The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) (23 page)

The camera crew is in place. They wait for Dominic’s signal to begin taping. In front of Dominic, amidst the packed crowd, I spot the star-maker, Delancey. In spite of the sweltering heat, he’s wearing a white pin-stripe suit with shortened pant legs. I haven’t seen him since the first day, but I bet he’s been here all along, meandering around us like the rest of the audience. To say the truth, I’ve been so focused on competing that I’ve barely looked at anyone. I scan the faces surrounding us. Some look vaguely familiar—either from the silver screen or from the tabloids.

A photographer has his camera ready on a tripod. It takes me a second to recognize Patrick Veingarten. He waits for Dominic’s signal like everyone else. It comes in the form of a launching of white helium balloons. There are five of them just like there are five of us. I tip my face up and watch them sail away, chalky dots against the bright blue.

I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and set out. I’m still not sure what I’m going to make, but I know something will catch my eye and jumpstart my creative juices. I tug my fingers through the swaying tall grass that looks bluish-lilac up close. I break off a piece and inspect its elasticity and strength by tying a knot. It’s sturdy, so I grab a bunch and place them into my bag. I spot Kevin not far from me. He’s pulling out bundles of the grass, so many handfuls that his piece will surely consist of only that, which spurs me to find some other material to use.

I walk further away from the water line, kicking branches and twigs off my route. A broken slab of wood calls out to me. I bend over and pick it up. When I stand up, I find myself nose-to-nose with Patrick. Well, maybe not nose-to-nose, but nose-to-camera. His index finger is poised on the shutter release.

“Hi,” he says. His bald head shines in the sun.

“You shaved your mustache.”

He smiles. “I shaved my mustache.” He snaps another picture of my face, then one of my hands wrapped around the piece of wood.

“Wasn’t it your trademark?” I ask.

“It was, but I turned a page in my life, and in this new chapter, I don’t have a mustache.”

I raise a skeptic eyebrow, which he captures on camera. Still smiling, he winks and walks toward the other contestants. If I cut off my hair, would I be starting a new chapter also? At least, I would no longer be mistaken for Aster. No one would ask if I was the twin at the wheel of the Honda.

I stick the plank in my bag and meander back down to the beach, fingering the curled tip of my ponytail. I’m not careful and trample a twig. A sharp, stabbing pain makes me curse and sink to the ground to inspect my sole. Sure enough, it’s punctured, and blood beads over the surface. I look for Cara, and see her chatting with another assistant. I wave. She doesn’t see me, but a middle-aged man in a pink polo shirt and checkered shorts does, and waves back.

Idiot,
I grumble
.
Since he’s the only person whose attention I’ve managed to grab, I gesture him over. He races toward me.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to talk to you,” he says, swiveling his face around like an alarmed puppy.

“Can you just get my assistant? I need a Band-Aid.”

He catches sight of the trickling flow on my foot. “Right away.” He jogs back toward the shore, but does a U-turn. “Which one is she?” He runs in place, which just looks odd.

“The peroxide blonde with the short hair,” I say, pointing her out.

“Righty-o,” he pants, and runs toward her. Still running in place, he taps her shoulder and aims his entire right arm toward me.

Cara disappears into one of the popcorn tents, reappears, and trots toward me. The first aid box in her hands reassures me that the guy wasn’t a total idiot.

She kneels beside me and takes my feet in her hands. “It’s not too bad.”

“It hurts like a bitch,” I say.

When she sprays antiseptic on my skin, a shrill scream jerks out of my throat. She eyes my sole more carefully. “Actually, the shard is pretty big.”

“No kidding,” I mutter.

She grabs a pair of tweezers from the medical kit and proceeds to dig through my skin for the sharp piece of wood. I clamp my teeth shut to avoid yelling again.

There’s sweat on her brow. “I don’t know if I can get it out. Maybe—”

“Give me that,” I say, wrenching the tweezers out of her hands.

Trying not to flinch, I press my thumbnail against the butt of the shard to coax it out. Slowly, it moves back the way it came, and soon, the end of it appears like a baby squeezing out of its mother. I snap the tweezers around the shard and pull it out. It’s no longer than my smallest nail, but it’s sharp as a stake.

