If

by Nina G. Jones

  “Well, you both come up to me in the middle of the night out of the blue—”

  “That’s the only way to find you,” Shyla interjected. “Trust me, if there was another way . . .”

  “True, but, give me the benefit of acknowledging this is a lot to take in.”

  “Yes, but I have great instincts. I know what sells. Street art is hot, you’re hot, and your style fits perfectly between high conceptual art and pure beauty. People would proudly display this on their walls. Modern art museums would eat this up. You do understand there’s a buzz around you, don’t you?”

  “I don’t pay attention to those things.”

  Shyla laughed to herself. “You are already a star. Everyone wants more from the mysterious WATT.”

  “Wow, um . . . can I think about it?”

  “Yes, but I need a way to contact you.”

  “How about some insurance for both sides. I need a new piece for the office,” the husband offered.

  “Oh the Kandinsky isn’t enough?” Shyla playfully snickered at her husband.

  “Actually, happy early birthday,” he said. “I know you love that painting, so I am having it moved to your office. Now I have a blank spot to fill.” I watched her face morph from a look of sass to pure glee. It was clear they loved each other in a way money couldn’t buy, but I also couldn’t believe my ears—Kandinskys being swapped like trading cards.

  “He had synesthesia,” I chimed.

  “Excuse me?” she asked.

  “Kandinsky. We have the same . . . gift. I can see sounds and emotions. It’s a sensory thing, my senses overlap.”

  “I’ve heard of that,” the husband said. “Fascinating. Taylor, by the way. Taylor Holden.”

  The name rang a bell, I searched my mental rolodex and it clicked. I had seen him on TV and magazines. He and his wife were prominent young philanthropists who traveled the Biennale and Art Basel circuit in search of new artistic talent to add to their portfolio. They couldn’t be much older than me, and the similarity in age made me trust them. Maybe because I felt we could identify with each other in some way.

  “That explains so much about your work,” Shyla said, with the wide-eyed enthusiasm of an art-lover who had unlocked the hidden secret behind a piece. “So that piece up in DUMBO . . . the one with the Brooklyn Bridge, but it’s comprised of light and underneath all these shapes and colors . . .”

  “Yeah, I set up shop there and played some . . . I think it was Bach. Yeah . . . Bach. That’s what the Brooklyn Bridge looks like when I’m looking at it through Bach.”

  “Wow . . .” she said under her breath in amazement.

  “It’s not always so literal though.”

  “I love your friezes. Like a modern piece of Rome. I love trying to interpret the stories.”

  “Thank you,” I nodded politely. I didn’t personally care for the recognition, at least when it came to me. I wanted the work to get the recognition. I wanted the name to get recognition. I preferred my relative solitude.

  “So, I’d like to buy the first piece,” Taylor said, pulling out his phone from his jacket. “This is your guarantee, not just the money, but when people know I have the first WATT in my home, they will follow. This art collector world is full of egotistical assholes who will immediately want to out-price me to wave their cocks around.”

  I laughed. He was cool, like James Dean in an Armani suit kind of cool.

  “Everything I have painted is out there.” I pointed towards the window.

  “Good, that means we get something fresh. We can get you the dimensions and then you create something new with your otherworldly talents.”

  “I uh . . .”

  Taylor leaned over and whispered something into Shyla’s ear. She grinned and nodded.

  “How does one hundred thousand dollars sound?”

  “One hundred thou—” I choked on the dollar amount, it was so outrageous.

  “I think that’s a yes,” Shyla smiled.

  “Okay, I’ll put it in escrow. I suppose you don’t have an attorney?”

  “My brother,” I muttered, still in disbelief.

  Taylor started typing into his phone and I turned to Shyla. “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I know what it’s like for someone to see potential in me and cultivate it. And because you are going to make both of us a shit ton of money.”

  BIRD

  “EXCUSE ME MISS, are you Bird Campbell?” A woman asked me nervously in the coffee shop as she clutched her daughter’s hand.

  “Yes?” I smiled as I wiped off my hands with a paper napkin.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but my daughter is a huge fan. She loves to dance and you are her hero.” I glanced over at the little girl, who had her ankles crossed, eyes down and rocked side to side nervously. She had Down Syndrome. I knelt in front of her. “Hi, what’s your name?”

  “Sawah,” she said. The name gripped my heart for a second, drawing out memories that I didn’t want to recall.

  “Hi Sarah. It’s so nice to meet you. So I hear you like to dance?”

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes finally meeting mine.

  “What’s your favorite move?”

  “I like to kewk.”

  “Ooooh me too. I looove to kick my leg up super high.”

  “Mommy is taking me to the show tomorrow.”

  “Wow! That is great. I am so honored. I tell ya what . . . I am going to talk to your mommy about meeting all of the dancers. All the birds, and flowers, and fish, and trees.”

  She smiled. I took her hand and stood up.

  “Oh thank you so much!” The mother said. “Say thank you, Sarah.”

  The little girl hugged my leg and I almost melted. We snapped a photo together and I gave the mother instructions about picking up some special passes at the will call window. It was the little things that reminded me of Ash. The name Sarah. Just talking about will call and the ticket I left him that was never claimed.

