Page 101 of Make Me Scream

Judging by the technique, they’re Mundell’s work, but it wouldn’t take an expert to figure that out: artistically, they stink. More importantly, though, is that every painting is of a woman and I recognize most of them: Mundell’s students. They’re all depicted nude, staring straight at the viewer and experiencing clear orgasmic pleasure. Some are restrained, some are stimulating themselves.

A few seem frightened — terrified, even.

I flip all the way to the end and find one of Gwen. It’s a riff on my own work, “Awakening.” Remnants of the white gown hang in tatters from her arms and hips. Admittedly, if I had painted this I would like it quite a lot — but I didn’t. This isn’t an homage, it’s a violation. Rush must have visited Galleria Carnale and seen it there, but how could he tell it was Gwen? Maybe he knows me too well.

I get out my phone and photograph his secret collection. I don’t think this constitutes a crime, but it is unseemly — it will hurt his reputation. Could I blackmail Rush with these? Using the photos in any capacity would mean admitting I broke into his office, but if we handled this outside of court, it won’t matter.

As I take the last picture, I notice an odd reflection from the flash — a black marble in the interior, back corner of the armoire. Is that…

I push it, causing a hidden panel to slide free: a secret compartment behind the display rack. It’s only a few inches deep — just big enough for a black, leather-bound portfolio album. Opening it up, loose sheets nearly fall out.

Examining them, my hands start to shake. The room spins.

They’re drawings, mostly pencil or ink, but some painted. Like the framed pieces, they show naked women — but these are definitely not Rush’s work. These were made by students: artists with talent but immature technique. I don’t recognize all of the women, but the last one in the album is a drawing of Chloe Andreason.

What the actual fuck, Rush?

Did she draw that? If not, who did?

Gwen…

I get out my phone to call her. She could be with him at the gallery, or at the after-party, depending on-

By the time I hear the footsteps behind me, it’s too late. Cold metal presses into my neck and unleashes a fiery river. My legs buckle and the lights go out.

Chapter 24

Regaining my composure takes almost half an hour, and by the time I do, my hair and makeup are beyond fixing.

Joel, the angel he is, breaks away from the crowd long enough to text me,Are you okay?

I’ll be fine,I send back.I’m gonna go home. Enjoy the night, okay? Please don’t let anything spoil it.

If you need anything, call me. Seriously. I’ll send Martin if I have to.

I laugh.

Perfect. Thank you. And congrats again.

I call for a Lyft back home. Traffic has subsided, so it’s a short ride. A longer one would have been nice; I could spend all night looking out at the streets, lost in the city’s energy. It would be nice to feel like I did when I first arrived from Ohio: grateful to have started a new chapter, everything and everyone I once knew left behind.

A totally fresh start might be a little extreme, but maybe I need half of one. I love Manhattan, but what if I had a new art school and a new mentor? There are plenty of teachers who could help me develop Enmity Jane — it doesn’t have to be Alistair Rat.

With Joel and Martin out for the night, I have the apartment to myself. I try to binge some episodes ofEmily in Paris, but I can’t concentrate. Browsing the websites of other New York art schools restores my confidence that I’ll find my way, but it also brings back fraught memories. It wasn’t so long ago I surreptitiously viewed these same sites from an ancient computer in my old high school library. I stuffed printed applications between my textbooks, praying my parents wouldn’t find them when I got home.

I’m not going back there. I’ll couch surf my way through art school and pay my tuition from cafe tips if I have to.

Every few minutes I check my phone, ready for Lane to call or text and make his apology. I wouldn’t be shocked if he came to my apartment, in fact, but I don’t hear from him at all. Has he decided to wait a day or two so I wouldn’t be as raw? Maybe he thinks I won’t forgive him, that we’re finished.

Would he be right? I don’t know. What we have has meant so much; I’ve never had a connection like I do with Lane. Could I again? My heart screams that I won’t, that I couldn’t, that what we have is unique and impossible to replace. I’ve been wrong before, though.

What I do know is that even if I find another teacher or another school, they won’t be better than Alistair Rat or Mundell Academy.

I fall asleep on the couch long before Joel and Martin get home, and wake up under a cozy blanket, roused by the scent and crackle of frying bacon.

“Hey,” they say in unison as I shamble into the kitchen, eyes still bleary. I don’t even want to fathom how I look. They’re both shockingly energetic, flying around as they scramble eggs, squeeze fresh orange juice and butter slices of toast — seemingly all at once. There’s even a to-go carrier with three coffees and a brown bag full of bagels.

“Hey,” I reply, slumping into my seat. “How was the rest of your night?”

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