Page 86 of Make Me Scream

It makes sense for him. He hardly gets a moment alone at the school, where he spends most of his time. Still, when he lets me into the penthouse, it hardly seems lived-in. The air smells too clean — almost sterile. No trace of his cologne, or cooking aromas or even paint. He has all the supplies, with an easel set up in front of the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over midtown. It’s probably just his luxurious building’s top quality air filtration system, but I can’t picture Rush spending much time here.

Then there’s the art: no prized Pollock or Basquiat, no Monet or Matisse, like one would expect. No, the art on his walls is his own: impressionistic renditions of historic photos, expressionist portraits of modern celebrities and surrealist takes on corporate logos and insignias.

One minute he’s struggling to mimic Degas, the next he’s trying to reinvent Warhol by way of Dalí. It’s embarrassing. Maybe that’s why he rarely invites anyone over.

How can he not display work from his best students, the truest proof of his success as an arts educator? There’s no shortage of options after such a long career. Sure, many can be found at the school, but does Rush not have any personal favorites he wanted for himself? Why show his own sub-par work, if not as a sign of extraordinary egotism? I suppose this the only place he has to hang it, and he’s too shameless to put it all away.

“Come in,” he says, meeting me at the door.

He’s set out two wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t wait for me to confirm if I want any before pulling the cork and pouring for us both.

“Before we start, I want you to know that all this,” he says, indicating the wine, “is not for celebration. If I wanted to be petty and insulting, I’d have taken out one glass, not two. I don’t want this to be the end of our friendship. This can be nothing more than a professional matter. A decision reached between employer and employee concerning an unfortunate incidence of misconduct. I can compartmentalize this, Lane. Can you?”

Is he out of his fucking mind? I’m willing myself not to grab that bottle and throw it through his penthouse window.

“Rush, there’s no getting around how personal this is. You know that.”

He nods and hands me my glass.

“It felt right to make the offer. I don’t want there to be bad blood between us, regardless of how it all resolves.”

No fucking chance.

“Yeah,” I say. “Well, I have an offer for you.”

Rush gestures to the black sectional in his living room, but I’d rather stand, so I don’t follow him. Saving face, he sits, leaning back into the thin but resilient cushion.

“Go ahead, I’m listening.”

I sip the wine, steeling myself. He’s not really listening, he’s just letting me say my piece. He has no incentive to back down.

“I considered a lot of different options before coming here tonight. I thought about writing down all your dirty secrets and sending them to theTimes. I’d find the people you hurt and get them to speak out against you, united in exposing the rot in your soul. I would drag you all the way down with me.”

“Of course. A natural reaction.” He smiles smugly and drinks half his glass.

I imagine punching that look off his face. It would be so fucking satisfying.

“So why haven’t you done just that?” Rush asks.

“For Gwen.”

“Ahh.”

If I really wanted to destroy Rush, there is one card I could play. He’d never see it coming, but the cost would be too high. I could tell the world that I’m Alistair Rat and Rush Mundell, a lifelong friend and admirer of the arts, had no idea. If reputation is what he truly values, this would hit. It would haunt him like nothing else in his career.

If I did it, people would keep an eye on me. Going out in public and staging a piece would be a hundred times harder. My art would suffer, or I’d get arrested. Probably both. I’m not ready to retire Alistair Rat, not yet. More importantly, I wouldn’t be able to teach Gwen what I know.

“That’s noble of you,” Rush says. “But misguided. She’s not worth losing your career, Lane. Maybe someday she’ll manage to publish her comics, but she doesn’t need your help for that. Whatever affection you feel for her, you know it’s only momentary. Leaving my academy would be permanent.”

No wonder he’s such a bad artist. For a student of the human condition, Rush really has no fucking clue about people. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I didn’t care about Gwen.

“You’re wrong. I’m not letting her go. I’m leaving your school. But, you can make sure this stays civil by leaving with me.”

Rush gets up from the couch and downs the rest of his Cabernet. He returns to the kitchen counter and pours another glass.

“Say that again, Lane. I misheard you.”

“It’s time for you to pass the torch. You have nothing left to prove. Your tenure has done the Mundell name proud. You can keep that name out of the mud by naming a successor and stepping aside. Tichenor or Vina would carry on your legacy as you’d want.”

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