The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) Page 3

  “And your last if you make our contestant cry and ruin my work.”

  “Oops…sorry, Leila. She has a lot of hair,” Amy says.

  I do. I have a proper mane, like my sister. Unlike Aster, though, I brush mine out religiously and coat my strands with gloss and softener. If I didn’t, they would tangle and look like the frizzy mess she doesn’t mind sporting. We assume we got our hair from our father. We never met him, gone long before we were born, but apparently he was a handsome, dark-skinned man with a strong southern accent. Although Mom wasn’t a romantic, she loved our father. She never straight-out said it, but when I took an interest in stitching quilts, she unlocked the bottom drawer of her sewing table for me, and I understood…I understood so many things about my mother that day.

  “Time?” Cara’s right behind me. I can see her in the mirror.

  “Five,” Leila says.

  “Okay, good. I’ll go inform Jeb.” She walks back out of the gallery.

  The blow-dryer shuts off. Amy made my hair stick straight. I raise my hand to feel it. It’s smoother and softer than I’ve ever managed to achieve.

  Leila rubs something into my cheekbones. It makes them shimmer like copper. “Your outfit’s in the dressing room. Amy will show you.”

  Amy leads me to a curtained room with a purple velvet pouf and a floor-length mirror. I let the bathrobe fall to the floor, which makes Amy blush. People are so funny about nudity. We’re all just flesh and bones.

  “Arms up,” she says, staring at the blue material she’s clutching.

  She pulls the gown over me, making sure her fingers don’t graze my skin. The cool satin feels divine. I touch it, and it reminds me of the first quilt my mother showed me how to stitch.

  “Same color as your eyes,” Amy says, pulling me back into the present.

  It’s the exact same shade, which looks striking against my skin. Especially around the waist where there are large cutouts lined with blue stones. She hands me a pair of silver platforms. With them on, the hem of the dress barely brushes the carpeted floor.

  “Jewelry,” she says, plopping a big silver ring and a pair of earrings in the palm of my hand. I slip the ring on, and then hook the blue chandelier earrings through my lobes.

  I swing my head from side to side to admire my reflection. “Are the stones real?”

  “I think so.”

  Cara pops her head into the makeshift dressing room. “Good. You’re dressed. Let’s go.”

  The remaining people in the room stare at me as I traipse out. The attention gives me such a rush that I feel as though I’m walking on air. We return to the lobby, turn left, and walk by the mountain of flowers toward a wing of dimly lit corridors filled with Egyptian treasures. We tread so quickly that I don’t have time to take everything in. Not that I can concentrate on much else than the imminent introduction ceremony. When I hear music and loud voices, my heart somersaults and I forget all about the artifacts and statues.

  “Most of the events will take place in the Sackler wing,” Cara explains.

  The music is getting louder. We’re getting closer.

  “It’s where they keep the Temple of Dendur,” she continues.

  “The Temple of what?”

  “Dendur. A gift from Egypt to the United States in 1965.”

  “A real temple?” I ask.

  She nods. “It’s something,” she says, just as we veer through a disproportionately small entranceway—disproportionate because the room stretching beyond it is majestic, rising thirty or forty feet high with a twinkling, glass-paneled ceiling that echoes the vertiginous slanted wall of windows framing Central Park. I can still make it out even though the sky is dimming.

  Dominic Bacci stands on an elevated stone platform between two structures—a thick pale arch, and a larger, columned structure covered in chiseled hieroglyphs and animal carvings that crop up in the warm glow of the overhanging projectors. To his right, on a gold bench, sit Josephine and Brook, and behind him sit the other contestants. A hundred—or perhaps more—round tables dripping with candlelight, white flowers, fine china, and jewel-toned spectators girdle the stage and the sharp, U-shaped pool filled with coins.

  “Go,” Cara whispers, giving me a little shove into the room.

  Shoulders held back, I step from obscurity into the light. Dominic spots me right away.

  “Eight! Lucky number eight, you made it!” His voice erupts out of his microphone.

  Everyone spins in their seat to stare. I put on my best smile and strut toward Dominic, the icy satin dancing against my naked skin. I set aside Aster and the mess that awaits me in Kokomo, and focus on this dream that has become a reality. One tiny dream bobbing in a raging sea of nightmares.

  Chapter Five

  Aster

  Wow. I’m not sure if I say this out loud or not. I don’t really care. The only two people in proximity are Dreadlocks, who gaped at me in the cafeteria, and another girl with a thick body and a black mullet. Most of the other inmates are busy reading or playing board games.

  Dreadlocks swivels her head from the screen to me so many times that I snap at her. “What?”

  After a beat she says, “You look a lot like that chick in the blue dress. What gives?”

  “She’s my twin,” I admit, although we don’t even look alike anymore. They made her into some sort of Hollywood siren while I resemble Frankenstein’s daughter.

  “What did I tell you, Cheyenne?” Dreadlocks scoots to the edge of the couch, bends at the waist, and holds out her hand. “Pay up.”

  The hefty chick—Cheyenne—digs into the top of the V-neck tee she wears beneath her prison-issue jumpsuit and slaps a hand-rolled cigarette into Dreadlocks’ palm. I expect a prison guard to intervene, but the one present is too busy twirling the knobs on her walkie-talkie.

  “I’m Gillian, but you can call me Gill,” Dreadlocks says, settling back into the battered couch.

  “Aster,” I say, leaning away from her until the armrest jabs into my ribs.

  “What you in for?” she asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “That must’ve been some pretty ugly nothin’,” Cheyenne pipes in.

  “Self-defense.”

  One of Gill’s orange eyebrows hikes up her freckled forehead. “They locked you up here for self-defense?”

  “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.!”