by Mindy Raf
I tried to win points with Jillian right away by letting her stay in the front seat, which I now wholeheartedly regret. I usually don’t mind riding in the back, except in this case, where one side is occupied with shopping bags, and the other side, where I’m sitting, is cramp-city, since Jillian’s levered her seat all the way back, like she’s in a lounge chair or something.
“So we can take Jilly around and check some stuff out, and then drop her off with my mom, and go see that performance art lady, and then, just like hang out? Sound like a plan?” Blake taps his fingers rapidly on the steering wheel while he waits his turn at the four-way stop at the end of my block. He seems even more jumpy now than he did the other night at my house. Maybe it’s because I’ll be meeting his mom.
“Yup, sounds great,” I say, and catch Jillian checking me out in her pulled-down visor mirror. She gives me a toothy grin, and I see her teeth are stained red, probably from the cherry Tootsie Pop she was working on that she’s now rested in the cup holder between herself and her brother.
“You remember Izzy, Jills? From art camp?” Blake asks her.
“Nope,” she says.
Blake gives me a shrug.
“Well, it was a couple summers ago,” I say, shrugging back, “and I wasn’t her main counselor, so … So Jillian, you’re in second grade?” I ask.
“Third,” she corrects me, picking up the Tootsie Pop and putting it back in her mouth.
Don’t think about the germs, Izzy. Just smile and ask another question.
“And do you like making art?”
“Do you make sculptures?” Jillian asks me.
“Oh, um, sometimes. Mostly I draw and paint, though.”
“Are you in any museums?”
“Um, nope.”
“How much does your stuff cost?”
“Well … I haven’t ever sold anything yet.”
“You haven’t?”
“Izzy’s still in school, Jillian. Just like you,” Blake tells her. Jillian nods at her brother, contemplating the fact that we’re both still in school. Then she pulls the Tootsie Pop out of her mouth and some of her reddish-brown curls get stuck to the candy. Oh, God. She drops the hair-covered sucker back in the cup holder and addresses me again through her visor mirror.
“My friend Tiffany’s older sister, she lives in New York and her stuff is in places there.”
“Wow, that’s pretty cool,” I say, humoring her.
“My mom likes her stuff that she made, and Tiffany’s older sister, the stuff that she made, she sold, and she sold one painting in New York.”
“Wow, that’s really great,” I say, hoping I understood all that correctly.
“One painting buys a whole apartment, did you know that?” she asks me.
“Oh. Well … wow. So … how old is Tiffany’s sister?” I ask.
“She’s really old. Like eighteen.”
I nod, and see Blake laugh a little to himself.
“Hey Jillian,” Blake says to her, “Izzy can do drawings that look real, that look just like the real thing.”
“Like a photograph?”
“Yeah, just like a photograph, but she draws and paints them. Isn’t that super-cool?”
“Yeah …” Jillian says, clearly not impressed.
Blake flashes me a reassuring smile. “Well, I thought that thing you did, hanging up last year, was very cool. I thought they were like black-and-white photographs.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you know how to use a camera?” Jillian asks. “Can you take real good photographs?”
I shake my head, and then try to turn my grimace into a smile as she puts the Tootsie Pop back in her mouth.
• • •
The new wing of the DIA is amazing. Maybe this is a weird way to describe it, but walking around, you kind of feel like you’re in a cinnamon roll. It’s this huge round room with all these circles inside circles, each one featuring a different artist. So as you walk, you feel like you keep entering into totally different spaces, even though they’re all connected.
Since this is a private opening, and since Blake’s mom basically orchestrated the whole thing, a lot of people working there know him. People keep coming up to us every few minutes, from caterers, to security, to guests saying hello, and asking him about school and basketball. And he always introduces me to everyone, saying, “This is Izzy” or “This is Izzy; she’s an artist too.” Then he smiles at me in this way that amazingly messes with my center of gravity.
After walking through our fourth or fifth circle, and answering what seems like a trillion questions from Jillian about every single piece of artwork, most of them not even to do with the art, like, “What do you think that guy’s favorite animal is?” we finally make our way down to the reception area to drop Jillian off with Blake’s mom.
