Wednesday April 28 2004
MacArthur
Keith Bauman sat in the center of the school theater, surrounded by empty chairs, watching the Drama club rehearsing for their spring presentation, Working. Some of the skits were pretty good, he thought, but he hadn't come here out of any appreciation for the dramatic arts. He was here because he didn't have anywhere else to go, and he didn't want to see anyone he knew, and going back to his bland little student apartment sounded about as appealing as a dental appointment.
The solo skit presently up was one of the 'hooker' ones, ably performed by Lori Adler. A stranger might have thought it was a dress rehearsal, but Keith knew that the girl dressed like an S&M prostitute all the time. He had scouted her briefly about a year before, thinking she might be trying to piss off her rich daddy, and that a rich Daddy's girl with a chip on her shoulder might offer opportunities for a profit. But Lori had turned out to be well-balanced, self-confident and totally without any family resentments. She just liked heavy Goth makeup and black leather. Which probably did bother her rich daddy, but there was nothing in that for Keith.
There were a handful of other students scattered throughout the auditorium, also watching the show. One dark-haired boy sat in the center of the front row, practically looking up Lori's skirt. The enthusiasm of his applause at the end of her take, and the way she smiled down at him before she started the next, told Keith all he needed to know about him.
While Lori was listening to critique from the director, Keith noticed someone passing his row, headed down the aisle. His breath caught when he realized it was Kat. He slouched down, hoping she hadn't noticed him. What the hell was she doing here? He saw that she had her gym bag hanging off one shoulder, and her laptop bag off the other. Why didn't she leave that stuff in her car?
She went all the way to the front row, and sidled along until she reached the guy sitting there and settled in beside him. They spoke briefly, then turned their attention to the stage. Even in the dim lighting of the auditorium, her hair seemed to glow. Just watching her head turn and tilt made his breath shorten.
Keith fingered his keys. Leave now, before she spotted him? Or wait a little, for Lori to resume her performance and claim her attention, to improve his chances of slipping out unnoticed?
The dark-haired boy turned in his seat, looking his way for just a moment, and then turned back to the stage. His head tilted toward Kat, and Keith saw his lips moving. He might have been talking about the performance, or the weather, or the price of tickets for the show. Keith stood, sidled quickly to the aisle, and turned for the door.
"Keith." Her call seemed to fill the room, impossible to ignore. He turned, and she was walking up the aisle toward him, bags still hanging off her shoulders.
He smiled. "Oh, hi. Have you been here all along?"
"I just walked in." The floor sloped down toward the stage; the grade was just enough that she stood nearly eye to eye with him from an arm's length away. "Are you going somewhere?"
"I, uh," he said, inexplicably unable to come up with anything, "just maybe grab a bite and head home. Lots of schoolwork."
"Give me a ride home?" Her eyes locked on his. "I want to talk."
He nodded and swallowed, trying desperately to get some moisture in his throat. "Sure." Behind Kat, the dark young man in the front row was looking at him with an unfriendly expression. "You ready?"
Behind them, Lori Adler began 'Roberta Victor's' third and final monologue. "You become your job. I'm a hustler. Even when I'm not hustling, I'm still a hustler. What you do is what you are…"
He led the way, turning aside from the hall leading to the main entrance and heading towards another door. "It's going to be a little walk. I'm not parked in the Drama Building's lot."
"That's okay."
"So. I'm going to see where you live, hm?"
"Probably not," she said to his back. "You can let me out at the end of the street. We never bring people home."
"Oh." He thought a moment. "Who was your friend in the auditorium?"
"That was Rej. He's Lori's boyfriend."
He paused with his hand on the safety bar of the door leading out. "You know Lori Adler?" He asked, surprised. Both girls were rich, but he couldn't imagine them having anything else in common.
"I know them both." She reached over his shoulder and pushed the door open.
For a girl who wanted to talk, she sure wasn't saying much, he thought. The walk outside was wide enough for two; they headed for the student lot side by side. "So, what did you want to talk about?"
"Oh, things." She tugged on the sleeve of his pullover. "Why did you quit wearing flannel shirts?"
"In the laundry," he said. "I only own a couple. They're my favorite shirts, but I have to wash them sometime."
She looked away, and he felt a chill. He said, "Do you want to go somewhere? Like I said, I was going to grab a bite."
"Just drive me home, if it's okay. I'm really not hungry."
His unease deepened. "When are you not hungry?"
"Today, and other days. Keith, what's your major? You never said."
"Business," he said. "It's-" He stopped. Idiot. Why does a business major need advanced math and quantum physics?
But Kat just nodded as if she had expected the answer. "You're third year, right? Have you been at MacArthur the whole time?"
"No," he said, feeling his collar tighten. "I transferred here from a community college my second year."
"Parents move?"
"No. it just took me that long to put together the money for a good school."
