THE REVEAL
It’s Friday.
There’s a small nest of butterflies in my stomach and as soon as I open my eyes and start thinking about the day, they make themselves known. I start rushing around my apartment getting ready. It’s only 9:00 AM but I realize I was never toldwhenI should be at the studio. I put my palm to my window, a lazy girl’s guide to weather forecasting, and sense that it’s chillier outside than the days prior.
I throw on my mid-rise army green jeans that accentuate my waist and a soft white button up that Isurreptitiouslyleave unbuttoned around the top of my cleavage. I grab a silk kerchief with a gray and blue design on it and tie it cheerfully around my neck, leaving the tails dangling at the side across my collarbone. My hair is deciding to cooperate today, so I leave it undone, allowing my chestnut brown waves to fall across my shoulders and back. I go for full make-up this time, but still attempt anI-barely-triedapproach. The main giveaway that I did, in fact, try was the dark pink lipstick swiped across my lips and my deeply lengthened eyelashes.
Ding!My heart jumps in response to the chime before Iremind my silly bodily reactions that Devo is not texting me. My number isn’t programmed into the antique he calls a cellular device. When I unlock my phone, I see it’s actually a mass text from Alex to the studio:
Hey everyone, it’s Fri-YAY!I roll my eyes—what a goofball. The text continues:Last minute announcement! (sorry, just got word!) At 11am today we’ll be hosting a special unveiling of a painting from an artist I’m sure you’ve all heard of. A few members of the press will be in attendance, and they’ve been asked to feature a few of you and your art in their written pieces today, so come prepared! Don your nicest smocks and smiles! See you there! (There will be booze!) Cheers.
I check the time and see we’re closing in on 10:00 AM, might as well get a move on. I throw back on my pointed boots from yesterday, grab my navy peacoat, an overly ripe banana on its last legs, and then I head out. Because it’s so chilly today, I opt to take the subway. I sit on the plastic orange seat, rapidly shaking my leg. I eat my banana like a monstrous toddler eating the head off a barbie doll. I’m sure as hell my demeanor isn’t projecting ease. I make eye contact with a woman I presume is a tourist. She’s eyeing my hunchbacked bouncing position and I look her straight in the eye during my next ferocious bite of banana before turning away like a feral animal.
What is going on with me? Sure, I’m nervous to find out how everything is going to unfold at the studio today. But I’m also more than a little peeved that Idon’t know how everything is going to unfold at the studio today.And maybe, I dunno, maybe I expected some sort of follow-up from Devo before the reveal? Some kind of backstage information, perhaps? Besides the sterile message from Alex, that is. Doesn’t anybody get a girl flowers these days? I’m his muse for god’s sake…Aren’t I?
By the time I’m at the studio, a floppy and speckled banana peel hangs from my fingers and I’m all riled up. There are a few journalistic camps set up around the back wall of the space already, each with about two or three people, either conversingwith notebooks in hand or setting up camera equipment on tripods. The room is even more full than it was yesterday—at least a third of the people milling about I don’t recognize. So many more finished or half-finished projects are out on display, all facing the middle of the room, just in case an interested eye with a camera falls upon them. I squint, many people have taken the time to also place little makeshift name placards by their pieces.Smart.I eye my easel in the corner, facing the wrong way.Eh,I’ll get to it later.
I waltz over to the kitchen to toss out my banana peel and find a cohort of artists, including Alex, Daisy and Miles mingling in a tight circle by the fridge. I’m not sure how much they know about Devo’s painting and my involvement, but I suck up my instinct to avoid everyone and step into the gossip ring.
“He’s Devo, isn’t he?” I hear Daisy hiss.
“I can neither confirm nor deny the identity of today’s special guest,” says Alex, holding a mug to his lips and clearly enjoying being in the know.
“Come on, man! Tell us! It’s our studio!” says a voice I don’t recognize. I stand on my tiptoes to see within the small crowd better.
