Page 1 of Run for the Money

Chapter 1

Melanie

Abead of condensation rolls down the side of my plastic wine glass and onto my hand. I twist my wrist slightly so the water flows over my thumb and into my palm, rather than the back of my hand. Even one drop of water on the vintage silk dress I’m wearing tonight would be criminal negligence—at least according to my parents. The royal blue and ivory Gunne Sax gown was my mother’s prom dress. As beautiful and on-theme for tonight’s party as it is, I regret wearing it. Everywhere I turn, there’s a new threat to the integrity of the garment: finger foods, these cheap plastic wine glasses, tipsy old men who think their rump-grabbing attempts are subtle, and busy cater waiters.

One ruined dress pales in comparison to my other disgraces lately. If I return the dress with a greasy-fingered handprint on the hip or a water mark along the bodice, I doubt my parents’ disappointment will be any deeper than it already is. I’ve barely left the house over the past two months, too embarrassed by my recent failures to do much more than mope. Worst of all, I fumbled the biggest social achievement in Archer family history when Paul Walters left me last spring. According to my parents, I was supposed to become Mrs. Melanie Walters by the time I turned thirty to make up for my lack of a career. Two years shy of the deadline, I’m still Melanie Archer, and I’ve ruined all chances of reconciliation with Paul. It doesn’t matter to my parents that all of this has left me broken-hearted and confused; all they see is me falling short of their expectations.

“…such exciting use of color. Do you think your mother will want to feature her in a show?”

I tune back into Mirielle Cunningham’s monologue just in time to hear her question. She’s a friend of my mom’s and the chairperson for this gala. I was on the fence about coming tonight, then she called to invite me personally. So here I am. We’re in a downstairs gallery at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Denver, surrounded by multi-media sculptures by a new-to-me artist, Alice Jones-Tandy. Mom’s been talking about her workfor months, but I’ve had trouble focusing lately. I don’t know anything about art, despite my parents’ best efforts. Growing up, all I cared about was horses. When that went catastrophically wrong, I threw all my attention at Paul, and now that Paul’s attention is fixed on someone else, I’ve found myself unmoored.

Quickly, I look around the exhibit so I can answer Mirielle. There certainly are a lot of colors; whether or not Jones-Tandy used them in an exciting way, I couldn’t say. But Mirielle is gazing at the bizarre statues with a look of wonder on her exquisitely maintained face.

If I were a bigger witch, I’d ask who does her Botox and filler. Her face still looks natural—fifteen years younger than she is, but all of her features still move around properly. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles and she can wink without it looking spooky. My mom’s eyebrows haven’t looked natural in ages because her forehead is so stiff. But if I say anything to Mirielle, she won’t realize I’m taking a dig at my mom, not her. All I would accomplish would be making a sweet woman feel bad about herself, which is the sort of behavior I’m trying to avoid lately.

“I think Mom’s been talking to her about it,” I say instead.

It’s a safe, neutral answer. Mom loves to scout artists from MCA, give them a show in her gallery, then pretend she discovered them. The museum tolerates it because of Dad’s lavish donations, but I see the way curators’ smiles tighten when they see my family. I notice how enthusiasm cools and the atmosphere changes when museum staff learn my name. The Archers fancy themselves the rulers of an art empire—fancybeing the operative word. Though I suppose most empires are stolen, so perhaps it’s an empire after all.

“Wonderful! I think Alice could do something really impressive in the sculpture garden at your mom’s gallery,” Mirielle says. “I’ve heard rumors this exhibit is interactive.”

She gestures at the sculptures scattered throughout the massive gallery. To me, they all look immobile. I don’t see any signs from the museum about interacting with the art. Actually, I don’t see any signs at all.

“Interactive how?”

