Chapter One
I VOLUNTEER
“Stop that leg bouncing and just read his damn letter already,” Mariah breaks the silence without looking up from the fourth draft of her PhD thesis. I jolt and the cabernet in my right hand nearly sloshes out of the glass. My left hand, however, continues its steady scroll on the laptop track pad. I hear Mariah sigh when I don’t reach for the thin envelope I’d pushed to the far corner of my desk. Within that envelope lies the result of my fifth round of correspondence with Devo, the disreputable masked artist. Much to my surprise, in my last letter to him, I’d offered to be his Muse.At least, I think I did.
The sun had set over the course of the hour as I’d scrolled throughDevo’s Darlings, a popular fan page that gets over 10,000 hits a month. I’m probably 1,000 of them, thanks to my habitual refreshes of the mobile site when I think no one’s looking. I’ve spent hours poring over photographs of Devo’s abstract paintings—all of them featuring a woman’s silhouette in various… indecent positions. I couldn’t wait to see when his next work would drop and to read the inevitable commentary. It’s easier to do deeper dives of the blog on my laptop at home, but when I do, as I am now, I often find my eyes flicking to my Zenith Award certificate propped up in the thrifted frame on my desk.
About a year ago, I’d won a $50,000 amateur artist prize under the following qualifications:
The applicant must identify as a woman.
Applicant must not have participated in any painting exhibition previously.
Paintings submitted must explore feminist themes.
Artwork should employ styles of realism, including but not limited to figurative realism or objective realism.
Of course, my collection also had to beat out around a hundred other qualified entrants, which it did. My exhibition, “As She Rises,” and its corresponding prize are my biggest accomplishments to-date. The experience had given me the confidence to continue to pursue my art, and specifically to continue building on the narrative started in my collection: the uphill battle women face in a patriarchal society.
My two sisters and I had been raised by a mother who’d worked three underpaid jobs following the abrupt departure of our father. The fight for child support never ended, even through our teenage years. I’ve seen the value society puts on women from a front row seat. Conjuring up that collection had been my own therapeutic response to the struggles of my mother growing up. I had been over the moon to show her my award, especially since I’d chosen a less practical course of study than my sisters. The judges of the Zenith Foundation had validated me and my creative direction. I was going tomake itwith my art.
Thanks to the cost of living in New York City, however, I now have just under $11,000 left from the windfall of my Zenith Prize, and I’ve found that my creative tap is running at a drip. At least I’ve still been able to eke out a few paintings, and I know that I believe in the subject I’d brought to life with “As She Rises.” So why have I also been seeking out correspondence withyet another man who’d decided to profit off the exploitation of women’s bodies?
I realize my leg has begun bouncing again, so I pop up from my desk and take a deep breath, hands on my hips. Mariah stills her typing and eyes me. I stare down the letter, noting the small, rounded grooves my clammy fingertips had made in the paper as I’d transported Devo’s response up the stairs of our fifth-floor walk-up. If I tear open the envelope, will I find his answer to my offer?
Earlier
A week ago, on the night I’d contemplated making my Muse offer, I’d paced up and down the well-worn floorboards of my Park Slope apartment with, of course, a trusty glass of wine in hand. I’m a person who likes to stay within the confines of what’s possible, but I’ve also found that possibility expands with a bit of a buzz.
I swirled the ruby red liquid in my glass and let the “legs” run down the sides—it was evocative of splatters on a canvas.Fitting,I thought. As our correspondence continued, reminders of Devo and his work began popping up everywhere. I couldn’t keep him out of my mind. As I watched the drip nearest the rim slide down my glass to join the rest, my mind spun. I was frozen—every muscle in my body taut, yet thrumming with energy.
I could hear Mariah coming up the stairs and I knew what she would say. As an enthusiastic graduate student in psychology, she’d psychoanalyze me into the ground and come to the same conclusion I’d already come to deep down:I’m going to invite him to Brooklyn, and I’m going to offer him… me.
Before Mariah could interrogate me, I made my offer in loopy scrawl, shoved the folded paper in an envelope and licked it closed. I placed it by my purse to mail the next morning. There. Decision made.
“Oh, hey there!” Mariah opened the door right as I’d stepped away from the evidence of my rapidly declining sanity.
“Hi,” I let out with a shaky exhale. “How was your day?” I turned away from her before she could gather any suspicions from my expression. I’ve known Mariah for eight years, ever since we were paired as second-chance roommates our freshman year of undergrad at Sarah Lawrence College. I’d been an incoming Visual and Studio Arts Major, and at two months into the semester, it was the longest I’d ever spent away from home. Mariah’s first roommate returned to Sichuan Province, China, after getting too homesick. Meanwhile, my roommate had just transferred after getting a late admission to Syracuse, where she promptly joined a sorority. Greek life didn’t align with SL’s values.
Mariah and I ended up staying roommates for all four years. In a way, we became each other’s homes.
“I’ve gotta dive into thesis edits for a bit, but would you want to do a pizza and wine night?” Mariah said over her shoulder. She was focused on unwinding her checked scarf to hang by the door.
