Your Destination Is on the Left

by Lauren Spieller

  “Yeah, they are,” I say, surprised. “You’ve been there?”

  “My mom took me as a kid. We loved it.”

  “It’s a beautiful place,” I agree, my eyes traveling over the painting.

  “When did you make this?” she asks me. “It must have been spring for the trees to be so green.”

  “It was May of last year,” I say, nodding. “I was there with my family. Have you been lately?”

  “Not since my mother died.”

  If Cy were awake, this is the point when he’d push the sale. He’d tell her how sorry he was, how she should take this painting home with her as a memento of her mother. But I can’t do it. She looks too sad.

  She leans forward and examines the bottom of the falls. “You really captured the way the water slides down that giant rock. How tall do you think that waterfall is?”

  “Over a hundred feet. Actually, this is technically the last of four falls. If you measure from the top of the first one down to the bottom of this one, it’s over two hundred fifty feet.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  She takes a closer look at the painting. I realize she’s actually considering buying it. I scan for hints as to how much she’s going to offer. Burberry scarf. Clean, new-looking shoes. Chip-free nail polish. Shiny hair. A bubble of excitement builds inside me. A hundred dollars, maybe?

  She looks up at me. “How does twenty dollars sound?”

  My stomach drops. Twenty dollars for a painting that took me hours and hours to finish. A painting I gave everything to. And all I’ll get in return is enough money to buy my family less than half a tank of gas?

  “That’s . . . um . . . a lot less than I expected.”

  She cocks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  I glance down at Cy, wishing he’d wake up and help me haggle with this woman, but he’s still asleep. I’m on my own. “I thought maybe . . . a hundred?”

  “One hundred dollars?” the woman says, like I’ve just asked for her firstborn. “I’m sorry, but that’s just not possible. But I’ll tell you what: I’ll give you forty dollars. That’s twice my original offer.”

  I open my mouth to argue—the least she could give me is fifty—but she purses her lips and says, “It might be less than you were hoping for, but it’s really the best I can do.” She stares at me, a look of impatience on her face. “Do we have a deal?”

  Forty dollars. If that’s not Karma biting me in the ass for lying to Fiona, then I don’t know what is. But it’s better than nothing.

  “Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. “We have a deal.”

  She pulls two twenties out of her wallet, which I notice is full of bills. She hands them to me, and in the moment before I shove the money into my back pocket, I notice a streak of purple marker across Jackson’s head on one of the bills. Maybe she has kids. The thought makes me feel a little better about giving this painting away.

  But just a little.

  “I knew those falls as soon as I saw them,” she says, her voice warm once more. “You really captured the magic of that place. It’s a special piece.”

  She reaches for the painting, but all I can see is my mom’s smiling face as she watched me paint for the first time, an oversize smock smothering my nine-year-old frame. The urge to give the money back to the woman is hard to resist.

  “I’m going to hang this in my daughter’s room,” the woman says. “She never knew my mom, so . . .”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Good luck with the rest of the sale,” she says, then walks away, painting held by her side, inches from swinging backpacks and sharp booth corners. I watch her back, trying to catch one last glimpse of the Falls, but then she crosses between two booths, and she’s gone.

  Next to me, Cyrus wakes up. “What I miss?” he asks, stretching.

  “I sold the Burgess.” I turn away from him and slide the rest of my work back into the canvas bag. Rodney’s half-formed face slips out of view. “Let’s get out of here.”

  CHAPTER 10

  I step off the bus the next morning, my mom’s jean jacket from the eighties pulled close around my shoulders, and breathe in the smell of pine trees. My cell phone rings as I cross the street away from the plaza and head toward the Gala Art District. Who the hell is calling me this early?

  “Taryn?”

  “Good morning!” she says, so loudly I have to hold the phone away from my ear.

  “You on your way to class?”

  “I haven’t even gone to bed yet,” she says, laughing. “I was out all night dancing at the Red Rooster.”

