“Hiiii,” she sang.
“Hi!!!” I squeaked.
Milan slid me a look that said,Bitch, I didn’t even know your voice could go that high, then offered Nia a polite smile. A girl in an olive trench coat grabbed Nia’s elbow and proceeded to shower her with praise. Nia squeezed her hand (“OhmyGod, no, thanks for coming”). The girl madea joke and Nia laughed, her head tipping back. I had a perverse urge to finger the ripples of her throat. Then Nia remembered us and said, “Do you guys want snacks?”
Before we could respond, she looped an arm through mine, ushering us toward the refreshments table. I wondered if she was being especially attentive to me or if she was this involved with the other showcase-comers: passing them tiny plates, pouring them warm wine in plastic cups. The thought that it might be the former sent a current of electricity through me.
Nia downed her wine quickly. “I’m about to speak. I’m glad you came, guys. Oh! And find me before you leave, Cat. I want to talk about that portrait.” She touched my collarbone, somewhat gratuitously, I thought, then walked away.
Milan said, “What was that?”
“What?”
She looked at me like I was an idiot. “This woman’s out here caressing your collarbone and shit.”
“She’s just being nice. I mean we’re, like, sort of on the way to becoming friends.”
“Bwahaha, okay, friends, right, right, right.”
I ignored her. A few feet away, someone was bent over hooking up a microphone. I knew it was Tristan from the gentle scoliotic curve of his spine. He rose from his crouch and said something to Nia. She went toward him. Her back was to us, straight as an iron rod. I hunched over the table like Quasimodo hoarding cheese cubes, trying not to watch them. Tristan nodded as she spoke. Suddenly, his eyes fastened onto mine before dropping to Nia’s mouth again. I started to sweat. They looked beautiful together.
Tristan untangled the mic and passed it to Nia. She stood at the front, dramatically kicking her foot over the cord, laughing self-consciously, but it was bound in ropes of confidence. The room laughed along. You could tell everyone loved her.
“Thanks for being here. Seriously, there are so many great studios tonight and I’m glad you stopped in mine. I hope if you have time you’ll see the others.”
Tristan leaned against a stool in the corner. His eyes caught mine a few times, but mostly his attention stayed on Nia.
“I’m calling this seriesOff Our Backs. I came up with the idea last fall? And conducted most of the interviews in the spring and summer? I wanted to paint portraits not based on the physical presence of these women and people with vulvas but based on their voices. I gave myself limitations, like everything had to be communicated with their expressions: The entire story had to exist there.
“A few things before I shut up. All these portraits are for sale and the proceeds will go to the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund. We also have scripts for you to take home if you’re interested in calling your representative to demand a ceasefire. I’m also happy to announce that West Bank writer Nour Nabulsi will be in conversation with Professor Ford in March. And PLEASE take some cheese or I’ll eat it all.”
As soon as she set down the microphone, people swarmed her. Envy flickered through me, all those people there for her artwork, willing to pay money for it. I’d never made money from anything I’d written, but that fact felt more mutable than ever now. Milan’s script had inspired me. I was playing around with my parents’ story, dabbling in a different form. I’d moved closer to a new understanding of what I was trying to do than I had in months.
Milan said she was going to the bathroom, which was code for calling Ryen. I was shoving another cheese cube in my mouth when Tristan appeared beside me.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“She invited me, remember?”
I thought he might be upset, but then he said, “It’s amazing, right?”
“Genius.” I hoped that hadn’t sounded sour.
He nodded, seeming in a slight haze.
I cradled my empty cup. “I’m gonna get some more wine.”
He stuttered, “I’ll c-come with you.”
Tristan uncorked a new bottle and refilled my cup. I hated how each time we interacted it was like our video game characters had died and we were starting from level one.
“What does she have to do with Palestine?” I blurted. What I wanted to ask was how did she know what to do? Why was she convinced she had any power to change what would not change?
“She co-leads the student group here.”
“That’s cool.”
He slipped an olive into his mouth. I watched it travel down his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Nia’s laugh ballooned, full of air and shine, from across the room. We locked eyes. She smiled, almost teasing, then turned away. A new awareness bloomed inside me; just as I could locate Tristan’s spine bent over in a crowd, I could root out Nia’s laugh anywhere. Glassy, tinkling. A sound I wanted to draw around me like a shawl. I was going to let her paint me. The thought made me a bit delirious.
