The man pauses, looking over at me and then over to his boss.
“What are you doing? What’s going on?” I ask, looking at Mom and Talia as they run up behind me.
“Are you the artist?” a man with a hard hat and a clipboard asks. The name written in marker on his vest reads Bill.
“I… work for the artist. I’m her assistant,” I lie. “We’ve been here all week. There’s no opening ceremony necessary.”
“Ceremony? We’re not here for a ceremony,” Bill says, lifting his own pair of shears. “These are Closing Down Scissors.”
“Whoa! Bill, let’s just talk this out,” I say, panicking. “This is RedString Girl’s big moment. She worked really hard for this. People haven’t been able to fully appreciateEntangled.”
“Well, tell Red String Whatever we’re real sorry, but no can do. The city told us to shut this down,” Bill says.
Talia holds her hands up. “Why? We have permits for the next couple of months. You can’t do this.”
“A woman does something great, and then a man has to tear it down,” Mom mutters. “You better be refunding us for the time and cost of materials.”
Bill shrugs. “My hands are tied. It’s an order coming from the top. We’ve got complaints about people lounging in the string like a hammock, drying their clothes, and using this as a garbage net. There’s a strange smell coming from that part over there, and this definitely isn’t pigeon-proof.”
I shake my head. “Wait. So that man really was about to make a cut? This is art!”
Bill holds up his hands to the man with the scissors to stop him. “The permits are revocable if what you’re doing becomes a public nuisance or a health hazard. This is clearly both. I got environmentalists calling me about red string and trash in the park. All I know is they’re worried that, when the snow melts, the water will be contaminated. I also can’t have pigeons or squirrels or, Heaven forbid, humans, eating rotten leftovers and getting sick on my watch. I’m not going down that way.”
I’m starting to feel light-headed. “Why punish us and not the litterers? This installation is clearly not for the disposing of goods! Go tellthemto stop!”
Bill adjusts his face into something that looks slightly apologetic. “Sorry, miss.” He gestures scissor fingers to his crew as their signal to destroy my dreams.
With just a few snips, the entire installation will collapse. Wewatch, horrified, as the first cut is made onEntangled. The lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow. I don’t want to cry here in front of everyone like this, so I hold back my tears by taking deep breaths.
I can’t look at this monstrosity. I force my eyes shut and hum “My Favorite Things” to myself, changing the lyrics to match my own favorite things. But it’s not fresh snowflakes falling or matcha ice cream or kittens dressed up in tiny, knitted sweaters that I imagine. Instead, it’s Jack’s face that flashes into my mind. I can clearly see the bottom of his lower lip with its centimeter-long scar, a pale white line in the shape of a crescent moon. My heartbeat slows, his imaginary presence slightly calming me.
“If the artist thing doesn’t work out, you have a future in waste management,” Mom says, patting my back. I know she’s trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t help. I keep Jack’s face steady in my mind, something stable to hold on to.
As the string drapes down over itself, I realize I haven’t taken a Fate Note of my own yet. It can serve as a reminder that my installation really existed at one point.
I quickly reach for the nearest note before it’s too late. The string has gone slack, the notes—and all the garbage—falling with it.
The paper in my hand feels glossy and textured with wrinkles. I read the back of the note with the words of yet another person not taking my installation seriously. I tuck the note into my bag and stare one last time at my pride and joy.
I’m subject to the same fate of those before me. Good-bye, Washington Square Park.
Chapter 4
ROONEY
The Lantern Festival party is already in full swing by the time I arrive. I text Talia in the elevator to let her know I’m on my way up. She rushes to greet me at the door with a glass of Cabernet. “I’m glad you were still able to make it.”
I put on a happy face. “Of course I made it. It’s the Lantern Festival. It hasn’t been the best start to the Lunar New Year, but we’re two weeks in. There’s still a lot of year left.”
The host’s gently restored Upper West Side apartment is two times the size of Mom’s. No wonder their parties have such a good reputation. The beautifully designed space is filled to the corners with guests, everyone chatting like they know each other even though, by the sound of it, we’re all friends of friends of coworkers.
The apartment glows with sparkling string lights draped from the ceilings, red paper globe lights, and gold party streamers. In the living room, people sip wine, mingle in front of built-in bookshelves, and switch out records on the turntable. I stay close to the peacock blue walls, analyzing the host’s choice of art.
I admire an enameled pear-shaped vase with a pine tree and colorful clouds painted around it. “That one’s from the Yongzheng period in the 1700s,” Talia says, checking out the piece. “It’s probably worth six figures.”
My eyes pop at the number. “It’s beautiful. Amazing what artstands the test of time.” I frown. “What does it mean if this delicate vase survived a few hundred years, and my installation couldn’t even last a week?”
Talia takes a sip of her own wine before wrapping her arms around my shoulders. “This damn city.”