  I was used to little girls (and even some boys), their parents and aspiring dancers stopping me to tell me what an inspiration I was, and how much they loved my work. I had become something of a cult celebrity these past few years. Ironically, the trait that had hindered me so early on, made me a symbol of perseverance and a role model of sorts. It all started with the viral campaign that got me on Ellen. But the real explosion happened after an athletic apparel company headlined me for a campaign called “Fly Bird, Fly,” where I danced to some uptempo music, ending with a grande jeté in slow motion. There was a voiceover of me describing the incident in the bathroom years ago, and it went viral.

  People would shout “Fly Bird, Fly” to me on the street when they recognized me. Overnight, I was asked to appear on all kinds of talk shows, and interview with some big names. I got tons of endorsements, even becoming one of the faces of MAC. I was living the dream.

  I never thought of myself as a role model. I just wanted to dance. But I realized there were millions of kids out there who needed someone to make them believe their dreams were achievable. Maybe they didn’t have a facial disfigurement, but they felt left out in some way, and I was touching many of them. It became the surprise reward in a blossoming dance career.

  I sat back down to tend to my coffee. This was my second to last week in NYC as I would be ending my three-month run in the Broadway Danse Nocturne show. There was supposed to be an article about it in the New York Times, so I flipped to the arts section, skimming the article, when something just beside it caught my eye. It felt like a violent kick to the gut, which only reminded me more of Ash. How something emotional could manifest itself physically.

  It was an article about an art show, and my hands shook as I brought the paper closer to my face. The display photographed was nearly identical to the painting Ash painted on the roof years ago when I found him at the height of his mania. The caption said: “A Bird’s eye view of LA.” The artist’s name: WATT.

  I covered my mouth to hide the audible gasp.
>
  William Asher Thomas Thoreau.

  It couldn’t be. This couldn’t be. We couldn’t both be on the front page of the art section like some cosmic artistic destiny. But the coincidences were too many. I didn’t know what came of the painting on the roof. I never went back up there after saying goodbye to it, and the landlord never approached me. I just assumed it was left up there for its beauty, or it was painted over. The odds of someone else replicating it were too slim. Every trace of himself he left behind was boxed up and stowed away. Disappeared just like he did.

  As if to remove any doubt, the name of piece was a secret nod to me.

  Like it was written for me, the article answered so many questions that lingered in my mind about what became of Ash. I had always feared he had become destitute again, and relief washed over me that he wasn’t. At the same time, I was shattered. Shattered that he had started over and made a life for himself like I had never existed. I did too, but I never had the choice.

  WATT was an anonymous street artist who had risen to fame a few years ago. His recent pieces sold in the low millions and his work had been featured in MoMA and other modern art museums around the world.

  I thought I was over what we had. I had a great life. Like Alana said, I was able to build something out of the pieces of love I collected from those around me: my sister, Jordan, Trevor, my parents, and all the friends I had made in the dance world. But holding that article in front of me, and being forced to remember Ash, I realized that while the pieces were enough to get me through losing him, their sum never matched up to him.

  As I stared at the article in amazement, my phone rang.

  “Hey, Jessa.”

  “Hold on, mom’s on the other line. Brace yourself she just saw the article.”

  “Okay . . .” I reconciled with my parents, thanks to Ash, who broke my heart and made me realize how important it was to forgive the people in your life who would always be there, no matter what. We were both wrong, my parents for responding so harshly, and me for being stubborn and headstrong. But I was no longer some nineteen year old, and I realized that, like Ash once told me, they were caring the only way they knew how.

  There was a click.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, mom,” I said.

  “Hello? Jessa?”

  “Yup, I’m here too.”

  “Where’s Bird? Is she on the line too?”

  “Mom, I was the first voice.”

  “Jessa?”

  “No this is Bird.”

  “This is Jessa.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake you both sound so much alike.”

  “Rest assured, we’re both here. Bird, by the way.” Three-way calls with my technologically challenged mother were some form of living purgatory.

  “I just saw the article! It’s amazing! I’m going to bring it to church this weekend and show everyone. I’m going to frame this one like all the others.”

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “Though . . .” I waited for my perfectionist mother to throw out the “but.”

  “Yes . . .”

  “You have such beautiful hair. I wish they wouldn’t always have you tie it back like that.”

  “I have to wear that headdress with my hair pulled back. I’m a cockatoo in that pic. Cockatoos don’t have big red curly masses of hair. But thank you for the compliment.”

  “Well, your father and I are very proud of you. We are still talking about what a nice trip we had to New York to watch you on opening night.”

  “Thank you.”

  I heard Jessa mumble something under her breath. Ever since my fame, I had become the new “perfect” daughter. I think Jessa had become a little jealous. Well, I knew she did because she had told me in her own way. We weren’t competitive, and we never blamed each other for our parent’s mission for perfect children, but it didn’t make me feel any less crappy about all the attention I would get on these calls. It wasn’t like our parents meant to make one of their daughters feel superior over the other, but when they gushed over me, it was like Jessa didn’t exist. I knew the feeling, it was called Jessa is a the perfect student/athlete in high school or Jessa is in the top five in her class at GW-Law.”

