“It's hard to get a job when you aren't banking on Daddy's name, isn't it?”
I'd asked Marissa not to reveal who my dad was to any gallery calling for a reference. I wanted to get the position on my own merit so I wouldn't have to deal with another Van Asshole at my next job. I never expected her to sandbag me, though. “I thought she was happy with my work. I did everything she asked. I came in on Sundays. I ran errands for her. I never complained, no matter how menial the task she asked. I even picked up her dry cleaning a few times when she was too busy to stop.”
“Who knows,” Van says far too sunnily. He points to the floor. “Better clean that up before Marissa arrives. You know she likes her gallery spotless.”
With a sigh, I retrieve some paper towels and set about cleaning up the coffee spill. What had gone wrong with Marissa? Was she really mad about Moore? It wasn't my fault that his showing bombed.
Marissa appears only minutes after I finish tossing the used towels in the trash.
“Good morning, children,” she sings. She tosses a giant black felt hat onto the counter and clasps her hands to her breastbone. “I've just come from Thom's studio and he had some marvelous pieces. I think our real problem was in our selection of works. We weren't bold enough last time. Van, if you could go out to the car and retrieve the works, that would be delightful. We can then figure out where we’re going to hang them. Ara, you’ll need to work up a new buy brochure. Do you think you can do that?”
“Of course,” I answer, a bit puzzled she would ask it in that way. I've never told her no. I mean, sure, I might've suggested doing an entire show around grass clippings pasted on canvas was a mistake, but I didn't tell her no.
“Wonderful.” But her expression says otherwise. “Van?” She arches an eyebrow.
“Oh, right.” He snaps his fingers. “I'll go get the pieces.”
“Be careful,” she calls after him. “Some of them are very delicate. I don't want any of the ants to fall off.”
Ants? I can see the shock in Van's eyes before he turns and leaves.
Marissa hums as she types into her computer. I feel compelled to say something, because if we're hanging the corpses of dead ants on the walls—I shudder.
“So, um, Marissa, these ant paintings—”
“It's genius, isn't it? Thom was telling me that he has this whole natural theme planned out.” She draws a line in the air, envisioning Moore's terrible work up on her walls. “It's so immersive. You really feel like you're outdoors, in the fields. It's a respite from this busy, busy world.”
“Don't you think it might be a little too…” I search for the right term. “Earthy?”
Her eyes snap to me. She scowls. “Earthy? Simply because you and your father prefer to work with more modern mediums doesn't mean that everyone else's ideas aren't worthy.”
Iron and concrete are modern? The Pantheon is made out of concrete.
“I like the classics,” I say slowly, trying to figure out where the anger is coming from. “There's nothing quite like oil on canvas. Or watercolors. Monet is one of my favorites. When Dad took me to—”
“Please. I do not need to know any more of Arthur Von de Menthe's opinions.” Marissa sticks her nose in the air. “No offense, Ara, but simply because your dad sells a few pieces to art collectors who have more money than sense doesn't make him someone with taste.”
My jaw drops open. “What?”
Marissa did not just dis my dad, did she?
“Um, where should I put this?” Van appears in the doorway. For once, the smug, supercilious expression he always wears is gone and in its place is apprehension. He can sense the tension.
“Over on that easel in the front,” Marissa directs. “Replace the Schadendorf. I've had that up for ages and no one wants to buy it.”
“Because it's priced too high,” I say without thinking.
“Only von de Menthes can be five figures?” Marissa mocks.
“He hasn't sold a work that low for a decade,” I snap. I won't tolerate smears against my dad. And I can't believe Marissa is going there. Dad helped get her gallery off the ground.
“Money doesn't mean everything, especially in art,” Marissa shoots back. “Isn't that right, Van?”
His anxious gaze darts from one angry female face to another, but Van's a survivor and he's picking the woman who's writing his paycheck. His face hardens. “That's right, Marissa. Some people think the size of their wallet means their opinion is worth more.”
I’ve reached my limit with these two. “I don't know where this is coming from,” I fume. “My dad has never said anything negative about the art that's sold here. If anything, this place is successful because of him. He sent art here when he didn't have to.”
“Oh, so I'm a charity case?” Marissa's face burns with anger. I've never seen the sleek blonde so upset. She snatches an article she printed out on the computer and starts to read. “'The new crop of artists seems to be lost. They aren't speaking from their soul. Instead, they are chasing gimmicks. If they're going to just paste shit on a canvas, I suggest they go back to kindergarten.'” She slaps the article back on the counter. “Your dad has never said anything negative about my art? What's this then?”
“He could be talking about anything,” I retort. I don’t follow my dad's career online. It's too hard. Most of the time people are saying shit about him. It's the same with Ty. I don't read the comments unless the noise level is so loud I can't avoid it.
“He said this right before poor Thom's showing. If it hadn't been for your father, Thom would've been written up in glowing terms. This is your fault!” She points an angry finger toward me.
“How is it my fault?” I sputter. “Dad didn't even name Thompson Moore. Moore didn't invent multimedia art.”