Blake has the same thick wavy blond hair as his mom except without the hairspray and the headset. Mrs. Hangry is speed-walking over to us, which you’d think would be hard to do in heels while carrying a clipboard and talking into a portable device. She stops along the way and says something to one of the guys carrying drinks, and then points him in another direction. She tucks her clipboard under her arm and extends her hands out to give Jillian a hug. Then she greets us all in what appears to be one long breath.
“Thank you, sweetie, you’re a lifesaver,” to Blake. “You having fun?” to Jillian. “Izzy, so glad you could come! So very nice to meet you!” to me.
“Thanks for having me. Everything’s really great.”
“Oh good.” She turns her head, like a security camera, to different points of the room when she talks. “It’s been a little hectic, and facilities has dropped the ball on—” Then she stands up on her tiptoes and waves at somebody over my head and turns to Jillian and says, “Remember Miss S. from your Saturday craft class?”
Jillian half nods, busy annihilating a plate of cheese and cookies.
“Deborah, hellooo … This all looooks … incredible.” Miss S. dance-walks over, gives Mrs. Hangry a hug, and then spots me and Blake.
I greet Miss S., still a little shamefaced over my behavior in class yesterday.
“Lovely to seeeee you here.” She gives me a shoulder squeeze and asks, “Are you enjooooying … the space? Did you see Roriago yet?” Before I can respond, she turns back to Mrs. Hangry. “Deborah, did you tell Izzy about our liiiiiiittle … collaboration?”
“Oh, no.” Mrs. Hangry’s security-camera head turns to me. “That’s right—you’re a candidate for Italy, Izzy. We just cooked this all up this week and still have to finalize it with the dance committee—but yes, it’s very exciting.”
“What is?” I turn to Blake, who just shrugs.
“Of course, now we lose a weeeek … but I think you’ll agree it’s worth it,” Miss S. bubbles out.
“We lose a week of … what?”
“Itaaaaly deadline. Pushed up. Just a week. For the auction!” Miss S. looks at me as if she’s just explained everything.
Mrs. Hangry smiles and says, “It’s a fund-raiser initiative now for Darfur. All the students’ Italy portfolios are being showcased at the dance, and each artist picks one piece to be auctioned off, and then all the money, of course, goes to—”
“Auctioned off? Oh, like … Wait, what?”
“Well, it’s more like a silent auction, you know, people write their bids, highest wins and— Marcy!” She raises her hands up to signal a tall girl walking by. “Area B seventeen, lighting fixture, replace— So yes.” She smiles at me. “We’re going to raise a lot of money, I think. I don’t know why we didn’t connect these dots sooner, but nonetheless …”
“Yes, yeeeees,” Miss S. adds. “Of course, the winning bidders won’t receive their pieces until after your portfolios are juuuudged … but yes, all work must be done and set up by the time of the dance, a week earlier, and you’re not obligated to participaaate, of course. They are your pieces to do with what you—”
“Yes, but it’s encouraged. I’m sure
all of the artists will want to do their part to raise funds,” Mrs. Hangry adds, sending me an enthusiast wink before Jillian tugs at the end of her coral-colored sweater set. “Okay sweetie, we’ll wander soon.” She pulls a napkin from her pocket and wipes her daughter’s chocolate-cheese mouth while telling me, “I’m friendly with a couple of the curators here too, so if all goes well, some of the patrons will come out to the Dance for Darfur auction as our guests, and hopefully they’ll be feeling generous.”
Miss S. nods and smiles approvingly.
“Wow, well, that’s a great idea, that’s … it’s very exciting.” Crap. I’m losing a week. Oh, God. I’m losing a whole week. I smile and wave good-bye to them as Jillian tugs her mom away, and Miss S. wanders back into the crowd with an “Enjoy … Enjoooy!”
