8
Kendall is late.
I attempt not to check my watch for the millionth time. My old college roommate is the entire reason I’m here. I tap my boot
on the floor of this up-and-coming Brooklyn art gallery and turn nervously in a circle. This is perhaps the single biggest
meeting of my professional life, and without Kendall I will turn into a tongue-tied mess. I just know it.
As one of the few people who refuses to buy a cell phone, unless I find a pay phone or borrow someone else’s, I’m just going
to have to trust she’ll be here. “It’s fine,” I say to myself. “You’re fine.”
“Usually when people tell themselves they’re fine, they’re anything but.”
I glance behind me to find the source of the voice and lock eyes with a tall, casually dressed man, whose eyes I could fall
into, with wild hair like Robert Pattinson from Twilight . I swallow, trying to remember how to speak.
I’m not good with dating and have chosen my relationships with the same pickiness of a six-year-old sorting through wilted vegetables on their plate. I’d rather be alone than with the wrong person, which makes me somewhat aloof with men.
“I am fine,” I insist. I’m so not fine.
He’s leaning against the wall, legal pad in hand. “Clearly.”
This strikes me as hilarious, and I burst into nervous laughter. “Point taken.”
“Do you have a meeting?”
I nod and dig my fingers into my hefty portfolio. “I do. You?”
He hoists his notepad into the air. “Journalist. Doing an article on the latest Rita Clementine opening.” He extends his hand.
“Liam Hale.”
“Harper Swanson.”
He cocks his head. “Local?”
“Chicago,” I clarify.
“Ah, the Windy City. I’ve only been there once.”
“You’re not missing much,” I say. “Unless you like frostbite. Or midwestern accents.”
“Two of my favorite dings,” he says in a thick Chicago accent.
Again, I laugh, a sharp bark in the silent gallery. I look around as if I’m going to get into trouble, but no one is paying any attention. Luckily, small talk with this handsome stranger helps ease some of my nerves. My eyes keep tracking back to him. There’s something oddly familiar about Liam, something warm, like a homecoming rather than a random introduction. In my whole history with the opposite sex, this has never happened to me, and it momentarily shocks me into forgetting the fact that my friend is late and that I might have to pitch myself alone to this infamous gallery owner I’ve only read about in art magazines. It’s been my lifelong dream to be an artist, and this meeting feels like it’s a make-or-break moment. I’m either in or out. I’m either catapulting myself onto the art scene or heading back to my cramped Chicago apartment to settle into the next phase of life.
“Ms.Swanson?”
I tear my eyes away from Liam to find Rita, smartly dressed in slacks and a cream blouse, staring down at a clipboard and
back up to me with cold, intense eyes.
“That’s me.”
“Good luck.” Liam pushes away from the wall, and I approach the world-renowned artist-turned-art-curator and newish gallery
owner. She’s made at least five solo art careers in the last twelve months, building up nobodies just like me into overnight
sensations.
It’s not that I care about becoming an overnight sensation, but I do want people to see my work on a larger scale. Kendall, who nabbed her position as the gallery manager, moved here a couple
of years back and recently convinced me to fly to New York and show Rita my work. So here I am, though Kendall is still nowhere
to be found.
I adjust my portfolio under my arm and am ushered into Rita’s office at the rear of the gallery, which is larger than my entire
apartment. This whole place, this whole city, has me sparking in ways I’ve only dreamed of. I want to live here, to be among
people just like this, and I try to remind myself that I can do this. I can step into my future as an artist, starting now.
Never mind that I’ve been trying for years and nothing has happened yet. Never mind that I barely make more than minimum wage
working for a so-so gallery in Chicago. Never mind that I finally decided to go back to school to get a teaching degree in
case this whole “being an artist” thing doesn’t pan out. While I have options, this has always really been plan A. It’s my
dream, and Rita is in the business of making dreams come true.
She impatiently opens and closes her fist once she settles at her desk, her fingers flapping energetically against her palm. At first I wonder if she has a hand cramp. Then I realize she’s signaling for me to hand over my portfolio.
“Oh!” I eagerly offer it to her, and her arm sags beneath the weight of it. I’ve been working since college to build the right
portfolio—a mix of portraits and ceramics that showcases my versatility but doesn’t make me appear sloppy or unfocused.
She yanks her glasses up from the gold chain encircling her neck and flips stonily through the book. I focus on remembering
how to breathe as I fidget with my hands in my lap, my eyes sweeping over the classic but unusual art hanging on her walls.
Rita consistently chooses what’s unexpected, and that extends to the talent she’s plucked from seemingly thin air. I hope
she will feel this way about me.
There’s a sharp knock on the door, and Kendall races inside, her cheeks flushed. She is so New York, from her black leather
jacket to her vintage motorcycle boots to the giant coffee clenched in her hand, her nails painted black. She unwinds her
red scarf and deposits it on the chair beside me. “Sorry. Subway issues.” She pats me on the knee, takes a giant slurp of
coffee, and sits. “I see you two have met.”
Rita does not even look up to acknowledge her, but Kendall doesn’t seem bothered. I smile at Kendall, not knowing if I should
talk or stay silent. I just want to know what Rita thinks of my work, as this is all a Very Big Moment, but I try to tell
myself that she’s just one person and that art is highly subjective.
Finally, Rita slams the book closed and folds her hands on top of it. She looks from me to Kendall and back to me again. “You
have some exceptional pieces in here, Harper.”
My face flushes and my heart warms. This is it. This is finally happening.
“But I’m not sure any of them are quite the right fit for my gallery at this time.”
