Nikki took a long swig of coffee. Third cup so far and the day was young. She cracked a few knuckles with satisfaction and flipped through the prints she had scattered on the small space of kitchen counter not already filled with dirty dishes, sticky notes to herself, or magazines.
Now this one … this picture was the stuff she wanted. She picked it up and studied it.
Great lighting, asymmetrical balance, good use of the frame.
She had snapped the photo at a fundraising event for the National Citizens Party last week. Senator Caroline Crauss of Virginia, the party’s newest rising star, had been there, beaming from the podium. Nikki had lucked out and even scored some conversation with Caroline after her speech. They were on a first-name basis now—always a good thing. Nikki drummed her nails on the counter in rhythm to the dance hall music blasting from the nearby speakers. Maybe … just maybe, one day she would be that star.
At least one day. Right now, she’d stay behind the camera and keep building her contacts. She had work to do. The NCP kept her busy, and that’s the way she wanted it. They would put up some big bucks for her snaps of the fundraiser: more money in her pocket and another step closer to her dreams. Money meant influence; influence meant power. She would never be a victim again. The NCP had given Nikki her freedom, the greatest gift she had ever received.
She drank the last mouthful of coffee and glanced up at the empty pot. Damn it, she’d have to make more. She shoveled a few more spoonfuls of coffee into the filter—who even bothered with measuring?—and the bracelets on her wrist jangled with her movements. Her favorite bracelet was the turquoise beaded one that Chloe had given her last year after she went to Greece. Greece. Now that was a dream: getting out of the South Bronx and exploring the world.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and she rolled her eyes. There goes the circuit breaker … again. Well, who really cares? The coffeepot still worked, and that was all she needed. One day, though … one day, she’d bust out of this hole in the wall. It was a crime how much she had to pay for this dump. At least she was getting a roommate.
Roommate! Nikki stopped for a moment and stared ahead. When was the new girl getting here? Putting down her mug, she picked up her cell phone and searched for the messages they’d exchanged. Here was the original alert from the Graduate Academy of Fine Art, connecting them. The school was a good source for roommates: that’s where she’d found her last two. Ah, she found the right message: Amanda Burrow. Right, that was her name. And Amanda would be arriving …
Wait, what was the date today? She checked her phone.
Amanda was coming today!
Nikki took a deep breath. She had work to do. She rushed into the bathroom and began to adjust her makeup. She had her priorities after all. She smoothed her cropped auburn hair (she had better schedule an appointment to get another coloring soon) and applied some more mascara.
Soon afterward, Nikki was clearing file folders and papers off the spare bed when a faint buzzing sound reached her over the blaring music. Throwing everything into a heap on the floor, she paused the song and bolted over to the front door, pressing the Talk button. “What’s up?”
“Umm … it’s Amanda. Amanda Burrow … your new roommate.”
“Fabulous!” Nikki clicked the button, unlocking the front entrance door downstairs, and then waited in anticipation.
A faint knocking sounded. Nikki swung the door open wide and smiled at her new roommate.
The girl was short. Or maybe it was more that Nikki was exceptionally tall, especially wearing her stilettos. Either way, Amanda looked up at her, her face pale and blue eyes wide. She fidgeted in the hallway, shuffling her feet about and twisting her hands together. And, wow … those curls. They were seriously out of control! The girl didn’t do a single thing to even attempt to make her hair look attractive.
Nikki remembered her manners and put on her most encouraging and welcoming tone. “Well, come on in! How was your trip? Sorry I didn’t have time to clean up. I totally forgot you were coming today! But you might as well get used to it.” She stepped aside and gestured for Amanda to come in. “I’m not a complete slob, really. Look at me—I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Nikki King.”
She held out her hand. Amanda extended a limp hand and gave a lifeless handshake. A corpse probably would have shown more enthusiasm.
Amanda murmured something that sounded like, “Nice to meet you,” and then stood there, staring around the room and avoiding eye contact.
Nikki was not impressed. Amanda’s plain T-shirt and worn jeans weren’t helping matters any either. Nikki walked over to the kitchen and filled her cup again. She’d need some caffeine to stay awake during this hardly gripping conversation. “So, you a coffee drinker? Can I pour you a cup?”
Amanda shook her head and returned to studying the room decor. Nikki was so used to it that she forgot how striking it looked. She had plastered the walls—ceiling included—with photographs: black-and-whites, neon pinks and greens, people, animals, and random objects such as flaming toasters and foaming pigs … all of them together creating a slew of colors and images. And, of course, the best part was the familiar I Stand With the NCP! bumper stickers, which stood out among the swirling visual noise.
Amanda’s eyes continued to rove about the room. “Wow.”
“I know, right? That’s what everyone says. I like it. It’s my own personal wallpaper.”
“It’s impressive.”
“It took forever to design. I wanted it to be like a mosaic that never creates a unified picture. I wanted it to unsettle people, to make them think.”
“Yeah … you succeeded. You took all of these pictures?”
“Each and every one.” Nikki paused for a moment, and inspiration hit her. “So, you know, since this is your home now, feel free to put any of your pictures up.”
Amanda raised her eyebrows, but looked down. “I’m not really into photography, but thanks.”
“You paint, right?”
“Mostly. Sometimes I sketch.”
Amanda set her book bag and small suitcase down on the floor beside her. There wasn’t really anywhere else to put them. The apartment was tiny to begin with, and the explosion of clothes around the room didn’t help. Nikki didn’t care, though. She had more important things to do besides folding laundry.
