The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) Read online

  “Here we are, princess,” he says, rapping against a glazed glass door. “Have fun.”

  The door swings open to reveal a woman in a tweed skirt suit. She seems way too chic to work in a prison. “Hi. My name is Robyn.” She holds out her hand.

  I shake it quickly, barely pressing down, then stride into the room past her. There are two large windows overlooking the barbed wire fence and the dense forest beyond.

  “Please take a seat.” Robyn has lines around her mouth and eyes.

  I sit facing the windows. She sits across from me, a dark outline against the stark light.

  “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “No.”

  “So, Aster, tell me…how are you adjusting?”

  I shrug. “Fine.”

  “Are the other inmates treating you nicely?”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” The small talk is making my skin itch, so I cut to the chase. “Why am I here?”

  “I’d like us to discuss how you’re feeling.”

  “Awesome, thank you. Can I go now?”

  “Sarcasm denotes distress. Are you distressed about being here or over the events of August 17th?”

  “Is anyone not distressed about being locked up in prison?”

  “So it isn’t August 17th that has you so upset?”

  “Of course I’m upset about involuntarily killing a man,” I say with a huff. “Just like I was distressed when I ran over my neighbor’s cat two years ago. It sucks.”

  “You sound more distraught about the cat.”

  “The cat was innocent. It didn’t deserve it.”

  “But the man did?”

  “Troy Mann had ties with the mafia. He was a bad man. He killed people. So forgive me if I sound cold, but killing him—involuntarily”, I add, “is probably a good thing for humanity.”

  “Let’s talk about that then.”

  “Fine.”

  She flicks her gaze to the folder resting on her lap. “After you saw Troy Mann at the pizzeria, you followed him back to his motel without alerting the authorities. Is this correct?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “So he wouldn’t get away.”

  “Why didn’t you call the cops?”

  “They wouldn’t have come in time.”

  “What did you think you would do once you found out where he lived?”

  “I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”

  She scribbles in the file. “Once you got to the motel, why didn’t you phone the police?”

  “My cell had no more battery.”

  Again, she takes note of what I say. “So he got out of his car and walked over to your window?”

  “Yes. He’d noticed I was following him. He threatened me.”

  “What were his exact words?”

  “He told me he would break some bones in my body if I didn’t leave straight away and forget I ever saw him. He said he would hurt Ivy if I called the cops,” I say in a hushed voice, rolling the scratchy fabric of my jumpsuit between my thumb and index finger. Ivy used to do that on a frayed and yellowed piece of quilt to soothe herself. It worked for her so perhaps it’ll work for me. After a few minutes, I don’t feel better.

  “The cops didn’t find a pizza box in his car. Do you know why that is?”

  “He tossed it out on his way home. From his car window.”

  Her already lined forehead puckers even more. I count nine wrinkles. “Into a bin or on the sidewalk?”

  “In a bin.”

  “Do you remember where that bin was?”

  I shake my head. My breathing is too shallow. I focus on dragging it out. “I was focused on not losing him.”

  “No cross streets come to mind? Store awnings?”

  “It was ten-thirty. It was dark and everything was closed.”

  She shuts the folder. “How do you feel about your sister leaving for an art competition three days later?”

  “I forced her to go. It’s her chance, and I won’t take that away from her. Plus we need the money.”

  Robyn holds my gaze. “But how did it make you feel?”

  “I miss her.”

  “Do you feel like she abandoned you?”

  “Didn’t you hear what I just said? I forced her to go. She would’ve stayed if I’d asked her to.”

  “Are you certain about that?”

  “Yes.”

  She stares at me, then stands up. “This was a good session, Aster.”

  “That’s it? We’re done?”

  “For today. I’ll see you next week. Same time?”

  “I won’t be here anymore.”

  “Is that right?” One of her eyebrows lifts. “Well then, feel free to stop by before you leave. I’m here every day from ten to four.”

  “Sure.” Not.

  As I rise, she extends her hand. I don’t shake it, so she lowers it to the file she’s clutching against her chest. A paper’s sticking out. I catch the word nervous.

  “Good-bye, Aster.”