"But you did it," she said. "You're a resourceful person, Keith." Something in her tone made him think that he wasn't being complimented. He was glad she had turned down his offer of a meal; the sooner he got her home and out of his car, he thought, the better.
They reached the student parking area. The pole-mounted lights came on just as they reached the sidewalk fronting it. His car was in the first row, looking rather lonely in the near-empty lot. "Get in," he said. "It's not locked."
She reached for the handle. "That seems trusting." Again that odd tone.
He shrugged. "Not really. But if I don't have anything worth locking up, there's no point risking a busted window. If somebody wants the change in my console, they can have it." He stuck his hand in his pocket for his keys; they weren't there. He tried the other: nothing. Feeling desperate, he tried the handwarmer pocket of his pullover.
She stood inside the open door, looking over the top of the car at him. "Something wrong?"
"I… seem to have lost my keys." He had had the fob in his hand when Kat had arrived at the auditorium; had he dropped it when he stood up, his mind focused on getting away unseen? "I think I left them in the auditorium. Stay here, I'll be right back."
He jogged back the way they had come, eyes scanning the ground ahead of him, just in case. In the auditorium, rehearsal was still going on, but Lori and her boyfriend were gone. He found his row, but didn't see his keys on the floor. Had they bounced perhaps? He walked the aisle, bent low to look under the seats, and found them under the row in front of his seat. Awash with relief, he pocketed them and jogged back to his car.
When Keith reached the car, he looked through the windshield and saw Caitlin looking down at her lap, studying something – probably her cellphone screen. He opened the door and dropped into the driver's seat. He reached for the ignition and stuck in the key. "Sorry for the wait. Checking your messages?"
"Just a little light reading." She raised her hand, showing him two typewritten sheets of paper, creased lengthwise and crosswise from folding. "Very light. Swimsuit size, really?"
His heart froze.
"Don't bother trying to explain. This wasn't any big revelation, actually." She refolded the thin 'dossier' and stuffed it back down between seat and console. "Why do people think nerds are stupidly naïve, I wonder? Too many high school coming-of-age movies, I suppose. When you told me you'd tested out of an advanced math class with a few lucky guesses, I knew you were lying. So I checked with a couple kids I know in Advanced Physics, and they told me you just showed up and started taking notes about three weeks ago."
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, his words stopped in his throat by the look in her eyes.
"I called Montoni's after school yesterday and asked if they had any cancellations for that night. The hostess almost laughed. She told me that the waiting list was already so long that she was sure I'd never get a call. She said that if I wanted any real chance of snagging an evening cancellation, I'd have to give them my name by noon, even on weekdays." She folded her arms and looked up at him. "You went to a lot of trouble to score dinner with me, Keith. But you walked away from a chance to turn it into a date. What changed your mind? What was wrong with me? What did you see? Am I too tall? Too smart?" She waved a hand at herself. "Too comic-book-heroine? What?"
"Too good," he said. "Just… too good." He stared out the window at the parked car in front of him and took a breath. "I'm a hustler, Kat. I have been since I was a kid. I'm pretty good at it. It pays for half my tuition. My mom thinks I've got a part-time job in an auto parts store. I don't know one damn thing about cars. I get the money from sucker bets. As for my golf scholarship, I didn't even know how to swing a club two weeks before I applied. I learned a long time ago that the guy who best knows the odds is the one who makes the money. And lots of times you can change the odds in your favor with a little research.
"I know I've got a reputation as a bottom feeder. I don't care, knowing people look down on me makes it even easier to take their money. But sometimes, I get an urge to sort of prove myself, to show that I'm not playing with crooked dice, that I'm smart and capable, you know? And four weeks ago, when I was watching your team play and listening to the horndogs all around me gossiping about the new goalie, I decided I was going to score a date with the most beautiful, unattainable girl in school – 'Fantasy' Fairchild.
"So, I hustled you. I took shameless advantage of your good nature and asked you for help I didn't need. I maneuvered you into dinner, thinking I might talk you into hitting a club afterward, so all the kids there could see me with you and know what a winner I was."
He had begun speaking with no thought other than to smother Kat's suspicions and ill will, but with a shock he realized that what he was saying wasn't just another patter but the truth: the money had been incidental, an excuse. What he had really wanted was for that beautiful girl drawing cheers and attention from the stands to look at him with softness in her eyes, to smile at him, to tell him he was special.
He shook his head, as much to clear it as in negation. "But once I got to know you a little … you're beautiful, and smart, and rich, and a good person besides. Totally out of my league. I broke it off, aborted the mission, because I couldn't use you any more." He turned and faced her squarely, locking eyes. "I'm sorry I did it. But in another way, I'm still not. You don't know what that little dinner at an overpriced Italian restaurant meant to me, Kat."
Her eyelids lowered another centimeter. "Yes I do. One thousand fifty dollars."
His throat closed, as if invisible hands were gripping it. He tried to swallow, tried to speak, but he seemed paralyzed.
