Page 7 of Make Me Scream

“I guess.”

Porter’s smiling as he sips his wine and listens to the conversation. Considering how much he must loathe this whole affair, he’s doing a great job of hiding his disdain.

“You should go talk to him,” Joel says, laughing. “I bet he’d love to be rescued from Mundell’s friends.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“He’s actually really nice,” Joel says. “And I know you’re dying to tell him why he’s wrong about Alistair Rat.”

I roll my eyes, though I can’t stop myself from gazing at his easy grin.

Joel’s not wrong, though. I’ve wanted to tell Porter that if it wasn’t for Rat, I never would have found my passion for art. Nothing good would come of it, though, which is why I avoided taking classes with him all year.

“Come on,” Joel prods. “I need you to keep him busy so I can talk to Mundell. You know you want to. He’s hot as fuck.”

Unbelievable.

It’s bad enough that I sneak glances at Porter every time I spot him at the academy. I don’t need Joel getting on my case.

Much like the artwork on display, Lane Porter could be chiseled out of stone: tall and broad-chested, with impeccably developed arms and legs. A stylish, gray sports jacket strains to contain his entrancing physique, while his smile brings out dimpled cheeks and a cleft in his chin. His light, blue eyes elicit a soulful intensity that never appears in his manner: I’ve only ever observed him in good humor, which makes hating him so much harder. Joel’s not helping, pointing out the obvious.

“I’m telling Martin you said that.”

Joel laughs, shaking his head.

“Martin would agree with me. Come on, please? Please please?”

“Okay, okay!”

Might as well get this over with. I came for Alistair Rat, not socializing.

Joel and I start weaving through the exhibit, which is filling up more by the minute. Before we can join the conversation, Rush Mundell breaks from the group and climbs up onto a small stage.

I’ll have to thank him later.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention!” he shouts, projecting his deep voice throughout the room. I freeze in place with Joel, who sighs. Mundell is on the older side, but he’s handsome for his age, with sharp features free of wrinkles and a head full of thick, peppery hair. Not a knockout like Porter, but still.

“Thank you all for being here. For many people, standing in the presence of true artistic genius and learning from an undisputed master happens once in a lifetime. Unless you’re one of my students, then it happens every day.”

The crowd laughs politely. Joel lets out a loud hoot.

“Today we’ve gathered to appreciate a body of work that has known nothing but dispute. Alistair Rat is the kind of artist that leaves an impression on everyone, for better or worse. No one hears about him, or her, and fails to develop an opinion, one way or the other. Most people first learned the name Alistair Rat after that infamous opening night ofDeath of a Salesman.”

Audience members nod; some shake their heads. I grin, wishing I could have been there six years ago when a mannequin, disguised as lead actor Francis Bentham, fell from the rafters in the middle of the final act, its neck in a noose.

“Some have called Mr. Rat nothing more than a prankster. Others have praised him as an incisive auteur.”

The entire cast, crew and audience screamed as if the mannequin was real; they had no idea it was fake. However, no one acted right away. Some said they assumed it had to be a prank. Some said they were too scared. A few fainted, so they had an excuse. Everyone else sat there and watched the mannequin swing for a full minute and forty-seven seconds.

“He’s inspired countless arguments about whether his work intends to impart social commentary, or merely rouse as much attention as possible.”

The occurrence became a national sensation when a short documentary went viral online. Alistair Rat had positioned dozens of cameras and hundreds of microphones to record the stunt from every angle; his compilation of reactions and the aftermath racked up millions of views within days. However, Alistair Rat never came forward to claim the stunt, so his identity has remained a mystery. Art critics have offered their theories, but none have panned out.

“However you feel about Alistair Rat, his work has resulted in an explosion of interest in the New York art scene, and for that we can all be grateful. So, please enjoy yourselves. You have my word, we’ve swept the building — tonight is an exhibition of Rat’s past work, not a current piece.”

The audience applauds and laughs as Mundell raises a glass.

I try not to glower. Alistair doesn’t make art for people like this to enjoy — his art is meant to challenge them — to scare them.

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