Page 39 of Make Me Scream

“No,” I chuckle. “He doesn’t really fit in with the art crowd.”

“Then who is he?” Gwen asks. “Why does he keep all this a secret?”

“His name’s Rory, and we met in high school. He was the kid who sold weed out of his locker and got suspended what felt like every week. I was one of the rich kids who bought his weed. We bonded over mutual hatred for the school principal, Millvane.”

She scofffs.

“His name was Millvane?”

“Hisfirstname was Millvane. Principal Millvane Casper, and he looked as old and stodgy as he sounds. Not a friendly guy. Rory and I thought it would be funny to interrupt his morning announcements with audio from a sex tape. I could pay for the portable, remote-controlled DVD player and wire it into the PA system; Rory was cool with breaking into the school’s office and keeping watch. The next morning, I kept the remote in my pocket and let a second or two of it play every time Millvane talked.”

Laughing, Gwen asks, “Did you guys get in trouble?”

“Nope. Millvane burst into our homeroom, madder than anyone I’ve ever seen. Face as red as a ripe tomato. Tried to pin it on Rory but he was just sitting there, pretending he had no idea what was going on. They couldn’t prove he did anything. When it was over, Rory told me he’d be down to do shit like that any time. I tutored him so he could finish high school and apply to college. He got me into working out. Been like that ever since. When I have an idea for a piece, I give him a call.”

She sighs, turning back to the computer and scrolling through the files.

“Okay, maybe that’s true. Here’s the problem: for all I know, you made Rory up and you downloaded this footage from some darkweb site. How am I supposed to know for sure?”

“Well unfortunately I don’t film myself committing crimes, so-”

“Tell me about the inspiration behind it,” she interrupts.

I chuckle, recalling our encounter at Galleria Carnale.

“You’re asking the artist for a direct explanation of their intent?” I repeat, just as I said it then.

“Tell me, Lane.”

“Fine. I wanted to explore and contrast an audience’s response to the real and the unreal. When we attend a play, we know that what we’re seeing isn’t real: the people on stage are performers. However, if the play is good, the emotion we feel is real. We ache for the characters of a tragedy, we cry over their plight. We do this knowing it’s just a story.”

“Okay.”

“However, when that mannequin fell, it disrupted the audience’s departure from reality,” I continue. “This unexpected occurrence created a schism in their minds: was what they just saw part of the play, or was it real? Did someone actually just fall and die? The irony is that attending a play is a perfectly normal activity — but witnessing a fatal fall is completely unexpected. The audience had to contend with an abnormal scene in a place where they were used to seeing things that weren’t real. As the footage showed, they didn’t know what to do. Very few people reacted immediately.”

Gwen nods.

“Do you think that came through?”

“For the people there, sure. I did my best to portray that in the video I released, but I think for the full effect you had to be there.”

“Yeah. I sorta figured.”

Without asking, she backtracks through my computer system, finding other archived files from my past pieces. Audio files from “Pay to Play,” sketches from “Feral Hogs” — building schematics and subway maps with escape routes drawn through them.

“Okay,” she says at last. “You’re really him. Why would you tell me? What’s stopping me from telling everyone who you are?”

I keep myself from laughing.

“First of all, no one would believe you. Mundell would say it was retaliation for threatening to revoke your scholarship. It’s enraging, because you’d be telling the truth, but sadly that is what would happen.”

Fury burns behind Gwen’s eyes; she knows I’m right.

“However, I don’t think you want to tell anyone. I think you want to follow your passion, and I can teach you how. I also think you like me, and you want me to like you. And not just because I’m Alistair Rat.”

Fidgeting in her seat, she looks away. Almost too quick to see, she bites her lip, then stops herself.

“What do you want in return?” she asks.

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