Olivia (18 page)

When I get to the coffee shop, Abram is seated at a
corner table with a book in front of him and two drinks; one coffee
and another plastic cup with condensation running down the side. I
know it’s my green tea, and I know he ordered it for me thirty
minutes ago, when I was supposed to be here.

“
I’m sorry.”

“
The busy life of an American
teenager,” he says, his accent making it sound poetic. “How was
your day?”

“
Fine. I found out today we’re
having an art show and contest at school in January.” I sigh a
little, wishing I knew whether or not I’d be painting by
then.

“
This isn’t like the Olympics, is
it?” he asks.

“
What do you mean?”

“
Where they don’t allow
professionals to compete.”

“
I’d hardly call myself a
professional.”

“
Well, I believe the term
professional refers to one that receives payment for participating
in the sport. And this, my dear,” he says as he hands me an
envelope, “shows you to be an active,
paid
participant in the sport of fine art.”

I take the paper and laugh, repeating his phrase in
my own mangled British accent. “Spoat of fahne aht,” I giggle,
opening the envelope and looking at the numbers on the enclosed
check. “What in the world?”

“
Miss Holland, it’s your first
payday. And you did very well.”

“
How many did you sell?”

“
After addressing all of the calls
the following day, we sold sixteen out of twenty. You, love, are a
hit.”

“
Does my dad know?”

“
I wanted
you
to be the first to know,” Abram says. “You can be
the one to share the news with him. There will also be a write-up
on the unknown painter in
The Times
this
weekend, and–”

“
This is after your commission?” I
interrupt. He nods. “Wow, this is incredible... and you didn’t tell
anyone I painted them?”

“
People are actively searching for
Olivia Choisie
as we speak. As I was
saying,
The Times
wants an interview, but
I gave no indication of your true identity, love. I wouldn’t dream
of it.”

“
Well... thank you. I could live
off of this sort of income...” I say, more to myself than to
him.

“
You’d have to paint to meet the
demand first, remember. We don’t have an endless supply of art. You
have to keep working at it.” I don’t take his words as nagging;
they almost sound sympathetic, and I appreciate his
understanding.

“
You noticed...”

“
A good agent can tell when the
work stops. A better agent helps the artist to keep going. What can
I do?”

“
Nothing, Abram. I’m trying. It’s
hard, but I’m trying.”

“
If it’s inspiration you need, we
could take a scenic drive one weekend,” he suggests. “Or go to some
other exhibitions.”

“
Right,” I tell him, looking off
quickly. “Abram, I want to buy something for you.”

“
There’s no need.”

“
I insist. Finish your coffee,
we’re going shopping.”

“
Miss Holland–”

“
Come on!” I stand up, impatiently
tapping my foot.

“
Yes, ma’am,” he says with a
laugh.

One block over, we go into a men’s boutique I’d gone
to with my uncle Matty over the summer. “I’m just going to be
blunt,” I tell him as he looks around the store. “If you’re going
to rep me, you need to dress–” I choose my words carefully. “You
need to dress like a twenty-five-year-old art agent.”

“
Well, I thought they dressed like
this,” he says, motioning to his dated grey suit and tan shirt. I
make a face, letting him know he’s not right. “All right, then.
Sir,” he calls across the shop to a guy hanging shirts in the back,
“my young friend tells me I need better clothes.”

The employee looks at Abram from head to toe and
nods in agreement, walking toward us. “Honey, you need a whole
better
look
.”

“
What are
those
jeans?” I ask the salesman, pointing to the ones
he’s wearing.

“
Aren’t they great?” he says,
modeling from the side. “We’ve got some right over
here.”

“
Jeans, Miss Holland? I’m not sure
I can abandon my trousers.”

“
You sound like my dad,” I tell
him, frustrated. “You’re a cool guy, Abram, with an awesome job.
Stop dressing like my forty-nine-year-old father.”

“
You’re Livvy Holland, aren’t you?”
the employee asks.

“
Yes.”

“
Your dad dresses very well for a
49-year-old man,” he says. “Your friend here...” He shakes his head
at my agent.

“
His name’s Abram.”

“
Yes, Abram? Her father dresses
much better than you.”

“
My mom dresses him,” I tell him as
an aside.

“
Got it,” he acquiesces. “Miss
Holland, show me what I should wear.”

We spend the next hour in the store picking out
jeans, nice shirts and shoes for him. The salesman gives him the
card for his hair stylist. Abram is a good sport about the whole
thing, even though I can tell he’s a bit embarrassed.

“
Well if that wasn’t an ambush
makeover,” he says on our way out, carrying three bags full of
clothes. I carry another bag with three pairs of shoes. Even though
it was my idea, he insisted on spending his own money on the
purchase.

“
I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I just
think it’s time you start playing the part of the agent of the
hottest young artist in town,” I tease him.

“
Hottest?” He raises his
eyebrows.

“
Not in
that
way,” I tell him. “But we both know I’m the next
big thing, right?”

“
I know that,” he says confidently,
even though I was just being silly and cocky with him. “I’m glad
you recognize your potential as well. I just hope you’ll get back
to it soon, love. I know you can.”

“
Thanks for believing in me,” I
tell him sincerely.

“
Thank you for being honest with me
about my lack of style. I’m glad you’re comfortable enough with me
to confront me in such a manner,” he laughs, motioning to his
purchase. “It means we have some trust. I’m glad you trust
me.”

“
You’re welcome.” He’s parked in
the same garage I am, so I help him load his shopping bags into the
trunk. “I have to go tell my parents the good news.” I’m giddy,
remembering the check I have in my purse. A part of me wants to
keep the amount a secret so I can spend the money on whatever I
want, but I know I have to hand it over to Dad. I’ll be glad when I
turn eighteen next year and get to take over managing my finances.
Granted, I’m not certain how to do that, but it can’t be as
difficult as Jon makes it out to be.

