Even when I’d given him my final piece for the internship assignment last month—a human-sized skull made solely from vintage tin cans—I’d quickly averted the conversation to something else, careful not to catch any disappointment or boredom he might be feeling toward my art.
I was expecting the results about that any day now, but in the form of a formal letter. I knew better than to expect my father to bend the rules and break the news to me in person.
We climbed up the narrow, spiraling stairs to the attic. The white wooden floor creaked under our weight as we entered the roof-shaped loft. The aroma of shaved stone, the coldness of the marble and granite giants, and clouds of dust did nothing to disguise the unique scent of Vaughn Spencer that immediately crawled into my nostrils—delicious, formidable, and full of danger. I tried to ignore it, and the shiver it brought along.
He was here tonight. I had heard their voices drifting through the opened window of the attic only ten minutes ago.
“Gentle with the chisel, now, lad. Do not cock this one up. It’s too precious for both of us.”
“Put down the power drill. Slow strokes. Love this stone like it’s a person.”
“Let’s call it a day. You’ve been battling this piece all night. You are not in sync with it. You are at war.”
Vaughn was struggling with the piece, and I wasn’t at all sure he’d submitted any other project for the internship. That gave me hope. Maybe I did have a chance. At least I’d handed in my piece in a timely manner.
“Sit down,” Papa instructed with a tired groan, pointing at a huge, untouched stone in the corner of the room.
I brushed away Human Anatomy for Artists by Eliot Goldfinger, which sat atop it, and did as I was told, crossing my legs at the ankles. I ignored the huge horizontal piece covered by a large, white sheet standing in the corner of the studio. I knew how intimate an artist’s relationship was with his work. It was like being pregnant, knowing the baby inside you was growing each day—more cells, longer limbs, more defined facial features.
I also knew that was Vaughn’s piece, and I was not supposed to see it.
“You are going to receive a letter from the board, but I thought this warranted a more personal conversation. Let me start by saying that your assemblage piece was phenomenal. The way you worked the tin, the little escape wheels for eyes, the detail—it was fantastically executed. It evoked many emotions in all three of us. Your Uncle Harry called you a genius, and Alma said yours was by far her favorite. I’ve never been prouder to call you my daughter.”
My breath fluttered in my lungs, and I tried to keep my smile at bay. It was happening. I was getting the internship. I’d already decided what I wanted to show at Tate Modern. I had it all planned. I needed to sketch it first, but the bones were there. It had come to me in my sleep, the night I bit Vaughn.
“Thank you. I—”
“Lenny, you know I love you, right?” Papa crooned, his head falling into his huge, open palms all of a sudden.
Uh-oh.
“Yeah. Of course,” I faltered.
“Do you really, though?” he asked from between the cracks of his fingers, peeking through them like a little boy.
Suddenly, I was pissed at him. Because he wasn’t a little boy. He was a grown-up man. And he was taking the easy way out, playing on my emotions.
“You sound like you’re sending me off to a boarding school on the other side of the world. A bit late for that, Papa.” I kept my tone light, clearing my throat.
Then it hit me. My stupid joke turned into a brutal reality.
No. No, no, no.
Papa dropped his hands from his face and averted his gaze to the floor. When I said nothing, he started pacing the room, back and forth, his hands knotted behind his back. He stopped after a few seconds, as if deciding what course of action he wanted to take, and pivoted toward me, leaning down and putting his heavy hands on my shoulders. He caught my gaze, the intensity radiating through his eyes almost knocking me down.
“You’re enough,” he said.
“Of course,” I managed, feeling the walls of the tiny studio closing in on me.
This wasn’t happening. God, please. I’d worked so hard. This was all I’d ever wanted—to have my work exhibited at Tate Modern. I didn’t enjoy sordid relationships and midnight blow jobs at rich kids’ pool parties, or flirt with drugs, fights, and the wrong side of the law. My parents weren’t Californian royalty. I didn’t have football friends and popularity and the entire, bloody world at my feet.
All I’d ever asked for was this internship.