“He's clearly talking about my gallery!” she screeches. “Thom says that your father is jealous that I've moved on and is taking it out on me. This is completely unfair and if he doesn't stop, I'm going to sue!”
I'll take a lot of abuse—have taken a lot of abuse here—but there comes a point in a girl's life she has to draw the line. Calmly, I go collect my bag.
“Where are you going?” Marissa demands.
“I quit,” I say simply.
“You can't quit!” she shouts. “We have art to hang!”
I ignore her and keep walking. When I reach Van, I stop. “You're right. It is nice to have a dad who'll support me even if I don't have a job.”
“You'll never get a good recommendation from me if you step out of those doors,” Marissa warns.
I look over my shoulder. “I don't think I've gotten a good recommendation from you while I worked here.”
The silence that meets my statement confirms what I started to suspect. Part of the reason I haven't gotten any jobs is because Marissa's been badmouthing me. I've given this woman two years of my life and this is how I'm repaid?
I let the door fall shut behind me. In my car, I pull out my phone and search for the article Marissa quoted from. It's in the Art & Style section from two weeks ago, which would be right before Moore's showing.
It's not a feature about Dad, but rather a piece on avant garde art and whether it's actually art or just out there. Out there, is my opinion and I know that Dad shares it, too. Halfway down, there's the quote from him regarding how new artists seem to be going for shock value. I sigh. This is so unlike Dad. He doesn't speak up about other artists, feeling that there's a professional courtesy he owes, particularly to new ones.
I open the phone app and give him a call.
“Hello, Ara. What is my dear daughter calling me for this delightful Sunday?”
“How's New York?”
“Boring without my darling girl. Stephen says I'm not allowed to come to the city again unless I bring you. Oh, and I found you the perfect dress for their wedding. It's a…” He pauses to rifle through his shopping bags. “Prabal Gurung. Am I pronouncing that right?”
“I don't really know. Um, Dad. Ho
w long ago did the reporter from A&S call you for that quote in the paper a couple of weeks ago?”
There're a few guilty moments of silence before he clears his throat. “Marissa saw that, did she?”
I throw my head back against the headrest. “Yes, she saw it and she's furious.”
“I'm sorry, but it is the truth. Moore's work is terrible. He shouldn't be allowed to have a gallery showing let alone have actual buyers take his work into their homes. Still, she shouldn't have taken it out on you.”
“You weren't here.” And I was a convenient target. “What on earth made you reference Moore's work, though? He's nothing compared to you.”
“I didn't like the way Marissa was treating you. Having you make copies. Fetching her dry cleaning. And not listening to your opinions! You have one of the best eyes for new talent out there. One of the reasons Stephen was so miffed I came to the city without you is because he's evaluating a couple new artists and wanted your opinion. You really should come work for him after you graduate.”
“Dad, no.” We've had this discussion a bazillion times. “I’m weeks away from graduating from college. I can’t live my life as Arthur Von de Menthe’s daughter. The whole mess with Marissa was because they all know that you're my father.” And because he slept with her and then never called again, but it’s all the same. “I got the job instead of Van Riley and now I'm out of a job because Marissa was angry at you.”
“I'm sorry,” he says in a small voice that makes me feel like a jerk.
“No. Forget it. It's her that should be sorry. But, Dad, seriously. I need to make it in this world by myself. If I want to be taken seriously, I can't have it known that I'm your daughter. My whole career will be tied to yours, which means my successes won't be my own and neither will my failures.”
“I just wanted to help you, but if you want me to back off, I will.”
Tears prick my eyes at his soft concession. “Thank you. I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too. I can still buy this dress for you, right? I don't think it's returnable.”
I laugh, because I’m not one to turn down pretty clothes and we both know it. “Yeah, bring it home.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
After we say our goodbyes, I lay my head on the steering wheel and contemplate my options. I have one résumé out in a gallery in Philadelphia and that's it. There just aren't a lot of jobs for art curators without a master's degree. I'd hoped that I could work at a small gallery, prove my chops, and then work my way up by networking. But it seems like I might be destined to go back to school. I don't really want to do that. I'm so tired of classes and papers and tests.
The picture of a little bunny and an angry farmer pop into my head. I promptly shove it aside. That's a fun project. A hobby, really. If my dad hated Moore's work, he'd be even more derisive of my doodles.
Art curator is what I'm meant for. Not artist.
In my lap the phone beeps. I pick it up without thinking.
Ty: I’m sure you're thinking this campus is big enough that you can graduate without seeing me again, but you'd be wrong. You might as well come home and face the music.
I blanch at Ty's text. On a scale of one to ten, this day falls under the never should've gotten out of bed category.
18
Ty
“I can't believe she's avoiding me,” I growl.
“Who?” Remy asks, his eyes glued to the television. He's eating a bowl of bran cereal and watching a Twitch stream of FIFA, trying to pick up tips on how to beat me. It's not going to happen.
“Ara.”
“What'd you do?”
“Why is it my fault?”
“Playing the odds. When Nichole's mad, ninety-nine percent of the time it's because I did something.”
I rub a hand over my jaw and eye Remy speculatively. He and Nichole were with us on Bowl night. We'd all walked home from the bar together. I wonder how much he knows.
