The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) (14 page)

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s time,” the woman lawyer announces.

I skim over my rehearsed lines, then hand the paper back. “I’m ready.”

Dominic squeezes my shoulder. “It’ll be quick and painless. Don’t worry.” That’s easy for him to say.

As we file out of the room and take the elevator down to the main entrance, the lawyer with the goat face makes me repeat the lines. I recite them by heart. She’s pleased, impressed even. We cross the lobby and go out the revolving glass doors. I breathe in a gust of city air, hot and humid and full of car exhaust, but at least it’s fresher than the recycled air of the museum. I shade my face from the bright sun and then I dare look down. The stairs are carpeted with reporters, and beyond them, spilling out onto the street which has been closed off by blue police barricades, there is a crowd so huge that it reminds me of the computerized battle scenes Aster created for a designer launching a toga-inspired clothing line.

I’ve always wanted to be famous, but for my talent. No one came today to see me stitch beautiful fabrics together. They came to see me hang. I check for a pillar and a noose as I attempt to keep track of what is being said. Everything’s too loud, too bright. At some point, the lawyer nudges me, and I recite my lines. I must do a good job, because she nods and turns back to the frenzied crowd. In the haze of my brain, in the fog of camera flashes, I hear my sister’s name being yelled.

“Isn’t Aster a Photoshop wiz?” a sweaty-faced reporter asks. Spittle flies out from his thick lips and lands on my forehead.

Mechanically, I wipe it off.

The question is repeated, distorted, distended. It’s as though the entire crowd below roars it as one. The chilling truth is that my sister
is
a Photoshop wiz.

What sort of Machiavellian scheme has Aster planned? And what the hell is her endgame? To trap me in some chaotic maze to make me pay for being the sane one?

Chapter Nineteen

Aster

I throw up when I enter my cell.

“What the hell?” mutters the guard who escorted me back. “What did you do to your pillow?”

I smell the air and heave again. And again. The third time, nothing comes out. My stomach is empty, yet the hollow contracts. The guard yells for some assistance. I slink against the cement wall and drop, forcing myself to breathe through my mouth.

“Inmate Redd, if you have a nose bleed during the night, you are asked to take your dirty linens to the laundry room. We’re not your maids,” Giraffe-neck bellows.

With the back of my hand pressed against my lips, I say, “It’s not my blood.” I hate the sight of blood. I hate the smell of it. I hate everything about it.

Blood is death.

She splays her hands on her hips. “Whose is it then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, grab your pillow. I grant you special permission to go to the laundry room.”

The perspective of touching the dark stain makes the spasms flare up again.

“If you don’t care to clean it, then sweet dreams.”

I push my palms against the cold concrete floor and rise. Finding a stain-free spot, I pinch the pillow and avoid looking at it as I walk down the hallway. All the prisoners are in their bunks, lazing around and chatting. Their conversations stop as I traipse by. I commit those who are snickering to memory. I’ll know to stay away from them. Gill, Chacha, and Translucent-girl don’t smile. The really old woman with the turban also doesn’t react, but then she’s talking to the ceiling, so she’s probably oblivious to the revolting joke that’s been played on me.

I get another metallic whiff and swallow hard.

When I was eleven, I jerked awake in the middle of the night. Something warm had seeped through my pink cotton nightgown and drenched my sheets. I didn’t know about periods, so my first thought was that I was bleeding out. I remember racing to my mother’s room in tears and turning on her bedside lamp to show her the blood because I was too frightened to form words. She’d opened her eyes, taken one look at me, and flipped over grumbling, “If you get yourself knocked up, you’re out of my house. And turn off the fucking light!”

I pass the last cell and catch Cheyenne smiling. It makes her face resemble a slab of veal loin laced in butcher twine. I don’t feel shame anymore, just pure anger, and anger sharpens my senses, and I know, with perfect certainty, that she did it. I slow down when I arrive in front of her. My gaze is drawn to her hands, which rest against her side like little bloated stumps. Something’s dangling from them, a half-open book, my book, the story of my ancestors. I match her syrupy smile, and then I swing the pillow into her face. The still-wet blood leaves a satisfying orangey smear on her forehead. She bellows like a wounded cow.

“Inmate Redd!” Giraffe-neck’s voice is shrill. “Do you want me to take away your
privileges
?”

