“Whoever we choose will need to create multiple projects over the course of the year,” Kenneth says, tipping back in his chair. “We’re trying to take advantage of frequent mentions in the press and havemore opportunities for the public to talk about the mission and view the art. With more work, instead of just one at the end, the science and art can be an ongoing conversation.”
“How do we feel about the anonymity aspect?” Nick asks, his hands loosely clasped in front of him on the table.
Margie speaks first. “The way I see it, the anonymity is actually a draw. In articles aboutEntangled, besides the trash talk, people were intrigued by who the artist was. There’s a lot of chatter about it in various art forums. We’d have to figure out the logistics of how to work with the artist and protect her identity.”
“Managing this artist would be like running… a secret mission,” I say. I look over to see how the team reacts to this.
“Interesting! These are all stories we can play up,” Margie says, documenting my contribution.
I speak again. “Red String Girl teaming up with someone who works on a mission about the Red Planet.” I’m on a roll.
Nick grins. “Good one. We can work with that.”
I smile to myself. Maybe talking to the press won’t be so bad.
Margie flips to the last slide, detailing next steps.
“It sounds like Red String Girl is our first choice,” Kenneth says. “I’ll take this back to run by a couple more people and can let you know by the end of the week. Whoever we end up going with, I think it’s best that you make the call to the artist, Jackson. Kick things off as our mission liaison. Sound good?”
Margie, Nick, and I all nod in agreement. We say our good-byes, and Kenneth lets us know he’ll be sending out a recurring meeting invite.
Back at my desk, I exhale. A successful first meeting. I contributed about a topic other than FATE. Maybe I can do this after all. Maybe I’ll even… enjoy it?
I type Red String Girl’s website URL into my browser. There’s astring art animal portrait section highlighting nearly a dozen different pieces. I scroll past portraits of cats and dogs. Expected. The lower I go on the page, the animals become more varied. Dragons, pigs, penguins, and horses. They’re not like the string art kids make in grade school of suns and stars. This artist’s work is delicate. Detailed.
The light board behind the image is almost entirely covered in string. The nails are small and silver. They complement the string instead of drawing attention from it. If I stood back, the pieces would look like shaded pencil drawings. Or photographs. Up close, the zigzagging string around nails and silver dots tell a different story. If she’s this good with animals, she could probably do portraits of our astronauts and rockets. Maybe re-create some images from the James Webb Space Telescope.
Below each piece lists the materials used. Wood panel, brads, single red sewing thread. Each piece is made with one unbroken string.
In the order form on the website, the prices of each piece are shockingly reasonable for the level of quality. I surprise myself by placing an order. If she’s NASA’s newest artist-in-residence, one might call this an investment. I pause. Would this be considered insider art trading? I decide on commissioning a seahorse for Gong Gong’s birthday instead.
Also for research.
Chapter 11
ROONEY
How do you pronounce star A-N-I-S-E?” Mom asks from the kitchen of her apartment, enunciating each letter individually. Outside the windows of the living room, where Talia and I lounge, the upper half of Manhattan twinkles against the evening sky painted a shade of amber.
“Is this the lead-up to one of your inappropriate jokes?” I ask, taking a sip of my chrysanthemum and honeysuckle tea that I special-ordered from an herbalist who was very reassuring that the combination would help calm me.
Mom grunts. “Excuse me. I take my learning very seriously. Chinese tea eggs call for this spice in the recipe.”
“I say it like ‘a niece.’” I google the question on my phone. “The dictionary says it’s pronounced like ‘anne-niss,’ with an emphasis on the first syllable. Talia, how do you say it?”
Talia looks up from her laptop on the other end of the deep-seated emerald velvet sofa. “The first way, definitely.”
Mom monitors her boiling eggs. “If there’s no clear answer, I’ll pronounce it my way.”
“Please don’t,” I mumble, my eyes glued to the television in the living room.
A Chinese drama plays out on the screen. A woman diagnosed with an illness has just been asked to marry a rich businessman fora marriage of convenience. She’s confused why he’s chosen her of all people.
“Wèishéme shì wo?” I ask, repeating the one Mandarin line from the show I can actually recognize and understand. I pay attention to getting the tones right.
“Did you read that off the caption or did you know that one?” Talia asks, amazed.
“When she said it, I could understand!” I say excitedly.