  I walk out of her office on autopilot, distracted by those seven letters. If I’m nervous, then I’m in trouble.

  Chapter Eight

  Ivy

  Thanks to the sleeping tablets I picked up in the pharmacy on my way to the airport, I sleep deeply and dreamlessly and wake only because I hear birds chirping. It takes me a second to remember I’m inside a museum, and then another to activate my brain and realize that tweeting birds isn’t normal. But then, this is the Masterpiecers—the school defies normalcy. They very well could have actual birds. They have real grass and small trees outside our tents.

  “Ten minutes to hair and makeup,” I hear someone call out from the grassy hallway.

  I tie up my hair and jump into the shower. Too soon, I hop out and don the bathrobe someone’s already replaced. While I brush my teeth, I search for a fresh pair of underwear in my duffel, but my bag is empty. Someone unpacked it!

  I throw the toothbrush on the bed, and with both hands, feel the bottom of the bag, trying to locate the lump. When I touch it, a whoosh of air tears out of my lungs. Willing my heart to quiet, I grab a thong from a drawer and tug it on underneath the bathrobe. Still agitated, I head to the prep wing, bypassing the breakfast spread.

  Lincoln and Herrick are already seated. Both have people working on them. I meander toward my station where Leila and Amy are waiting, and sit, bobbing my right knee up and down, up and down.

  The bright bulbs are blinding, yet I notice Cara’s reflection in the mirror. She’s wearing a head mic. “Cup of coffee, tea, green juice?”

  “Green juice,” I say.

  When she leaves, Leila tapes a picture to the mirror, her long black hair swinging around her waist. “That’s your look for today.”

  I stare at the picture. “Is the photo in black and white?”

  “Nope.” She smacks a piece of gum around in her mouth. “They just want your skin to be pale.”

  Amy leans in toward the picture and then sways back like a bamboo. “That’s some serious hair teasing.”

  By the time they’re done with me, I look spooky and electrocuted. Thankfully, I’m not the only one. Chase also resembles an albino macaque. We even wear matching outfits: white tights and white V-necks.

  The others look different. Lincoln is doll-like in her polka-dot dress. She has rouge on her cheeks and cherry-colored lip-gloss.

  Maria, the ex-beauty queen, is literally washed out, her dark skin and clothes have been bleached, down to her clogs that are also gray.

  Herrick’s skin has been tinged pea green, like the hulk, and his clothes are orange.

  Maxine sports a yellow wig over her buzz-cut, dark purple circles under her eyes, a red clown nose, and a pair of ripped Daisy Dukes.

  Nathan’s longish hair is pulled into a ponytail and he’s wearing a pair of round bifocals that emphasize his sad eyes. His shirt is oddly buttoned and his tie’s on crooked.

  And J.J. looks like a yeti. They glued whiskers to his ta
nned face and stuffed him in some furry outfit.

  I’m thinking that my accouterment isn’t the worst when Dominic bursts into the room. “Is everyone—” He doesn’t finish his sentence. “Fabulous! Now hurry and eat some breakfast. Make it substantial. You’re skipping lunch.” As he heads toward Jeb—who’s practically as short as Aster’s prison warden—he calls out, “I want you all in the main hall in fifteen for the announcement of today’s episode!”

  “Hey, Ivy,” comes a voice from behind.

  I turn to find Brook in a black suit and black shirt opened at the collar. “And here I was afraid I wasn’t recognizable anymore.”

  He chuckles, which makes him appear somewhat kinder.

  “So what are we doing today?” I ask him.

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “Really? Not even a hint?”

  “Not even a hint.” His dark eyes crinkle at the corners, penetrating but not as abrasive as last night.

  “I should go eat something,” I say.

  He gestures toward the panel of fabric delineating our quarters. “After you.”

  My seven opponents are chatting while gobbling down plates piled high with slices of bread and golden pastries. Maxine and Nathan seem to be hitting it off. She’s propped up on the arm of the couch and Nathan’s standing inches away, laughing. Every so often, his eyes dart to the hem of her Daisy Dukes.

  “Morning, everyone,” Brook says with a smile.