"Did you really think I wouldn't find out, once I started digging? Guys are horrible gossips." Her nostrils flared. "At least, when it comes to their stupid little conquests. I didn't even have to do the asking around, I've got friends. One of them even offered me a workup on you, probably from the same place you got the one on me. I turned him down. But, maybe now I'll take it." She stared at him cooly. "When I read it, Keith, how many more lies will I find in what you just told me?"
His voice returned. "Not one." He said slowly and quietly, "I didn't mention the money, because it wasn't important to me. But I know I can't expect to convince you of that. I'm sorry."
Instead of getting out of the car and walking away, as he expected, Kat sat for a moment, as if pondering. "The boy in the restaurant," she said. "He was in on it, wasn't he?"
"One of the bettors. He came to verify that I took you out, and bring me his share of my winnings."
"He said something to you."
"Yeah." Truth. It's your only chance. Hell, she might already know. "He offered me double or nothing if I could seduce you. I nearly punched him out."
She lifted her eyebrows. "Why didn't you take it? Didn't like the odds?"
His jaw clenched. "I'm not exactly lacking in self-confidence, Kat. I know better now, but at dinner, I thought I had you figured out. But I'd already decided not to invite you to that club. When he put the bet to me, I got angry, but I was angry with myself." He reached for the door handle. "I'm sorry. I don't suppose an apology means much to you, but I don't have anything else to offer you." He opened the door and got out. "I don't have one damn thing that you want." He slammed the door and stepped to the sidewalk.
She called after him, "It's your car, Keith."
"I don't want to be in it right now." He started walking.
She caught up with him before he had gone fifty yards and drew alongside. Something slapped into his chest with a jingling sound. "You left your keys in the ignition."
He scoffed. "It'd still be there when I came back. Who'd steal it?" They walked on for a little longer before he said, "Please don't be all forgiving, Kat. It'd only make it worse."
"I'm not about to," she said. "I don't like being lied to. I don't like being used either. And having an attack of conscience after you win the bet doesn't count for all that much, as far as I'm concerned." She huffed, settling her bookbag on her shoulder. "God, I can't believe I asked you out. Even half sure you were playing me, I still asked you out."
"I bet you thought I might have a good reason. I don't think that believing the worst of people comes easy to you."
"Yeah, well, maybe it should. I've paid for my trust often enough." She slowed, and Keith slowed with her, until they were almost strolling down the sidewalk. "So, you really do water polo?"
"As an alternate," he said. "I go to practice, but the coaches don't spend much time on me."
"Why, Keith? There can't be any money in it for you."
He winced inwardly. "I…" he glanced her way, and his throat closed again. Her eyes were focused on him like emerald lasers. He swallowed and regained his voice. "You know."
"You showed up at the pool three weeks ago and told the coach you were interested." She said. "So we would have something in common. But we never got around to talking about it."
"No," he said. "I was kind of holding that back, in case things got awkward."
They reached a busy intersection with crosswalk lights and stopped, waiting for them to change. With her eyes on the signal, she said, "Just so you know. You wouldn't have gotten a second date. Even if I hadn't caught you in a lie. I don't do that."
"I know. I wouldn't even have tried."
"But you can stop avoiding me. And if we should end up at the same lunch table, I'm not going to jump up and leave. But don't try making book on me again. Or my family, or any of my friends." The light changed, signaling pedestrians were free to cross the street. She stepped off the curb. "Go back to your car, Keith."
"How are you getting home?"
"I won't have any problem. See you in school."
Thursday April 27 2004
San Diego
Stillman Gallery and Center for the Performing Arts
"Thanks for coming," Bobby said as he wheeled the little car into the gallery's lot and rolled under the canopy. "I wasn't going to ask, I was that sure you'd say no."
"Why?" Sarah smiled at him and shook her head. "It's been forever since we did something together out of the house, just the two of us. And it gave me a chance to finally spend Caitlin's gift card."
"You spent it well," he said. The sand-colored bodycon dress Sarah had chosen had a hem that broke just above the knee, but the spaghetti-strapped garment bared her shoulders and exposed a great deal of her in front as well – or would, if not for the scarf wound loosely about her neck. She wore no earrings or bracelet, but Roxanne's peridot pendant gleamed just above her décolletage. Four-inch cork wedges and a tiny matching purse completed the outfit. "That card must have had a couple zeroes loaded onto it."
"The card took care of the shoes and purse," she said. "As for the dress, well, it's impressive, what you can find in a thrift store bordering a neighborhood like ours." Sarah neglected to mention that the dress had required a certain amount of taking in, and refusing Anna's help, she had done the needlework herself.
The passenger door was opened by a smiling valet, who offered Sarah his hand. Bobby handed another young man his key, and he and Sarah walked under the canopy toward the door, her shoes making them the same height. "Your father wanted to send me to one of those ghastly haute couture places, but I refused."
He scoffed. "Wish I'd done the same."