I take a closer look at the statue nearest us. It’s a woman—I think. A human figure, at any rate. The whole thing is made out of a violently orange substance—clay? Stone? I honestly can’t tell. The head is wrapped tightly in what looks like plastic wrap. Hands claw at the wrap, the grip eerily realistic. Near where the mouth ought to be, there’s a slight impression in the plastic wrap. I lean closer to see if that will give me any clues aboutwhat this thing is supposed to be or represent, then I swallow a scream. The plastic over the mouth is moving.

“Oh my God, Mirielle, it’sbreathing,” I say.

Mirielle leans in, too, then laughs, delighted.

“Oh, marvelous! Really marvelous! I wonder if they all breathe,” she says.

I see nothing marvelous about a statue that looks like it’s slowly suffocating. I’m uncomfortable, and ready to move to another gallery. Unfortunately, Jones-Tandy isn’t done messing with the people who dare consumer her art. Every brightly colored statue in the room rotates clockwise on its pedestal. The fire doors to the gallery slam shut, trapping the gala-goers who were unlucky enough to wander into the room.

“We are at capacity,” a smooth, robotic voice says.

It’s emanating from everywhere—from the statues, from the PA system, almost from the air itself. Mirielle is having the time of her life. She grips my free hand with both of hers and laughs like this is fun instead of extremely off-putting.

“The planet is at capacity,” the robot voice repeats.

“Oh boy,” I mutter.

I have a sinking feeling this is only the beginning of the nightmare. My chest already feels too tight, and it’s only been a few seconds. All around the room, people are reacting like Mirielle. We’re packed in here with at least two dozen other people, but no one seems as uncomfortable as I am. There’s a hum of excitement that only makes me feel worse. I scan the room for an exit—surely one has to be open, for fire safety?—and my eyes land on the last thing I need to see: Paul Walters and his new girlfriend, only a few yards away.

Since this is rapidly becoming the worst night of my year, she obviously looks gorgeous. Her sleek, brown hair is curled and cascading over her shoulders like a freaking shampoo commercial, while the glimmering silver dress she has on fits her so perfectly it must be made to measure. He looks even better. His tux is perfect—and perfectly filled out. His warm, hazel eyes are perfect. Even his stupid jawline is perfect. Perfectly, stupidly perfect. They’re smiling at each other, his arm around her waist and her eyes glued to his unfairly handsome face, totally oblivious to the rest of the room. I’m not sure they realize we’re locked in here with a dozen suffocating statues and a doomsday robot.

The lights shut off, and this time I don’t manage to swallow my scream. I’m not the only person startled, though. Gasps and yelps fill the room until they’re drowned out by pulsing electronic music. Red, green, and blue neon lights flash in the gallery, and thenall four walls are flooded in bright white light, the shadows of the statues stark against the blank walls.

“Capacity, cap-cap-cap-capacity,” the robot voice stutters.

“Thrilling!” Mirielle whisper-shouts beside me.

Video projection clicks on. A bony, oddly muscular foot slides down each wall, larger than life. The camera pulls back until the whole person is in frame: a dancer clad in a stark white dress, twirling through what looks like a bombed-out tenement building. The music and the robot voice get louder and louder as the video plays. I’ve never wanted to leave a museum more.

I’m sure there’s a message here, some deep, powerful meaning that’s flying over my head. It’s probably brilliant, subversive, and revolutionary and all the other qualities people like Mirielle spout at art shows. But I don’t care. I can’t focus on a broader global truth when I’m locked in a room with my ex-boyfriend and thereallove of his life, when up until six months ago, I thought the love of his life wasme. While neither of them strikes me as the kind of person who would use this opportunity to publicly humiliate me, their presence is enough to wreck my composure. I can’t look at either of them without remembering how thoroughly I embarrassed myself in front of them this past summer.

In hindsight, it’s obvious where I went wrong. Grand gestures were never the way to Paul’s heart, so presenting myself to him on a literal bed of roses was a long shot. If he’d been the one to discover me, naked and lying in wait in a cabin on his brother’s property, his first move would probably have been handing me his jacket to cover up. Unfortunately for all parties involved, his new girlfriend was the person who found me.

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