  As he enquires as to how they slept, I head to the buffet to pick up a piece of toast, which I slather in cream cheese and strawberry jam. There are pieces of real fruit in this jam, unlike the dollar brand Mom used to buy that was basically red goop with strawberry extract. Quickly, I load up a second slice just as someone from the camera crew arrives and barks, “Last touch-ups and we’re a go. Come on, people.”

  I gulp it down, wishing I’d had time to grab a cinnamon roll or a banana from the buffet. Food going to waste—especially such incredibly expensive food—is a pet peeve of mine. Mom was like that too, although she took it to another level. She would skim the green fluff from expired yogurts and scrape the mold off sliced Wonderbread. Aster, on the other hand, would rather starve. Mom used to think she was anorexic, but she’s just not interested in food and forgets to eat.

  Once our makeup artists fix what needs fixing, we file out of the third floor and take the wide staircase down to the darkened main hall. They’ve covered all the windows—even the round ones on the ceiling—and turned off all the lights. Spotlights suddenly flare up and settle on each one of us, plunging the cavernous space beyond in total inky blackness. I blink, but avoid squinting because I’m being filmed. Instead, I call upon my other senses as though they were insect feelers. From the thundering applause resounding against the tall stone walls, I can tell that hundreds of people are gathered in the lobby, and from the heady scent of caffeine, I can tell that breakfast is in full swing down here as well.

  “Today, we begin with a show,” Dominic says. “A great, great show. In our métier, we call it performance art.” He spins around to face us. “For those of you who’ve never heard of it, forfeit this instant!”

  Is he serious?

  Dominic guffaws. “I’m kidding. Who fell for it?” His eyes shine as they scan each of our faces. “Don’t tell me you all knew what I was talking about?” Still no one speaks. “Well then, this should be a breeze for all of you. Music, maestro.”

  The orchestra plays the opening notes to the Masterpiecers’ theme song.

  “Lights!” Dominic exclaims over the music.

  Large spotlights blaze, illuminating seven square forms cloaked in heavy emerald velvet. Dominic raises his hands, palms facing up, as though making an offering to the gods, and the velvet is pulled off, shimmying like the glossy leaves of the buttonbush shrubs bordering our ground floor apartment. The fabric pools to the side of enormous glass cubes in which various pieces of furniture have been deposited: chairs, desks, a bar, a human-sized hamster wheel. One’s even filled with dirt.

  “Contestants, your stages!” Dominic bellows, his voice rife with delight. “Herrick Hawk, for the next eight hours, you will be a carrot. You will stand in dirt. You will not talk. You will not move. But please, don’t forget to breathe,” he adds with a bark of laughter.

  The green makeup does little to hide Herrick’s revulsion. When he finally moves, it’s in slow motion. One of the stage hands props a ladder against the side of his dirt-filled glass cage to help him scale the wall. He lands noiselessly on the thick earth. He doesn’t insert himself in the hole they dug against one of the sides. He’s probably waiting until he has to.

  “Maria, my dear, I hope you enjoy knitting,” Dominic continues, wrapping one arm around the former beauty queen’s waist.

  “Not especially,” she says.

  “Well that’s too bad, because”—he shoves her toward a cube with a chair in the middle and a basket full of electric blue yarn—“you will be knitting a scarf for the next eight hours.”

  “Que bueno,” she mumbles, advancing toward her box.

  “Daisy. Darling Daisy,” he tells Maxine. “Guess which stage I’ve had readied for you.”

  She points to the one with the bar.

  “Good girl. You’ll pretend to pour yourself shots and drink them.”

  He grins. She doesn’t.

  He turns to Lincoln, who’s smoothing down her gold hair. “You see that stage with the wooden vat and all the wands sticking out of it?”

  She nods.

  “That’s all yours, sweetheart. You will enchant us with bubbles of all sizes. It will be beautiful.”

  She smirks as she leaves. I wouldn’t have minded blowing bubbles dressed as Lolita for a few hours.