Cara, who’s turned a little pale, soaks a fresh piece of cotton with antiseptic and applies it to my small wound, then she dabs some cream and covers the area with a large waterproof bandage. My foot throbs, but I stand up and walk on it. That’s when inspiration hits. I pick up every piece of wood I can find, from twigs to branches.

When the mesh bag is about to burst, I return to the beach and dump out the contents in the space I was allotted. Lincoln is kneeling, a small piece of wood clasped in her hand. She’s drawing or writing. Herrick is building a wall out of seashells. It’s intricate, but doesn’t look stable. Chase has been digging: inside an enormous hole, he’s sculpted hills and towers. He’s building a sand castle. I smile to myself. Good dealers don’t make great artists. But my amusement fades when I see the beginnings of Kevin’s work. He’s weaving the tall grass together and it’s starting to pool at his feet like a rope.

Forgetting all about my foot, I commence, praying that the structured piece I’m planning will hold. I take two twigs and weave a stalk of grass around the ends to keep them together at an angle. Surprisingly, it works. I take another stick and then another, positioning them this way and that until I have something that resembles a small web. I keep at it until I run out of wood. I lay my piece down and pick up my bag. Fueled with excitement, I race back toward the long grass and tear more stalks and replenish my stock of wood. I step on a small seashell on my way back, and my foot pulses with pain, but I push on. The sun is no longer high in the sky and Lincoln and Chase are no longer crouched on the sand. Both are finished, and are being interviewed by Josephine in front of one of the cameras.

I kneel down, flip my bag over, and start again on my wooden spider web. I use longer sticks, which airs out the piece and makes it grow quicker. I can feel a crowd building around me, curious, but I don’t waste time looking up. Spinning the web, I tie and angle, tie and angle, until the disk is larger than I am. Then I get up and study it. Against the pale sand, it resembles a trap.

My gaze lands on the large plank. I decide to strap my piece to it so that I can stand it up. I don’t know if the long grass will suffice in maintaining it upright, but it’s worth a shot. Inspired by Kevin’s rope, I create a large plait with the grass, which I then wrap through the bottom rung of my web and tie around the plank. I craft five more fat braids to hold the plank base in place.

And then I pull my piece up. If it holds, it will be the most magnificent and complex work achieved today. If it collapses, it will very possibly get me eliminated.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Aster

“What the hell, Redd?”

I try to tip my head up, but it’s as heavy as a bowling ball. It lolls right back to the floor where I’ve collapsed. I’m hoisted up. I try to pry my lids open, but they’re glued shut.

“What the hell?” Chacha mutters again.
“Get her some blankets. Anything in wool. Socks.”

Light burns my lids. Warm hands rub my skin. I’m being moved from one side to the other. They’re going to hurt the baby, but then I remember the baby’s gone.

My clothes come off, or is it my skin? There’s more rubbing. It feels like they’re massaging bruises. It hurts. I want to tell them to stop, but my lips can’t shape words. Besides, my mouth is too weak to expel them.

“I’m here, Aster,” I hear.

Ivy
…Ivy came back.

Sluggishly, painfully, I crack open my lids; it feels like cracking thick ice. I look for my sister, but can only see blurred shapes and blobs of color. I blink, but still, nothing is sharp, which pains my eyes, so I close them.

“Stay with me, Aster.”

You
stay with me.
My heart moves delicately, like an eyelash flutter.
Choose
me
this time, not the show.

“Don’t cry. You’re going to be all right.” The voice is clearer, clear enough for me to realize that it doesn’t belong to Ivy, but to Gill. “They sounded the air horn an hour ago. They thought you’d broken out. Didn’t you hear it?”

I try to shake my head, but my neck is frozen.

Chacha grumbles, “Said she would take my shift so I could rest. Shoulda known. Shoulda known. Going to tell Driscoll. Stay with her.”

I grab her arm but can’t hold on. “On’t,” I whisper, unable to sound out the
D
.

“What did she say?” Chacha asks.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

The light goes gray behind my clasped lids.

Something soft touches my lips, like peach fuzz. “Say it again, Aster.” Gill’s voice is so close that it sounds like it’s inside my head.

“On’t,” I whisper faintly. My throat is scratchy, like the fabric bunched around my hand.

The light turns gold again.

“She says
don’t
. I don’t think she wants you to tell Driscoll.”

