Page 6 of Make Me Scream

Not a fucking chance. I’m not going to do this to anyone else.

“Yes, master,” I mutter as he begins dumping dirt over the grave.

I’m sorry, Anne. I wish I’d been braver. But I’ll do better next time. I won’t fail you again. He won’t expect a thing. He won’t know until it’s too late. He’ll regret not killing us both last night.

I promise.

Chapter 1

Joel and I flash our Mundell school IDs at a young hostess in a black cocktail dress, who barely jerks her head to usher us inside. After an hour waiting to get in, we rush through the Askew Gallery’s lobby, only to get stopped by two security guards.

Though they wear khakis and flattering black polo shirts, their dour expressions are all business.

“Phones,” one says to us. On the long cafeteria-style table next to him rest five cases divided into numbered slots, most of which are already full.

“We didn’t bring ours,” I reply.

One night only!the invitation read.View the Mundell Academy for Art’s exclusive collection of early work from Alistair Rat, never before shown in public. Discover the origins of New York City’s most infamous artist provocateur and gain insights into his process and development.

At the direction of the exhibit’s private owner, photography of any kind will be prohibited. All devices with a camera must be left with security or at home.

All Mundell Academy students may attend. All others will be admitted by invitation only.

Stepping outside without a phone felt surreal: a moment of mild panic, joined with a vague sense of liberation and excitement. I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it, but not having a phone reminds me of my first night after moving to New York: I was on my own. There was no calling anyone for help. I had to figure things out myself.

Except, now Joel’s with me, nearly crushing my hand as the other security guard guides a wand up and down us, making sure we aren’t lying about our phones. We wouldn’t be the first.

“Go in,” the first one says at last.

Joel practically squeals; I would too if I could breathe.

I’m lucky just to be enrolled at Mundell, let alone have a scholarship. I came to the city hoping to be in the right place at the right time to experience an Alistair Rat piece — you never know where or how they’ll show up: graffiti on a wall, a performance in a subway, projected from a cab…

I nearly fainted when I heard we’d get to see an entire gallery of his work, back when he painted and sculpted like everyone else. It’s not the same as witnessing something new, but I’m not complaining. As it is, only a few hundred will be here tonight.

“See anyone exciting?” Joel asks as we survey the scene.

“Not yet,” I laugh. Rush Mundell no doubt invited the most influential and prestigious members of New York’s art community to grace the presence of his students, but it’s not like I’d recognize them.

“Oh, there, look!” says Joel. “See that guy in the white tunic? That’s Linus Crowley. Big-time photographer.”

“Neat.”

“And her in the yellow skirt? That’s…”

I’m not looking at the artists and socialites, I’m focused on a marble bust of Richard Nixon, depicted with a six-inch mohawk, wide gauge earrings and multiple nose piercings. It’s one of a series of statuettes; I don’t recognize most of them, except for the goth Mr. Rogers and face-tatted John Lennon.

I don’t know where Alistair Rat got the idea, but I like it. Simple, but subversive.

Joel snickers.

“Oh, there’s your favorite.”

I turn to see Lane Porter standing with Rush Mundell and several other guests at a serving table stacked with champagne flutes and cheese cubes.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” I scoff. “Porter hates Alistair Rat.”

“Maybe he had to attend. I see a lot of Mundell’s teachers.”

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