The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) (11 page)

“That you might’ve had a hand in eliminating the former eighth contestant.”

All at once, relief and astonishment catapult through me. The two emotions are so different that they make my body go still and throb more fiercely. “I had nothing to do with his elimination.”

“You don’t know how relieved I am to hear you say that. I’ll have you know, I didn’t believe it for a second.” He lays a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it, then rubs it a little, then squeezes it again. “I’ll prepare the press release and we’ll go over it before you face the”—he suddenly looks around and releases my shoulder—“cameras. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And with Brook. Yesterday. During the test. Someone told us they saw you talking.”

Someone.
I grunt. I bet that someone is Chase. For a flimsy second, I’m tempted to tell him about the latter’s unwelcomed clue, to have
him
disqualified—but then I come to my senses. I would be too. I seal my lips shut and add that information to the long list of secrets I have bottled up. If only I could just get rid of them all, throw them into some mental well and watch them sink.

“We were discussing the school,” I say.

A smile appears on Dominic’s face and then vanishes and then returns, like a flickering light bulb. “So not your riddle?”

“No. Not my riddle.”

He exhales such a deep breath that his skin regains some of its firmness. “Good. That’s what he said too. Good.”

And then I’m allowed to go to breakfast, but the knot in my stomach is so tight that everything I swallow tastes like chalk. After wolfing down two croissants, I perch myself on one of the armchairs and sip scorching coffee. I don’t partake in any conversations. I don’t answer questions about what Dominic wanted. The only person not enquiring about my clandestine meeting—unsurprisingly—is Chase.
Bastard
.

Someone from the camera crew bursts in to inform us that it’s show time. Accompanied by our assistants, we return to the Temple Room. The anthem is already playing as we file onto the platform between the two Egyptian relics. Instead of tables, they’ve set up rows of tourmaline-colored velvet chairs. The audience is already seated, gold paddles dangling from their clapping hands.

Josephine and Brook are standing side by side on the far right. His face is pulled tight, a bit like Josephine’s. I can tell he went through the interrogation. He’ll probably keep his distance from me now. All the better. I’m done fraternizing.

“Day number three!” Dominic exclaims. “Already. Can you believe it? Could someone please stop time? Anyway. Back to day number three and test number three, which will be…”
Drumroll.
“An auction! Yes, Lincoln, you were right,” he says, whipping around toward us.

When?
She must have mentioned it while she was being made up into some slutty librarian. The topknot on her head, her heavy eye and lip makeup, and her tweedy shift are not flattering.

“It’s a natural part of the art business,” she says, smiling.

“It is,” Dominic says. “Now for the rules. Each one of you will have to auction off a lot. They’re all worth the same, so the person with the lowest sales total loses. Now, before you go up in front of our generous crowd”—he whirls around—“you are feeling generous, right?”

The audience laughs.

Dominic grins as he turns back to us. “You will be given information on the paintings and sculptures you are selling. You’ll have to present that information in a way that makes the piece attractive, and I’m not talking about fabricating stories. I’m talking about crafting factual poetry.
Ooh...
I should coin that phrase.”

Clapping rises from the pit of onlookers.

When it dies down, he continues. “The bids will increase by the thousand until they’ve reached half the value of the object, then by five-thousand. Who knew art required math skills?” Dominic chuckles, along with a chunk of the audience. “When Brook comes around with the glass jar, you’ll fish out one paper. On it, you’ll find a number that determines your turn. The first contestant will not have less time to study the lots. Everyone gets the same thirty minutes.”

Herrick’s lips are arched high from the excitement of today’s test. I don’t feel excited about it.

Brook keeps his eyes trained on the jar as he waits for us to pick a paper. I’m the last one to go so there’s only one paper left. I unfold it after he walks away with the empty jar. It reads
3
. At least I’m not first. I’ll get to observe the others.

“Okay. Let’s rearrange you by number,” Dominic says.

We weave in and out of line. The order is Herrick, Maxine, me, Chase, J.J., and Lincoln. When Chase comes to stand next to me, I angle my body away from his. I don’t care if it’s subtle or not. Unfortunately, I can still smell him. I breathe through my mouth until Dominic dismisses us. We return to our living area to wait for the judges. They’ve cleared breakfast, but there’s still a basket of fruit, a jug of coffee and one of hot water. I make myself tea and go sit next to Maxine who’s bouncing her folded legs.

