Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
It doesn’t make sense to me, but maybe I decided to take the risk because if anyone might appreciate a dead body in the same light I do, it’s surely a homicide detective. It’s a thrill to fuck with him in retaliation for him constantly popping up uninvited in my everyday life. We might move our pieces on the board differently, but we’re both here to play a game, and I’m curious about the outcome.
Me killing him is the ultimate goal, but it excites me to think he might be the first person ever to corner me. Ford and I often play chess, but I’m understanding there’s a very different thrill when playing with your life and reputation on the line.
“Angle yourself like this,” the photographer instructs, and I’m brought back to my reality at the art exhibition. I’ve donated two pieces for charity, and although I specifically told my agent I didn’t want to attend the event, I was told, as always, that it’s a must if I want to keep my name out there and continue building my career. I wonder when enough is enough. When are people satisfied by their level of fame? If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be in the spotlight at all. It’s the shadows I prefer.
But I mimic her movement, running my hands down the very expensive gown I’m wearing. “Perfect. Now, lightly brush your fingers against the pearls on your neck. Oh, and let’s remove the glasses. Do you mind? You have such beautiful blue eyes.”
“It’s a rarity to have red hair and blue eyes,” my agent, Candice, interjects, peering over the photographer’s shoulder at the photos that have already been taken. The photographer’s assistant holds out her hand, and I hesitantly take off my glasses and pass them to her. Candice has suggested for years now I switch to contact lenses, but the glasses are like a security blanket for me. Another layer I can hide behind.
“Fantastic. Now, the pearls,” the photographer instructs again. I fake a smile, wishing I was in my pajamas, hanging with Billie and Ivy in their apartment for a movie night.
After a few more minutes, Candice and the photographer seem confident they have enough photos to choose from. The first thing I do is grab my glasses before I head into the showroom, Candice beside me, briefly going over the details of pieces and other artists I might be interested in connecting with. I’m not. Although I can admire others’ work in all forms, it always seems lacking in creative genius to me, or maybe it’s because what truly excites me is taboo.
I’m always on the go, traveling the world and appearing at events such as these, even though they exhaust me mentally and physically. I’m not a people person. While my mother can captivate any room she steps into, I’d rather be home alone, reading a good book.
There are times when I’m jealous of my mother’s ability to be so comfortable in social situations. Then again, my auntie and my father never cared about wooing anyone, and I think I took a little bit—or a lot—of that from them.
I walk through the masses as hands reach for me, squeezing and congratulating me on my pieces. Their faces blur, their energies mingling and yapping at my own. I smile like I’m supposed to. But, for some reason, tonight is more exhausting, maybe because I really wish I were hanging out with the girls, or even the twins for that matter.
The moment I see a waitress walking around with a tray of champagne, I grab a glass, just to have something in my hand to try to deter people from grabbing at me. I prefer to come alone to events, instead of inviting any family or friends. I don’t want them to be bored when I don’t have it in me to keep them entertained. Also, I want to keep my worlds separate. With my family, I’m just Hope. Here, I’m treated like some kind of icon. These people don’t know the real me. I’m seen but not really.
“Gosh, Hope, you outdid yourself,” the lady who runs the gallery gushes as she places a hand on my shoulder and starts guiding me around. She goes on to tell me how this is the most successful exhibition she’s had all year, and that we need to book again soon for the next one. Sometimes making the pieces can take up to a whole year, while others I can do in just a week. It just depends how complicated the piece is. That’s something I learned early on, but I can’t rush something if I love it.
I spend the next hour mingling with people as I hold the same glass of champagne, never even taking a sip. It’s not that I don’t like to drink. I obviously do. But not when I’m at a work function like this. I want to make sure I’m on my best behavior. And I have to fly home in a matter of six hours and tell my parents that I’ve decided I’m going to quit college because I’m not really sure what I’m doing there when I know for a fact it’s being an artist that truly makes me happy. Why am I even studying art when I’m already in the field? My mother thought it’d be great for me to build a network of like-minded people, but my lack of social skills hasn’t changed. I have my core people, and that’s all I need or want. I have made a few acquaintances while going to college, but I now feel like I’ve learned all I can, and it’s starting to eat into the few hours I have free to myself.