Mary Ellen sat back, shaking her head in small, trembling movements. “This is how you thank me?”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I’ve been telling you the truth.”
“So you’re saying this really is your place. These are your books; these are your clothes.” Ivy yanked the hem of the shirt she was wearing. “Those are your paintings in the basement.”
Mary Ellen rolled her lips between her teeth.
“See? See? You don’t even know about them. Because you didn’t paint them. They’re not yours.”
“Of course they’re mine,” Mary Ellen hissed, standing up and brushing invisible crumbs from her lap. “Of course they’re mine. I just…” She walked to the stairs, went down one step, and stopped. “Forgot.”
16
Mary Ellen hurried the rest of the way downstairs. It took her a couple of tries to find the basement door; there were two closets in that hallway, which was confusing. When she found the right door, she descended into the musty smell and flickering fluorescent light, pausing to lean against the railing at the bottom of the stairs.
Teenagers! What had made Rose turn so hostile? After Mary Ellen had been so thoughtful, so generous with her time and encouragement. She couldn’t believe the way the girl had tossed the journal aside, barely reading the inscription, not even pretending to be grateful. And then to accuse Mary Ellen of lying. What had set her off? She was just like Sydney and Shelby—on hair triggers, all of them! Had Mary Ellen been that way at that age? She honestly couldn’t remember.
She walked to the corner and lifted a sheet from the stack of medium-size canvases that were leaned against the wall. She picked up a painting: a grotesque still life, tampons spilling out of an antique vase, some maxi pads arranged in a fruit bowl. She studied the flat, poorly proportioned objects, the uncertain lighting, the overworked velvet drape.
She picked up another canvas, feeling her heart sink: a child pulling a gun out of a cereal box—his arm oddly bent, one eye higher than the other, the table slightly foreshortened. Another one: a Barbie doll clamped in a vise. Mary Ellen paddled through the stacks, impatiently scanning, searching for something she couldn’t name. Canvas after canvas revealed little more than a churlish contempt for traditional painting and some flippant swipes at contemporary culture—but no sign of Justine besides her meek initials, JMV, painted in one corner.
Mary Ellen backed away from the paintings and sat on the basement steps. It was hard not to feel cheated. Not by the realization that Justine was a terrible painter—that was useful, even touching, assuming Justine cared about something as uncool as technique. But Mary Ellen had been hoping to find something more substantial under that drape. Something to fill out the armature of Justine’s persona, to put a little flesh on the bone.
Mary Ellen could hear Justine scolding her for her childish notions about art. “I’m not interested in your insides,” she’d always said in class. “Self-expression is an elitist practice. I won’t allow you to penetrate me with your point of view.” And Mary Ellen got it—she really did. She’d read all the literature dismantling modernism and its self-centered, white male privilege; she understood the arguments against identity, individualism, authenticity. Reading about these ideas excited her—They were so counterintuitive! So full of bravado!—and when faced with a work of art, she normally reveled in the game of criticality. But now, here, in this flickering basement, she felt only disappointment. She wanted more. Not just from Justine as a person, but from art.
Mary Ellen rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. What was she doing? The whole idea that she could go off to the woods and become an artist was ridiculous. It was the kind of thing people did on reality shows—frumpy housewife turned supermodel! Homeless drug addict turned master chef! The myth of reinvention was etched so deeply into the culture that it resembled the very grain of life. But now Mary Ellen was beginning to see it for what it was: the foolish dreams of the teenage mind, acted out with costumes and scripts and two-dimensional scenery.
She stared glumly at Justine’s swiping brushstrokes. The paintings were too easy—that was what really bothered her. Jokey, tossed-off remarks, like an anonymous comment on the internet. Not that she was in any position to judge; the photos she’d just sent to Justine hadn’t even required conscious thought. Accidental photographs! She’d actually thought they were an artistic breakthrough. She’d actually thought they were good.
What was it her father always said? “Good things come to those who work their asses off.” She smiled, imagining him rolling his eyes at Justine’s pictures, at the very idea of turning one’s back on talent, skill, beauty, truth. He’d probably take the opportunity to bring up the tumultuous career of his beloved John James Audubon, a favorite happy hour topic. He was the real thing, that one. Never let anything get in his way. Did you know rats ate all of his drawings, forcing him to start over? Rats!
Justine, on the other hand, seemed to feel that an artist could be cobbled together by anyone with the right nuts and bolts—the right buzz, connections, contempt for sincerity, demographic disadvantage, friends at BOMB. She was wrong, of course—the proof of that was piled against the basement wall. And yet, for some reason, she seemed determined to apply her formula to Mary Ellen.
Mary Ellen still couldn’t fathom what that reason could be. Her memory of that night on the roof deck was fuzzy, but she knew she’d put the question to Justine at one point. Justine had said she wasn’t in it for any sort of commission; she just wanted to help. And she’d said something about people thinking she was washed up, since she’d been fired from that fancy art school. “Justine never does anything just to be nice.” Hadn’t someone told Mary Ellen that at
