Page 14 of Make Me Scream

Wow.

“Thank you, Professor Mundell. That means a lot.”

“You’re welcome. It’s a very solid effort for your first year. You have a lot of growth ahead of you, though. I wonder if you’ve considered branching out into other forms. At your age, you don’t have to commit to graphic novels.”

I grip the armrests of my seat and etch my smile.

He doesn’t know it, but he sounds like my father — a polite, caring version, but like him nonetheless.

“I’d like to tell stories,” I respond. “That’s really important to me.”

“In some form or another, all art tells a story: the artist’s. What doesThe Ohio Zoosay about you?”

I frown, glancing down at my feet.

“Forgive me for asking, but I’m getting a strong sense that your work is loosely autobiographical,” Mundell says.

“Unfortunately, yes,” I reply.

He nods, his expression stoic. Eyes, pitying.

“I understand why you’d want to tell that story, Gwen. The best artists in any discipline draw from their personal history to power their creativity. I believe you will too. My advice to you for now is to expand on where you draw inspiration from. Dig new wells, and drink from them. Expand your studies to creators outside your current scope.”

Maybe I’m making the mistake of interpreting his advice in the worst possible way, but it sounds like he wants me to steer away from graphic novels. I don’t want to assume the worst, but the way he’s taken Joel under his wing… is it because Joel has the talent to be the next Vermeer, or because Joel aspires to be a classical painter like Mundell?

I could have it all wrong, but the idea angers me.

“Well, I do have a great interest in Alistair Rat,” I point out, against my better judgment. “I’ve been following his career since I was old enough to appreciate it. The way he digs into the psyche is seriously brilliant. It’s blunt at first, right? But the aftermath has so many layers: the immediate response in the moment, followed by the backlash, and then the criticism of the backlash. It all feels impossibly calculated, like Alistair knows exactly how the world will react. It’s on-”

I’m babbling. Mundell listens politely, but he shifts impatiently.

“Another level,” I finish.

He smiles, emitting a tactful hum, as if humoring a precocious niece.

“I’ve never really understood the public’s appreciation for Alistair Rat, but that’s an elucidating explanation,” he says. “Still, I think you ascribe far greater talent and ambition to Rat than he actually possesses. He knows how to make headlines, I’ll grant that, but I don’t think the world will celebrate his art decades from now.”

I hold back any trace of a reaction. Anything I would say, I’d probably regret.

“You, however, have the potential to create work that will live in readers’ minds in a positive way,” Mundell continues. “You can leave something meaningful and inspiring. Stay focused, Ms. Carpenter.”

“I will,” I lie, getting up to leave. “Thanks so much.”

Plans and plots swirl in my mind as I exit his office and take the stairs down to the street.

I’m not going to stop working onThe Ohio Zoo, but I’ve got a new project.

Mundell and Porter are wrong about Alistair Rat’s art, and I’m going to prove it.

Chapter 3

Mundell uncorks a bottle of Cabernet and fills my glass, then Tichenor’s, Vina’s and his own. Tichenor strokes his beard as he examines a student’s charcoal drawing. Vina drinks half her glass and groans, rolling her eyes at a photograph in her hands.

“That bad?” I ask, sipping my wine. Earthy tones, not overly dry.

She shows me the photograph: a black-and-white rendering of a grainy cell phone photo apparently taken in a strip club. A single dancer stands on a stage, her face blank, eyes trained on nothing.

“It’s called ‘Misery,’” Vina replies. “The rest of the series gets increasingly pretentious and pornographic.”

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