Complementary Colors (12 page)

I left and didn’t look back.

Julia waited for me in the limo.

“You took long enough.” She dropped a compact in her purse and attacked the top button of my shirt. “At least you dressed decent.”

“It’s too tight like that.”

She slapped my hands away. “Too bad.”

Would she feel that way if I suffocated live on TV?

Julia tapped the tinted partition, and the driver pulled into the street. High-end apartment buildings gave way to skyscrapers and traffic. A group of homeless men sat on a street corner picking guitars.

I bet no one made them wear their shirts buttoned up so they would choke.

Julia kicked me in the shin.

“What?”

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Obviously not.”

“This interview is important. Allen Rock only invites a select few on his show. Millions will be watching. With international attention, the value of your works could double. But you’re only going to get one chance, so don’t fuck this up.”

“I don’t need more attention.”

“More attention means more money for your work.”

“I don’t need any more money either.”

She glared. “I’m serious.”

“Christ, Julia, you’re rich. Alice is rich. Why do you need more? You buy everything you want, and it’s not like you can take it with you.”

“It’s not just about the money.”

“Well then, I don’t want the fame.”

Her gaze slid away, and she shifted in her seat.

“I see. Are you hoping you’ll get your face in Time Magazine or People?”

Julia flicked her hair off her shoulder. “Just remember to keep quiet.”

“I thought this was an interview.”

“It is.”

“Then I can’t keep quiet.”

“Then don’t say anything without my okay.”

I flopped back against the seat. “How about I go back to the apartment and help Alice do laundry and you do the interview?”

“The housekeeper does the laundry.”

“Okay, I’ll help Alice alphabetize all those Tupperware containers in the fridge.”

Julia flashed her teeth. “You’re doing the interview.”

Of course, I was. I was a puppet, and Julia held my strings.

“Don’t pout.” Julia put her hand my knee. I wanted to shove it off, but she’d probably bust my lip, then we wouldn’t be able to go on the air. I didn’t even want to imagine the extent of her wrath that would unleash.

“I’m not pouting. I’m angry.”

“And what on earth do you have to be angry about?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Is this about that homeless man you brought to the apartment?”

“Homeless? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Him…that guy.”

“Roy?”

“Whatever his name is.”

“What does Roy have to do with any of this?”

“I thought you might be mad that I don’t approve of you seeing him. It’s for your own good, you know.”

“I’m not…Roy has nothing to do with this.”

“Then why are you upset?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” No, of course it wasn’t. Not to her. I took a breath. “What will it take to make you quit punishing me?”

“There’s nothing you can give me to make up for what you did.”

“Why is it my fault?” I didn’t ask to be born. “Just tell me that.”

“I have.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“We’re not having this discussion right now.” She smoothed out her skirt.

“Then when will we have it? When will you tell me what I did wrong?”

Her glare cut right through me. “You teased him, Paris. You taunted him. You knew he was weak, and you all but threw yourself at him. He was fine till you came along.”

“I was a kid.” I rested my head against the window.

“That doesn’t excuse your actions. You practically put the gun to Daddy’s head and pulled the trigger.”

She had remorse for Harrison, but never for the boy. “What if I sign everything over to you and just walk away.”

“That won’t work, and you know it.”

“Then how about I just walk away. You can keep the money, I don’t want it.” I just want to be free. I massaged my forehead.

“Headache?”

“No.”

She dug around in her purse. “I think I have some aspirin.”

“I don’t want any aspirin. I’m fine.”

“You don’t act fine.” She pulled out a bottle.

I slapped it away. “I told you I don’t want any.”

“What is your problem today?”

“You.” I growled out my frustrations behind clenched teeth. “You’re my problem, Julia. You’re always my problem. Every day. Every hour.” I slammed my hand against the seat. “You. You. You.”

Her expression hardened. “I’m concerned about you, Paris. Perhaps I should call Dr. Mason and make you an appointment?”

Ice-cold nausea gripped my insides. “I don’t need to see Dr. Mason. And you know it.”

