It’s true.
I have her eyes and her hair and her artistry. And I really would’ve liked to meet her. And I think, I think, that Bertha would’ve liked me. Or at least I really hope that she would. She would’ve taught me things too. I’ve seen her work, only in photographs but still. She was extremely talented.
“So what’s the problem?” he asks.
My shoulders sag at his question and my lightness vanishes.
I duck my head and, staring at my hands, I continue. “Well, as you might have guessed from Bertha’s story, my parents hate that. My art. They think it’s useless and inconsequential and it gets my hands and my clothes dirty. They want me to give it up because it doesn’t look good in the media. Or really goes with who they are, and… And I always thought that I would. I truly did. Because I do want to be a good daughter to them, you know? I do want to obey them, do all the things they want me to do. Go to the college that they like, pick the major that they want me to. And knowing my dad and because that’s all he talks about, it’s going to be law school. Which is fine. I can be a lawyer if they want me to be. I can marry the guy that they choose for me too. I can.”
“But you don’t want to.”
I shake my head, feeling like such a traitor. Such an epic fucking traitor.
“No.” Sighing, I look up. “We have this ritual in our town where in your junior year, your parents send you to this boarding school in Connecticut. It’s this super posh prep school where all the rich kids go. And I’m going there in two months. And I always knew that. I knew that I was going to go. I knew that the day I was supposed to give up my hobby was coming but…”
Yeah, the boarding school.
It’s something that’s inevitable. It’s coming, and yes, I’ve always known that.
“But,” he prods when I don’t pick up my thread.
I shake my head again. “But a few weeks ago I found out something.”
“Found out what?”
I swallow, looking into his dark eyes. “That I’m an artist.”
He frowns, confused. “What?”
Which I totally get so I explain, “See, there’s this new art teacher at our school, Mr. Pierre. He’s so amazing. Like so freaking amazing, you don’t even know. He’s French and he’s got an accent and he’s just a genius when it comes to art. He’s been to the Louvre. He’s actually seen the Mona Lisa and he said that it’s just as inspiring as I thought it would be. And he’s taught me so much. He’s taught me so many things that were beyond my reach until him. And he was the one who offered to teach me. He actually offered to give me private lessons, and of course I said yes. Of course. And I thought that getting private lessons from someone who’s been to the Louvre was the best thing that ever happened to me. But I was wrong.”
“Wrong,” he repeats. “How?”
“Because the best thing that happened to me was when he called me into his office on the last day of school.”
“What?”
His voice is all clipped and tight and I don’t understand why that would be. Because it’s a good thing and I tell him that. “No, it’s a good thing. He actually called me in to say all these wonderful things about me.”
“Yeah, like what?”
I frown at his continued irritation. “Like the fact that he was sorry that the year was over. That I was his best student ever and it was such a privilege to teach me. And he was the one who told me that I was an artist. See, I always suspected that but I never knew for sure. I mean, I’m like Bertha and I do love art yes, but am I really an artist? An artist, you know. Someone… special like that. I never knew. Until he told me.
“He told me that my art isn’t just a hobby like I thought it was. I could do something with it. He said I could go to art school even. How crazy is that? Me, going to art school. He even offered to help me with my applications. He said he would love to continue our private lessons next year because he wants to nurture me, my art. But I’m leaving next year and —”
“He wants to nurture you. Is that what he said?” he almost lashes out, speaking over me.
It takes me a second to get my bearings after he cuts me off mid-speech. “Yeah. So?”
“So,” he says, his jaw clenching, the muscle in his cheek beating, “your Mr. Pierre is clearly a pervert.”
I draw back. “What?”
“You need to stay away from him.”