"Don't. You look fantastic in that suit." She smiled. "Sort of a teenage James Bond, if James Bond was ever a blond."
They reached the doors, which were opened wide by another pair of attendants. "If you wanted to do something together, you didn't have to wait for this."
"I like art." Her smile turned mischievous. "And I've heard so much pro and con about the infamous Kimberley Perlman, I'd like a chance to judge her myself." They passed through the doors and into a spacious white lobby, thronged with people in groups of two to four. "And besides, I can't miss my first chance to hear one of your songs played in a concert hall."
"If you can call wherever she's going to play a 'concert hall.'" The Stillman was a privately owned 'arts center,' housing a small auditorium for concerts as well as an art gallery. All of its 'events,' from musical and stage performances to artists' exhibitions, were reserved, available through annual memberships or tickets to individual shows. Neither the tickets nor the memberships were cheap. Robert Lynch imagined the Stillman to be a clubhouse for excluders who liked to think they had taste, but mostly just had an excess of money.
It turned out there was no hurry. The tickets Kim had handed him were actually for an art exhibition in the gallery, with her performance an added draw. They had arrived at the time specified on the ticket, only to learn from the schedule inside the door that Miss Perlman's performance wouldn't take place for another hour. Apparently the guests were supposed to kill some time admiring the artwork – and maybe making a purchase or two – before making their way to the auditorium.
Sarah excused herself to go to the bathroom. "You don't have to wait out here for me," she said. "Go on into the gallery. I'll find you."
He ventured through the entrance, huffing softly. Cruising the gallery didn't sound like a bad start to the evening, Bobby thought, if he had been able to dress comfortably for it. And if the objects on display actually looked like art.
"Very nice jacket," said a middle-aged woman in a short black halter dress with a neckline that plunged nearly to her navel. "It fits you beautifully. Who's your tailor?"
Bobby had forgotten the name of the haberdasher's where his father had sent him for an outfit he might wear to a snooty art show. "It's a little shop in San Diego, on Water Street. Old. Dark wood everywhere."
"Rothsbury and Sons," she said, sounding impressed. "My husband used to rave about them."
"Used to? He doesn't go there anymore?"
"He doesn't come home anymore," she said. "If he's still raving, he's doing it at someone else." She lifted two fluted glasses off a passing waiter's tray and pressed one into his hand. "A guest simply doesn't look like he belongs here without one of these," she said. When he took it, she laid a hand on his upraised forearm. "First time at the gallery?"
"Yes," he said. "I'm really just here for the music."
"Ah, our little diva has another admirer, hm?" she leaned close, and Bobby got a whiff of perfume, mixed with alcohol; apparently the woman had gotten an early start on the festivities. "That, trust me, is the sort of girl best admired from afar."
"We're in school together," he said. "She gave me the ticket."
"You're a college student? You certainly don't look your age."
"I hear that a lot." Bobby looked around for Sarah, but she was nowhere around, and he couldn't see the restroom doors from where he stood.
"I'm Rosalyn, by the way."
"Bobby."
"You don't look like a Bobby. You look like a Robert," she said, pronouncing it Ro-bear, as if speaking French. The woman sort of hugged his forearm, mooshing it into the side of her breast. She tugged him closer to the piece he had been looking at, a four-by-five canvas covered with bright dollops and drips and swirls. "You were looking at this one when I came up. What do you think the artist is trying to convey?"
Bobby pretended to examine it further. "I think he's saying, 'I found a way to make twenty grand in twenty minutes with six quart cans of acrylic and a tar mop.'"
She tittered. "Let's see if we can find something more to your liking then." She led him deeper into the hall.
…
"You're Bobby's date. I saw you come in together." Kim Perlman stood at the restroom door, as if waiting for Sarah to come out. "At the risk of sounding tactless, I was sure he'd be bringing Kat."
Sarah gave her a once-over: shining straight white-blonde hair, aristocratic Caucasian features, nice mouth and eyes, svelte figure. Expertly applied makeup, tasteful and expensive clothing and accoutrements. Whatever the woman was selling was nicely packaged, at least, Sarah thought. "Bobby is reliable, but not entirely predictable. I thought he'd invite Melanie."
The slender blonde was examining Sarah just as intently. "I think Melanie would rather have a mammogram in a meat locker than spend an hour watching me perform." She offered a hand. "Kim Perlman."
Sarah took it. "Sarah Rainmaker. And calling me Bobby's date would be something of a stretch. We're just friends."
"Ah," said the performer, and Sarah suspected that the girl recognized her name, and knew of her preferences. Her grip lingered in Sarah's, feeling oddly exploratory, and Sarah got a sudden notion that the slinky blonde was thinking of seducing her. Pretty enough, Sarah thought, but her interest seemed too cool and measured for Sarah's taste.
"We haven't met," Sarah said, "but I've seen you."
"Really." She smiled. "At a performance?"
"Of a sort. You were coming out of Melanie's garage. You tossed your case in your trunk and blew past like you'd been launched from a carrier."