  I stop walking. “Wait, you went back to that bar? Luke works there!”

  “Not anymore,” she says, and I can practically hear the devilish grin in her voice. “Apparently, after we left he got in a big fight with Eddie—the bouncer, remember?—and Luke got kicked out. The next day he was fired. Isn’t that great?”

  There’s a strange clicking sound, an inhale, and then a bunch of coughing. “Are you smoking?” I ask, immediately thinking of my dad.

  “Hell, no. That’s my friend Mickey. He’s giving me a ride home. That is, if he can stop giving himself cancer for a freaking second and pay attention to the road.”

  The wind blows, and I start walking again.

  “So what’s up with you?” Taryn asks. “Don’t tell me I turned you bad in one night and you’ve been out too.”

  I laugh. “Nah, I’m on my way into work.”

  “Oh, your internship, right? How’s that going?”

  “It’s . . . okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  I take a deep breath, and tell Taryn what happened—about finding out Fiona wanted someone who’s going to college, about lying to her, about how impressed she seemed when I said I was going to UCLA.

  Taryn whistles long and slow when I finish. “I was kidding before about turning you bad, but . . . you know she could fire you, right? If she finds out the truth?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  It’s still a few minutes till nine, so I sit on the curb outside the studio. The cool concrete sends a shiver up my back.

  Taryn sighs. “You’re not going to like this, but I think you have to tell her.”

  “You just said she could fire me!”

  “That’s exactly why you have to come clean. If she finds out on her own—and she will—it’s going to be so much worse than if you tell her the truth.”

  “But what if she fires me anyway? What if she decides I don’t deserve this after all?” I bury my head in my hands. “I’m scared,” I say quietly.

  “I know,” she says. “But I think that’s how you know it’s the right thing to do.”

  I hear a male voice in the background—Mickey, I guess—and then Taryn says, “Dess, I’m sorry, but I gotta go.”

  I grip the phone. “Wait—should I do it now? Like, right when I go inside? Or should I wait?”

  “I’d wait for the right moment. Just feel it out.”

  “But how will I—”

  “Let me know how it goes, okay?”

  I swallow hard. “Yeah. I will.”

  We say goodbye, and I pull out the key to Fiona’s building that she gave me at the fair. My hands shake as I unlock the door and step inside the entryway. I’m immediately met with stale air and the sound of something thudding overhead at regular intervals, like a bowling ball being dropped on the floor again and again. I look around for a light switch but I can’t find one, so I start climbing the rickety stairs.

  Halfway up, the thudding is replaced with the sound of running footsteps, and a second later the door at the top of the landing flies open. “Hi!” Fiona says. “Come on up!”

  She disappears into the studio, leaving the door open behind her. I hurry after her, trying my best to ignore the nerves twisting inside me.

  I reach the open door and my mouth drops open. Fiona’s studio takes up the entire second floor of this building, and the ceiling is at least twenty feet tall. The windows
facing the street are indeed covered with newspapers, fluttering in the breeze from the industrial-size fan oscillating in the middle of the room. The back wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling arched windows overlooking a brilliantly green park filled with trees. Morning light streams into the room, pooling on every available surface, including the sawdust-covered floor and countless workspaces.

  But that’s where the idyllic, picture-perfect artist’s studio ends. Fiona’s studio is filled with stuff. Some of it’s art supplies—tubes of paint, coffee cans stuffed with paintbrushes, discarded sponges and rags—but the rest of her things would look out of place if I didn’t already know she made works of art out of everyday items. At least three separate stacks of newspapers sit next to the door, and an old globe, a salad bowl full of orange peels, and two dusty dictionaries are piled on top of a rusty metal table near the fan. Underneath is a giant, half-rolled rug, the edges frayed and matted. The only things that look even remotely organized are her power tools, which are lined up neatly on a table next to a rack of pristine canvases.

  Fiona waves from the other side of the room. “Over here.”