“I slipped,” I say sweetly. “I’m so,
so
sorry, Cheyenne.”

There’s great silence at first, and then the dormitory erupts with laughter. The officer grabs my upper arm and drags me all the way to the laundry room where she instructs a young officer—he barely looks a day over eighteen—to pay close attention to me.

I let the water flow over the foreign stain. As the crimson turns to salmon-pink, I feel cleansed, pure again, no longer a martyr, almost a virgin. I rub the fabric together to remove the last of it. Soon, my pillow is white, but my nail beds are red, roughed up by the friction. I place the pillow in the dryer and sink to the floor to watch it spin as though it were a television monitor. It’s hypnotic. I find my thoughts straying back to my sister and to her breakdown this afternoon. I wish I could syphon away her pain, but from here, with no means of communication—I’m allowed a phone call but she isn’t—it’s impossible.

“Did she pass?” I ask the young guard.

“Who?”

I stand up. “My sister. She’s competing on the Masterpiecers.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Really? Where are you from?”

He doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm. “Ambia.”

I’m not even sure where Ambia is on a map and I don’t really care, so I go back to watching my pillow spin. But then I get an idea. “Do you have a phone by any chance?”

“Only for emergencies.”

I take a step closer to him. He takes a step back. “Does it have an Internet connection?”

“Don’t come any closer or I’ll call for b-backup,” he stutters, raising his hand to his walkie-talkie.

I stop moving. “Look, the commander gave me permission to watch TV. Because of
this
”—I tip my chin toward the rotating pillow—“I wasn’t able to catch the end of the show. Could you type in Masterpiecers and just read out the results?” I add a, “Please, sir,” to help my case.

He fumbles for the phone in his uniform pocket. His eyes flick from the screen to me. And then his fingers tap on the digital keyboard.

I wait with bated breath for the announcement. Finally, it comes.

“‘J.J. Fails to Score,’” he reads nervously.

A breath escapes from my parted lips like a gush of steam. Ivy really is still in!

He darts his gaze to me. When he’s satisfied that I haven’t shifted, he looks back down. “‘Ivy Not Caught Redd-Handed.’” His voice rings out in the cement laundry block. “‘Jackson the Auction King.’”

“Go back,” I say. “To the ‘Redd-Handed’ headline.”

He reads out an article about how my sister swore in a press release that she had nothing to do with the doctored photos of former contestant number eight. “While police follow a new lead, Dominic Bacci and Josephine Raynoir have announced their generous offer of letting Kevin Martin enter the competition. Kevin has accepted and will arrive at the Metropolitan Museum tomorrow. The show will take a one-day break and resume on Friday.” The guard glances up. “Doctored photos? Police investigation? What sort of show is this?”

The sort that will either make or break my sister.

Chapter Twenty

Ivy

“Everyone to the prep room!” comes a voice from the concealed speaker in my tent. I still haven’t located it.

I stick the pillow over my head. If only I could stay buried underneath my comforter for the rest of the evening and for our day off tomorrow. I can’t stop thinking about what the reporter implied. I don’t
want
to believe him, but a big part of me does.

“Everyone to the prep room!”

This time, I throw the pillow off and peel the covers away. I stop by the bathroom to splash cool water against the nape of my neck and rinse away the sour taste in my mouth. I’m still fully dressed and made up, but my clothes are wrinkled and my mascara is smudged. I carefully swipe the dark smear with my fingertips and head out.

In the hallway, I come face to face with Chase. It’s the first time this has happened even though our rooms are across from each other. He clearly looks as surprised as I am from the near collision, but he gets over it quicker than I do. He steps back and tips his head in a gesture meant for me to go ahead of him. I don’t want to walk in front of him—not that I believe he’s going to stab me in the back—so I pretend to have forgotten something in my room. Behind the taut fabric walls, my heart bangs like thunder. I strain to hear his footsteps crush the soft grass. I count to thirty slowly, then I count back down to zero, and then I cautiously lift the tent flap. The sharp green scent of him lingers, but he’s gone.

Dominic, Josephine, and Brook are waiting for us, dressed down from their usual suits and silks. Josephine sports a pair of narrow jeans and a batwing cotton sweater that makes her seem more human; Dominic, a red-checkered shirt that brings out the warm hue of his skin; and Brook, black jeans and a blue shirt.

