Page 13 of Make Me Scream

“You think he knew the sprinklers would go off,” Joel says. “I’m sorry, but that sounds kinda crazy.”

“How could he have known?” adds Martin.

“Maybe he set them off,” I say.

Why not? The more I think about it, the more sense it makes. What better way to send Alistair a fuck you than to rain all over his exhibition?

“How though?” says Joel. “Weren’t you talking to Porter when it happened? How could he have done it?”

Hmm.

“That’s true,” I say.

Martin chuckles softly.

“Maybe Alistair did it,” he surmises. “It would be a great prank.”

“Alistair doesn’t pull pranks,” I say. That’s the sort of bullshit Porter likes to say when he dunks on Alistair. I’m sick of hearing it. Martin is a great guy, but unfortunately he’s on Porter’s side in this regard.

“Sorry,” Martin mumbles. “Just spitballing.”

Although, itisan interesting idea. Alistair didn’t host this exhibit; did Mundell have permission to show those pieces? Maybe Alistair wanted to quite literally wash away those early works, which don’t really have the same impact or meaning. Admittedly, I do enjoy the idea of Alistair anonymously wandering around, observing people reacting to his art. It would be funny, in a way. But it’s impossible to prove.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say at last. “Look, unless someone has a better theory, I’m convinced Porter knows something. I’m going to talk to him and find out.”

—

Throughout the rest of the weekend I try not to obsess over what happened at the Askew Gallery, but it’s not easy. I’m too fucking pissed. Sketching helps me channel the anger, but it doesn’t take my mind off things. Working at Cafe Vitolo passes the time much better. Business is too busy to get distracted by life, and a forced smile puts more tips in the jar.

On Monday, Joel and I begin Mundell Academy’s infamous final crunch week. We each have a couple of exams, plus our course portfolios are due. At the same time, Martin has an engineering final project at NYU, so he’ll be gone until Friday.

I spend all of Monday afternoon cramming for my Art History test, but take a break for my first yearly guidance appointment with Rush Mundell.

Considering he owns the school and the Mundell family has been an artistic institution going back generations, I’m not surprised to find Rush’s office looks more like a gallery and studio, featuring wall-to-wall paintings by several great masters, as well as some of his most accomplished students.

I could easily see Joel’s work fitting right in. Mine, on the other hand…

“It’s like being in a museum isn’t it?” he says, grinning.

I shake my head, smiling at my silliness.

“Yeah, kinda.”

Mundell nods.

“It’s a lovely collection, but I don’t want you comparing yourselves to someone else, or thinking you’re not up to another’s standards. What you see here is the work of students just like you. If I didn’t think you possessed this level of talent, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Cool,” I say, sitting down. “Thank you.”

“Let’s see what you’ve been working on, Ms. Carpenter.”

I try to act casual as I pass him the drafts ofThe Ohio Zoo, my graphic novel-in-progress. He awarded my scholarship; I don’t want him to think it’s gone to waste.

He flips through the pages slowly, not reading each one, of course, but taking a good look. As tempted as I am to comment on what he’s seeing, I keep my mouth shut.

“Your illustrations are very evocative,” he says as he gets to the end. “I love your technique of illustrating from Allison’s direct perspective in those tense moments between her and her mother. It conveys what she’s experiencing while also allowing the reader to have their own reaction. I think that’s very effective.”

I exhale.

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