So Damn Beautiful (A New Adult Romance) (10 page)

But, to be fair, I didn’t.

I hesitated before responding. He was, after
all, still Elsie’s cousin.

I thought about what Kendra would say.
Probably something like, “Um, hello! That’s all the more reason to
rub it in her face and go out with the guy.”

And, of course, she would have a pretty solid
point.

I texted back, “I would love to go out with
you, Harrison. And 7 p.m. is perfect. I’ll see you then.”

Screw Elsie
, I thought. I was happier
than I’d been in a long time, and I wasn’t going to let her petty
vendetta deflate my happy bubble. I had won the curatorship, fair
and square, and now I was on my way to organizing what was arguably
the highest-profile art event of the year—and if things went well
with Harrison, maybe he’d be my date to the opening. There was no
friggin’ way Elsie could knock me off my cloud.

“Wait,
let me make sure I heard that right. You’re assigning
me
to
commission a piece of
street
art?”

Claudia Vail—Quentin’s lovely, svelte, and
exotic assistant—looked at me with a mixture of annoyance and
surprise. It was the first committee meeting, and we were in the
cushy environs of our fortieth-floor office space, tucked away in
an enormous old building close to Grand Central Station. The
outside was stately and illustrious—all stone gargoyles and bronze
statues of Greek gods—but the inside was posh and modern. Our space
was sleek and full of chairs and tables that looked like they were
straight out of a modern designer’s showroom. The artwork was
sparse, ranging from translucent eggs on mini-pedestals to giant,
monochromatic canvases.

If the space made me feel a little nervous
and out of my element, upon Claudia’s mention of what each of the
four committee members would be put to work on, my impulse control
was shot.

“Yes, you heard right, Annie—
you
are
going to be working on street art, according to Quentin’s notes.”
At that, she scrolled through an indecipherable PowerPoint
presentation on her laptop and nodded in confirmation.

Street art was encompassed by the likes of
Chase Adams. Dark. Mysterious. Dangerous. I didn’t understand it—or
like it—at all. I was a good girl from the Midwest, so how in the
world would I encapsulate it, not to mention be its champion in the
most important moment in my professional life so far?

The room suddenly felt very warm. Was I going
to faint?

“Speaking of Quentin, where is he?” one of
the grad students, Hayden Brooks, said with a note of consternation
in her voice as she pushed her tortoiseshell glasses up her nose.
“I was under the impression he’d be here.”

“That was exactly what I said,” Elsie noted,
blowing her bangs out of her face and crossing her arms across her
chest.

Claudia was poker-faced. I wondered what she
had done to land her job, which many a ladder-climbing art hound
would have killed to have. She was only a few years older than we
were—maybe twenty-five or twenty-six at most—but with her
pin-striped pencil skirt, tailored white blouse, and silky black
hair pulled into a bun, she looked like the executive director of
some multibillion-dollar corporation—that is, if the corporation
were run by models. I didn’t begrudge her the task of heading the
committee, however, which was clearly what she would be doing. I
didn’t know what exactly she did to assist Quentin, but, given her
drill-sergeant sense of orderliness (forms for all of us to fill
out, as well as a set-in-stone schedule of delivery dates and
events and lectures that would supplement the main exhibit), I
figured we were probably in good hands.

In a clipped voice, she said, “Quentin will
be checking in throughout the process, so you can cool your jets,
if you please. He is going to be extremely occupied with his end of
the show, which is organizing a series that includes both his work
and original, never-before-seen pieces by a plethora of respected
New York artists, alive and dead. That said, we have a wonderful
advisory team of professors, professional curators, and artists who
can address any questions you have. And, of course”—and at this she
gave us a somewhat forced smile—“you have me. I’ve been Quentin’s
eyes and ears on the art scene for seven years now, and I know the
contents of his brain just as intimately as my own—so if you have
any questions that are specifically for him, I am ninety-nine
percent sure I’ll be able to answer them.”

“Th-then why, exactly, have I been assigned
to commission a work of street art?” I asked, somewhat hesitantly,
in light of Claudia’s no-nonsense demeanor.

