The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) (4 page)

“Yeah. To await my trial.”

“Are you some repeat offender?” Gill asks.

“No.”

“Flight risk?” Gill continues.

“No.” When she pops her mouth open again, I say, “You mind? I’m trying to listen to the show.”

“Thank you!” a suave voice explodes out of a microphone. “Your presence at the third annual Masterpiecers games proves that we’re doing something right.” The voice belongs to Dominic Bacci, art patron extraordinaire and creator of the Masterpiecers, the famed finishing school for artists, dealers, and collectors.

Dominic makes a few jokes, throwing out chalky smiles left and right. Everyone laughs, especially the women—I can tell because it’s high-pitched. He’s a tabloid favorite and an international celebrity. At sixty-three years old, even though his hair’s turned silver and his skin’s a bit creased, he attracts women of all ages.

“Before we introduce you to this year’s lucky eight, Josephine and I—” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as another wave of applause ricochets against the slanted glass wall.

Josephine Raynoir, Dominic’s second-in-command, stands up and waves to the room. Then she gracefully lowers herself back onto the judges’ golden bench. Her silver pantsuit is as shiny as the diamond lariat that dips down the length of her bare back. She’s fifty but looks thirty, with white blonde hair cut with such precision that her hairdresser must use laser beams.

“Dominic’s such a sleazeball,” Gill mumbles.

“I’d do him,” Cheyenne says.

“You’d do anyone with a pulse.”

“I wouldn’t do you, Firehead.”

“Good. You’re not my type,” Gill tells her.

“Will you two please shut up?” I say, my tone sharp.

Dominic Bacci taps his microphone to recapture everyone’s attention. “Josephine and I want to welcome this year’s top graduate—” Applause. Dominic raises his voice and continues, “Brook Jackson—” Hollers. Dominic smiles, out of pride or habit I’m not sure. “To this year’s panel.”

Brook rises and bows to either side of the room. Deep dimples crease his jaw, which is covered in an afternoon shadow.

When Brook sits back down and the audience quiets, Dominic walks over to a blonde whose face is so shiny, she looks like she has plastic skin. “Now let’s begin with introductions. Lincoln Vega, please stand, my dear.”

She does, her beaded dress swooshing to her feet and gleaming like the lopsided neon sign above the pizza joint where I used to waitress.

“Lincoln is an avid art connoisseur, who, at twenty, dreams of becoming the next Picasso. I even read in your application that you recreated his
Demoiselles d’Avignon
in chalk in a subway station. Shoot us the picture, Jeb.”

The stupendously huge screens dotting the room fill with the image.

“That’s quite a lot of talent. I even suspect not all would be lost if you don’t win. Right, Delancey?”

“Who the fuck is Delancey?” Cheyenne asks.

As though Dominic heard her, he adds, “Delancey’s a talent scout. He’s launched many a career. Are your parents watching us tonight?”

Lincoln is grinning so widely that I expect her to give a shout-out to her parents. She doesn’t. “Mom’s dead. But if my dad’s alive, maybe.”

Dominic cringes. “How indelicate of me.”

She gives him a sweet smile. “It’s fine, Mister Bacci.”

The camera swirls around the room, closing in on certain spectators’ faces as they utter
awws
and
poor girl
. Then it’s back on Lincoln whose green-gold eyes glimmer. She’s either about to cry or loving the attention. I’d put money on the latter. There’s something about her that blocks my sympathy. Possibly her cool, polished exterior. She makes me think of a slab of marble and you can’t feel bad for marble.

I catch Josephine inspecting her. Unlike the others, she’s not gushing.

“Heard the female judge
was a lesbo. Is that true, Firehead?” Cheyenne asks.

“Just because I like women doesn’t mean I know all the lesbians out there,” Gillian says.

I’m about to shush them when Dominic introduces the next contestant. “Herrick. That’s an uncommon name,” he says.

“I’m an uncommon man.” He wears eyeliner and a burgundy floral scarf that he keeps petting.

“Quite true.” Dominic smiles. “At the ripe old age of nine, Herrick was so taken with Michelangelo, he reproduced the Sistine Chapel fresco on his bedroom ceiling. Then, if I’m not mistaken, you redecorated your parents’ entire house.”

Herrick grins. His teeth are like Chiclets, large and rectangular. “You’re not mistaken.”