  I stare at what’s left: the hamster wheel, a desk with a stool and a thick leather-bound book, and a glass cube with two chairs facing each other. I hope I get the desk, but I don’t. It becomes Nathan’s. He must read the entire book. I’m jealous until I hear it’s an encyclopedia on plants and seeds.

  J.J., unsurprisingly, is awarded the hamster cage. The whiskers gave it away.

  “Chase and Ivy, you will look at each other for the next eight hours. You may blink, but no looking at anything or anyone else. Studies have shown it’s extraordinarily intimate when it lasts for four minutes,” Dominic says, which makes me grunt. “No one’s ever studied the effect of eight hours, though.”

  I’m sure it will have the opposite effect. When I spot Lincoln toying with her bubble wands, I’m envious. Why didn’t they stick her in here with Chase? I walk ahead of him, threading myself through the thick crowd, and take a seat on one of the transparent chairs, bracing myself for complete boredom.

  “Can I get a countdown?” I hear Dominic ask.

  I stare around me one last time before I’m stuck with Chase’s pale face. The crowd starts counting down from ten to one. My gaze locks on Brook’s. He’s standing right outside our cube, his arms folded in front of his chest.

  “Three…two…one…show time!” everyone chants.

  Cara seals the door of our cube, and then, it’s just me and Chase. There’s no more noise except that of my breath whooshing past my parted lips.

  The first hour is the most painful. My eyes are sore, and my bottom, in spite of relentlessly shifting around in the plastic chair, smarts. My nostrils keep flaring from Chase’s oily, green smell that makes me think of muddy grass after a rainfall. But the physical agony is nothing compared to the displeasure of being scrutinized by him. His eyes feel like the sheets of icy rain that fall over Kokomo in autumn. I hope mine feel the same.

  After the second hour, it gets easier because my vision has gone unfocused. I’ve shut down. My breathing has slowed and my soreness has receded. I stare unseeingly at Chase. My peripheral attention is on the world outside the glass cube. People point as they mill around our stages, and discuss our quiet showcases. One presence never shifts though: Brook.

  When hour number three is announ
ced, my stomach growls so loudly that I think Chase hears it. I will it to stop. It does by hour four. I feel light now. By hour five, I’m floating, more clear-headed than a Buddhist monk who’s been meditating his entire life. At least, that’s what I imagine meditating monks feel like. I have no clue.

  Hour six, it gets easy. Staring into Chase’s dark irises is hypnotic.

  Hour seven. Something strange happens. There’s shrieking. A lot of it. I’m so tempted to turn to see what’s going on. Maybe it’s some ploy to break us. The crowd around our box migrates to another part of the room. Okay…maybe it’s not a test. I strain to listen to the world outside. I make out Dominic’s voice and metal hitting the floor. The squealing resumes, and then it gets quiet again. Eerily so. I look at Chase—I mean really look at him—to see if he knows what’s happening, but his features are set in stone.

  It’s finally hour eight. If I was floating three hours ago, now I have an out of body experience. I’m soaring over the glass ceiling, watching myself watch Chase. It’s overwhelming and extraordinary. I’m not sure if it’s my empty stomach or the silence, but this tranquil strength envelops me. It’s so powerful that I shiver, and so wonderful that I smile. And for the first time in months, I feel like everything is going to be okay again.

  Chase looks stiffer than he did at the beginning. There’s tension in his arms and shoulders. Even his legs, which are splayed out in front of him, are as rigid as tree trunks. He hasn’t stirred in the past hour, yet there’s this vein on his temple that’s been pumping feverishly, as though his pulse were racing. My blood, on the other hand, is syrup, sluggishly sliding underneath my skin.

  Loud music suddenly fills the vaulted room. It’s followed by Dominic’s voice announcing that the contest has been completed. Chase’s lips unbolt, and he rips his eyes off mine. I can almost feel the tear. He springs out of his chair and marches out of the glass cube without a word.

  I’m offended.

  “You may return to your tents and relax for an hour.” Dominic’s voice rings too loudly.

  Chin up, I rise and thread myself through the applauding crowd, my irritation at Chase’s brisk exit dissipating. I don’t want to rest; I want to stay here and lap up the praise the spectators are distilling on me as I pass by them.