Page 40 of Spin the Damn Bottle

"I intend to. Harold, this is my Nadia. Nadia, Harold Hurst, art collector and one of my grandfather’s close friends.”

I shake his hand politely. “A pleasure.”

“My, isn’t she delightful?” He returns to the painting. “He has great talent, that boy. Luther Marks. He came to us wanting to draw comics. Five years later, he’s doing it for one of the best publications in the countryandhe paints in his spare time.”

“Harold is on the board at Tisch.”

My jaw drops.

Of course he is.

And of course Jason would introduce us. If I know him well, and I do, this is the very reason we’re here in the first place.

Holy fuck.

“Woah. That’s...woah.”

“Now, my boy Jason let me know you’re interested in attending our school, and that makes you a discerning young lady. I told him that we’d look at your file. No guarantees, mind you. We recruit on merit alone. But I’m so glad you’ve chosen us, Ms. Reyes. So glad.”

He follows us for the next two paintings. Knowledgeable and easy to talk to, he’s good company, though my nerves are all over the place. Unless I’m very much mistaken, this is more important than nailing my interview with the admissions department.

When he makes his excuses to go chat with another group, he congratulates Jason on choosing “such a delightful soul,” and to me, says, “We’ll be in touch.”

I watch him leave, whispering, “I don’t know if I want to kiss you or throttle you for not giving me a warning!”

“I figured you didn’t need the stress.” Jason’s entirely remorseless.

“I had champagne!”

“And it relaxed you.” He wraps his arms around me and holds me close. “You did great. He loved you.”

“He would have loved a harpy, so long as she was attached to your arm,” I mutter.

Jason huffs in amusement. “Hardly. Old Harold is a hardass. He takes art seriously. He meant what he said: he’ll look at your file, and only accept you after he realizes you are incredibly talented.”

Hopefully that’s true, but I’ll never know whether I deserve my place now.

We’re almost at the end of the gallery when a man waves at Jason. Fashionable and less exuberant than is the norm here, he approaches with purposeful steps.

“Carlos!” Jace takes the man’s hand.

“Is this the girl?”

“It is indeed. Nadia, Carlos is one of the artists and owners of Black and White. He’s the one we owe tonight’s invitation to.”

“Thank you so much,” I say, eagerly shaking his palm. “I’m having a great time.”

“Oh, anytime, darling. Listen, Jason tells me you don’t display anything yet, right?” He speaks fast, and doesn’t give me enough time to try and answer. “We sold more than I’d planned today, so I have the space for a small series—three to five pieces, something like that. If that works, we can build from there.”

I stare in complete disbelief.

“I sent him the bust and a few of your sketches,” Jason tells me, like it’s an explanation. It isn’t.

High school kids don’t get to be displayed in up-and-coming galleries. They just don’t.

“I, I…” I clear my throat. “A series,” I repeat. “Sculptures, right? Busts?”

“I’m keeping most of the art for a month then I have to send it to the buyers. Can you manage three to five by then?”