“Any pictures, Jeb?” Dominic asks. The screens flicker with a lengthy slideshow of Herrick’s house.

“That’s nasty,” Cheyenne says, picking her nose.

I agree with her. I wonder what Ivy thinks. I wish the camera would move to her, but it stays on Herrick’s smug face. He caresses his black pompadour hairstyle as he chats with Dominic about his expectations of the competition. I zone out because Cheyenne’s now feeding herself the booger. I clamp my teeth together to avoid regurgitating my tasteless breakfast.

Next up, Nathan Stein. Forty-three years old. Sad eyes and shaggy brown hair. When I first saw his picture on TV the day they announced the contenders of this art competition, I thought he was some homeless man. Now, with clean clothes and a shave, he looks less unkempt. He still looks sad though. I learn he’s the descendent of an art dealer whose family was robbed by the Nazis during the Second World War.

“Art. It’s in my blood,” he says.

“I hear you,” Dominic says. “So tragic what happened to your family…to the world.” Dominic’s still smiling, which is totally weird. Maybe it’s some nervous tic, like someone laughing at a funeral. “You know, that’s one of the reasons our school was created. To protect art dealers and safeguard their collections.” After a brisk shake of his head, he adds, “So tragic.” Then he squeezes Nathan’s shoulder. “Well, best of luck, my friend.”

Applause. He walks across the stage to the next person, a boy around my age.

“We have a very special contestant this year.” He pauses for effect. “Ladies and gentlemen…”

Drumroll
. There’s an actual live drumroll. It comes from the mammoth orchestra positioned against one of the walls.

“Brook,” Dominic calls out. The youngest judge snaps to attention, raking his hand through his shiny black hair. “You want to come and introduce your little brother?”

“No fucking way! I didn’t realize they were related,” Gill says.

I
knew. Ivy told me. She learned everything there was to know about her competitors.

Brook grins and gets up, covering the short distance in long, fluid strides. He takes the microphone from Dominic and drapes his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “As you all know, the school has a strict one-person-per-family rule. However, Chase shares my passion for art and artists. Don’t you, little brother?”

Chase nods, even though it looks painful for him to do so.

“When he told our parents two years ago that he wanted to follow in the family footsteps, our father tried to dissuade him. What did he suggest you do again?”

“Investment banking,” Chase answers flatly, shrugging his brother’s arm off.

A flicker of emotion crosses Brook’s face, betraying some underlying animosity between the brothers. I wonder if it has to do with the school’s one family member policy.

“
Ooh
. Investment banking.
Bo-
ring,” Dominic says, leaning over Chase to speak in the microphone that Brook is now clutching with both hands.

Chase gives a crooked smile. “It could’ve been worse. He could’ve suggested auditing.”

Laughter.

Chase’s face stays impassive, but he stands up a little straighter. He’s shorter than Brook, and definitely not as handsome. Still, he’s good-looking with his purposely-messy brown hair and dark eyes; he’s just not the god his brother is. Sort of like Ivy and me.

“So,” Brook continues, “he sends in his application and
bam
! Josephine insists he be a part of this year’s competition.”

“But it wasn’t all excitement and entrechats,” Dominic adds, performing a sort of hop kick before landing like a ballerina with his feet angled sideways and his knees bent. The audience laughs. “There was still the issue of no siblings,” he says, panting slightly.

“Before the winners were publicly announced, there was much, much deliberation,” Brook says. “But since Chase is here with us tonight, you can imagine what Dominic’s answer was.”

“Yes,” Dominic exclaims, seizing the microphone. “I said yes!”

Chase sort of smiles but I can tell he’s nervous. He keeps stretching his fingers and folding them into fists. The camera pans onto his face, so close that I notice he has long, sweeping lashes.

“Best of luck, Chase.” While Brook returns to the judges’ bench, Dominic reaches Maxine’s side. “Now, let me introduce you to contestant number five, Maxine Specter.”

She gives the audience a wave and a smile. She looks nice and bland, like Special K. Ivy will have no trouble taking her out.

“Maxine has a funny story to share with you tonight,” Dominic says. “The story of how she got here.”

Maxine touches the brown fuzz growing on her head. “Oh, no…I couldn’t possibly—”

Dominic cuts her off. “Oh, yes, yes, yes.”

Blushing, she nibbles on her lower lip, and then gulps in a big breath. “Daisy Dukes.”