  I start toward her, but there’s an exercise bike in the way. I try going the other way, and almost trip on the rug.

  “Dessa?”

  I step around a potted plant. “Just a second!”

  Fiona suddenly stands in front of me. “Follow me.”

  We pick our way toward the windows along the back wall and I take a seat on one of two soft brown leather couches. Fiona sits next to me, but before I can think of anything to say, she hops up again.

  “Tea. We need tea. What do you like?”

  “Oh, uh . . . anything really.”

  “How about matcha? I love matcha in the morning.”

  “Sure,” I say, even though I have no clue what matcha is.

  She hurries over to a kitchenette in the corner that I hadn’t noticed. She moves gracefully but fast, like she’s speeding through the final movements of a ballet. I wrap my arms around one of the many available throw pillows. When she comes back, I’ll tell her the truth. It’ll be like ripping off a Band-Aid. Painful, but quick.

  “Here you go,” she says when she comes back, handing me an oversize clay mug with a wonky handle, keeping a squat blue mug for herself. I lean my face over the edge of the cup, and breathe in the smell of grass and lemon. I say a silent prayer to the gods of tea that I don’t hate whatever matcha is, then blow on the top and take a taste.

  “Oh, it’s green tea.”

  “It is!” she says, like she’s surprised to find herself drinking it as well.

  She takes a sip, places her mug on a glass table between the couches, and picks up a thick binder. I should tell her now, before she opens that binder and shows me whatever is inside. Before she starts talking about all the work we’re going to do together. Before I lose my nerve. Now. Right now.

  I take another sip of tea.

  “As you know, I have a show coming up, and there’s a lot to do beforehand,” Fiona says. “But that doesn’t mean this internship is just about my show. It’s also about you and your work. That’s why over the next two weeks I’ll be teaching you about found art, since that’s my specialty, as well as a bit about painting since that’s your primary medium.”

  I can’t help but smile. Primary medium sounds so official.

  Fiona picks up her mug and turns it around and around in her hands. “You’ve made a good decision in choosing UCLA,” she says.

  Her words are an icy breeze, chilling me from the inside out. This is it. My chance to either tell the truth or commit to my lie. It’s tempting to keep up the act, but then I remember my dad, sitting on that blanket in the park, convinced he’s lying to my mom to protect her, when the truth is, he’s lying for the same reason I lied to Fiona. Because he’s ashamed.

  I don’t want to live like that.

  “Fiona, I have to tell you something.” I lower my mug to the table, my hands shaking a little. “I didn’t get into UCLA.”

  She frowns. “Where are you going then?”

  I take a deep breath, ignoring the metallic taste in my mouth. My face is probably tomato red, but there’s nothing I can do about it. “I’m not going anywhere. Technically I was still ‘college bound’ when my friend applied for me, but . . . I’m not anymore.”

  “Wait—your friend applied for you?”

  My cheeks burn. “Yeah . . .”

  “I see.” She sits back, her arms crossed over her chest. “Then you got the internship and . . . what? You decided that lying was the best option?”

  “No, I just . . . I panicked. I’m sorry.” I stare down at my hands, waiting for her to pass judgment. Will she fire me? Tell my parents? I can’t bear the thought of everyone knowing that in addition to being a failure, I’m a liar, too. Hot tears blur my vision.

  “Why do you think you got the internship?” Fiona asks suddenly.

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. If Cy had submitted any of my other paintings, I would have said it was because I have good technique. But Cy chose the one painting that doesn’t showcase any formal technique. The sunburst.

  I should look at her. I owe her that much. But I can’t. “I . . . well . . .”

  “You really don’t have any idea? You must not think very highly of my taste after all.”

  “No! That’s not what I meant—”

  Fiona puts down her tea. I flinch at the sound of the cup clinking against the glass table. “What do you think I should do with this information? Now that I know you lied on your application, should I fire you?” She leans forward. “Would you fire you?”