She went over and picked up Amanda’s suitcase. “We can stick these in the bedroom if you want. Come on, I’ll show you.” As they walked, Nikki shook her head in wonder. “Two bags! Are you for real?”
“I travel pretty light. But I had some art supplies shipped here. I hope that was okay. Did you happen to get them?”
“Oh … yeah. Let me find that.” Nikki went to the corner of the bedroom and picked up a cardboard box. She peered at the return address in the corner. “Fort Christopher? That’s where you live?”
“Where I used to live.”
“Huh. Where the heck is that?”
“It’s upstate … in the Adirondacks.”
“Sounds familiar.”
Amanda cocked her head. “It does? Not many people have heard of it. It’s pretty small. The only thing of note is Valor Academy, and that’s about an hour’s drive away.”
Nikki’s stomach churned. “That must be what I’m thinking of. Did you go to Valor?”
“Yeah.”
Nikki waited, hoping for some elaboration. Amanda surely must know Nikki’s allegiance: she had to have seen the NCP stickers everywhere. Nikki decided to probe her for more information. “What did you think of it?”
“I liked the art program. That was about it.”
“I hear there are a lot of religious activists and protesters up there.” Nikki tried to keep her voice neutral.
Amanda’s face darkened, and she crossed her arms. “I wouldn’t know. Or care. That’s not my thing. I’m glad I’m not there anymore.”
“Well, if that’s the case, welcome to NYC! You’ll be happy here.” Nikki grinned. Maybe Amanda Burrow would be a good roommate after all. She would require some work, but she had potential.
Amanda opened the box and began checking her supplies. Nikki glanced at her from the corner of her eye. Amanda seemed really quiet, though. Maybe too quiet … it was unsettling. But that could change as she loosened up and felt more comfortable.
Nikki walked toward the doorway. “Hate to take off so soon, but I’ve got to run for a meeting. The extra key to the apartment is by the coffeepot. You have my number, right? Just give me a ring if you need anything.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Amanda gave a timid, close-lipped smile. On the heels of that success, Nikki grabbed her photos from the kitchen counter and left.
~~~
Amanda sank onto the bed, more exhausted from the conversation than from all her traveling. She loathed introductions: they exacerbated her normal social awkwardness. She never knew the right thing to say. Now that it was thankfully over, she would replay everything in her mind and see how badly she had done.
She untied her worn sneakers and pulled them off. What had Nikki thought of her? She couldn’t have been impressed. Nikki personified glamour. The taupe-colored dress that hung long and loose on her tall frame, the numerous piercings in her nose and ears, her gel-styled hair that was sleek and sophisticated … Amanda couldn’t be more of a contrast.
But she liked Nikki and her welcoming, bright personality. Maybe they could become friends. It would be nice not to be so alone.
Amanda unpacked her few possessions. There was only one of value: a small painting carefully covered and tucked safely inside her book bag. Brown wrapping paper covered all of her creations—she never showed them to anyone, not even to her dad or Chiara. This rule applied most of all to the particular work now before her: one of her earliest paintings and, more importantly, her favorite. She hid the masked image under the bed.
Her inspiration piqued, she unpacked her brushes and oils, wanting to capture this moment. This was a turning point: she needed to mark it through art—the only way she could express herself anymore. The strokes of the brush were the beats of her heart, her life story; the varying colors were the dimensions of her personality. Her personal art was her diary in image form.
She opened the tiny window in the living room. She was used to the pungent scent of her painting medium, but Nikki probably was not. She set her wooden palette on the cardboard shipping box, and on the other side, she placed her tackle box, which held her tubes of oil paints. Thus situated, she began.
As soon as her brush touched the canvas, she lost herself in the realm of thoughts and dreams. Even the noises from outside—traffic, shouts, blaring hip-hop music—failed to disturb her. She relished the first few strokes, the colors dashing across the expanse of the white gessoed board—the start of a new creation. Time escaped her as she delved into the deep space where she kept her most private self locked away.
The hours passed, but she continued her work. That was her one definitive rule when it came to her creations: leave nothing unfinished. For her, an incomplete painting felt like a story with no final chapter or a song with a missing coda. She just couldn’t put a piece of herself in her work and walk away from it undone.
The sun slipped past the tall frames of buildings and then finally set. Sighing with contentment, Amanda put down her brush and, stepping back and stretching, surveyed the result, the transformation from tabula rasa to accomplished picture having been fulfilled.
The painting was, naturally, of a city. Yet the buildings in her painting began as trees, a complete garden of them. As they stretched upward, their wood trunks gradually became steel, transforming themselves into looming skyscrapers. On the ground, wandering amid the roots, stood amorphous gray shadows of people, uniform in their anonymity. In the forefront of the picture loomed an imposing figure of a person—dark and mysterious. A sole billboard displayed the only object of color in the painting: a glistening crimson apple.
The piece was an enigma to her, which didn’t surprise her. Following an inner impulse when painting, she often couldn’t understand her own creations. She stretched and yawned. Tomorrow would be her first class at the Graduate Academy and she wanted to meet the day refreshed. After cleaning up her art supplies and rinsing her brushes, she crawled into bed and closed her eyes. Maybe it was the unfamiliar bed or the curious figure from her painting or the screams of the bombing victims that still filled her head in the stillness—whatever the reason, she couldn’t ignore the foreboding heaviness that filtered through her restless dreams.