“So, in lieu of these strange events, we thought we’d take you out on the town for dinner. And tomorrow”—Dominic grins—“since it’s supposed to be in the nineties, Brook has graciously suggested to host you in his penthouse for a pool party. I’ll organize transportation and bathing suits for noon, which will give you ample time to sleep in.”

“That sounds amazing,” Lincoln says, flapping her eyelashes that are so laden with mascara they look like crow wings.

“Also,” Dominic continues, “as some of you might already know, we’ve invited Mister Martin to compete.”

“But I thought—” Maxine glances at me and then back at Dominic. “I thought he wasn’t
fit
for the show.”

“It’s come to our attention that
les photos
have been doctored,” Josephine explains.

Gazes automatically land on me.

“He will arrive tomorrow,” she continues. “Which is why you get a break.
Fantastique, non
?”

I’m wondering what part of it is fantastic, the break or Kevin joining us.

Dominic’s lips press into a taut smile. “I’m truly sorry for all this.”

“Why couldn’t you have offered Kevin a spot on next year’s show?” Herrick asks.

“Because there wouldn’t have been a ‘next year’s show.’ His lawyers were threatening to have it canceled altogether. You have Josephine to thank for keeping it running.” His hand rises to her forearm, but instead of settling there, it continues its upward ascent toward his silver hair. Although it’s rigid with gel, he rakes his fingers through it.

Maxine gives a small clap, but since she’s the only one, she stops and her cheeks turn crimson.

Dominic gestures to the curtained area. “Your stylists have laid out some outfits in your dressing rooms.”

Just as we’re all about to head off, J.J. arrives in a pair of baggy jeans that show too much of his yellow boxers. He’s rolling a small canvas case.

“Is that your doggy bag for the restaurant?” Herrick’s joke is lost on J.J. In truth, it’s sort of lost on me too.

“I’m not going to the restaurant.” He stops in front of me as he says this; as though it were my fault that he was voted off.

Granted, I was the closest to failing, but I didn’t.
He
did. I fold my arms, which doesn’t prevent him from doing something totally unexpected. He hugs me. I keep my arms locked from sheer surprise, and because I don’t do hugs.

“Good luck, Redd,” he says.

And then he moves to Maxine and Lincoln, and repeats the hug-luck combo. He high-fives Chase and attempts to do the same with Herrick, but the latter doesn’t lift his hand, so J.J. slugs one arm around him and squeezes him.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?” Dominic asks.

“Got a new paint job for a school in Harlem. Your show gives good exposure, Mister B.” He’s bobbing his head or pecking the air—it’s hard to tell.

Dominic nods. “Glad you got something out of it. Send us a picture once you’re done vandalizing public property.”

“Sure thing.” J.J. shakes Dominic’s hand, and then Brook’s. “They’re documenting the whole thing for Vanity Fair so you’ll definitely get an eyeful of
moi
.” He winks at Josephine, who rolls her eyes. “Miss Raynoir. A pleasure.”

Instead of shaking her hand, he lifts it to his mouth and gives it a languorous kiss. She surprisingly doesn’t slap him, but she does wipe her hand on her jeans the minute he turns around.

“
Bonsoir
, dear friends. May the best one win!” And then his assistant walks him back to freedom.

I must watch the doorway a long time, because Brook clears his throat. “You need to get ready.”

“I’m going,” I murmur distractedly.

“Always hard to see someone lose,” Brook continues.

“Actually, I was thinking the opposite.”

Brook lifts one thick eyebrow. He probably thinks I’m cold, but that’s not how I meant it. I don’t care enough to explain that J.J.’s departure gives me hope, hope for doors opening in spite of losing the competition. I hadn’t thought about the exposure. I hadn’t thought there was any way into the art world if I didn’t win this competition or attend the Masterpiecers. For the first time since I arrived, I’m not worried about losing. The treacherous tunnel I’m walking through will lead back into the light whether through a gilded doorway or a pothole in the road.

***

Dinner’s a big production. There are paparazzi lurking outside the museum when the gleaming black minivan emerges from the underground parking lot. Their lenses suck at the car’s tinted windows like leeches. It takes nearly running them over to dislodge them. When we pull up in front of an Italian restaurant downtown, there are more of them. They swarm toward the vehicle before we’re even parked.