“Dude his paintings are hot.” This time I recognize the voice—it’s Miles elbowing the guy next to him. “I hear he fucks on the canvas,” he says again. I roll my eyes but… he’s not totally off base. I lower myself down from my tiptoes and put my head down. I realize I might not want people to see I’m listening in case they know anything about my involvement and want to ask questions. It’s too late though, Daisy’s eyeing me. She always notices me!
“He’s been doing micro-residencies all up and down the coast,” Daisy cuts in, switching her glare from me to Alex. She tosses shiny blonde curls over her shoulder. “Devlin…Devo,” she says with disdain. “Come on, it’s like he’s barely trying with his alter ego.”
Rob walks into the kitchen at that moment, a bit more dressed down than the rest of us. He looks dumbfounded. “Ah, hey Charlotte.” He looks around. “Heyyy everybody. Um, what’s going on out there? I’m out of the loop.”
“Dude, don’t you read your texts?” Miles shouts.
“Ooo, no”—Rob sucks in air through his teeth—“I had a bit of a rendezvous this morning that took all of my, uh, attention.” That probably meant he was just with someone from his long list of rotating lovers. He claims it relaxes him and puts him in the right headspace before starting his work at the studio.
Daisy cuts in, “We’ve been graced with the presence of a celebrity.” Disdain drips from every word. I guess she still feels slighted by Devo’s drifting attention at McArthur’s earlier this week. She couldn’t have known that we’d essentially been pen pals for weeks before he arrived. She never even stood a chance. I smile to myself, and I feel Daisy’s glare again.
Alex finally takes control of the narrative: “We’re hosting a press release for a special guest and holding space for journalistic coverage of the arts,” he says with grandeur and checks his watch. “It starts in about five minutes, actually.”
A quiet voice squeaks up from the crowd. It’s a shy redheaded girl I’d seen around a few times in the last few months. “It’s a Muse Painting, isn’t it?” she says.
“Fuck yeah it is!” Miles gives the guy next to him a high five. Alex purses his lips and says nothing.
“What is a Muse paint—” Rob starts to mumble.
The redhead continues, “I heard each painting is based on a different woman. A real woman. Is it someone from our studio?”
I take that as my moment to turn on my heel and head towards the kitchen exit. I can hear Daisy’s response behind me: “That’s the rumor,” she says bluntly.
As I stalk out, hoping no one puts together the timing of my exit, I look a few yards to my right and see a strapping figure in a form fitting, all-black outfit. He’s wearing a baseball cap and is ina wide-legged stance, hands clasped low in front of him. A large object covered in a black fabric rolls up next to him thanks to a handsome young man with sandy blonde hair and a nose dappled in freckles. He walks back to the corner of the room in his khakis, and navy button-up. I stare for a moment too long and, as if he can sense my eyes on him, the sandy-haired man looks up to meet my gaze. He smiles and winks before focusing his attention back on the man in all black.
I think I just met Devo’s assistant. I try to command my cheeks to hold in their creeping blush. A flash shakes me out of my head, and I realize there’s a steady increase of clicks in the room as fancy cameras start to snap pictures. I don’t want to be in these photographs, I realize. I head away from the kitchen to work my way into the crowd and have to skirt the figure in black to do so. As I pass, I take a deep breath through my nose. It’s the smell of that woodsy aftershave and acrylic that gets me to turn around. It’s him. Of course it is.
Devo stands there like a soldier next to a highly coveted object. Feet spread apart, hands held tightly together. His cap is pulled low over his face and his jagged black mask is pulled up and over his nose and mouth. He looks formidable, mysterious. I instinctually want to know what he’s guarding. A slight upward tilt of Devo’s head at this distance lets me see the slant of a stark blue iris. He sees me and the corner of his eye crinkles. Beneath that mask, Devo is smiling. He’s smiling at me. I smile back and my blush is fully unleashed. In an effort to keep moving throughout this silent exchange, however, I forget to look where I’m going and nearly trip over an easel someone had hastily shoved toward the center of the room.
A man who I presume is a member of the press catches me by my forearm. “Woah,” he says, “are you alright?”
“Yes, yes, thank you.” I can hear Devo cough from a few yards behind me and I wonder if he’s trying to cover up a laugh.Bastard.