Kim's eyebrow flickered. "Not my finest hour. I misjudged our handsome friend rather badly."
"That's easily done, before you know him."
The blonde's eyelashes lowered briefly. "Do you know him?"
Sarah's first impulse was to deliver a sharp rejoinder at the girl's real question. But then she remembered Caitlin and Bobby's stroll down the beach. "Maybe not as well as some. But well enough." She made a show of looking around. "This is quite a place. Are all your venues so luxe?"
"They are now." The musician's lashes lowered again. "I only perform by invitation. I can afford to be choosy."
The pleasure of bedding this girl would never make up for the bother of listening to her, Sarah decided. But for Bobby's sake she kept a polite smile on her face and didn't turn away. "The Sirens must have something you want very badly then, to submit to being an alternate in a college bar band."
"They'll never call me. And if they do, just to be polite, and I tell them I have a prior commitment, they'll be relieved. Melanie's already got another sub lined up, I'm sure. I just wanted to meet Bobby in his natural environment."
Like any skilled hunter, she thought. And is this performance of his song the bait you hope will draw him from cover and into your sights?
Never releasing her grip on his arm, Rosalyn led Bobby through hall after hall, offering a tour guide's insights on each piece they encountered. To Bobby, the collection looked like a garage sale of the artists' failed experiments: a one-foot Lucite cube screwed onto a steel post that looked like it had been the pedestal of a parking meter; a handful of feathers pressed into a blob of drywall compound and smeared with streaks of blue paint; a dead tree, fifteen feet tall, that had been stripped of its bark, and the wood underneath sanded smooth and polished to a glossy sheen. That last, Bobby thought, must have taken some time, at least; most of the other sculpture looked like it had been carved between breakfast and lunch with a pick hammer and a hangover.
Eventually they came to a wall covered with a row of large portraits hung upside-down. "These are from the artist's upside-down period," Rosalyn said importantly. "This one is his wife, then his father, and the last one is a neighbor he talked into posing."
"Mm hmmh," Bobby said, looking them over. "So, did he stand on his head to paint them?"
She smiled as if he'd made a joke. "They're showcases of the artist's mastery of the human face and figure, don't you think? As well as of light and shadow, uncoupled from direct reference."
He turned back to the picture. "If all he's doing with these is showing off, he should turn them right-side-up when he's finished, so everybody can really see how well he did."
Rosalyn stared at him, unbelieving. He went on, "And if they're really portraits, they should be drawn and presented the way you see them. Either way, these people should be right-side-up." He turned back to the canvas. "This looks like something somebody might do if he was bored with painting, just looking for some way to make the work challenging again. What did he do after these?"
"Sculpture." The woman let go of his arm. "You knew that. You're not the novice you pretend to be, are you? You've been letting me steer you through this gallery, pretending you don't know-"
"Excuse me." Sarah stepped between them and took Bobby's arm. To Bobby she said, "When I told you to go on without me, I didn't expect you to be half through the gallery before I came out of the bathroom."
"Excuse me," Rosalyn said stiffly. "Your friend didn't tell me he was with someone." She moved off in the wake of a passing waiter, downing the last of her drink.
Sarah shook her head and towed him into the next room. "You really can't help yourself, can you?"
"She acted like it was her job to schmooze the guests. I just followed along."
"That's not what I'm talking about." She took the still-full stemware from his hand, tasted, and made a face. "What is this?"
"No idea," he said. "It was just sort of pushed into my hand. Maybe the art looks better when you're drunk."
"You're not impressed by the gallery's offerings, I take it."
"I think this gallery was made to impress people with more money than they know what to do with."
A smile touched the corner of her mouth. "I heard a story about this place."
"Really? Where?"
"In the bathroom, from the attendant."
His eyebrows rose. "The bathroom has an attendant? What do they do?"
"Mostly stand by the sinks with a stack of towels. You wash, they hand you one, and when you're done, they take it back and wipe the sink and counter and drop it in a bin."
"Probably go into the stall after you leave and make sure you flushed, too." He flicked an eyebrow. "So, what's the story?"
"About a year ago, the Stillman is hosting a big exhibition, hot new artist, very avant-garde. A crowd gathers at the doors before it opens. The owner is at the doors herself, on the inside, waiting until the last second to unlock, letting the anticipation build. Finally, the hour arrives, and she swings the doors wide for everyone to flood in. Once the rush passes through, she turns back into the main gallery, to play host and salesman. But when she reaches the main gallery, she's horrified to see that the night janitor left some of his equipment out, and half the people just come through the door are gathered around a grimy mop bucket half full of dirty water, with a mop handle sticking out of it and a squeegee hanging off the side. She rushes up to apologize for the clutter, but before she gets a chance, one of them turns to her and says-"
"'How much do you want for the piece?'" Bobby gave her a brief smile. "Do you think it really happened?"
"Oh, probably not. But it shows that other people share your opinion."