“Well, because we are commissioning exactly
four pieces of art, based on distinct themes. Elsie, given your
connections, you’ll be commissioning a commemorative piece—meaning
you will find an artist who will create a new work that draws upon
the legacy of prominent New York art movements and artists. In
other words, something that bridges the past with the future in a
seamless way. Hayden, architecture’s really hot right now, so
you’ll work with an artist on creating a work of art that will
double as a physical monument that represents New York’s place in
the art world. Think of the pyramids or the Empire State
Building—the more iconic, the better. It will be a sculptural piece
that lets us know exactly what god it was built to honor: the god
of a new era of art! And, Shawn, you’ll be commissioning a piece
that is completely futuristic, like something we’ve never before
seen—a piece that captures the changing landscape of our culture
and technology.”

Shawn Pratt, a somewhat stoned-looking guy
with a thick beard, a fedora, and a T-shirt emblazoned with the
words SUBVERT THE DOMINANT PARADIGM, just nodded and began to take
notes on his phone.

“But . . .” I cleared my throat as everyone
looked at me. “I guess it makes sense you’d assign everyone else
what you did, based on their interests. I just don’t understand why
I’m getting street art. I mean, can’t I do something with, like,
botany? You know, the move toward sustainability and green urban
spaces is really huge right now.”

Claudia looked at me with unblinking eyes.
“Quentin’s already got that covered with his new interactive piece,
The Dog Ate My Garden
, which is about the disconnect between
our romanticization of nature and the harsh realities of the
wild.”

Claudia’s deadpan delivery made it impossible
to tell if she was being sincere or ironic. “Okay, but . . . again,
I’m sorry I’m not understanding, but I . . . I don’t really know
very much about street art.”

“This isn’t about what you do or don’t know,
Annie. You’re the one who came to us with a proposal on the
beautification of urban space, on how creating aesthetically
pleasing public environments puts a twinkle in our eye and the
stamp of civic pride in our hearts.”

“I-I said that?” I was almost sure those
weren’t my words.

Claudia was beginning to get impatient. “You
know, there are hundreds of other kids out there who would love to
be in your shoes. This is your chance to hit the ground running, a
rare opportunity to be a leader and a visionary—and you actually
have the gall to question Quentin’s judgment?”

“N-no.” I almost felt bad. Sure, Claudia was
exaggerating, but if they thought I was qualified, who was I to
look a gift horse in the mouth? Of course, it was most likely an
ugly, unrefined, totally crazy and chaotic gift horse that I
couldn’t make heads or tails of, but still . . .

When it was clear I was all out of words,
Claudia moved on. Elsie sneered triumphantly at me, but I ignored
her. If I was going to be successful, I knew I couldn’t let her be
the cause of my depleted morale.

At the end of the meeting, after we were all
crystal-clear that we needed to be in contact with the artist of
our choice by the following week, I was so emotionally exhausted
that I just wanted to get back to the dorm and call my mom. Elsie
must have seen the distress on my face. As we were all going our
separate ways, she walked over to me and said, “Hey, Annie, street
art’s not so bad.”

I raised an eyebrow, waiting for the punch
line. “It’s not?”

“No. I’m sure you can find a hobo out there
who’s willing to make a giant heap of garbage for you. You can call
it an installation.”

I swear she cackled at her own joke.

“Thanks for your concern—but seriously, worry
about yourself.” I turned my back on her and walked out the
door.

“Who says I’m worried, Blondie? I’m going be
awesome, but I’m definitely looking forward to seeing you fail. You
have no business being here, and you clearly don’t know what it is
you even signed up for, so forgive me if I have no sympathy.” She
chuckled one last time. “Ta-ta, loser.”

Her words haunted me later that evening, as I
talked to my mother. It was Thursday, the only night of the week
Mom wasn’t slinging hash at the local truck-stop diner. I knew
Thursday nights were reserved for our weekly phone calls (although
I always lectured her about the importance of getting out on her
free nights, maybe even dating), but I hated to be the bearer of
bad news—even if it was attached to some pretty incredible
news.

