“We missed you!” Talia says.
“You’re here now. That’s what matters,” I say.
“Nice of you to help out, Talia. Slow gallery day?” Mom asks.
“My business partner, Isla, is in town and managing the gallery while I’m here. I couldn’t miss this huge moment for Red String Girl,” Talia says, lifting her dark eyebrows in my direction.
My chest tightens with hope. Being able to present my work in such a public way is more than I could’ve dreamed of.
“Oh! Wren.” Talia reaches for Mom’s arm and squeezes. “I got the inside scoop that one of your pieces is going up for sale soon.”
I practically leap at Talia. “Which one is it?”
Talia steadies me. “Sorry, Roo, it’s not the one you’re looking for.”
“Perfect. Another one of my pieces trading hands, and I’ll never see another cent for it,” Mom grumbles. “You’re still trying to findBaby Being Born?”
“Well, if you still don’t care to buy back the video of my birth, then it’s up to me.” I turn to Talia. “You haven’t heard anything about it at all?”
Talia’s head swivels as she watches a man walk by while strumming a guitar with his gloves still on. “I’m keeping my ears to the ground,” she says, refocusing on me. “I ask around periodically, but you know that the buyers are anonymous. If it ever does go up for sale, we’ll at least know a couple of months ahead of time while they validate the authenticity.”
“Oh, it’s one of a kind, and it’s real, baby,” Mom says.
Talia peers into her purse. “You have the permits, right, Rooney? I also emailed you a copy.”
“Permits. How by the book of you,” Mom mutters. “I think you could’ve made a bigger statement without permits, but to each her own.”
“You want me to start doing work without permitsandshare my name publicly?” I say with a laugh. “Are you personally trying to send me to prison?”
Mom’s eyes widen, and she laughs. “Prison? Don’t cause permanent damage to anything, and you’ll be fine. It’s those moments that lead to attention. And attention leads to paid shows. And you know what paid shows get you? Your own apartment. Just saying!”
Talia looks between us wearing an amused expression. “Wren, you must come with us to the Lantern Festival party tonight. You’d be a hit. The person who invited me said it’s BYOWAF. Bring Your Own Wine and Friends.”
“I’m not a showpiece, and I’ve learned long ago that it’s not worth my time when I’m fifth in line to the throne of a party, especially when you have to bring your own alcohol,” Mom says with a grunt.
Talia, the Queen of Multitasking, taps into her phone. “If you change your mind, let us know. It’d be nice to have more familiar faces there,” she says as she looks past my shoulder. “I’m being called over. Be back in a few for those Fate Notes.”
“Great! I’ll get these ready for you.” I lift the box lid, revealing the final pieces of the installation puzzle. The important element that makes my creation fulfill its purpose. I hold up a freshly printed Fate Note the size of a postcard from the pile.
“What the hell’s a lophole?” Mom asks, eyeing the paper in my hand.
My heart stops. “It’s supposed to be loophole!” I scan the cards, confirming that they’ve all been misprinted. “Okay, this is no big deal. It doesn’t match the first batch people have been using, but it’s fine. It’s open-ended, interpretive. A reaction from… something. Honestly, it fits the string theory aspect of the installation well!”
Mom raises her eyebrows. “Your optimism and can-do attitudeare admirable, truly, but you can’t be fine with this. They messed up your vision. They should fix it for free.”
“It’s really okay,” I say. “But they were supposed to be waterproof.”
“This is your work. You’re a professional.” Mom rubs the Fate Note between her fingers. “You’re justifying someone else’s error.”
“If Christo and Jeanne-Claude can doThe Gatesin February in Central Park, I can doEntangledin February in Washington Square Park.” I quickly problem-solve. “I’ll swing by to see if they can reprint these quickly. If not—”
“Then maybe it was meant to be?” Mom says, amused.
“Smirk all you want, Mother,” I say, “but all threads lead to you.”
“Ah,” Mom says, “there it is. The Red Thread of Fate.”
“Let’s not forget that you’re the one who taught me about it,” I say, lifting my eyebrows at her.