"Art is a form of communication," he said, studying a large white canvas with a small black dot in its exact center. "But the language is supposed to be universal, connecting people at a basic level. A real artist tries to reach as many people as he can, not some select few who can break the code. If you have to go to school for years to understand what the artist is saying, or pay someone to explain it to you, what you're looking at isn't art. It's a private joke."
Sarah shrugged. "Artists are often misunderstood, Bobby. Their messages have to pass through two sets of filters, his and that of the person experiencing his art – filters created by their background, experiences, culture and prejudices. An artistic 'language' that bypassed all that would have to be stripped of all individuality, like mathematics – and it probably would take years of schooling to learn." She went on, "I was listening to NPR on the car radio a while back. They were interviewing a British musician who called himself Sting. Ever hear of him?" At his nod she went on, "He was actually outraged about the popularity of one of his early songs – not because people liked it, but because they misunderstood it. He said-" She assumed a stilted English accent. "'They think it's a love song. I write a bloody protest about a stalker ex-lover trying to ruin my life, and people come up to me gushing about how they played it at their weddings.'" The corner of her mouth quirked. "It didn't stop him from taking the money, though."
She pointed at the little placard beside the canvas, which gave its title and author, date of creation, and the medium used. "This one is titled, 'Greetings.' Let's assume for just a moment that the painter's not an inspirationless hack who's gulling every person who thinks they see something in his work. Assume he's actually trying to say something, however poorly. What message might he be trying to convey?" Her fingertip hovered over the solitary dot. "If this represents the person he's greeting, they must be awfully far away, don't you think? Why would he call out a greeting to somebody who could never hear it? Maybe," she said, turning to meet his eyes, "he's talking about an emotional separation, not a physical one." At his frown she went on, "Or maybe the dot represents the artist, small and surrounded by an artistic void, sending a message that no one is able to receive. Kind of sad, either way. Or," she said, brightening, "he's saying that, despite the distance between, two people can still communicate and be understood. A hopeful message, not a desperate one."
Bobby's eyes swept the room, taking in the patrons, sometimes in murmuring groups, appraising the items on display. "Those sound like something one of them would say. It could mean anything at all."
"Or nothing," she agreed. "The point is, it speaks to me, even if the message is nothing like what the creator intended. And even if it's only a mirror showing me my own thoughts and feelings, that's not a bad thing. People need that sometimes."
Her eyes scanned the crowd as well. "I'm sure some of these people are posers with no interest in art. But others are genuinely looking for insight and inspiration in what's being offered here. If they find it only by projecting their own values and beliefs onto what they see, it still gives those objects worth, to that person at least."
He grunted, thinking of a page in one of Rox's Japanese comics – definitely not kiddy stuff, filled with tragic characters, violence and sexual innuendo. One of the leads, a psycho girl going by the name of Two Hands, is talking to a companion but looking directly at the reader, her face shadowed and kind of sinister, eyes cold and dead-looking. Holding a skull in one hand and a German Army decoration, an Iron Cross, in the other, she says, Do you know what both of these are? They're things. The only difference between them is what two people agree they're worth. "I can see that, I guess. But I doubt I'd think much of the message they get out of it."
A chime sounded softly overhead, followed by a smooth male voice. "Patrons and guests, Miss Perlman will begin her performance in ten minutes. Please find your seats, indicated on your ticket. Please, no food or beverages in the performance hall, and no recordings, audio orvideo. Please turn off all cellphones and other electronic devices."
"Our cue." Sarah tugged him toward the double doors. "Let's go soak up some culture."
The 'performance hall' was a room much like the others in the gallery: a white-walled, parquet-floored space about sixty by a hundred. But this room's floor was filled with rows of chairs, the aisles carpeted with thick runners. Bobby noted that some effort had been made to improve the hall's acoustics as well: the top half of the walls was upholstered in pleats of cream-colored fabric, and acoustic boards hung from the ceiling. The seating, arranged in neat rows facing the far wall, were the most luxurious folding chairs he had ever seen: the frames were made of beautifully finished wood, and the seats and backs thickly upholstered in dark red fabric that matched the runners and the heavy curtain hung across the back wall. In front of that curtain was the 'stage', a platform twelve inches high and just deep enough to hold a gleaming black grand piano.
It took a bit longer than ten minutes for the performance to begin. Not until everyone was settled in their seats, the beeps and chimes from their cell phones powering down had ended, conversation had dwindled down to silence, and the audience was looking expectantly toward the stage did the curtains part and the show's headliner step through. She's nothing if not a showman, Bobby thought. He put his hands together along with the rest of the audience offering a polite greeting.
Kim glided across the half-dozen steps to the bench, taking her time. She wore a floor-length snow-white gown, made of silk or some similar material that seemed to glow in the light of the spots. Combined with her silver-white hair and perfect features, the effect was other-worldly, as if she was some sort of celestial being come to Earth for a night of slumming. The murmuring returned, fainter and somewhat lower in timbre.