As I’d predicted, Mom was just as excited as
I’d been about the curatorship. As she squealed into the phone, she
sounded almost like a teenager. I smiled as I imagined her sitting
on our Chesterfield sofa, an Indian shawl draped lightly over her
legs. Mom wasn’t that much older than I was, so, despite a few
strands of silver in her blond hair and just the slightest hint of
crow’s-feet (happy lines, I used to call them when I was younger,
since my mother was always smiling and joyful), she could’ve been
my older sister. Because she suffered from her own brand of
anxiety, she probably had me on speakerphone while crocheting a
handmade throw to send me when autumn turned to bitter sleet and
snow in New York. I felt the slightest twinge of homesickness.

“Annie Bear, I’m soooooo proud of you. I knew
you’d get it. Heavens, I can’t imagine anyone else at your grade
level has the kind of passion and determination you do. I still
remember how you forced me to let you take college-level French
when you were twelve, so that when you went to the Louvre one day,
you’d be able to read the descriptions in each gallery.”

I giggled at the memory. “Why didn’t you tell
me the Louvre wasn’t limited to French artists?”

“You were just so cute, and I loved the idea
of having a bilingual daughter.”

“Yeah, well . . . just remember, I stopped
taking French once I got to high school,” I said, my tone suddenly
darkening. “Likewise, I’m thinking of quitting the committee.”

“
What
?” Something clattered to the
ground. I’d probably shocked her with my sudden shift from
enthusiasm to dejection. “Why in the world would you think of
quitting?”

I explained the whole street-art fiasco,
making sure to leave out the part about Elsie. (Mom was definitely
something of a mama bear, and I didn’t want to give her any more
reasons to worry about me, considering that for the first two weeks
I was in New York, she called me every night to make sure I hadn’t
been mugged or assaulted.) “I was hoping I’d get to work with more
gallery artists. I realize things in the art world are changing all
the time, that lines are beginning to blur, but I don’t know the
first thing about street art. The one person I know who could be
considered a street artist is perhaps the most obnoxious person
I’ve ever met, so if he’s any indication of what I’m dealing with,
I’m definitely screwed.”

Mom sighed. “Adaptability is one of your
strongest suits. If you stick with this curatorship, just think of
what it’ll do for your resume, all the doors it’ll open for you.
Remember how much you hated math when you were younger?”

I smiled. “I still do, Mom.”

“Well, yes, but remember how you still took
all the most advanced math classes throughout middle school and
high school? And you passed with flying colors. Now, that doesn’t
mean that it came naturally to you or that it was easy, but . . .
you’re my daughter, and I know you to be someone who never takes
the easy way out.” Her voice started to shake, which meant she was
getting emotional.

“Mom, I know . . . ,” I said, trying to brush
off what I could tell was an impending speech.

“But you see, that’s what’s remarkable about
you, and I think you constantly forget it. From an early age,
you’ve always had your eye on the prize—you’ve always known what it
takes to fulfill a dream. You’ve always been aware that planting a
garden requires pulling up weeds and getting your hands dirty. I
love your passion, but I also love your discipline—and when you put
those things together, it makes for an unstoppable combination.
Annie Bear, you have to remember that even sour grapes can make
incredible wine.”

“Thanks, Mom. I love you.” She always knew
how to make me feel better.

“I love you, too, Annie Bear.”

After we ended our conversation, I realized
Mom’s comment made me think about my last encounter with incredible
wine, which turned my smile into a frown. At that moment, I
realized Chase Adams was truly the only person I knew in the world
of street art. I could approach Professor Claremont for advice on
the most promising public artists, but I wanted to prove myself to
the committee. If Elsie thought she was going to beat me down by
attacking my vulnerabilities, she was sorely mistaken. I was
definitely going to come out swinging—I didn’t really have a
choice.

As I went to sleep, I thought about Chase—but
not with the chagrin and anger I’d come to associate as my primary
feelings about him. Chase was the one person I knew who was
passionately in love with street art; as cocky as he was about
everything else, it was obvious that his talent and his respect for
the tradition in which he’d grown up were genuine. I wondered . . .
if I could still the beating of my heart enough to approach him,
more like a humble admirer than a girl conflicted by both rage and
attraction, would he be willing to help me?