The Art of Secrets (12 page)

The following morning, DECEMBER 4, in the art annex during a free period,

Jean Delacroix, Department of Art,

looks up from his digital camera and sees the police detective standing in the doorway.

Oh! You startled me!

Please, come in. Do you mind if I work while we talk? I've got a bit of a deadline here. One of my fiber art projects has made it to the final round of a competition. Yes, in Paris! The award carries a prize of five thousand euros.

Well, they received the images I sent. They liked what they saw, and now I need to send the actual piece. Before I put it in the mail, I'm taking more photos to be safe. Honestly, I'm nervous about sending it.

It's this one.

Thanks, but the beauty is only part of why I'm proud of it. Let's see—artists generally don't like to explain their work, but . . . Okay, when you first look at it, it appears to be the skyline of Chicago at night. A very detailed cityscape.

But look, try to focus only on the blue and green stitch lines, here and here and here. You'll see that each building contains an abstract portrait: here a painter at her easel, here a sculptor with his clay, there a writer with a book, and so on. Any city, Chicago or Paris or Des Moines, is home to many artists, all working in their solitary boxes.

Maybe our school's personal encounter with Henry Darger, the quintessential “outsider artist” in Chicago, was the lucky omen I needed for this piece to get noticed. I'm beyond excited, as you can imagine.

Speaking of Darger, how is your investigation going? Any leads?

You've got to be kidding. People are saying it's me?

That stings a bit. If you think it will help, go ahead and search my office again. Search the whole department. Open every cupboard and drawer. Leave no hand-painted meditation stone unturned. Remember, it all got searched on Friday.

While you're at it, search my house and my car. Bring in the hi-tech CSI equipment you use to examine rug fibers. The Darger album is old, crumbly. The paper is dry and brittle as a cracker. If I had transported the artwork in my car, you'd certainly find traces of it on the floor, or in the trunk.

Sorry, detective, I don't have it. Believe me, I wish I did. I've been as worried as everybody else since it disappeared.

I mean, wow—I guess I should have expected fingers would be pointed at me. After all, I'm an outsider here. I'm the one who never goes out for beers on T.G.I. Fridays with the rest of the staff. I'm the one who doesn't even pretend to care about Wendy Pinch's grandkids. I don't kiss up. I don't take sides. I don't play their office-politics games.

I learned a long time ago that there are people in this big bigoted world who won't like me, no matter how hard I try. Some people will hate me just for being who I am. Since that's true, why not just be myself? If I sound a little defensive, it's because I am.

Who do
I
think stole those paintings? I . . . I couldn't say. Unlike other people, I'm not going to be part of any witch hunt. That's your job, not mine.

[Two police officers enter the art studio.]

Wait—you're confiscating my quilts? On what grounds?

Who did? A member of this faculty? A sworn statement?

[Reads the statement.]

Okay, so let me get this straight. Ariel claims that she “might have held” the artwork in this room. Didn't see the artwork, didn't see me take it, but she “had a feeling at the time.” That's enough evidence to confiscate my personal property for lab testing?

I mean, I know exactly what Ariel's talking about in that statement. I asked her, very calmly, to put the quilt down because her hands were covered in blue dry-erase ink. They always are, from teaching—like Smurf hands!

I need to keep these things clean. This work is
valuable
to me. It's not some casual hobby. Not that I expect other people to understand that, especially not Ariel. Seriously, guys, this is a woman who once asked me, “Jean, if Picasso's grandson painted a picture, would you still call it a Picasso?”

Listen, I totally get that you need a break in this case. Like I said, you can search this entire annex again. Search my car, my house, my friends' houses—I don't have it. But please, you can't just
take
those quilts. I need to send this one to Paris!

I need a lawyer. This is insane. It isn't fair. It isn't right.

Two days later, in the cafeteria, the lunch tray of

Steve Davinski, senior,

lands with a clatter at the table where the police detective is sitting.

Steve Davinski, senior class president. Right, pleasure to make your acquaintance. I've seen you around the building the past few days.

[Sits next to the detective and ignores his food.]

So it's been a bummer, you know? We never thought something like this could happen here. Feel-good story doesn't feel so good anymore, that's the thing.

If you ask me, I'd be out looking for the original owner, the guy who threw the art away. Because you know he's seen the news, and he's thinking to himself, “Hey, bonehead, why'd you leave a fortune out near your garbage cans?” Anyone would be pissed for doing that. Don't you think maybe he wanted it back? It's possible. And we know one thing for sure:
that person exists.
That unknown individual is a definite factor in this equation.

The problem is, the artwork wasn't locked up in Fort Knox. The gym office door gets locked at
night
, that's it. The rest of the day, it's pretty much open to anyone who's looking for a stopwatch or a herpes video.

Respectfully, sir, I'm not sure you've collared the right guy. The problem with Mr. Delacroix is . . . Listen, if you were the badass with the balls to steal that artwork, you would have grabbed it and gone, don't you think? But Mr. Delacroix remains, still explaining color theory to kids who are looking for an easy A. I mean, heck, maybe our lonely-artist guy Darger was the sane one and Delacroix's the nut.