“I don’t know. You sound awfully distressed. And since I am your legal guardian, it is my responsibility to make sure you’re not a danger to yourself…or others.” She smirked.

“If you dope me up and lock me away, I won’t be able to paint.”

“I can request he try alternative treatments so we could forgo the medications. And you can paint in any sized room. With or without windows.”

“Yeah, and what if I decide not to paint? Put me in a hole, and I’ll have no reason to.”

She huffed. “I’d think you’d be more grateful.”

“For what?”

“For everything I’ve done for you. Everything I’ve sacrificed.”

“Done for me? You haven’t done anything for me.”

“Really? If it wasn’t for me, you would’ve been living in a state facility for juvenile delinquents. But instead of letting the police lock you up, I made sure they could never touch you.”

It wasn’t kindness; she was just afraid I’d tell. And I would have. I tried. But Dr. Mason convinced them the shock of finding my father with his brains splattered all over my bedroom damaged me in a way that skewed my perception of reality.

I wish I could have disputed the claim. He was just wrong about the reason.

I slid deeper into the seat. My next inhale tasted of dust and ammonia. The sensation of spider webs caressed my cheek. Nothing was there.

Julia dug around in her purse. She took out a small clear bag of white powder. “Here.”

I took it. “Coke?”

“The last thing you need is to be hyped up. It’s X.” She handed me a glass straw.

“You want me to snort it out of the bag?”

“No. I want you to put it in your pocket. Then when we get to the studio, discreetly excuse yourself to the bathroom. You can do it in there. And don’t you dare do more than one line.”

“I don’t want to.” I tried to hand it back to her.

She sank her nails into my wrist. “You will take it.”

“Why?”

“Because the public doesn’t want to watch the nervous ramblings of a crazy person.”

“Don’t worry. I have no intentions of carrying on a conversation with Jesus.”

Her grip tightened. I refused to acknowledge it.

“This is important.”

“You already said that ten times.”

“Then act like it.”

I put the baggy in my pocket.

Julia smiled at me. “Thank you.”

“You’re not welcome.”

“Are we going to play this game all day?”

“Try for the rest of my life.”

“You are such a child.”

I was. And I didn’t care.

“I’ll tell you what,” Julia said. “To make things up to you, I’ll treat to lunch after the interview.”

“Yay.”

“I’ll even take you to that restaurant you like. The one with the green-striped awning. What’s it called?”

“I don’t remember.” Cold seeped from behind the window, giving me some relief from the throbbing in my head.

“Maybe Mr. Rock will be so impressed he’ll insist on joining us.” She smoothed out her skirt again. “If he does, we’ll have to eat somewhere else.”

“Of course, we will.”

“It’s important we make a good impression.”

“Absolutely.”

“When we get there, don’t hurry to get inside, or you’ll seem desperate.”

“Wouldn’t want that.”

“I hope Richard remembered to wrap the painting.”

I looked at her. “What painting?”

“The one I brought for the interview.”

“But everything I have finished is at the gallery.”

“It’s the one you had on the drying rack.”

The one on the drying rack? I didn’t have any on the…

The Kiss.

“That piece is mine.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t know.”

“That’s exactly why you’re not supposed to go rifling through my studio.”

“I told you I needed one for the interview. And it wasn’t like I could have taken one out of the gallery. It would have unbalanced the entire display. What do you want it for anyhow? You’re not going to do anything with it.”

“That’s not the point. Some paintings are mine and mine alone.”

“Why? All you do is stuff them in that storage room where no one can see them.”

“I don’t want anyone to see them.” I plucked at the hairs on the back of my head.

“Quit that, or you’ll make bald spots.” Julia checked for damage. Satisfied, she combed through my bangs until they swept down my forehead and across my cheek. “Besides, a piece like that would never sell in the gallery.”

“Doesn’t matter because it’s not for sale.”

“Of course, it’s for sale. All your work is for sale.”

I dug my fingers into my thighs. “No. They’re not.”

“Don’t be so obstinate. You can make another one.”

“I can’t just
make
another one.”

