Room 111
Omg, I remember thinking,does that meanhe’s looking for his next muse? Of course he calls them collaborators—it was the thirsty netizens who had dubbed them muses. Devo hadn’t named the series, the audience had.
The Present
Mariah left me in our common space about fifteen minutes ago to meet an early bedtime. She holds 8:00 AM office hours on Mondays as a TA for Psych 101. Her parting words to me were, “Don’t stay up too late”—paired with a pointed stare at theenvelope in my hand. In other words,stop overthinking it, Charlotte.
I fan my face with Devo’s unopened letter as I look out the window over my desk. The moon is bright—she's in her waxing phase, and almost full. There’s not a star in sight, thanks to the light pollution escaping from the bustling metropolis that is New York City. My skin is heated, but when I put my fingertips to the window, I can feel the chill and the glass fogs.
How would Devo respond to my offer? Would he let me down gently? Would he be cruel? I get up to pace again, taking deep breaths. I pour more wine. What if he accepts? Do I just arch my back against a wall and smile?
I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, halting my movement. Despite being a part-time artist myself, and therefore keeping the company of many over-the-top and eccentric people, I see myself as more reserved. How had I gotten myself into this position? But here I am, going over my written offer in my head yet again.
Devo:I’ll be looking for a collaborator in Brooklyn. Know anyone available?
Charlotte:I volunteer. But what’s in it for me?
It was the shortest note I’d ever sent. I hadn’t even been sure it was worth the postage.
I roll my eyes as I remember sending those words. As if “a million girls wouldn’t kill for this job,” like Stanley Tucci says in one of my favorite movies…
You know what?
That’s what I’ll do to distract myself from whatever this letter says. I’ll watchThe Devil Wears Prada.
Finally, I set my glass down and slip my fingertip under the envelope’s flap. I ease open the paper and withdraw the letter inside. My eyes dart to Devo’s even shorter response: “I’ll see you in Brooklyn.”
Oh God.I set the letter down on my chippedcoffee table with trembling fingers.Does that mean—I bite my lip—does that mean he accepts??I don’t know. My mind is going in circles.
I settle onto the couch with the last of my wine and prepare to get lost in someone else’s world and choices. Plus, Devo’s last letter came from Pennsylvania. I have time to mull over rescinding the offer.
Chapter Two
MCARTHUR’S
Monday is going by in stops and starts, as Mondays often do. I’d gotten sucked into a painting starting early this morning—it features a girl walking out of a swirling mist. I don’t know where the initial image came from, but I hadn’t been able to stop adding to the canvas. I’ve been feeling creatively stifled lately, so when I was overcome with the urge to paint this girl, I focused in and blocked out everything else—even thoughts of my steadily paying job.
When I see the time, I nearly throw my paintbrushes across the studio and sprint the five blocks from the Copper Works Collective to catch the G train to Williamsburg. Six months ago, I’d gotten a job as a social media “consultant” for an up-and-coming influencer. Harper has wealthy parents, cash to burn and the body of a model. She’d hired me because she wanted an “artist’s” eye and had likely found me from the little notoriety the Zenith Award had bestowed on me last year. You’d think it would be an easy job. Unfortunately… catering to the rich and wannabe famous has its ways of wearing you down.
By the time I finish taking pictures of her from every. possible. angle—walking down the street, the sidewalk, up the subway stairs, down strangers’ brownstone steps, even with a forkful ofsalad in front of her parted pink lips—it’s dusk. I take a deep breath and force a smile.
“There are definitely some gems in there!” I tell her. She looks relieved, pats my arm and kisses the side of my head.
“You’re the best, Char! 50,000 more followers by the end of November, that’s the goal!” She trusts me so much sometimes it frightens me, so I try not to steer her wrong. I tell her I’ll narrow down the photos to her best options and she can decide which we post tomorrow. I’m brain-dead by the time I leave, but I also have $300 more in my bank account, so I can’t complain.
I could go home now, but the painting I'd started this morning is eating at me. I want to start adding more details to the girl in the mist. Is she confused to be leaving the enveloping cloak around her, or is she purposefully exiting it? I’m of two minds about it. I won’t know until I start painting in her features. Sometimes the brush has a mind of its own.
Normally at this time of night, most folks from the Collective have left for the day. Those that remain often end up getting swept into a small crusade by our fellow studio member, Alex, to go out and grab drinks. So, I’m not too surprised when I open the door to Copper Works and see what looks like a gathering crowd.
However, upon further inspection, the group does seem a little more enthusiastic than normal. Eyebrows raised, I meander over. Before I can get too close, a hand shoots out from the dense circle and shouts, “Ok everyone! Let’s get moving before I grow old, here! Vámonos! To McArthur’s!”
McArthur’s is a popular Irish pub a couple blocks down. The crowd starts to move toward the door, and thus toward me. The person who’d shot his hand up and rallied the crowd is indeed Alex, a corny yet charismatic sculptor, and the unofficial leader of Copper Works at the moment. At least our social leader. He sees me standing to the side of the group and walks over to put his arm around me. “You coming, Charlotte?”
I hesitate and don’t take a step forward with him. My eyesshoot over to where my canvas is still set up in my typical corner. “Ah, you can finish mystery girl later!” he says. “We have a special guest tonight!” He points a few folks ahead to a tall male figure with light brown hair above the corduroy collar of a jean jacket. A girl with tumbling blonde hair is practically clinging to him on their way out the building. Daisy. She’s a decent painter, but… she would flirt with a wall. She keeps looking up at the guy with the corduroy collar then tossing her head back and laughing. What could be so funny? Is he some kind of comedian?
“Come on!” Alex tugs at my arm again. “Just one pint, eh?”
Alex is from England, where pub culture is key to the daily unwind. Or so he tells everyone.