Sarah leaned close and said into Bobby's ear, "Easy to see why all the men are shifting in their seats."
"They've been doing that since I walked in here with you," he rejoined.
Kim sat and adjusted the drape of her gown to expose her slippered feet, presumably to allow her to reach the pedals unhindered. It also stretched the shining material tight across her hip and thigh, the highlights shifting over them like a caress as she arranged herself on the seat. Sarah tittered.
Kim struck a chord, and the hall quieted again. She stared at the music on the stand for a moment, as if deciding whether to play it, then launched into an intricate piece without vocal accompaniment. A big mirror hanging at an angle over the keyboard offered the audience a top-down view of her fingers dancing over the keys.
For the next hour, Sarah sat listening to the young diva and making observations. Kim's performance was flawless and seemingly effortless, her mastery of her instrument obvious and absolute. The music usually included lyrics; though Sarah found nothing in the songs' generic rhymes to move her, the girl's singing voice was smooth and pleasant, and her range and control were impressive. She could see the audience nodding in appreciation and leaning toward one another to comment, and they briefly applauded each piece when it ended. But to Sarah, it seemed something was missing, as if the music had been rehearsed so many times that Kim was doing it without really paying attention to it.
At the start of each number, Sarah glanced at Bobby, to see if he recognized the next song as his own. But the boy beside her sat unmoving and unmoved by the performance, except for an occasional tiny shake of his head, his hands loose in his lap while the rest of the auditorium applauded. His manner made her think of a man waiting for a bus.
Kim ended her song with a final hard chord. She sat, waiting for it to fade away, then stood. The auditorium filled with applause, and people began to stand. She didn't play his song, Sarah thought. Did she bring him here just to snub him? Sarah stood as well, more to send a hard look at the stuck-up little diva. But when she glanced over at her companion, she saw that he was still sitting. She bent toward him. "Bobby, are you okay?"
"Just waiting for the rest of the performance," he said.
Kimberley Perlman stood before her piano, looking regal and cool, accepting the approbation of the crowd yet seemingly unmoved by it. The applause quieted to scattered claps, and the crowd began to murmur. Some of the guests began to make their way to the exits.
Kim turned abruptly and returned to her seat at the piano. People hastily sat back down; the ones already in the aisles hesitated, unsure whether to stand in place or go back to her seats. The room buzzed with low conversation.
Bobby folded his arms and slid down, slouching in his seat. "Doesn't look like she does encores often."
"You knew?"
"Well, she said she was going to have to find a different way to introduce it."
The blonde diva raised her hands above her keyboard The auditorium's sound system lit up, providing accompaniment for the first time in the performance: a soft, heavy backbeat, reminiscent of the beating of a human heart, and a simple, ethereal sequence of chords, sounding somehow forlorn and dirgelike. The audience quieted as the sound filled the room. Kim sat, fingers still poised over the keys, for a full measure, then brought them down to sound a single chord. The backbeat shut off as if unplugged.
I don't need love
Another chord, descending.
Never want love
Another, lower still, bringing the mood down.
Not like other girls
All those foolish girls
Kim's voice now seemed flat and strangely drained of emotion. Sarah looked all around, and saw that the entire audience sat silently glued to their seats. They don't know what to make of it either. To Bobby she murmured, "Is this the way it's supposed to be?"
"She changed it," Bobby said. "Just enough."
Don't they see it?
Won't believe it
Plunging into it
All those broken hearts
The music went on, rising and falling, but never far, seeming somehow caged. The lyrics drove the song, telling the story of a girl's contempt for love. But somehow, the notes and phrases sounded hollow and false, as if the girl was trying to convince herself that love wasn't worth the effort.
The accompaniment from the speakers returned, now hard and insistent, and Kim's voice finally rose.
Like some young girl
One boy her whole world
Bewitched by all his sweet lies
The spell is broken
The truth is spoken
And a little part of her dies
Abruptly the music returned to its former ghostly mien. Voice flat and empty again, Kim continued to tell the story of a girl divorced from love – not incapable of it, but hurt too badly to ever risk her heart again. Sarah's vision blurred, and her eyes stung. She wiped at her eyes with a fingertip, as unobtrusively as possible.
At last, with a few final beats from the speakers, the song drifted away into silence. Kim sat staring at the keyboard as if she was all alone in the hall – and she might as well have been, for all the reaction from the crowd. They seemed almost shocked, robbed of speech or movement by the event they had just witnessed. What was wrong with them? Didn't they see that this was the best thing Kim Perlman had ever done?
Sarah realized she was standing. She put her hands together, her clapping strangely loud in the otherwise silent room. Then someone else joined in, and a few more, and soon the rest of the audience rose in a ragged wave to its feet. But to Sarah, their applause had a different quality to it this time: hesitant, as if they weren't sure whether applause was appropriate. It ended, more quickly than the greeting applause had, or the final ovation Kim had received before her unexpected encore. Some people were already leaving, seeming almost to be fleeing the auditorium. Kim stood, and without a bow turned her back on the crowd and slipped behind the curtain.
