Page 7 of Caper Crush
“But you want to succeed.” Tessa’s brow is furrowed.
“I want my art to succeed. But I don’t want to be famous. I hate being followed by the press. Maybe my block is related to that?” My stepfather has been in New York City politics his entire career, as a council member and Manhattan Borough president, plus two unsuccessful runs for mayor, so I’ve grown up in the public eye. And it’s not an experience I want to relive.
Tessa hugs me. “At least now your stepfather is no longer running for office.”
I walk back to stand in front of the canvas. My mind is blank. I can’t think of anything to paint. My blood pressure feels like it’s rising, as if I’m about to have to speak in front of one of my stepfather’s press conferences. Which is disturbing—because painting is usually my respite. It’s not that I hate public speaking. I like performing, but I don’t like answering questions designed to trip me up and make me look laughable.
“The press doesn’t usually stalk artists.” Tessa picks up her mug and leans against our table.
“I know they don’t. Not like they follow around politicians’ kids.”
“And anyway, you have to have confidence in yourself and trust your instincts.” She pokes me in the shoulder. “Don’t let the naysayers get to you. You do your thing.”
Still. An empty canvas. Out of the corner of my eye, yesterday’s canvas, a sludgy mishmash, mocks me. I wince. Something to be scraped down later. There’s always that moment of uncertainty when I begin a project and worry whether I can do it again—paint something that resonates. But this is lasting longer than a moment.
My phone rings. It’s the movers. They’ve found a parking spot down the block.
And suddenly, an idea for a painting pops into my head. I stand in the center of our living room, my happy place, and close my eyes to remember this feeling of anticipation and excitement.
A knock taps against the door. It’s our downstairs neighbors, Penelope and Zelda.
“This is so exciting.” Penelope hugs me and hands me a bottle of champagne.
Zelda high-fives me. “I can’t wait to see the three of them together in the exhibit.”
“Has Jade sent over her descriptions of your work for the catalog?” Tessa asks. Tessa is very practical—but she’s got this wild streak. If people don’t think we’re sisters, then they think we’re opposites because she’s a corporate lawyer and I’m like this fairy sprite with messy hair in paint-spattered clothes. I cry at everything (those commercials where people greet their families in the airport, the news, someone giving a pregnant woman a seat on the subway). I’ve seen Tessa cry once.
I shake my head no.
I bounce around, feeling like I should be doing something, but I paid for the full service. The moving company is going to wrap them, crate them, and deliver them to the art gallery.
“Are they also picking upPlaying Around 1:30?” Zelda sits on our comfy couch next to Penelope.
“No, that one’s small enough that I’ll pick it up from my uncle’s house and take a cab down.”
“It’s funny that it’s so small and yet so significant,” Zelda says.
Penelope bumps Zelda with her shoulder. “Hey, just because it’s small shouldn’t mean anything.” Penelope is five foot five and not short, but she’s shorter than the rest of us. She pulls her curly, brown hair into a ponytail.
“Exactly. It’s small but mighty.” I had wanted to try a more abstract painting. Unsure if it would work, just playing around, I didn’t use a big canvas. I wasn’t thinking it would be this big of a deal. It was only when it was done and I was so happy with it—I mean so, so happy—that I thought,Yes, this is it. And then, sure of what I wanted to achieve, I painted a bigger canvas, really going for it. That’sGoing for It 10:50.
“I love the contrast between the three paintings,” Penelope says. “It’s a brilliant idea for an exhibit—to showcase that moment when an artist finds their calling.”
The doorbell rings, and we all jump.
“What should we be doing?” Tessa asks. “Should we leave? We’ll make them nervous if we’re all sitting on the couch staring at them.”
“We might need to step in and direct,” Zelda says. Directing is kind of her forte.
“And we should seeNew York FriendsandGoing for It 10:50off, like a good luck ceremony,” Penelope says. “Next time we see them, they will be famous, and you will finally be recognized for your talent.”
I fidget and wave it off, but my chest tightens in hope. “As long as I’m not infamous.”
I run down the stairs to let the moving guys in. My phone buzzes, and my uncle’s name flashes across the screen. I click the call off. I’ll call him back once the movers leave.
The movers trudge up the stairs, me following, and into my floor-through apartment on the fourth floor. Tessa, Penelope, and Zelda have all taken up positions in different corners of the room. Their direct gazes and variety in skin tones remind me of Picasso’sThree Womenbut without the nudity.
Zelda greets the movers at the door. “Now I know you’re going to take good care of my friend’s paintings.”