“You are. And one day, you will see that I mean this, but Lenny…you didn’t get the internship.”
I closed my eyes and took a shaky breath, refusing to let the tears fall. I wanted to believe him. But if I were the best, I’d have gotten the internship. We both knew that.
“Vaughn Spencer?” I heard myself asking. I didn’t dare breathe. I knew if I twitched, or even moved a finger, I would go berserk and crash, break, and destroy everything in sight—knock over the statue Vaughn was working on, rip the walls down, and jump headfirst into the pool, praying to hit the bottom and die.
I’d sat back and let Vaughn do this—worm his way into my father’s good graces, right here in Todos Santos. I’d let him into my kingdom, into my family, into my house, every single day, and watched as he stole the only thing I cared about, night after night. Because I stupidly thought my work would speak for itself, that he couldn’t cheat his way into the gig.
I was exactly the naïve little idiot he saw me to be.
“Yes,” my father confirmed behind the fog of my red anger.
I popped my eyes open and darted up from the stone.
“His project is not even finished! He told me himself!” I seethed.
I never raised my voice to my father. Or anyone else, for that matter. Right now, my cool was slipping through my fingers like water.
My father stood across from me, his arms open, as if he was surrendering. “Yet it still appears a cut above the rest, though it is not half-finished.”
“Not even half-finished?!” I exclaimed wildly, throwing my arms in the air. “Is that even allowed? Is it not against your rules and regulations or whatever? Maybe I should’ve just presented you with a fucking can of Heinz.”
I was grasping at straws. The board of Carlisle Prep, and the internship judges, consisted of the three founders of the school—my father, his cousin he’d grown up with, painter Harry Fairhurst, and Lady Alma Everett-Hodkins, a former chief curator at the Guggenheim. If they’d decided to choose Vaughn, there was nothing I could do about it. I was Don Quixote, fighting windmills, knowing they’d continue turning, no matter how much I waved my imaginary sword at them.
“Lenny, his is not a good piece.” Papa closed his eyes, his face marred with pain. “It is an astonishingly brilliant one, and if you saw it, you’d agree.”
“Great idea. Why don’t you show me this quarter-finished bullshit so I can judge for myself.” I kicked a block of modeling clay, sending it spinning across the floor until it bumped against the wall. “Show me what’s so brilliant about a general fucking shape of a sculpture without the faintest detail. A shrimp in the uterus, without eyes, nose, and lips. Show me how much better he is than me.”
We both stood there for a beat before I darted toward the covered statue, intending to rip the sheet from it and see for myself. Dad snatched my hand as soon as I reached it.
I threw my head back, laughing bitterly. “Of course.”
“That’s enough, Lenora.”
“I bet it sucks. I bet you only chose him because he’s a bloody Spencer.” I turned around, smiling at him.
Emilia LeBlanc-Spencer, an artist herself, had poured a lot of millions into Carlisle Prep over the years. She was apparently helplessly in love with Harry Fairhurst’s paintings and had a few of them in her mansion.
I knew it wasn’t a wise thing to do. My father did not take well to thoughtless, vindictive behavior. But my filters had gone MIA, along with my sanity, it seemed.
“You’re an Astalis.” His nostrils flared, and he slammed his fist against his chest. “My own blood.”
“Your own blood is apparently not good enough.” I shrugged.
Suddenly, I was too tired to even go back to my room. Fighting him was useless. Nothing mattered anymore. Vaughn had won the final round and knocked me out of the race. My only mistake was to be surprised. I’d actually thought he couldn’t get the internship with an unfinished job.
But of course, Vaughn at his worst was still better than me at my best.
The bad boy of sculpting. Donatello and Michelangelo’s lovechild, with a dash of Damien Hirst and Banksy thrown in for good, rebellious measure.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I must go apply for approximately five hundred internships, now that my plans for the next six months are six feet under, along with my pride.” I tasted the bitterness of the words on my tongue.
As I started for the stairway, Papa grabbed my arm. I turned around, shaking him off.