“Okay!” Blake says, repeatedly punching the fist of one hand into the palm of his other, like he’s revving up his energy before a big game or something, and seeming more than thrilled to see his family and Miss S. disappear into the crowd. He leads me out of the reception area, first stopping at one of the sweets tables to replace the plate of cookies Jillian devoured. He walks back to me, plate full, shaking his head.
“Why would somebody come here, with all this art around and stuff, and just sit playing on their phone all day?” I turn to see where he’s gesturing and realize that what appears to be a woman dressed in all black sitting on a white bench glued to her hand-held device, is actually Juliana Roriago! Which is what I tell Blake, who crinkles his eyebrows together and stares at her some more.
“Well, is she like taking a break or something?”
“No, that’s her piece,” I say, remembering now some of what I read about Plugged In/Plugged Out. “She’s performing. I mean that’s … her art.”
“Izzy, she’s sitting on a bench messing around on her phone.”
“No, but look,” I say, and point to a large screen in the corner of the room about four or five feet away that’s projecting a live stream of what looks like some kind of video game.
“Oh, man …”
“Yeah, so I think what she’s doing is playing—”
“That’s Mad Catter!”
“What?”
“On the screen, it’s Mad Catter! It’s this game where you take these feral cats and you use them as slingshots, like ammo, to knock stuff down.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, it’s so stupid, but it’s really fun, and so crazy addictive. I’ve busted through to level twenty-two and now I have to wait for them to release more.”
“Wow.”
“But why is she playing Mad Cattter?” he says, staring at her game on the screen as we walk over to pick up one of her exhibit pamphlets.
“She’s been sitting here playing nonstop for almost seventy-two hours now,” I tell him.
“Yeah, yeah.” Blake nods, now reading from the pamphlet. “Exploring … something … participate in the cycle … death of spirit to birth of instant gratification … pushing the confines of the physical body … empty rewards, state of un-being … no food.” He turns back to Juliana Roriago, who, of course, is still sitting on the bench playing Mad Catter. He shakes his head again. “So this is her … art?”
“Yeah, well, I guess it’s more like an experience. For us … too.”
“Huh,” Blake says, nodding. “So … do you wanna stay here and … watch her?”
“Um … well, yeah, we can.”
“Okay. Yeah, sure.” He nods, and strains a smile.
“Or no. I mean, that’s okay. If you want to keep walking or—”
“Yeah. Yeah, let’s just … We’ll come back, but … come on.” He grabs my hand and leads me out of the cinnamon roll.
We head down a long corridor of scary Audubon-meets-Andy-Warhol-type bird paintings. Then we go through a couple of doors, passing through what looks like folk art and jewelry, and finally he leads me into a small room full of Buddhist sculptures and painted Japanese screens and scrolls. We’re surrounded by so many butterflies and cranes that it feels like we’re outside.
“This isn’t open to the public yet, so …” He walks over to a bench next to a giant marble Buddha and gestures for me to sit down.
“Yeah, nobody in here,” I say, sitting down next to him. Then I feel like I need to do something, so I grab a cookie from the plate he’s placed on the floor and take a bite.
We sit there on the bench, eating cookies in silence in marble Buddhaland for what seems like so long, I think we’ve both reached enlightenment. I finally speak.
“So, did you read that she gets a sip of water every time she beats a level?”
“What?” he says, and then I see that he has his phone out.
“Are you playing Mad Catter right now?” I tease.
“No, sorry,” he says, finishing whatever he was typing and closing his phone. “So what did you say?” he asks, rapidly tapping his sneakers on the marble floor, the sound echoing in the room. Taptaptaptap. Taptaptaptap. “You said she only gets water when she finishes a level?”
“Yup. Kind of crazy, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, and then abruptly shifts positions on the bench, almost knocking over the plate of cookies with his foot.
“A couple years ago,” I tell him, “she did this piece called Femme Prick where she would prick herself with pins repeatedly. If she drew blood, she’d let herself take a sip of water, and if she didn’t draw blood, she’d just make this tally mark on the canvas behind her.”