My parents and I leave for Connecticut on a chilly,
Monday morning in November. In the back seat of Dad’s car, I pull
out my phone and call Jon.

“
Morning,” he says, his voice still
thick with sleep.

“
I thought you’d be up,” I tell
him. “I’m sorry.”

“
It’s okay, baby. What’s
up?”

“
I just wanted to tell you goodbye.
I’m not sure if I’ll be able to call tonight. We’re supposed to be
having dinner with a dean or something.”

“
Okay,” he says through a yawn.
“I’ve got a project to finish anyway. Just keep an open mind,” he
suggests. “Ask lots of questions. Find out which dorms are
co-ed–”

“
Why do you want me to get...
that
?” I whisper.

“
It’ll be easier to sneak me in,
don’t you think?” I roll my eyes, having no doubt he can sense me
doing it. He laughs on the other end of the line. “Just have a good
time.”

“
Okay. Love you.”

“
Love you, too. Call me when you
get in tomorrow night.”

“
I will. If we get in early, maybe
I can stop by the campus? We could have dinner.”

“
That’d be nice. I have class until
six.”

“
I know. I’ll call you.” I tuck the
phone in my bag after ending the call.

“
Contessa, don’t forget you still
have homework to do for Wednesday.”

“
I know, Dad. He said he wants to
help me.”

“
How is he going to help you with a
personal interpretation of
Walden
? The key
word there is
personal
.”

“
Sometimes I just understand things
better when we talk about them. Is that wrong?”

“
I can talk about
Transcendentalism,” he offers. “I’ve read Thoreau. Let’s discuss
it.” I glare at him as he watches me through the rearview mirror
with a slight smirk. I know he’s just messing with me.

“
Jacks, leave her alone,” Mom says.
“You might put us both to sleep.” I start laughing as Dad stares at
her curiously, pretending to be offended. “Eyes on the road,
honey,” she says, patting him on the cheek.

We have lunch with an old friend of Dad’s on campus
when we arrive. He tells me about the traditions of the school, the
history, things that I’ve heard a little about over the years. One
of his daughters graduated from Yale and lives nearby; the other
one is in her third year and still lives on campus. We’re supposed
to meet her tomorrow if she can get caught up on her studies.

After lunch, we meet with a dean and a tour guide, a
sophomore in the art program named Manny.

“
Mr. Holland,” he says, extending
his hand. “I don’t know if you remember me.”

“
I’m sorry, no,” Dad says, shaking
his hand anyway.

“
Well, it’s been more than ten
years, so I can’t blame you. I’m Emmanuel Cortez.” I watch my dad’s
expression change to awareness and surprise.

“
No kidding!?” he exclaims, clearly
taken aback.

“
It’s me. I heard some people in
the art department talking about you bringing your daughter to tour
the campus, and I volunteered to show her around.”

“
Livvy, this is Manny,” Dad says. I
glance over at Mom, who’s just as confused as I am.

“
You took my spot at Nate’s Art
Room,” my tour guide tells me. I remember the story my mother had
told me last year. To keep me in the program founded by my parents
to honor Nate, they had to give me a spot belonging to another
child. That child–Manny, apparently–was given a scholarship to the
most prestigious art school in Manhattan to assuage Dad’s
guilt.

“
It looks like you did just fine
without it,” I tell him, smiling. “No hard feelings?”

“
Of course not,” he says with a
laugh. “I’m at
Yale
. I’d never be at Yale
without the education I got at the institute.”

“
It’s so nice to see you again,
Manny!” my Mom says, still shocked.

“
Thank you, Mrs. Holland. And thank
you both for the opportunity.”

“
I can’t believe you’re here,” my
dad continues, dumbfounded. Manny nods and looks back in my
direction.

“
What do you study?” I
ask.

“
Photography,” Manny tells me.
“Well, fine art, technically, but my focus is
photography.”

“
Film or digital?”

“
Film,” he says. “Only film. It’s
so much more versatile and unexpected. Anyone can digitize stuff in
Photoshop,” he says with a disgusted expression. “It takes a real
artist to create effects and develop film using lighting, paper and
chemicals. It’s trial and error, and a little luck,” he admits.
“And there’s no ‘undo.’ Only
re
do.”

“
That’s awesome,” I tell him
genuinely excited. “I’d love to see your work.”

“
I’d love to show you,” he says.
“If you have some time, Dean Miller wanted me to give you a tour of
the art building.”

“
Yes, and Mr. and Mrs. Holland,”
the dean says, “I wanted to talk to you about all of the
opportunities we have for your daughter here. I thought the kids
could spend the afternoon together, and then we could all go to
dinner around six. I was going to invite a few professors to join
us.”

“
What do you say, Tessa?” I give my
dad a look. “Livvy, I’m sorry.”

I smile, happy that he got the message. I didn’t
know if I’d ever break him of the habit of calling me by my
nickname in public, but he was trying. “That sounds great!”

“
Watch your surroundings,” Dad
says. I wave goodbye to him and Mom, following Manny toward a large
building. It looks like something Jon would be impressed with, with
lots of lines and sharp angles.

“
This is the architecture
building,” Manny tells me as we cross the street. “The art school
used to be there, too, but it’s now actually that building over
there. Nothing spectacular. It was originally a Jewish center, but
now houses the Yale School of Art.”

“
That’s where your classes
are?”

“
Most of them, yeah. The darkroom’s
there, which is where I spend a lot of time.”