I test the waters. “Ara's avoiding me because we hooked up on Bowl night.”
“Yeah? What about it?” He doesn't even flinch.
Seriously? Fucker has known all along and never said a word? Suddenly Nichole's vague implications as well as Bryant's come to mind. What had Bryant said? That I wasn't ready for a girl I already knew? She must've been talking about Ara.
“How many people knew we hooked up?”
“I dunno. A few.”
“You, Nichole, Bryant.”
“Ace, Travarius, Wyatt.” He reels off half the starters. “We came up after the bar closed to see if you were hosting an after party. Nichole had an extra key, opened it, and then shut it. She said you two were busy”—he waggles his eyebrows so I know exactly the type of busy he’s talking about—“and we were to leave you alone.”
“What the hell? How did I not know this?”
My shouted disbelief causes Remy to drop his spoon into the bowl. “You didn't remember, fam?”
I glower at him. “No. I didn't remember.”
“I'm sorry. Had I known she was taking advantage of you, I would've stepped in.” He grins like an asshole.
I shake a fist in his direction. “Why haven’t you said anything since?”
He shrugs and turns back to his laptop. “You didn't say anything. Ara didn't say anything. I figured the two of you decided that it was a mistake and wanted to move on from it. Then I really thought you were over it when you took Rhyann back. Nichole was so mad, remember? We had a big fight over it.”
“This is fucked up.” At one point there, Nichole wasn't even talking to me. Before I can probe further, my alarm goes off, reminding me I have that interview. “Shit. I have to get ready, but when I'm back, we're talking about what everyone but me knows.”
I grab my glasses and keys and motor over to the training facility. Ace meets me at the door of the conference room.
“Got everything you need?”
“You knew about Ara and me hooking up at the Bowl game?”
Ace's eyebrows shoot up. “You wanna talk about that now?”
Frustrated, I reach up to run a hand over my hair but stop just in time. Can't be looking like trash on national television. I send Ace a dark look from behind my glasses. “No. But we're talking afterwards.”
“Fine.” He opens the door. “You know where to find me. Remember the media training?”
“This isn't my first interview,” I snap.
Ace wisely doesn't respond. Inside the room, the network's remote camera team is setting up. They hustle me into a chair. Ace hands me the mic, which I clip onto my tie. Bryant comes over and brushes something on my face. I try to force my mouth into a smile, but it apparently doesn't work because Bryant hisses, “Try not to look like you swallowed a rock this morning. You're supposed to be happy, thrilled, pleased.”
“Thank you, Ms. Thesaurus. I also like to be informed, included, and enlightened.”
She scrunches her nose. “I gave you that media training handbook.”
“Forget it.”
Everyone in the room is busy. Someone adjusts the lights. Another person tests the audio. A cameraman wearing a polo with the network logo signals for my attention.
“Remember to look into the camera,” instructs the cameraman.
I nod. As I said to Ace, this isn't the first on-camera, remote interview I've done. Ace and I did a handful right after the Championship win.
I watch the red light above the camera and wait for it to blink on. Before it does, the reporter's familiar voice fills the room.
“Hey, Ty, how is everything going there?”
“Great.” I wish I could see him. It'd be a lot easier, but then I'd be looking at him and not the camera.
“Weather good?”
“It's very nice. Thanks.” Everything is feeling uncomfortable. The chair's too hard. The tie's too tight. Under the table, I rub my hands over my khaki pants and mentally prep for all the questions about how I compare to my brother.
“I wondered if you'd had a chance to take a look at any social media today. I know you don't post or have an official account on any of the platforms, but you probably have a secret one where you can read what's going on.”
I do, but I’m not about to admit that to this guy. “Well, I've been focused on getting ready for the combine and draft as well as finishing out my degree, so I don't have a lot of extra time to go on social media.”
Media Training Rule Number 1: Never lie. You can refuse to answer, but you should never lie.
“That's too bad. I hate to spring this on you, but I'd be failing as a reporter if I didn't ask these questions. I hope you don't hate me too much. Hey, can we adjust the volume? I'm getting some reverb.” He pulls the earpiece away from his head.
As the techs do the necessary adjustments, I try to calm my racing heart. If this is over the Rhyann thing, I'm not sure how I'm going to convince this dude that it's a bunch of bullshit. I'd like to just outright ask where this interview is going, but Media Training Rule Number 2 is never volunteer an answer to a question that's not being asked.
I force myself to wait.
The reporter flashes me an apologetic smile and sticks his earpiece back in. “We ready?”
“Ready,” intones the cameraman on my end.
“Three, two, one,” counts a disembodied voice. “Go.”
“We're here with Ty Masters of the National Championship-winning Southern University Renegades. How does the off-season feel, Ty?”
Easy softball question. I trot out a practiced response. “I'm still in Championship mode, sir. The combine is coming up, followed by the draft, and then, if God wills it, camp. I have a lot to prove, so I'm not viewing this period as the off-season but another time to prepare.”
Ace gives me a thumbs up. Bryant places her fingers at the corner of her mouth and mimes a smile.
Played: A Novel (Gridiron Series Book 4) Page 13