He's gay, did you know that? Not saying it's relevant, just stating a fact.

Think of the numbers. At this school, you've got just under six hundred students, and you've got about fifty members of the staff. In other words, of our total pool of suspects, more than ninety percent are students. If you were in Vegas playing roulette, odds are you'd put your chips on the students.

So why are we looking at Mr. Delacroix or any teacher, when, based on
probability
, our thief is most likely a kid?

I realize that this scenario makes your job a lot harder. Sorry about that, sir. But let me help you out. Of these six hundred students, who can you skip? There's my girl, Saba Khan, for one. She had no motive to take the art, since her family was going to benefit anyway, by selling it at the auction.

Then there are the Spoons, Kevin and Kendra. Those guys had no motive either, since they already had possession of the art and decided to give it away. I guess, if they changed their minds or something, and wanted to keep the money, that'd be a different story. It would have been super awkward, right, if they asked for it back? But that's not what happened. They've never expressed any interest in that money. By all accounts, they've
got
some money.

So that's three people to subtract from the suspect pool. It's a start!

And if we look at who had PE that day, it makes the suspect pool smaller. I'd guess about one hundred fifty kids were in the gym that day. Coach P can probably give you her rosters.

Two minutes, tops. That'd be enough time to slip into the gym office, grab the artwork, and stuff it in a gym bag.

Isn't it true that most crimes occur because of random opportunity? Criminals spot an opportunity—an open window, a car unlocked, a fat wallet poking out of a purse—and they just
take it
.

The difference between criminals and people like us is that we may see these opportunities, but we don't act on them. People like us know right from wrong.

The way I see it, our badass, Student X, stood at the back of the gym, fielding balls for forty-five minutes. Kids are always slipping out of class to take a leak or text a friend, and Coach P is too busy blowing her whistle and running in circles to even notice. Who is Student X? That's the biggest problem to solve. In my family, we think of it as “the Davinski Code.”

I can tell you one student who definitely had PE on Friday. Javier Conejera, my “brother” from sunny Spain. This guy has been living with my family since August. Between you and me, he fits into our house like the flu.

First of all, he's essentially mute. A conversation with Javier is painful. He has zero interest in American sports—of course! He smokes cigarettes, and yeah, we're all thrilled to have six more months of that. The kid
irons
his blue jeans. At school, he spends more time socializing with the kitchen crew than with actual students. You gotta wonder what inspired him to come to this country if it wasn't to make friends with some American kids. What's he after? Our world-famous, secret recipe for tater tots?

When my family and me discuss what happened at school, Javier just stares at his dinner plate like he's gonna find the answers in the mac 'n' cheese. But I can tell you this: The dude became crazy interested in the Darger art when we all realized it was valuable. He even borrowed books about Darger from the library, using
my
card. The weird part is, ever since Friday, he hasn't said a word about it. Red flag, for sure.

Sir, I'm not saying I have the evidence to prove Javier jacked the art. I'm only stating the facts I know. It's all valuable to you, right?

As the police detective strides toward the cafeteria exit,

Kendra Spoon, sophomore,

steps boldly into his path and blocks him at the door.

Excuse me, sir. We spoke a few days ago? Yeah, hi. . . .

Okay, so I was sitting over at the table behind you guys, and I heard a little bit of what Steve said to you. The thing is, and I'm truly sorry for eavesdropping, but that guy is monumentally full of it, and you should know. He seriously needs to shut up. He's been talking to my friend Saba and also to my brother at basketball practice. I've heard these “updates” from both of them.

So this boy Javier borrowed a few books about Henry Darger from the library. This is breaking news?

Also relevant, in Steve's opinion: The Internet history on the family computer is suddenly filled with Darger searches, thanks to Javier's “crazy obsession” with the artist.

And oh, let's not forget, Javier is not truly part of the “Highsmith community.” No long-standing, emotional ties to anyone here.

Therefore, the only logical conclusion is that standoffish, “sneaky” Javier must have taken those paintings. Because . . . why? He's greedy? He hates Americans or something? Don't you think that's a stretch? Thanks to his
host brother
, this pitiful foreign kid is the subject of a rumor that is moving around school just as fast as the craziness with Mr. Delacroix and his “criminal quilts.”

I don't expect an overly confident, self-centered jock like Steve to understand a socially awkward person like Javier, a shy guy who may have a genuine curiosity about Henry Darger. But there's nothing criminal about
taking an interest in other people
, right? After all, Javier's the kind of guy who's given up a whole year of his life to come to another part of the world just to . . . you know, see what it's like! That tells you all you need to know about Javier's character. Meanwhile, I bet the only traveling Steve ever does is to basketball tournaments, where he can show a big room full of strangers—over and over again—just how good he is at his own stupid game.

Oh and by the way, Steve bragged to my brother that he already went through Javier's backpack.
And
searched his duffel bags, drawers, and closet. He came up with nothing. No stolen artwork, no smoking gun of any kind. But I guess Steve didn't think that was worth mentioning to you.