“Man that seems so stupid,” he says. “Sorry, I don’t mean to … I know you like her and you know more about this stuff than me, but—”
“No, I get it. It is pretty ridiculous. I guess … I just find her interesting, and watching some of her older stuff, the video footage at least, it’s kind of cool and I guess a little … satisfying.”
“Yeah. Wait, like, what do you mean?” Taptaptaptaptap. Taptaptaptap.
“Well, the control she has. The choices she’s making to manipulate her body, to take control, or I guess, to let her body take over. I mean, I’m sure our bodies can withstand a whole lot of stuff that we don’t even know about, like going for that long without food and—” I stop, thinking now about my mom’s body, and how she’s not making choices, how she has no control. “And also … some of her pieces have other artists in them too, like people painting for long periods of time or—” I stop again because I feel the corset coming back slightly, tightening around my chest.
“You okay?” Blake asks.
“Yes. I’m sorry, it’s … I’m actually … I’m just feeling a little off today.”
“Oh,” he says, and I can hear in his tone he’s taken offense.
“No, no, it’s not you,” I explain. “This has all been great. It’s … it’s actually my mom, just things are a little off … with my mom right now.”
He stops his nervous foot-tapping and turns in toward me. “Like what kind of … off?”
“Well, my mom … she’s sick, or she was sick, she is sick and—”
“So not, like, regular sick?”
“No. More like serious sick.”
“Oh, man. I’m sorry, Izzy. I didn’t … wow. That … that sucks.”
“Yeah. I mean, she’s gonna be fine.”
“Oh, good. Well, she looks … good.”
“Yeah, she is good. But then this week I found out that maybe she’s not as good, except she’s not telling me she’s not, so how am I supposed to know that she’s not? It’s like she can’t fit it into her agenda to tell me she’s not feeling well. And I’m the one who’s there every day and I see her and see that she’s not good right now. Like this morning … so… so … I’m the one she should be telling what’s going on. Not Pam. Well, I don’t even know what Pam knows, but … but I don’t understand why people just … don’t tell me things. Why does everyone have to keep all these secrets from me? What’s so wrong with filling me in on what’s going on when it’s going on? It’s like, I’m here. I’m right her
e. But everyone acts like I’m not, or like I can’t handle it or something.” I look over toward Blake and realize I’m standing up now and have been pacing back and forth between Buddha sculptures.
“Well,” Blake says, getting up and walking over to me, “I think you’re here.” He puts his hands on my waist, underneath my T-shirt a little so his thumbs and fingertips are touching my skin. He pulls me in slowly. “You’re definitely here.”
His hands slide up and his fingers press into my lower back now. The bottoms of his palms are really warm. My lips are at his throat level. But if I stand on my tiptoes, they’d reach his face. Pulled into him so close, just like after we kissed at my house, everything else goes mute. I rise onto my toes and he meets me halfway. We kiss, and my insides rearrange, but in a good way. Then he pulls me in all the way, and moves his lips to my neck. Holy cow in a handbag, am I necking?! And then I feel cold. Which is weird because you’d think our body heat, being pressed up against each other, would keep me warm. But I’m cold. My back is cold. And then I realize that he’s lifted up the back of my shirt and is trying to unhook my bra!
Okay, so you know how if something spills near you, you just kind of jump back, like on reflex, to move out of the line of fire? Well, that’s what I do when I feel Blake’s hand underneath the back of my bra. I jump back fast and say, “Hey! No, no, no.”
Hey! No, no, no? Did I just say that? Did I just say “Hey! No, no, no,” to Blake Hangry, like he’s a naughty little kid?
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” he says, backing up and then pacing toward the bench. And then he lets out this really loud groan. It sounds like the groan Jenna’s dad and his friends make when they’re watching the football team they bet all their money on do something stupid.
“I’m sorry,” I say, walking over to him. “It’s just that … I didn’t want someone to come in, and we’re kind of in the middle of a—”
“No, I’m sorry,” he says. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” He repeats it, more like he’s trying to get rid of a verbal tick than apologize. “Come on.” He picks up the plate of cookies. “I’ll take you home.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I start to follow him out and then stop because he’s stopped and is checking his phone.
