Chapter Six
THE AFTERMATH
I jolt out of bed the next morning at 7:55 AM to our buzzer going off incessantly. I hold down the ivory button that accesses the intercom and reply in a groggy voice, “Coming!”
I wrap myself in a robe, slide into my indoor slippers and go winding down the stairs. My heart is in my throat. I realize partway down that I'd jumped into action without thinking. What if I’m rushing down to some kind of early morning package delivery for Mariah? What if it’s just some kid doing ding dong ditch? But I know what I’m hoping for... what if it’s Devo? He did say he was an early riser… My palms begin to slide with sweat against the banister.It has to be him.The last few days had been so intense. There’s no way he’d just disappear without seeing me in person, right? I hadn’t even found the letter Alex told me Devo had sent days ago.
Partway across the second-floor landing, I find myself wishing I’d combed my hair and checked my appearance in the mirror.Oh well,I think. He can’t expect a beauty queen at the crack of dawn. Once I get to the first floor, I can see a young man on the stoop with a messenger bag slung across his shoulder. He’s bouncing up and down and looking around at the street, smacking a white envelope against his hand repeatedly. My eyesnarrow, that’s neither Devo nor his sandy-haired assistant. My heart drops for a moment, and then I eye the letter. That could still be from Devo.
“Please,” I whisper before opening the door and holding my breath.
“Apartment 3D? Charlotte?” he inquires.
“Yes.” I hold my breath.
“This letter requires a signature,” he says, pulling out a digital signature board. I sign with one eye on the envelope, trying to see if there are any faint paint splatters across the back.
He hands me the envelope and then skips down the stoop, already headed to the corner. I examine the piece of correspondence and see that just my name and address are written on the front. No return address. No postage.
I head back up to our apartment and close the door, hoping Mariah went back to sleep after the buzzer alarm. Unable to wait, I sink down onto our kitchen floor and rip open the envelope flap with shaking fingers. Inside is a folded printer paper covered in black type.
Dear Miss Charlotte Faure,
It has come to the Zenith Foundation’s attention that you have collaborated with the licentious street artist known as Devo. As our requirements indicate, the annual Zenith Award Recipient must comply with our standards of behavior within their professional body of work during their incumbency, which lasts until our next Recipient is chosen. Due to the public nature of the problematic piece of art, we must inform you that the Foundation is proceeding with an investigation around the revocation of your Zenith Award Winner status.
Sincerely,
The Zenith Foundation Committee
My blood is roaring in my ears.Revocation??What. The. Fuck.Standards of behavior? It has come to their attention?
I scan the impersonal typeface again to see if there’s any language about a clawback on the prize money. I don’t see anything... but still. Who are they to control my life? To take something from me that I had earned! And I collaborated with Devo anonymously! He’d made a point not to reveal any Muses. How could my participation in Devo’s painting have been revealed? And to the Zenith Foundation?? I’m sure their members aren’t avid Devo followers. They’re all in their 60s and 70s—not exactly the demographic of his fanbase. They couldn’t possibly know theextentto which I’d participated as a “muse”... could they? It’s not like Devo or his assistant would have gone out of their way to sabotage the one artistic achievement I have on my resume besides school...right?
An image of narrowed hazel eyes and perfectly waved blonde hair swims to the forefront of my memory. “Daisy,” I hiss. I couldn’t be sure, but who else could it be?—
“Morning sleepy head!” I nearly jump out of my skin as Mariah’s cheery voice rouses me from my spiral. “Whatcha got there? Another letter from mystery man?”
Her words slice through me like a knife. “No,” I bite back from the kitchen floor.
Mariah observes me for a minute, and I look back down at the paper in my hands, which I’ve now folded twice over. She tilts her head. “Is it something...” she hesitates, “that you want to talk about?”
I dip my chin towards my chest and avert my eyes while I try to avoid making Mariah a casualty of my emotions. “No. Thank you.”
“Okayy. I’m here if you change your mind.” She comes over and puts her palm on my head. I know she means it as a comforting gesture, but in the moment, it makes me feel like a dog. As if I’m someone’s pet who belongs to anyone but myself.
I abruptly stand and Mariah steps back, still assessing me.
“I’m going to the studio today,” I announce.
“Oh! You don’t normally go in on weekends?—”
“I know”—I cringe as I cut her off—“I just—” I take a deep inhale. “I need to get some emotions out.” I gesture outward with my arms.
“I see that,” Mariah responds. “Well, I support that decision! Art therapy is highly effective!” Her words float after me as I march into my bedroom to pull on more appropriate attire. I fling the Zenith Foundation letter on my bed and start getting ready.
Fuck this. Fuck all of this,I think.
“Oh! And I carried in another letter for you from our mailbox a few days ago!” Mariah says from the common space. “It’s on the kitchen counter.”
