“Oh,” she says, low like a person opening a box with a label that reads DO NOT OPEN. “Well. That’s fast.”
“It’s not just fast,” I say. “It’s… a lot.”
“Walk me through,” she says. “How many numbers, how many traps?”
I give her the broad strokes. Stipend line. Studio line. Safety review line. Travel notice line. She interrupts only to translate theory into practice. “Safety review means we tell them where your stuff is going so they can move ropes and security and donors and their internal PR in case someone tries to make a scandal out of a painting,” she says. “Travel notice means theydon’t find out on Instagram that you went to Philly to see a show. Studio line means you’ll have a door with a badge. Stipend line means your landlord doesn’t get to write you an email with seventeen exclamation points this month.”
“And the NDAs?” I ask.
“Standard,” she says. “Except for the part where they broaden ‘programs’ to mean anything they might one day want to do. It’s how foundations avoid being embarrassed in newspapers. Which is also how abusers avoid being named.” She leaves the sentence where it lands. “Do you want me to bring this to a lawyer who hates men with money?”
“Yes,” I agree, because wanting help is not weakness and because wanting a lawyer is the only way to respond to a document that weighs more than any letter should.
“Copy,” she says. “I will bribe my cousin with dumplings and make him read it with hisI hate capitalism, but I love contractsface on. Deadline?”
“They didn’t give one,” I say. “That’s the trick. No deadline, but we all know saying nothing for a week looks like a no, and saying yes today reads like obedience.”
She hums. I can hear her picturing headlines and board rooms and the way donors lean in when they think they’ve purchased proximity. “Do you want it?” she asks finally. “The studio, the stipend, the levers—do you want it?”
“I want to work,” I say. “I want to pay rent. I want to paint without thinking about how many hours I can keep the heat on in January.” I look at the red spiral again. It looks back. “ But I don’t want to be a pawn. And this reads like being put on a board.”
“You’re already on a board,” she says gently. “You just proved you can move like a queen. Take the part that helps you move. Make them pay you for the privilege of doing the right thing. Put your terms in ink.”
“And if their terms are hidden,” I say.
“Then we find them,” she says. “We either cut them out or we light them on fire.”
“We’re not lighting anything on fire,” I say.
“Not literal fire,” she says. “Political fire. Instagram fire. The quiet kind where we let them think they almost made a decision and then we make it for them.”
I smile because she makes it sound easy. It isn’t. But the feeling helps. “Where are you,” I ask.
“On a sidewalk outside a noodle place, wishing I had three mouths,” she says. “Bring the contract. Bring your scary face. I’ll bring pens.”
“Give me an hour,” I say.
“Take two,” she says. “Sleep in one of them. Try. And… hey, Jonah?”
“Texted,” I say.
“And?”
“Vague,” I say. “Out of town, maybe. Something came up.”
“That’s not Jonah,” she says immediately. “He’s a verbal raccoon. He doesn’t know how to do maybe.”
“I know,” I say. “It reads like management.”
“By whom?” A pointless question considering we both know the answer.
“By whom?” I echo, because I’m not saying his name into the air like an incantation.
“Okay,” she says, her voice sharpening. “We’ll pull him in tomorrow. I’ll text his friend who owes me a favor and find out where he’s actually going. If he got lured away with a check, good for him. If he got redirected because someone doesn’t like his proximity to your face, I will turn into a wasp.”
“Be gentle,” I admonish. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Wasping will be tailored,” she says, then softens. “Eat. Shower. Breathe. Read. I’ll see you at two.”
