The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) Read online

  “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.

  “Christos Natter began wood-carving at six.” Herrick’s voice is trembling a little. “He began at six in his family’s shed using slabs of wood his father, a carpenter, would discard. He soon entered his creations into fairs and competitions. Which brought him to the attention of Mister Delancey—”

  A round of applause drowns out Herrick’s voice and the camera sweeps across the room toward a seated man whose skin is shiny ebony. He gives a curt nod, which surprisingly doesn’t dislodge the monocle set over his right eye that makes him look like he’s snuck off the page of a nineteenth-century British novel. After another round of applause, the camera shoots back to Herrick.

  “Th-the lot consists of six chairs,” he stammers. The gavel in his hand trembles. “They’re all one-of-a-kind pieces. The auction will begin at twenty thousand dollars.” He darts a glance at the judges’ bench. Brook takes an exaggerated gulp of air, probably to remind Herrick to breathe. Herrick’s jaw unclenches. He guzzles in some air and begins again.

  The room goes completely quiet.

  Herrick’s voice explodes out of his microphone. “Twenty. Do I hear twenty? Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Gentlemen’s bid at twenty-three.”

  And up and up he goes, attaining numbers that seem downright preposterous for a bunch of chairs.

  “Thirty nine, anyone? Come on, people, have a little—We’ve got thirty-nine in the back.” Herrick’s confidence is tangible. “That’s more like it. Do I hear fo—forty in the corner!”

  The sound of percussion vibrates across the vaulted room. It’s a reminder that he’s reached half the value.

  “Forty-five. Fifty to the lady in the back. Fifty-five…”

  One of the neon strips on the ceiling fizzles and sputters out, casting a shadow over our half of the windowless dayroom.

  “He’s up to eighty-five thousand now,” Gill says. “No, ninety! Shit…” she whispers, her eyes glowing in the darkness from the reflection of the monitor.

  I yank my gaze back to the screen, just in time to hear Herrick say, “Going once, going twice, sold to the lady in the back!” As he slams his gavel, the black wave of suspended hair crashes against his forehead. He rakes it back and grins.

  “Who the fuck has ninety thousand dollars to spend on a buncha chairs?” a skinny woman with a hairnet asks. I think she’s the cook. Seeing how skinny she is, I bet she doesn’t eat her own food.

  “They’re sculptures,” Gill says. “The buyer probably won’t even sit on them.”

  “I bet they’d crack if I sat in them,” Cheyenne says.

  “Canteen benches barely hold your fat ass up,” the cook says.

  Cheyenne shifts around on the couch. “You got a bone to pick with my ass, because I got a bunch of bones to pick wit
h your cookin’?”

  “You don’t look like you got a problem with it.”

  “Are you insultin’ me?” Cheyenne jumps to her feet, surprisingly lithely considering the mass of cellulite she needs to haul up.

  The cook springs up too. Cheyenne gets in a punch and the cook’s face snaps backward. Something cracks. I pray it’s not her neck. It isn’t. It’s her nose. Blood squirts out. She starts screeching and claws at Cheyenne’s face. I look around, wondering when a guard will rush in. When nobody comes, I shoot Gill a look. She’s smiling, her crooked teeth overlapping her lower lip. At some point, she moves, but it isn’t to break up the fight. She scoots her legs onto the couch so they’re not in the way.

  The cook’s on the floor and Cheyenne’s on top of her now.

  “She’s turning blue. She can’t breathe,” I yell.

  Still no one does anything. I race to the digital box by the door and press on the call button. Seconds later, two guards vault into the room. They each grab one of Cheyenne’s flabby arms and hoist her up. The cook’s coughing and choking, but her face is returning to its original color.

  As they take Cheyenne out of the room, kicking and screaming, the cook yells, “I put you on a diet, bitch!” She’s rubbing the red patches on her throat where Cheyenne’s fingers had been only seconds earlier. She takes her seat on the couch. “Crazy fat bitch,” she mutters. She stares around the room. Her deep-set eyes land on me. “You the one who called security?”

  I’m not sure if I should nod or deny it. Will I be considered a rat if I admit to it?

  “Yeah. She’s the one,” Gill says. She pats my hand.

  “I owe you then. What you like to eat?”

  I want to say tasty food, but obviously I don’t.

  “What you like? What you miss in here?” she repeats.

  “Chocolate. I miss chocolate.”

  She nods. “Hope you’re not too picky on the color.”

  “No. I’m not picky.” My stomach rumbles at the prospect.