Page 95 of Make Me Scream

Unlike Chloe, there’s plenty of information about Anne online. Her obituary has the names of her surviving relatives, which is all I need to find out everything else about her. Apparently she was adopted as an infant and never met her biological family. Her parents, who had a biological daughter of their own, were in their fifties when they adopted Anne. Her father, Philippe, passed when she was a teenager. Her mother, Colette, teaches French at Temple University, while her much older sister, Lea, works at a marketing firm here in the city.

One name is absent from the obituary, however: Lane’s. There’s no mention of a boyfriend. Did the family know about Lane? I presume he attended the funeral — most of the Mundell faculty was reportedly there — but did they have any idea who he was?

Digging deep into their profiles, I search for any indication of a history of depression or bipolar disorder for Anne, something that might be a clue that she would take her own life. Instead, I find a Facebook post of Lea’s on the anniversary of Anne’s death.

Four years ago today I received the worst news of my life. My little sister was gone. I didn’t understand it then and still don’t today. They say she couldn’t handle the pressure, but in all the years I knew Anne, there was never a challenge she couldn’t overcome. I don’t know what she went through in those final days; maybe being away from home changed her. I just wish I knew why she didn’t reach out to me or Mom. We would have been there for her. Take care of the people in your life, everyone. You can’t tell how someone’s doing on the inside unless you ask.

I shut my laptop after that, unable to read any more. Of course Lea wants answers. I do too. Why didn’t Anne take time off? Why didn’t she seek professional help? Two people in the world might know, and I’ll see them soon.

—

“How do I look?” Joel asks, stepping out of the bathroom.

I nearly faint.

The clothes delivered to our apartment yesterday fit Joel perfectly: a light gray sports jacket with blue-striped patterning, a white button-down shirt and fitted jeans. No tie. Business casual with a nod to youth and artistic independence.

“Give me your phone now so I can take a picture,” I say. “It’s not fair I get to see this before Martin.”

Joel laughs and makes seductive faces for the camera.

“They’re going to let me keep all this, right?” he says mid-pose.

“Don’t ask me. I’m not in charge.”

“I could get used to looking this good.”

“Gallery’s not even open yet and fame has already changed you,” I joke, shaking my head.

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t forget the little people like you… Gina?”

I snort, crossing my arms and feigning disgust.

“I’m sorry, I meant Gail.”

It feels good to laugh after the past few days.

“Come on,” he says. “We’ll be late.”

My old sea-green dress might have worked back at the Askew, but the Gallery Madrigal called for more sophistication. Wanting to look nice for the occasion, I splurged and bought a new dress, a knee-length, slinky, black number that Joel picked out for me online. I thought it was too flashy, that people would think I was trying to steal the show, but he insisted.

“If Professor Porter has the nerve to show up, don’t you want him to see what he’s missing out on?”

Admittedly, he made a good point.

We hail a cab instead of walking or taking the subway to the Madrigal. The show won’t start for more than an hour, but Professor Mundell told Joel to show up early for a final look at the presentation. I stay outside as he checks everything.

“Soak it in,” Martin and I told him at least a dozen times over the last few days. This opening is going to mark a moment in his life and career, and there will be a distinct before and after. From this point forward, he’ll be a star. Maybe not a household name, but everyone who knows art will know Joel Franklin.

Eventually he pokes his head out the door and says, “Oh my god, Gwen, get in here!”

I follow him in, only a little jealous. The Gallery Madrigal hosts a beautiful space: wide, tall and deep. Every inch is bathed in light, the white walls immaculate and hardwood floor glossy. Champagne bottles chill in ice buckets next to a table full of glasses in the room’s center.

And then there are Joel’s paintings. I’ve seen most of them, but a few he painted before coming to Mundell Academy. The nudes I posed for occupy the center of the gallery’s north wall, which is what everyone will see first when they enter the gallery.

Yeah, that’s… scary. I knew people would see them eventually but…

“Gwen, if you’re not comfortable with this…” Joel says.

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