  “How are you doing Jessa?” I asked. I was done with the mom-pride and to be honest, this entire conversation. I wanted to get back to the article about Ash. I couldn’t tell them. They didn’t really know about him. Jessa did in the vaguest sense: an artist I dated for a few months who broke up with me. I minimized it greatly to her. She didn’t know how we met, or about his illness. The distance made that easy. Jessa wouldn’t have understood our relationship; all she would have done was try to convince me I was crazy for even being interested in him.

  After a few more minutes of catching up, I artfully sashayed out of the phone call so I could get back to the more interesting task at hand.

  It was Thursday, and WATT’s show was launching that evening. I knew people in New York who could get me in if an invitation was required, but the difficult part would be finding an anonymous artist. I rolled up the paper and rushed back to my apartment.

  Javier was in the shower. He was a few rooms away but I felt so distant from him, not in space, but in time, my mind being pulled back five years.

  I heard the squeak of the shower knobs being turned and in a couple of minutes, he was out, walking into the kitchen in a towel, his jet black hair slicked back.

  “I woke up and you were gone,” he said in his sexy Spanish accent.

  “I woke up around five, I didn’t want to disturb you.” He wrapped his arms around me and inhaled the scent of my hair. I could feel him throbbing behind me, and normally I would oblige, but I was still stewing in disbelief over the article I had found. I slithered out of his grip.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m just loopy. I couldn’t get much sleep and now I’m tired. I think I’ll nap.”

  “Okay. Well, I need to check in on the set today. Will I see you tonight?”

  “Not sure. Call me when you’re done, okay?” He kissed me longingly and went back to the bedroom to get dressed. Javier and I had been dating on and off for about a year, but seriously for three months. Yes, the Javier, the set designer that Jordan had been trying to hook me up with for years. I had some issues committing again (what could be the reason for that?) especially since my career exploded and I had to do so much traveling. I had decided I would date my career for the next few years and then look into a long-term relationship once I was able to settle.

  But Javier was persistent, and hot, and Latin, and he was often with me on the road, so it felt right to give it a chance. Jordan had been speaking me up to Javier for so long, I wondered if he had been brainwashed to want me so badly.

  I felt Javier kiss me on the temple, and then I heard the click of the front door. I went through the motions of saying goodbye to him, but my mind was still on the unanswered questions I felt I deserved answers to.

  These past five years, every time I hit a milestone, I thought of the boy on the roof who told me I would make it. The boy who made me feel beautiful for the first time in my life. We were supposed to celebrate those wins together. Every time, the thoughts would be more fleeting. But even until this day, on opening night, or any time I had a big TV interview or a new campaign, while the thought no longer crossed my mind, it crossed my heart.

  I decided I would conjure up that girl who wouldn’t take no for an answer from the boy who wanted to hide.

  BIRD

  IT WASN’T HARD to get in. But it was hard to find anyone who knew anything about WATT. I was careful not to out him. I was sure there were journalists lurking around just dying to get the scoop. But I asked around: Who was the mysterious WATT? Did anyone know who he really was? Did he live in New York City?

  It seemed most people accepted his anonymity and it was hard not to sound overly persistent when I wouldn’t let the topic go.

  What could I say? I believe WATT is m
y first love who saved my life and who I got off the streets only to learn he was bipolar and for him to vanish into thin air after we had made plans for a happily ever after? I understood, I was bordering on nutty. Let it go, Bird. But, that replica of the roof he painted, it was like he wanted me to see it.

  The piece. It was an exact replica of the section of the roof he painted. For a moment I wondered if he just hacked it off and transported it by helicopter. I watched the surreal story of our love, and much like the real thing, the piece ended abruptly, our bodies intertwined in shapes and color, so you could not see where the bodies began and the environment ended. Just to the right of that, the red headed girl sat alone, and the guy was only painted as an outline in the distance, the brick underneath him visible. She was still exploding with brightness, but he looked unfinished.

  “Does it weird you out?” A man asked as I stared at the installment, trying hard not to let my feelings consume me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, it’s just that her hair is red and curly like yours. That’s unusual. She actually looks a lot like you. And it’s quite erotic at points.” This piece, like many of his others, was, lucky for me, not a literal interpretation of the world. It was flat, much like a Klimt or a Van Gogh. He had penciled exact drawings of me before, usually on lazy afternoons when I was off from work, so real that I thought they had to be photos, but lucky for me, this whole show was more about color and shapes and the vivid way he experienced the world. It allowed me to hide in plain sight as I searched for him.

  “Yeah. I guess it is.” Then I went to my usual round of pointless inquisition. “I wonder about this guy. Who he is. You think he could be here, among us?”

  “It’s possible. Why don’t you ask her? Rumor has it she knows who he is. I believe she’s his manager.” The man winked at me and pointed in the direction of a middle-aged platinum blonde woman with a fashionably angular haircut.

  “I think I will,” I said. I am sure the man was joking about me asking her, but this was the closest I had gotten to someone who actually knew him.

  “Excuse me,” I said, interrupting her conversation. Yes, it was rude, but I just couldn’t wait.