” I was pretty sure that her secret was that she was pregnant, and JuJu—Juliet—was cozying up to her boss in a very inappropriate manner, so I felt that she wouldn’t be too far behind the rest of them in terms of wedding and baby stuff.

That left me and Grace as the only sisters without partners and kids, and neither of us was cut out for that kind of thing, anyway. Grace definitely wasn’t, because she was so flighty and useless that she couldn’t be trusted to take care of herself, let alone monitor a relationship and possibly raise a helpless human. And as for me?

I wasn’t that way. “I’m not,” I told Cleo, and I was sure that she agreed again although she still didn’t say anything back. Speaking was actually impossible, since she didn’t have a head. Also, her body was made of plastic, foam, and fabric—dressmakers’ dummies certainly weren’t the best companions.

Maybe I should have gone out with Campbell Bates. At least he had a working mouth and it was a nice one, too, full of perfect teeth and with lips that smiled a lot. I looked at Cleo and imagined that she had told me no, I had made a good decision. I was right to have returned to my little room, alone.