  The question catches me off guard. Would I give myself a second chance, or would I punish myself?

  “I ask,” Fiona continues, “because you seem to have very strong feelings about what it means to be rejected from art school, and whether you’ve earned this internship. So I’m wondering why I should keep someone who doesn’t believe they deserve to be here.”

  “I understand,” I say, wiping at my eyes. “I’ll go.”

  I start to gather my things, but Fiona holds up her hand. “Dessa, I’m not asking you to leave.”

  “You’re not?”

  “If you really, truly don’t think you belong here, then you can head home and I’ll call another applicant. But if you want to prove to me that you deserve this, then stay. We’ll call it probation.” She waits for me to respond. All I can do is nod emphatically. She opens the binder on her lap. “Here’s what’s going to happen: Over the next week, you are going to bust your ass on every task I give you, and you’re never going to question me or complain. If I say jump, you say ‘how high?’ Is that understood?”

  I nod again, hope and fear warring in my chest.

  “Good,” Fiona says, and hands me the binder. “For now I want you to familiarize yourself with my upcoming show—what pieces I’m thinking of showing, where it’s going to be and when, who will be attending, and what sort of press the show’s been getting. That sort of thing. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, absolutely,” I say, hugging the binder to my chest. The next question is out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Why . . . why are you letting me stay?”

  Fiona just looks at me for a second. “If you can answer that question by the time this internship is over, then I’ll have done my job.”

  She stands and gives my shoulder the tiniest squeeze. “I’ve got some work to do, but let me know if you need me.”

  • • •

  The bus is empty when I get on at six a.m. the next morning. The driver nods as I pass, a salute to stumbling out of bed before the sun, to guzzling hot coffee and forcing down dry cereal. I slump into a seat as the bus lurches forward. Seven days. That’s how long I have to prove myself to Fiona before she decides my fate. It shouldn’t be hard to stay busy. There’s an endless list of things to do at the studio, from memorizing the pieces she’s considering for the show to compiling a list of vendors to unpacking her
older sculptures and making sure they aren’t damaged. I just hope it’s enough to prove that I deserve to be here.

  Fiona’s working when I arrive. I drop my bag on the floor next to the couch before joining her at the table where she’s poring over a stack of papers. The top page is covered in pencil scribbles. “Morning,” I say, sliding into a seat. “Can I help?”

  She doesn’t look up from the papers. “Coffee?”

  “I had some at home, but thanks.”

  She shakes her head. “Make some.”

  “Oh, of course, no problem.”

  I hurry to the kitchen. There’s no coffeepot, but a shiny black-and-silver contraption squats at the edge of the counter, daring me to push one of the pulsing buttons. I glance over my shoulder at Fiona, but she’s still staring down at the stack of papers in front of her. I turn back to the machine. I’ve seen these things on TV but I’ve never used one. How hard can it be? I open one of the cabinets and root around for the little pods of coffee, but I can’t find any. I open another, and another. No luck.

  I’m toying with the idea of asking Fiona where she keeps her damn coffee when suddenly Cy’s ringtone blares through my pocket. I decline the call as quickly as I can. Why is Cy calling when he knows I’m working?

  “Everything all right over there?” Fiona calls.

  “Just a second!”

  I shove the phone back into my pocket, and peek into a blue vase next to the sink. Three pods of coffee wait for me at the bottom. Bingo.

  I pluck a pod from the vase, hoping it’s not decaf, and hurry back to the machine. I open the top of the machine and drop the pod inside, then grab a clean mug and shove it under the spout. There are two buttons, but neither is labeled, so I just push one at random and hope I’m right.

  A growling rumble erupts from the machine. Steam pours out of the top. I push the button again, but nothing happens, so I push the other button. The rumble grows louder, more insistent. I yank on the top of the machine—I’ll pull the pod out if I have to—but it’s stuck shut. “Shit,” I mumble.