“Leave me alone,” I groaned, not daring to blink and let my traitorous tears loose.
“Lenny,” he begged. “Please listen to me. You were neck and neck. There were five hundred and twenty-seven applicants, and other than Rafferty Pope, you were the final two.”
He was only making it worse. It wasn’t fair to be mad at him for not getting the internship. But it was fair to be mad because he’d chosen someone who didn’t even bother finishing his statue. That’s the part that hurt the most.
“Got it. I almost made it. Anything else?”
“I think you should be his assistant for those six months, since you are not interested in attending university. This could bump you up the other list of internships. It was my idea, and Vaughn said he’d love to have you help hi—”
“Help!” I barked out the word. “I’m not going to help him. I’m not going to assist him. I’m not going to work with him, for him, under him, or even above him. I want nothing to do with him.”
“It’s your pride talking now.” Papa fingered his beard, contemplating my reaction. “I want to speak to my daughter—my bright, talented daughter—not to her wounded ego. It’s a golden opportunity. Don’t let it go to waste.”
“I’m not—” I started.
“Please.” He scooped my hands in his, squeezing them like he was trying to drain the defiance out of me.
We had the same blue eyes—dark, big, exploring—with the same golden rings around them. Everything else, Poppy and I took from Mum. The pint-sized figure, fair hair, and the splotchy, pasty skin.
“It could open so many doors for you, working as an assistant intern at Carlisle Prep. It is a solid, paid gig. You will get to work alongside me, Harry, Alma, and so many other great artists. You will get a salary, a room with a drafting table and all the equipment, and a fantastic start to your portfolio. I’ve been to high school once, too, Lenora. Believe it or not, I know boys like Vaughn can be trying.”
“Climbing a volcano is trying,” I interjected. “Working alongside Vaughn Spencer is downright impossible.”
“Yes, and still. Would you have turned down this internship for a boy you’d met and fell in love with here in America?”
I stared at him with wild shock. First of all, he knew damn well I wasn’t in the business of falling in love. I’d been very vocal about it since Mum had died and I watched him deteriorate emotionally to the point that he was only half-human now. Second, I would never pass up an opportunity for a guy.
“Of course not.”
“Then why would you give up a position that could make or break your career for a boy you fell in hate with?” He clicked his teeth, a triumphed smile on his face.
Ugh. He was right.
He was right, and I wished I could take the merits of his argument and shove them up Vaughn’s arse.
Taking the assistant’s job was a blow to my ego, but still a win for the rest of me. Another six months of Vaughn playing his silly mind games wasn’t going to kill me. For all his power play, Vaughn had never physically hurt me.
Yet, anyway.
In England, though, he’d be a no one, just like me. No, worse than me. Because I still had the prestige of being an almost-Carlisle Prep alum—I’d only studied my last year of high school in California—and my father owned the bloody school.
Plus, Pope would be there, working alongside me. Putting Vaughn’s so-called genius work to shame.
The rules would be different.
I’d fight him harder.
He is just a boy.
Not a god, a boy.
And you’re not the same girl trembling under her mother’s quilt.
You made him bleed, and he did, human that he is.
Now. Now you can make him break.
“I’ll think about it.” I massaged my temples. I’d completely forgotten about my sister, who was probably filling a fresh bucket of tears downstairs. I’d selfishly dwelled on my own drama and forgotten all about her heartbreak.
“That’s all I’m asking.” Papa squeezed my shoulders.
I went straight to Poppy’s room, but she wasn’t there. I paused, hearing her and Papa chatting and eating in the kitchen downstairs. It sounded like a pleasant conversation about the college she’d applied and gotten in to back home—the London School of Economics. She sounded excited and hopeful. I just hoped she wasn’t faking it, that she really was happy.
Grabbing a Polaroid photo of Knight from her nightstand, I took a Sharpie and quickly drew a ballsack over his chiseled, dimpled chin, peppered with wrinkles and hair, added an elaborate moustache, and gave him a unibrow, signing the picture and writing under his face:
Stay away from the heater, Cole. Plastic melts.