“Created something that lasts. A legacy.”
“I love the ambition, but legacies can easily come from something negative, too. I am sorry about that, by the way. Whatassholes.” She shakes her head in disgust. “And now you and all the other employees there have to deal with the damage from their decisions.”
“I’m avoiding the headlines, but…” My jaw clenches. “Last I read, some people think I must have known.”
“Did you?”
“No, fuck, absolutely not.”
I should have, though, and plenty of investigative journalists out there have claimed the same. That’s why I asked Daisy not to look anything up, because I didn’t know what she’d find. What began with environmental concerns over Impressions’s massive set designs being quietly dumped into landfills, quickly escalated into sexual harassment claims against the CEO, who I worked closely with as the curator.
If I wanted a legacy, I got one.
“Not many people in the art world missed that headline,” Eleanor says. “I can reason with Tate, but the teaching thing could be the perfect CV palate cleanser.”
I rest my elbows on the table, my forehead in my palms. The server arrives with our food: elegant nests of pasta and a dazzlingly fresh caprese salad. Everything looks delicious, but I’ve got no appetite.
“Who knows?” Eleanor ferries some vibrant tomatoes and mozzarella to her plate. “Next month, some museum will have protesters gluing themselves to a Monet for world peace, and this will be old news. You’re getting unfairly dragged, but people will eventually come around. You should consider doing something of your own, too.”
“Like a self-imposed project?” Sparks of creativity are already crackling inside me at the suggestion.
“Mhmm. You can’t go wrong with the teaching gig—it’s respectable. But a little extra initiative can’t hurt. If it doesn’t go anywhere, you’ll still have the teaching job on your resume. Butif it’s a success, you’d no doubt shed the shadow of Impressions and stand on your own.”
That makes my ears perk up. If I’m serious about Tate, I need to do everything I can to become a top candidate—not just teaching, but also something of my own. If I want to create something extraordinary, though, I’ll need a small team. After what happened at my last job, I’m pretty sure I will only ever go into business with someone I already know and trust, which makes things tricky. Not to mention the budget—although I’ve curated shows of all sizes around the world, the financial side has always eluded me. Other than selecting and working with artists, I’m inexperienced in managing a project on my own.
I chew the inside of my lip, considering the possibilities, the responsibilities, and the nonzero chance of fucking things up further.
“Don’t look so worried,” Eleanor says, resting a hand on my shoulder and plucking me out of my spiraling thoughts. “People have emerged from worse situations than this. And when people want to figure out their shit, they often go somewhere remote. Somewhere…desert-y.”
Rubbing my temples, I wish with all my might she were wrong.
“I’m just saying,” she says, raising her hands in a defensive gesture. “Whether you drop acid or not, that’s up to you. But there are worse places to land.”
My little sister, Ava, walks with me down a concrete hall glowing with fluorescent lights. Save for Sal, she’s the only person who seems happy I’m back.
And maybe Daisy, although the verdict’s still out.
When I open the sliding door to the storage unit, I immediately wish I hadn’t gone full teenager mode and angrily promised my parents I’d clean this whole thing out tonight.
“How’s this even gonna fit in the car?” she asks.
“We can do more than one trip.” My reassurance is as much for me as for her. With the number of boxes and the amount of furniture in here, we’ll be making trips all night.
When I went to college, I didn’t make a plan for my bed, dressers, desk, clothes, art projects, or anything else in my room. I moved to Dublin with two checked bags and a dream, and I left the rest here. It’s my “mess,” as my dad called it when I got back from lunch with Eleanor—my memories, my childhood—and he and my mom want it gone. Not to save money, because they probably get a deal on the multiple units they rent, but because they want to teach me a lesson. Nothing highlights my failure more than emptying this room and having nowhere to put my stuff.
Since renting a unit as an unemployed transient doesn’t make sense, I’ll have to avoid sentimentality and donate a lot, leaving me with only the most important items.
“Any of your friends have a truck?” I ask. My car—myparent’scar, which only adds insult to injury—can only hold so much.
Ava taps her chin, and her eyes light up. Seeing her so grown-up underscores how much can change in less than a decade. My first few years away, we didn’t stay in touch too well—she was only eight when I left. But once she turned thirteen and had her own phone, I ventured into Snapchat territory, and we’ve become close. I’m selfishly relieved that she wants to follow my parents’ footsteps into law so I don’t have to worry about her struggling with them the way I always have.
“Actually, yeah, I do know someone.” Ava pulls out her cell, and her thumbs fly over the screen. That’s another bit of good news since my talk with Eleanor today. Depending on the size of the truck, we could do this in one go.
“Tell them I’ll buy them pizza or something.”
“Cool. Daze’ll be right over.”
“Daisy?”