“Well then, don’t get so attached. Selling art is your livelihood, remember? If you don’t sell your works, then you can’t pay the bills.” She licked her thumb and wiped something off my chin. “This is how the world works, Paris. I know that’s hard for you to understand so you’ll just have to trust me.”

The thought of that painting—my painting—in front of the world made me tremble.

“Are you cold? Do you want Larry to turn the heat up?”

“I’m fine.”

“Turn the heat up, Larry, Paris is cold.”

Dry warmth sucked the moisture from my skin.

“There.” Julia fiddled with my hair some more. “You should have said something sooner.”

“I didn’t say anything because I was fine.”

The limo pulled into the parking deck, and the world disappeared behind concrete walls and rows of cars. Several floors down, the driver stopped in front of a set of elevator doors.

“This so exciting.” Julia primped in the mirror of her compact before tucking it away again. “We’re going to be in the same studio where two vice presidents and five Oscar winners have been interviewed. Just think of all the people who will see us.”

“Julia, please.” Surely she could spare just one grain of empathy.

“What?”

“I’ll talk to the people at the next showing. I’ll go home with whoever you want me to so they’ll buy a piece. Whatever you want. But please don’t take that painting inside. Don’t sell it. I’m begging you.”

Julia’s hard blue eyes met mine. The smile she gave me was a line cut in ice. “Don’t be silly. Of course, I’ll sell it.” She opened the door. “Now get out.”

The elevator opened at the fifth floor, and an intern welcomed us. She was cute, petite, with wild red hair. I wanted to lay her out, expose her small breasts, and spread her legs. The only thing she would wear was a euphoric expression. Then I’d transform her from the flesh and bones in front of us, chatting and waving her arms, into lines and negative space where she could exist for eternity.

Unlike
The Kiss
, a painting of this woman would be nothing more than pretty colors on a stretch of gesso-covered fabric.

Julia nudged me with her elbow. “Didn’t you say something about needing to use the facilities?”

I stared at all the broken fragments of color that were once me, lying scattered around my feet.

“Paris?”

If only I could retrieve a shard and slit my throat.

“Paris.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Will you excuse me?” I tried to smile at the intern, but my lips were full of lead. “Which way?”

She pointed.

I escaped into the men’s room. There was only one stall and a urinal. I turned the lock on the door. I laid out some of the powder and used one of my business cards to cut a line. The business cards were Julia’s idea. Fuck, everything was Julia’s idea. What I wore to what I snorted up my nose. She called the shots. She gave the commands. And I was the dog at the end of the leash.

It was temping to throw the bag into the toilet, but I was going to have to go out there in front of all those people who were going to ask me questions, and I would have to answer them. As if they ever understood my answers. Sure, they smiled and nodded, but their eyes stayed blank. It was an act. One big lie.

“Please. Le ruego. Dime dónde está. My son. Where is my son?”

The lights in the bathroom brightened, and a buzz of colors filled the air untill they flowed down the walls. Reds and golds. Small chips of orange.

Green made up the negative space.

They were the colors of my painting. Warm and soft just like the kiss. I touched my lips. Why couldn’t I remember his name when I could remember every small groove and curve of his mouth pressed to mine?

The line of X was almost invisible against the white enamel of the sink. I stuck the end of the straw in my nose and inhaled. Fire cut through my face to the back of my throat. My nose attempted to extinguish the burn with a wash of snot so I pressed my thumb against one nostril and inhaled.

The tension in my shoulders eased, and the ache in my head floated away. I sniffled a few times and every inhale pushed me farther away from the things that worried me.

The plastic bag stuck to my palm.

“One line, Paris.”

So I wouldn’t be nervous. Fuck nervous. I didn’t want to care.

I stuck the end of the straw inside the bag and followed the line of X in the crease at the bottom all the way to the fat corner.

Once.

Twice.

My sinuses burst into flames, and my head threatened to explode.

The room tipped.

I clung to the sink to keep from sliding into the urinal. Saliva filled my mouth. After a few seconds, everything leveled out and I was able to walk without falling over. There was a crunch from under my shoe. The pulverized glass straw made sparkling crumbles on the black and white tile.