Javier told me he's gonna buy a plane ticket that will take him far away from that household at spring break. Apparently he's got one friend in this country, in Utah or Oklahoma or somewhere. That trip cannot be coming fast enough for poor Javier.

That's all I wanted to say, sir.

Also, I apologize for the cafeteria food. You may want to call dibs on the bathroom when you get back to the precinct.

Very well, then. Thank you, sir.

On TUESDAY, DECEMBER 11, after his host family has retired to bed,

Javier Conejera, sophomore,

uses the family-room computer to write to his friend Jennifer.

Mi amiga, I am fortunate to have you in my life. I describe none of these events to my mother, because they will put too much worry in her head. For my mother, I write only what she wants to know. For you, I give the complete story.

The truth is, for me now the time is very difficult. How can they believe I stole these paintings? Well, of course because of my supposedly “brother” Steve! Not in front of his parents, he tells the people at school that my behavior warrants suspicion and that my possessions should be examined. However, what place do I have for concealing this work? The talk is absurd. They have no proof, no motive, no reasoning. And yet I pay for the duck!

As a detective, Steve is not in equal company as Jules Maigret or Sherlock Holmes. This morning at breakfast Steve smelled his Cheerios and said, “Son of a bee, what is up with this milk?” This slug is not capable of solving the Mystery of the Sour Milk. On Saturday, Steve returned from the basketball practice after the rest of us had eaten the meal. He exclaimed, “Why is the pizza cold already?” The Case of the Cold Pizza—this is another challenge for Inspector Steve.

For this reason, Steve's theories do not molest me. However, the students pass this idea from mouth to mouth, like a virus. The students spoke very little to me from my arrival. But now it is worse.

For example, in the hallway next to my locker, there is a large H on the floor, the color of blood. It is rude to step on this H and the students give the effort to avoid it when they walk. In the past, sometimes I get a little bump from the rushing student who sees only the sacred H and not the sacred me standing at my locker. Possibly this is normal. However, now every day the students are giving me the bumps, with full intention, as they step to avoid the H. This is also rude, no? They will make me crazy.

Well, there remains in my locker the white aerosol paint for the auction. Maybe tomorrow I will spray the faces of all students who give me the bump. This will teach the lesson, jaja!

Also very strange, my boss in the cafeteria gives me no smiles now. She tells me she does not need my work after we return from winter break. So now I need to find another job. Perhaps away from the school is better for me.

Only my friend Kendra remains sympathetic. Today when she sat with me in the library, she offered to review my essay on THE GREAT GATSBY
.
My face must have revealed the surprise that she was willing to give help, because she whispered, “Steve Davinski is an imbecile. I know you did not steal the art.”

I gave thanks for the trust, but she waved my words away with a hand. She tells me, “I do not know you, so I cannot trust you. No offense, but what will you do with it? It would be difficult for a Chicago citizen to know how to sell it. Who would you call?”

Exactly! Who would I call? I have no one here! She said, “This crime going on. It makes the behavior of the people very strange. I want to tell you that Americans are not bad. Americans are helpful and friendly.”

The truth is, Jen, the people here are friendly to me like they were the day I arrived, nothing more. The friendship with the Davinskis has passed by its date, like the milk in the chicken. “You must visit my country,” I say to Kendra, “to meet the people you describe.”

She reviewed my essay and she tells me it is very good. Then I give her a confession: I wrote this essay last year, when I was a freshman. I needed only to translate the words for this class now.

Kendra expressed surprise that we read THE GREAT GATSBY in España, and I said, “Of course, for school. EL GRAN GATSBY. We read many important American novels. My favorite is REBELDES.”

She stared, and so I attempted to translate the title: “Rebels?” This is the very famous American book, no? About the group of friends who find so much trouble always. However, Kendra does not know it.

I asked her if American students read DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, and she made a frown. She said, “Not at any school I ever attended.” I could not believe it. This is one of the most important novels in history! Not only for España. Kendra said she knows Don Quixote, but not the book. She hid the face with the hands, but peeked through the fingers. “I apologize. We suck.”

“Only some of you,” I said. And then I tell her all about my host family. How they call me “Savior.” And they use no spices. I am starving for an onion!

Kendra said there is an excellent tapas place near her apartment and gave the promise we will go together. For the first occasion in many days, my heart felt light.

Of course, this happiness did not last. Soon after I saw Kendra, there was more bad news, this time concerning the two books I borrowed about Henry Darger from the library.

First I discovered them missing from my backpack. I thought, well, maybe it is possible I left them at the house. I did not worry. However, soon after, I found these books outside the doors of the school, soaking in the snow! At the same time, I saw some boys from the basketball team. They were staring, as if they had waited for me to come outside and discover this damage.

I told them to go fry asparagus, but Jen, I felt more despair than anger. Why am I the outcast for no reason? The cold silence is one thing, I can ignore that. But I cannot ignore the damage to these books. These are expensive art books! I will be required to pay the library an eye from the face. This takes from the money I save to visit you.

The spring break needs to come as rapidly as possible.

Tomorrow I will go to the school library and ask for the famous novel REBELDES. The author is a teenager named S. E. Hinton. I want to spend time with these friends again.