“Nervous?” J.J. asks her.

“I was a girl scout. And for three years, I never sold a single box of cookies, so yeah.”

“Not even to your parents?”

“They were gluten-intolerant.”

“
Ah
…the rich people’s disease,” Lincoln remarks.

Maxine’s legs stop joggling.

“Just sayin’. No one in the shelters I grew up in ever complained of any intolerances.”

For a second, Maxine doesn’t answer and I wonder if she’s offended, but then she says, “You’re right.”

Lincoln tips her head, seemingly astounded that Maxine has agreed with her. I’m intrigued in spite of my desire to stay out of these people’s lives.

“You’re loaded?” J.J. asks. He’s leaning forward, chomping on an apple, his mouth wide open, his teeth paler than the fruit’s flesh.

Chase and Herrick, who are sitting next to each other, stop discussing art to listen in.

Her cheeks get rosy. “Dad manages a fund. Mom’s a homemaker even though she’s never home, nor is she ever making anything.” Her fingers are curled together in her lap. She seems so uncomfortable speaking about herself, yet she rambles on. “I have a brother. He’s in college. We’re not very close. Do you have any siblings, Lincoln?”

“Probably. Who knows?”

I toy with the bedazzled collar of my sleeveless dress as I think of my sibling. I wonder if she’s following the show.

“I don’t even know who my dad is, but I can bet you anything that if I win this competition, he’ll seek me out pretty quick.” Lincoln’s face doesn’t betray the bitterness of such a remark. If anything, she looks nonplussed at the prospect. “I bet I’ll have tons of dads by the end of the show.”

“Okay, kids.” Dominic storms into the room with Josephine, Brook, and what seems like the entire film crew. “Are you ready?”

We all nod. Not that it would change anything if we weren’t.

“Chase and Lincoln, you’re with me. Ivy and Daisy, with Josephine. J.J. and Herrick, follow Brook.” When none of us move, Dominic adds, with a smile, “Chop chop.”

I get up slowly and trail after Maxine and Josephine. She leads us to the makeup room and into one of the glass cubes.

“Your
dossiers
,” she says, pointing to two thick files that have been deposited on the table. She slides gracefully into one of the transparent chairs. “Sit, girls.”

As Maxine lowers herself into the chair, one of her heels slips and she ends up falling hard on her butt. There’s a rip in the fabric of her dress. Her face floods with color as she clumsily latches on to the edge of the table and hoists herself back up. Josephine’s eyes glow, but her face remains impassive. Considering we’re in a glass box, the cameras catch her fall. Everyone catches it. Including Brook whose face goes dimply, as though Maxine’s wardrobe malfunction has cracked the tension in his body.

Poor Maxine covers her cheeks with her palms, but then she remembers the tear and moves them to the gaping seam.

“I’ll get started with Ivy while you change,” Josephine says. Her blonde-white hair is stiff with gel and slicked back as though she’s just stepped out of a swimming pool.

I flip open the beige folder and balk at the first printout. Then I gulp and look up at Josephine.

It can’t be
…

“An
artiste
must sell themselves,” she says.

I’m too rattled to say anything. I just blink.

“We were very taken with your quilt, Ivy. It’s very
originale
. However, we only required pictures of your work. So I must wonder”—she leans her flawlessly pale forearms on the glass table—“why did you send it in? Especially after you were selected…” A large oval diamond graces her narrow ring finger.

I swallow. “Um…” I swallow again. “I-uh…”

“Just so we’re clear, it won’t help you win…if that’s the reason.”

The blood drains from my face. “That wasn’t the reason.”

“Good. Anyway, your quilt is school property now.
Tu comprends
?” I must look utterly clueless, because she adds, “You understand?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to sign this form to allow the Masterpiecers to sell your work.”

“What happens if I don’t sign it?”

“It gets locked up in one of the vaults, which will benefit neither you nor me. It’s in your best
intérêt
to sell it. Did you see the
prix
we fixed?”

“Twenty thousand.” I try not to act surprised that anything I made could be worth so much. “Is the money mine after the auction?”

