Into the Velvet

Fifty-Seven Days Until

Bianca had lied. My hour had passed, and it was almost midnight.

I tried to suppress a yawn against the back of my hand. "What is it you're studying again?"

"I'm at Penn Law getting my JD. Two years left." Mr. Ivy League looked around him surreptitiously, like he was above being caught surveying the room. He was used to being stared at. He filled his champagne flute with more cheap wine. Then he sniffed at it, swirling the glass round and round to make it more palatable. "Heard it was going to be a busy crowd tonight—they weren't wrong."

"How did you hear about this event? You're a long way from Pennsylvania."

"I'm at an internship down at this end of town. Unfortunately." His tone implied that this wasn't the pleasant end of town. He looked down at his watch quickly, drawing attention to it. A gold Rolex. "A good friend of mine is really into Blondie's work. Interesting stuff. Though a lot of her exposure has come from the mainstream media, so I wouldn't call her a genuine guerrilla artist."

"This isn't your kind of art?"

"No, not really."

We were standing in front of one of Blondie's pieces — a miniature model of an expensive mega-yacht, tethered to a helicopter suspended above flames. Real flames. Small burners on either side kept the fire sustained. The light and crackling heat bounced against our profiles. I'd been keeping warm around it when this Ivy League boy roped me into a conversation; I was reluctant to share its heat.

"What makes you think she's not genuine?" I asked, surprised. "What does a genuine artist look like?"

He took a cool sip, appraising me. Wanting to know if I was worth his time. "Oh, you know — Picasso, Monet, Degas. They make the stuff that you pay to see. You said you had a brother?"

The actual artists were white and male. Just like him.

I nodded. This conversation was a dull interlude from the art, which I was genuinely attempting to enjoy. Bianca was nowhere in sight.

"Where is he?" He pointed vaguely to the surrounding bodies. I took his arm and guided his raised finger, pointing it at Olly. Olly was amongst these college-aged kids, but he wasn't studying Law at an Ivy League. He was bouncing between classes at the community college my mom taught at, amusing himself with West African Pottery and Tibetan Folk Dance.

This boy lifted one eyebrow. "Cool."

"Cool what?"

His eyes suddenly widened, and he shook his head. "No, I mean it's—it's cool that your brother's here tonight. I mean, he knows Blondie, which is cool. She seems great. Very cool."

My eyes narrowed. "You can ask me what you're thinking. I'll answer."

He took a long gulp of his terrible wine, squinting and pretending he hadn't heard. "Pardon me?"

I swiped a fresh drink from a nearby tray, taking in a tentative mouthful. My eyes watered. "You're wondering why he's white and I'm not."

"No, I mean that's fine, that's cool—"

"It is." I tilted my head to the side, waiting for him to finish.

This boy was panicking now. Looking for a way out of this topic. "I'm sorry — what college did you say you were from?"

"I didn't." I took another bold sip.

I saw all the colour leave his face. "Wait. Are you still in high school?" He said it like it was a dirty, taboo thing.