I could go for that. Four weeks on an island… a bunch of hot people doing hot people stuff. However, my 5’8 averagely un-exercised body, self-induced crisis curtain bangs, and wide-framed glasses, don’texactlymake me their ideal candidate. I’m fairly certain all of those women have at least six pairs of matching bra and underwear sets in all the same (and properly fitting) size. They also all have gym memberships and pay to have their teeth whitened and hair highlighted.
All power to them, they look incredible and I love to watch. That’s just not me.
Clara could be on a show like that, actually. She has a petite, toned frame and perfectly styled blonde hair. Nice teeth too. The prettiest eyes I think I’ve ever seen. The twinkling kind, like she’s constantly wowed by everything around her.
Oop. Been a while since I had to remind myself not to think about Clarathatway. Or straight women in general really. No, we haven’t pulledthatfamiliar reminder out since college around the “bi-curious” girls who are often “bi… for their boyfriends who watched a certain type of porn and wanted to see their girlfriend make out with me.”
For a while—and by awhileI mean seven troublesome years of my adolescence—Clara was my best friend most of the time and, sometimes consecutively, my unachievable, dream girl. I’d like to chalk it up to the fact that it was a small town, she was my closest friend, and my little-baby-queer-heart didn’t have many options… but that’d be a lie. Clara was special.Isspecial. She’s a mosaic of a person. So many differing, unique elements that create one perfect thing. A little bit chaotic and a whole lot of mess involved—but beautiful all the same.
But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s not interested in women. Sure, maybe a teeny lingering of a crush will always remain—because it was my first—but that’s all it’ll ever be and I’m completely fine with it. Our friendship is incredibly important to me. For many reasons, but one being that Clara’s my last remaining piece of home.
And with that sobering thought, I get a pom-pom to the face thrown by Talia.
“Ms. Paul… focus up!” she berates me.
I grumble, reaching for my needle and thread. “Don’t throw things.”
“Watch how you talk to my girlfriend,” Jacob pipes up.
I shut him down with a withering stare. “Cool it, loverboy. This is still my classroom.”
Chapter Three
Clara
So, honestly, my first day isn’t going the way I expected it to. For starters, I don’t have a desk. I have a clipboard with a pen on a string and a belt clip for a phone. Apparently, Loretta likes to beable to move where the moment takes heranddesks keep creativity sitting.I should have worn more comfortable shoes.
Everyone who works here is dressed like they just left a very chic funeral where they may or may not have been responsible for the wealthy deceased’s life coming to an untimely end. All black, all designer, all intimidating.
I’m in a brown plaid suit jacket that I thrifted and had my roommate Jen tailor to fit me, an emerald green blouse, and ripped jeans. This shit wasthe lookin my graduate program. Professional aloof. I’ve apparently missed the trends change since leaving Toronto for five months and now the look is rich, gothic vampire.
I’ll have to go shopping.
Loretta has been pacing back and forth in an entirely glass-panelled meeting room above the main gallery space for three hours. It looks out over the exhibition below and is the only enclosed room I’ve yet to see. She’s alone with nothing in her hands or on her person, except for the matches and cigarette she pulled out of her pocket at one point—which may have actually been a joint based on the faint smell wafting around the hallway.
I was simply instructed to wait for her to exit the room by the previous year’s assistant turned guest gallerist, Heather. She told me sternly that under no circumstances am I allowed to go in. If the phone rings, answer it. Two words only.Hello. DebuTaunt.That’s it.
“We do not ask how people are. We do not ask the reason for their call. We don’t waste time,” Heather said, picking lint offmyshoulder.
I nodded and asked where the staff’s bathroom was. She pointed with a limp wrist, not looking up from her phone. I’ve still not found it and honestly, I’ll probably never ask again. I may be in over my head here. Just as I’m about to do a lap to see if I can spot a door that vaguely resembles a bathroom entrance, Loretta stills.
Likecompletelystills. As if some grand maestro held his conductor’s baton mid-air as she was halfway through another step back towards the opposite wall.
She then swiftly exits the room, throwing the door open like she doesn’t know her own strength. I take a step back, and almost fall, as she approaches me. Loretta's six-foot, wafer-thin frame floats towards me with black fabric ribbons off her dress drifting behind her like ink in water.
“Clara.” She stops, closer to me than I'd have expected. The corner of her eyes are wrinkled with age and affection. I breathe for the first time in at least a full minute.
“Hi, Loretta. Hi. It’s such a pleasure to—”
“You were chosen, Clara,” she says, interrupting me. “Own that. No more thank yous or platitudes. We’re colleagues now, dear.” She rolls up the sleeves of her dress, revealing the dark brown skin of her forearms, frail and thin, then pats her chin with a curled index finger. “You were the one with the obituary exhibition, yes?”
“Y-y-yes,” I stutter, then clear my throat. “Yes, I was.” My senior thesis right before graduation was shown in the Museum of Contemporary Art not far from here. Six photographs in which I played with light and old film reels to meld together the model’s haunted expressions with the photo they thought would be used at their funeral, if they’d suddenly passed.
“It was excellent.”
I’m sweating, I can feel it pooling above my upper lip. “Thank you.”
She raises a brow in a jestful warning but I ponder what I’m supposed to say ifnotthank you?I knowis arrogant… “It performed well.” Is what I come up with. Pretentious as hell, but alas.