Before I can respond to this inevitable rejection, Kendall crosses her long legs and butts in. “Oh, please. You say that to
everyone. Then you push them to create something new, and you show them, and the rest is history. Blah, blah, blah. So let’s
skip the preamble and tell Harper what you want to see. She’s here, she’s game. She’s ready to play ball. Right?” Kendall
adjusts the gold bangles on her wrist that have gotten tangled in the hem of her sleeve. I cannot believe she just spoke to
Rita Clementine this way.
To my surprise, Rita laughs. “Okay, then. Harper, are you game?”
This conversation is swinging so fast, I can barely keep up. I only nod because it seems like the right thing to do.
Rita stands and moves to the front of her desk. She steeples her fingers just below her chin and stares at me. “What scares
you the most?”
Her question takes me by surprise. When I was younger, it was spiders, then an unusual phobia of holes, called trypophobia,
then more normal things, like premature death. Now? Now the only thing that scares me is walking out of this gallery without
representation. “Not living up to my potential,” I say. “Not making it as an artist. Settling for a life that’s... smaller
than I want it to be. Ordinary. Having any what-ifs.”
Rita’s lips curl into some semblance of a smile. “There.” She stabs the empty space around my chest. “That’s the place I want you to create from.” She reaches behind her and scribbles something on a piece of paper. “This is my personal address. I want you to create one piece and deliver it to my door a week from today. Make it a piece that represents all those fears and pain wrapped into one.” She wiggles her fingers in the air. “It can be the start of a new collection. If I like it, you’re in for the March show. Sound good?”
She folds the piece of paper with a sharp crease and extends it toward me. March? It’s October. I work backward, wondering
logistically if I could have an entire show ready in just five months. Kendall looks at me expectantly.
“How many pieces would you like in total?”
Rita looks toward the ceiling and calculates something under her breath. “Eleven?”
Eleven? I nod. “No problem.”
She smiles again and glances at Kendall. “I like this one. Promising, I think. And I’m rarely wrong.” She stands, and I follow
suit, realizing the meeting is over. I scoop my portfolio from her desk and walk back into the gallery in a daze. Kendall
clutches my arm and mouths, Oh my God , before tugging me out of earshot.
“This is it,” she hisses, rattling my elbow. “You’re in! I told you!”
Not to be a pessimist, but I’m not in, not even close. “Kendall, I appreciate your confidence, but she wants a piece in a
week.” I gesture to my clothes and extend my arms wide. “I didn’t bring my art supplies on a plane from Chicago. Plus, I have
to get back to work. I only planned to be here for the weekend.”
“Babe, listen to yourself! This is Rita Clementine, not some no-name art dealer in Chicago. No, no. You’re staying.” She waves
her hand in the air, and her bracelets get clogged in the butter-soft leather of her jacket again. “Change your flight and
take care of work. I’ll handle everything else. I know people.”
I stare at Kendall, remembering a thousand nothing moments with the two of us at the Art Institute of Chicago. She has always been effortlessly chic, but New York has changed her these last few years. She is all business, and I want that confidence too. But I’m an artist. We make entire careers rooted in our insecurities, laying them bare for the world to see. I chew on my lower lip, hitching my portfolio higher under my arm.
“Even if I can get work covered, where am I going to find a place to work?” Already I know Kendall’s studio apartment is out,
as it’s no bigger than a postage stamp and is all the way in Queens.
“Liam!”
Kendall startles me as she calls to Liam in the quiet of the gallery. I realize it’s not yet open to the public, so she’s
not disturbing anyone, but still. Liam saunters over from the other end and smiles down at me.
“How’d it go?”
Kendall loops an arm around my shoulders. “Rita loves her. But she wants a piece in a week. I need to find her a place to
work.”
I extricate myself from Kendall’s long arm. “Kendall, I don’t have any of my supplies. I also can’t afford to rent a studio
space, so...” I don’t mention that I could barely afford the flight out here and it’s probably going to cost even more
to change it. My job pays horribly, I’m in student debt up to my eyeballs, and even though I have roommates, Chicago rent
is sky high.
“Harper, stop. This is it . This is your big shot, and you’re not going to blow it because of logistics. I can take you to the art store, get you set
up. Liam knows everyone. Right? Where could she go to work?” She takes out her phone and begins to scroll through her contacts.
“You can use mine,” Liam offers.
My head snaps up to look at him. Why does a journalist have a studio space? Before I can ask him, Kendall laughs.
“Oh my God, I forgot you have a studio. Are you using it this week?”
“Nope.” Liam offers me a smile. “Totally free.”
I shake my head. This is all moving too fast, and I can’t keep up. But for some reason, the idea of spending more time with
Liam Hale does not entirely suck.
“Are you sure?”
He adjusts his glasses and smiles again in that easy way of his. I have already memorized that smile; I have memorized him.
Am I a stalker and don’t actually know it? I expect him to suddenly snap his fingers and remember that he can’t lend me his
studio after all, or that he has to work, or that he’s changed his mind and doesn’t want a stranger in his space, but instead
he says, “I’d love to have you.”
My heart pounds as if I’m staring over the edge of a cliff, about to jump. I’d love to have you. That could mean so many things.
Kendall pokes me between the shoulder blades, easing me forward toward Liam. “Great, then it’s settled.” Her phone chirps
and she stalks off, answering the call. “Let me know how it goes! Harp, babe, we’ll have lunch.” She waves and disappears
around a sharp, white corner.
I assess Liam once Kendall is out of earshot. “Are you sure you don’t mind? I know this is a crazy request.”
“It’s not crazy,” he says, offering his arm. “It’s New York.”