“Ah…Daisy Dukes. I
love
Daisy Dukes,” Dominic says, which makes a bunch of people in the audience hoot.

“I mean the shots,” Maxine adds.

“Of course. Me too.” Big theatrical wink. I can nearly hear his eyelid open and shut.

“I had twelve of them—” she says.

“The drinks,” he clarifies. I think everyone got it, but
hey
, it’s his show.

“They’re teeny tiny, but
really
strong. That’s why—”

“What’s in them?” Dominic interjects.

“Um…I’m not sure.”

“Can someone find out and mix some up? I think we could all use a
tiny
Daisy Duke. Except Chase, Lincoln, and Miss Ivy over there.”

The camera perches on my sister’s face. I scoot closer to the edge of the couch, hungry for a glimpse of her. The armrest practically pops out one of my ribs. Too soon, they’re back to filming Maxine.

“So tell us how a drink landed you on my show.”

She clears her throat. “When I got home, after the bar, I was reading my emails. Among them was one my mother had forwarded me with a link to the application form. My parents are great art enthusiasts—I was raised around art. Some children have musical mobiles hanging over their cribs…I had an authentic Calder.”

Subtle tittering erupts which relaxes the stiff line of Maxine’s shoulder blades.

“Anyway, I thought I’d make Mom and Dad proud so I filled in the application and emailed it. I’m not really sure what I wrote in it though.”

“Whatever you wrote in it got our attention, so assume it was great! Did you celebrate with a haircut?”

She winces, the corners of her large eyes crinkling. “That was a bet. I told my best friend that if you guys accepted me, I would shave off my hair. I really didn’t think I’d win.”

He grins. “Can I touch it?” he asks, already running his palm over her scalp. “Ooh…it’s so soft.”

Maxine hoists up a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Can I call you Daisy from now on?”

Her face crinkles with a clumsy smile. “S-sure.”

“Good luck then, Daisy.”

He starts walking to the next contestant, but doubles back to stroke her cropped hair. Maxine goes crimson. Dominic winks and scampers off.

“And in this corner, we have world famous hooligan, J.J.!”

Ivy told me J.J. became famous after he spray-painted the corridor of his dorm in college. At first, he was fined, but then the principal decided it made the drab cement more attractive, so he dropped his complaint and commissioned him to repaint the rest of the hallways. After he graduated, other colleges called on him to enliven their bland atmospheres.

“How many schools have you spray-painted to this day?” Dominic asks.

“Three. I’m working on number four.”

The screens around them are displaying his work. It’s actually pretty neat, with all the colors and the oddball characters.

“Promise not to paint over any walls in this place or we’ll get into serious trouble.”

J.J. smiles. “Promise, dude.”

“Shall we shake on it?” Dominic suggests, jutting out his hand.

Chuckling, J.J. shakes it.

“Josephine, do we have insurance?” Dominic asks, twisting around, still holding J.J.’s palm.

She smiles complacently.

“Phew.” He lets go of J.J. and makes a big show of swiping his brow. “Best of luck to you, my friend.”

“Thanks, man.” J.J. is very West Coast, totally chill and totally tanned.

“And now…a woman who needs no introduction.”

I think I’m about to see my sister, and my body goes as rigid as the rusty bars of my cell.
Don’t bring it up, Dominic. Don’t bring
me
up!

Chapter Six

Ivy

“Miss America 2000!”

People clap. The woman closest to me smiles and gives the cupped-hand pageant wave. Seriously, who invented such a pathetic gesture?

“Maria Axela,” Dominic says, proffering his arm.

She latches on to it and rises, her black lace dress swinging around her knees. Even though she’s in her mid-thirties, Maria exudes a voluptuous childishness with her perky breasts, flat waist, and pouty red lips.

“So tell us, Maria, what made a former beauty queen enter an art competition?”

“What made me enter?” she repeats in a thick Hispanic accent. “It’s quite simple really. I’m not just nice to look at”—she winks—“I’m skilled.”

“Jeb? Can you—”

Before Dominic even finishes his sentence, the screens light up with Maria’s work. Sixteen paintings of pageant winners. I stare along with everyone else, thinking that whoever told her she was skilled should be shot. The oil paintings are poor renditions of chirpy girls in sequins. I scan the room. Everyone seems captivated—everyone except for Brook. He’s staring at me. When our eyes meet, he jerks his gaze back to the screen, a little color staining his jaw.