Katie yanks me over to the front of the gallery. We’re now near a wall that has what I’d call the c word written in different fonts. It’s very strange to see it in Comic Sans, but I guess that’s the point.
“It is very unclear to me whether they are truly interested in my art, or are simply interested in my followers,” Katie tells me. “And it’s also very unclear to me whether that matters.”
“I think he genuinely likes it,” I tell her. “I mean, he finds it fierce.”
“Catwoman is fierce. Cate Blanchett playing an assassin is fierce. Lady Macbeth is fierce. I’m not sure my art is supposed to be fierce.”
“He did say wow. That’s less ambiguous, right?”
“I just don’t know if I’m ready for this. Am I ready for this?”
I want to tell her, How am I supposed to know? I want to point out to her that the only reason I’ve even looked at the lit mag was because I knew it would mean a lot to Ryan if I did. I want to pass the buck to someone who knows her better.
But I also want to tell her what she needs to hear. So I simply say, “Yes. You’re ready for this.”
She doesn’t question my credentials. She doesn’t thank me. She just nods and says, “Violet thought I was going to be in an art show. Now I’m going to be in one. I can’t accept it, but I will anyway.”
“That’s the spirit,” I tell her.
“Are we good?” Brad calls out.
“We’re good!” Katie calls back.
Brad squees, then says, “Ooh, Audra will be so pleased. She has such an eye for talent. Such an eye. This will make her so happy. And when Audra’s happy, we’re all happy! No wire hangers! Ha. I think I’m going to break out some sparkling apple cider. Who’s in?”
“We are!” I tell him.
He runs into the back room and returns with three plastic cups and a bottle.
“It’s always good to have something on hand for special celebrations with the underage!” Brad proclaims. At first it looks like he’s going to open the bottle over the table where Katie’s art is lying, but she body-blocks him. Which is good, because when he pops the cork, the contents geyser onto the floor. “Ooh, that’s always happening to me!” he giggles.
Eventually he gets some into the cups. As he does, I tell Katie, “I’m excited to be here. This is a big moment, right? Your first gallery showing.”
“This is happening, isn’t it?”
“Yup. It’s happening.”
Brad hands over the cups. “I’d like to make a toast!” he says. “Even though there are no true beginnings in life—there’s always something that came before—there are definitely moments that feel like a beginning, and it’s always good to stop and take a second to enjoy them. Your talent started long before you walked in that door, Katie, but here’s to the start of a different, wider recognition of that talent. To Audra!”
“To Audra!” Katie echoes, while I say, “To Katie!” Then we clink our plastic cups and sip the warm cider of our celebration.
Katie looks like the kind of happy that doesn’t believe itself. And I’m a more straightforward happy to see it.
We’re so caught in the moment that we don’t hear the door open. We don’t sense anyone else in the gallery. It’s only when she says, “Excuse me? Are you open?” that we turn to look.
I see a pretty girl with a sequined scarf looking somewhat confused.
Katie, however, sees something else.
“Violet?” she says, her fingers clutching the plastic cup so tight that it cracks.
“Kate? Is that really you?”
And Katie says, “Yes—I guess it’s really me.”
8
Kate
She’s smiling her amazing smile, right here, right in front of me, not in a photograph, not on a screen, but here. In life.
And I am frozen, lukewarm cider dripping down my arm from my cracked cup, Brad saying, “Here, let me clean you up,” and then, in Mark’s direction, “I’ve never said that to a girl—ha!”
“What are you doing here?” Violet asks. But before I can answer she shakes her head and says, “I take that back. I only asked because I’m nervous. You’re here because of your show. And I’m here because of your show. I saw your Instagram post, and I live not too far from here, and I wanted to see your paintings up close, without all the other people.”
“How perfect,” Brad says, dabbing my elbow with a paper napkin. “Are you a collector? So sneaky. So smart to just pop in the day before the opening. Bad girl! And by that I mean good girl. Feel free to take a look around. Kate’s work is clearly fierce, but if it isn’t quite what you’re after I’d understand. I mean it’s, you know, wow, but let’s say it’s not your cup of tea? If that’s the case I’d be thrilled to introduce you to some of our other artists’ work.”
“I’m here to see Kate’s work.”
He stops dabbing and sets the napkin next to my tightrope painting. Practically on my tightrope painting.
“Of course,” he says. “And here it is.”
His gesture toward the table may as well be the unveiling of my heart. The stripping off of my clothes.
I might as well be singing her a love song.
She walks toward them and I feel myself step backwards, away from the sight of her looking at my paintings. They are not fierce. They are not wow. They are crude representations of the possibility of love, and they were meant to remain secret. I didn’t know it before, but I know it now. I mean constellations? How trite. I don’t even know their names. I’m always confusing Cassiopeia with Perseus and they really look nothing alike.