An usher sidled up their row to them and bent to reach Bobby's ear. "Miss Perlman would like to speak with you backstage," he said.
"I'm coming too," Sarah said, her look daring the young man to protest.
Bobby stood. "This'll be your chance to meet her then."
"Ah." Her protective mood evaporated. As they followed the young man down the aisle toward the front of the auditorium, she said to Bobby, "We've met. Just outside the bathroom." She added reluctantly, "She asked me about us."
He didn't look her way. "What did you say?"
"What I always say." She hated the cooling of her mood, and the wariness she heard in her voice, certain that he could hear it too. "We're friends."
He let that lie between them for a moment, then said, "You're a good friend, Sarah."
The thought slipped into her head: But not good enough. The image of Bobby and Caitlin kissing desperately on the beach returned to her. She chided herself. Are you jealous? Of Caitlin? What right have you to judge her, or decide for him who he shares secrets with?
Or falls in love with?
The usher led them around the little stage. They reached the curtain, and he gestured them through, remaining behind.
The area behind the curtain wasn't large. Though it ran the width of the room, the gap between the curtain and the back wall was no more than eighteen or twenty feet. At the opposite end, the wall bumped out, almost touching the curtain, and a door was set into it; Sarah guessed it to be a dressing room for the performers. In front of the door, still in her snowy gown, Kim stood waiting.
She had several sheets of paper in her hand, pressed to her hip. As they approached, her grip on them tightened, crinkling the paper. "Did I change it too much for you?"
"It was perfect," Bobby said.
She took the papers in both hands and extended them to him. "Take it back."
He didn't reach for it. "You sure?"
"I'm never going to play it for an audience. I didn't play it for this one. I played it for you. Now you heard it. Take it back." When he reached for the papers, she held on for a moment, meeting his eyes. "I cried twice while I was rehearsing it. But one song that puts a tear in my eye isn't going to change who I am, or where I'm going."
She tilted her head toward the curtain. From the other side came the sounds of the crowd, talking in low voices as they made for the exit, punctuated by chimes and beeps as their phones powered back up. "You saw. They didn't know what to make of it."
"Those people are morons," Sarah said.
Kim regarded her with lowered lashes; her eyes flicked to Bobby and back. "I see," she said softly. "Well, at least you're not putting on a show for him." To Bobby she said, "They didn't come here to get emotions squeezed out of them, or think new thoughts, or wrestle with moral decisions." Her eyebrow flickered. "They came to hear music that's witty and generic and soulless, technically challenging enough that listening to it makes them feel classy, in a fancy room without public access." She brushed a thick lock of platinum hair off her shoulder. "Performed by an attractive young woman they can fantasize about taking somewhere for the weekend."
She turned and gazed at the curtain, as if she could see right through it to the thinning crowd beyond. "That's my target audience. The people I've trained myself for my whole adult life. I give them what they want, they give me what I want. The money is just a pittance, really. But I'm getting reputation and notoriety, developing my market. Introductions. Invitations. Connections. You're right, Bobby, this kind of career is only good for fifteen minutes of fame, but fifteen minutes is all I'm going to need." Her voice was as flat and unemotional as when she had performed Bobby's song.
She went on, "Long before I'm reduced to doing cat food jingles, I'll be married to one of those men. I'll have time to pick him carefully. I'll be good to him, I'll give him everything but love, and he'll think he's a lucky man. And when I walk away, whether it lasts twenty weeks or twenty years, I'll be set for life. And I won't touch an instrument or a sheet of music ever again."
A young man hovered nearby. "Kimberly? The others, they're asking about you."
"I'll be right there." When he left, she said, "There's an after party. I'd invite you, but I'm sure you'd be miserable. See you in school."
Sarah watched her leave, fists clenched at her sides. "That bitch," she said. "She took your song just to humiliate you. She changed it, made you think it was better than your version, and then tossed it back in your face. All to pay you back for what you said to her at rehearsal." And for not letting her in your pants, for not letting her do to you what she did to all the others, ruining your relationship… her thoughts stumbled. With whoever she thinks you're with.
Bobby shook his head. "If she wanted to use my song to hurt me, all she had to do was make another Kim Perlman Special out of it, and never let it go, knowing I was grinding my teeth every time she played it for these losers."
He looked down at the sheets in his hand. "Instead, she did just what I told her she had to do to make it work. She changed it just enough to make it perfect… for her. She put a little of herself into it and made it hers, made it a part of her. Then she offered it back to me with both hands, like a gift. She gave it up, because she had to. Like she said, Sarah. She can't let one song that makes her cry change who she is. She's got plans." He shook his head. "What a tragedy. Seeing somebody with so much talent, and knowing she'll never be an artist."