The corner of her mouth lifts a fraction of an inch before dropping down. “
Non.
School property. Haven’t you been listening? But you get
une commission
.”

“Ten percent?”

“Five.”

The topstitched seams strain over my taut shoulder blades, slicing into my skin. “For the whole lot?”

Josephine smirks, which looks as unsightly as a crack on porcelain. “
Non
. Just
for your piece. We almost gave it to one of the others to sell. You should be thankful.”

That’s not at all how I feel. I feel confused and shocked, but definitely not thankful. I turn to the next printout before Josephine can spot my agitation.

“Sorry. I tried to be quick,” Maxine says, rushing back inside. Her dress is forest-green and stretchy now.

“
C’est bon
. You still have time,” Josephine says.

In silence, we study our lots while the judge circles around us like a bird of prey.

The second item I have to sell is a plaster and copper sculpture by one of the school’s students. The third are two bowls molded on Marilyn Monroe’s breasts, nipple and all. The fourth piece is a fluffy cotton violin encased in a Plexiglas box. The artist, Zara Mach, is a Masterpiecers’ graduate. Everyone knows her name. She’s a big deal in the art world now. When I see the price tag for the violin, my lips part with a gasp. Suddenly my quilt feels like some old coverlet fit for a garage sale. Who will want to buy it when they could own a $250,000 Zara Mach?

“Two minutes left, girls,” Josephine says. “
Des questions
?”

Maxine raises her hand. As Josephine walks over to her, my gaze flies over all the information on the last printout. It’s a charcoal sketch by Paul Gauguin of one of his indigenous Tahitian women valued at $150,000.

“Ivy? Time’s up.” Josephine extends her palm.

I close the dossier and hand it to her. Once Maxine steps out of the cube, I ask her, “Is there any way I could place a phone call later today?”

“
Non
…unless it’s vital. In which case,
oui
, but we’d listen in.”

It’s vital, but I don’t want anyone besides Josh to know that. I rub the nape of my neck that is covered in goose bumps trying to come up with a better idea, but my neck isn’t some magical lamp—no genie or genius thought comes out.

“Ivy, are you okay? You look pale,” she says.

“I’m…I’m fine,” I say, letting my hand collapse against my side.

As I walk out, I pray that Josh is watching the show. I need him to know that the quilt we’ve been searching for is here.

Chapter Fifteen

Aster

“What did I miss?” Gill asks, dropping down on the couch next to me.

“Nothing,” I grumble.

“Uh-oh…” She tips her head to the side. “Does your mood have to do with the show or with the shrink?”

“Both.”

“You want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

Gill pouts.

“Look, I just spent the past hour talking to a shrink, so I don’t want to talk anymore.”

The contestants are filing in to the vacant first row of the Temple Room. Ivy sits between the aisle and that girl with the buzz cut. I study my sister, feeling like it’s the first time I’m really seeing her.

I feel a hand on my thigh and I start. “Please don’t do that.”

Gill pulls back and burrows deeper into the couch, lips squashed together.

I focus my attention on the small monitor and pretend that everyone around me has vaporized. On the stage, they’ve added a golden podium that resembles a metal spider web. It’s one of the pieces Maxine will sell, or so the commentator is saying.

While the contestants were studying their lots, the network was showing footage of their life off the podium. The luxury of their tents makes the correctional facility appear particularly drab. We also got to witness Maxine’s dress mishap. Had I not been in a mood, it might have made me smile. It definitely tickled Cheyenne whose fat ass was already spread on one of the two couches when I stormed into the dayroom.

While Dominic goes over the rules one last time, Herrick climbs onto the stage and positions himself behind the podium. He looks confident, but appearances don’t mean anything. His Elvis hair has been teased into a shiny black wave that looks like it’s about to crash off his head. As I wonder how it holds, a few notes resonate, announcing the beginning of the test.

There’s a flurry of activity as a scroll is brought out of the larger of the two temples. It’s a religious artifact made by Tibetan monks. The bidding starts at ten thousand dollars. It ends at twenty. A flash of disappointment fires across Herrick’s face. He undersold it. The scroll is rerolled and another item is brought out: a wooden chair that resembles cardboard.