I part my lips and swallow a long sip of hot air. It stings my throat. And then I try to talk again, but my teeth keep clattering. Still, I manage, “Acci…acci…ent.”

“Accident my ass,” Chacha says.

“P-pease,” I murmur.

“Maybe she’s right. Maybe don’t say anything.”

“Cheyenne is a mean bitch. She—”

“It’s Aster’s choice.”

“My kitchen. My rules.”

“Then talk to Cheyenne, but don’t involve the guards. Would that be okay, Aster?”

I manage a minuscule nod.

“What the—” It’s a man’s voice. “Where was she?”

“In the freezer,” Chacha says. “It was an
accident
.” I can tell from her intonation that she’s pissed I’ve chosen to lie.

“I’ve got two patrols canvasing the area and she’s in a fucking freezer? You got to be kidding me,” Driscoll says. I hear him yap orders—probably calling the cavalry back. “Can she walk?”

“Keep her horizontal!” Chacha says. “Don’t you know nothin’?” She grumbles something in a language I don’t understand.

“
Yobwoc,
get in here! Carry her to the infirmary,” the sergeant snaps.

Hands lift me. They’re not very big, but I can tell they’re not Gill’s. They’re calloused. How can I feel callouses through wool? Am I naked?

“I’ll get her feet,” Gill says.

“Keep her wrapped. Like a burrito. She needs to stay warm.”

As I’m carried down the bright hallway, I squeeze my lids tighter, trying to block out the glare. I don’t know where the infirmary is, but the trip there seems endless. Once we arrive, I’m deposited on a sheet of paper that crinkles underneath my weight.

Gill’s explaining that I was locked inside the walk-in freezer for close to five hours. Fingers probe the vein on my neck. The blanket is removed. My hands are inspected. My toes, which feel like they are being pricked by a million needles, are probed. Something goes in my ear. It beeps.

“Ninety-one point five,” the nurse reads out. “Mild hypothermia.”

My lids are pressed up. A flashlight blinds me. I blink them back shut.

“Responsive eyes. Good. What’s your name?”

“She’s conscious,” I hear Gill say.

“Did I ask you something?” the nurse snaps. She has a sturdy and authoritative voice. “What’s your name?”

“Aaas…ssser,” I murmur. My teeth are still chattering.

“Last name?”

“Rehh…”

“Inmate Swanson, can you get a bowl of broth from the kitchen?” she orders.

“Right away,” Gill says.

Drawers open and close. Paper crinkles.

“Officer Landry, help me roll this under her,” the nurse says.

I’m unwrapped, exposed again, and then squashed between something brittle and cool that turns hot in seconds. It crunches like paper, but it’s not.
Foil.
That’s what it must be.

“You can leave. I got it from here,” the nurse says.

Silence.

“She’ll be awhile.”

“The sergeant will want to know how long,” the young guard says.

“I don’t know,” she huffs. “First I need to stabilize her temperature, and then I need to get her to stop shivering.”

“What should I tell him? He’s going to want to know when he should pick her up.”

“
When he should pick her up
?” she says. “Tell the sergeant he should
not
pick her up, because if he puts even a single toe in my infirmary, I’ll cut off his tiny testicles and string them around my neck. Tell him that, will you?”

I wonder if my muddled mind has just made that up.

After a very long minute of silence, he says, “I-I can’t tell him th—”

“Just tell him I’m keeping her overnight,” she says. “Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Now get.”

After he’s gone, she bustles around her infirmary. Gill returns. Together, they try to tilt my head up and slide some broth down my throat. I cough and gag. After another failed attempt, they release me. My head rolls to the side, and my cheek meets the pillow. The skin on my face has thawed out enough to feel the soft firmness. It reminds me of my pillow, the one I don’t have to prop up with a book.

God, I miss my pillow. I miss my home.

***

I’m startled awake by the clicking sound of a keyboard.

“Good. You’re up.”

I jerk up on my elbows. Sweat coats my brow as my eyes dart from the white room to the middle-aged blonde shutting her laptop screen and coming toward me. I don’t know who she is. Nothing looks familiar. Paper crunches beneath me and foil crackles. Why am I wrapped like the garlic bread we serve at the pizzeria?

The woman gently coaxes me back into a horizontal position and takes my pulse. It’s late. I’m not sure how late, but there’s barely any light outside.