Amanda was weightless and free. The shackles of a haunting past, social reclusion, inward isolation—they were gone. This moment alone mattered … here and now and everything that filled it, both within and without. This moment was perfect. This is what utopia feels like. How had she never known it before? How did she ever think it wrong, or undesirable? This was desire.
The past was gone. Time was gone. Days passed, weeks passed. But seconds, minutes, hours meant nothing and held no power over her. Maybe they always meant nothing. Her new way of life didn’t need the regular rotation of day and night. Weekend or weeknight—what importance did they hold in this fluid existence of ecstasy? When exhaustion rose within her, she fell into an effortless sleep; when her body surged with adrenaline, she replied with a flurry of action and inspiration.
The agenda belonged to her, and she filled it with Ethan.
He held the key to this new level of reality. He took her by the hand and taught her the ways of this new world, this wilderness of euphoria. Embracing it meant embracing him. The pill served as their binder, and its adventures blended them together, delving into the landscape of pleasure. How much she owed him for the release and liberation she now recognized …
Thanks to the pill, Amanda enjoyed a level of immediate understanding with Ethan and the elite society she’d now permeated. The pill brought her onto his team, and Little Pete’s was their shared playing field. The game had no rules; they were each the champion. The novelty of their dialogue … the extraordinary insights … the audacious dreams that seemed just beyond her fingertips—all while driving with Ethan, crisscrossing the Manhattan grid. Her defenses had evaporated. Together, they were building a cosmos.
Her eyes opened to a ceiling covered in photographs. She stretched out her hand, and her fingers brushed an empty bag of chips, scattering crumbs onto the carpet. Relaxation and elation stirred within her. Warm embers of fire that had ceased producing flames still burned hot. She stoked them within, smiling to herself.
Light broke through the plastic blinds. Car engines roared and horns blared from the street below. She stretched, potential flooding through her arms and limbs. No coat hung on the hook on the back of the door—Nikki was out.
“Ethan?”
Intriguing silence.
The moment was a blank slate waiting to be written by her hand. What future would she choose for this corner of reality she inhabited?
Her shirt was drenched with sweat, and her curls were matted against the sticky skin of her forehead. She welcomed the cold water of the shower pouring over her. And then came another craving to quench: hunger. Three bowls of cereal in, the silence reverberated within her, a summons to action. She despised the safe and predictable; rather, boldness and audaciousness beckoned her now. Her eyes roved about the room until they fell upon her book bag. She checked her phone, pinpointing the day and time. She had Michael’s class in an hour.
She put the sunglasses on her face, but not for hiding. With the tight green dress borrowed from Nikki’s closet and tall black boots, it was her city and she belonged here. Amanda could be whatever she wanted, and this was who she was right now. She liked this person; it had been so long since she had loved herself.
People drifted about the front steps of the Masters Academy … so many potential paths to pursue, but Leila walked straight ahead and Amanda jumped at the opportunity.
“Hey! Leila!” Amanda ran ahead and reached Leila, who turned around, wariness traced across her face.
“Are you coming to class today? You skipped again last time.” Leila peered at Amanda from behind her thick, plastic glasses.
“What class is that?”
“It’s Monday, you freak. We have Michael’s class now—in case you’ve totally lost your mind. What have you been doing?”
“Enjoying myself. It’s my life to do with as I please.”
Amanda sauntered into the classroom and took a seat in front of her easel. Michael, upon entering the room, looked at her and raised his bushy eyebrows.
“Amanda?”
“Hey there, Mike. Congrats! You remembered my name.” She smiled—this was fun.
He frowned. “You were absent last time when I spoke with each student about his or her semester project. Please come up to see me after class.”
She smirked: she couldn’t wait to show him her sketch. She had visited the Met several times during the past few weeks. Empowered by the pill, she’d spent hours rendering tone to her sketch, building up gradation. Form drawing demanded patience, but the pill helped make the whole enterprise entertaining. Her sketch was now an exact replication of the painting hanging in the Met. Just wait until he saw it. … He would know she belonged here, that she was destined for greatness.
At the end of class, she bustled up to the podium at the front of the classroom, her sketchbook in hand.
Michael peered at her. “Do you have your sketch?”
“Sure do.”
She opened the sketchbook and flipped to the key page. Before them appeared Portrait of a Mother. The mother wore her royal dress, complete with intricate designs and detailing. She cradled the baby in her arms. The child gazed at his mother with devotion; she in turn stared at the viewer with her penetrating gaze. It was perfect.
Michael took the book into his hands and studied the image for a moment. He shook his head. “It’s not right.”
She gaped at him, and irritation boiled through her veins. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s a mother. But it’s not the mother in the painting. You’ve looked at her, but not into her. You have to return to the Met and fix it.”
Hands trembling, she snatched her sketchbook back. “I don’t have to do anything.” How dare he … how dare he tear down her work again! She turned on her heel and marched to the doorway. “I’ll do the sketch if I feel like it!” Her scream reverberated through the hallway.
She left to a stunned silence; her boots made the only audible noise, clicking on the tiled floor, announcing her departure.
Amanda fled the building, her heart hammering and stomach twisted in knots. Confusion and dilemma greeted her outside. The sun shone too bright—and why the hell was it so hot? Like the skin of a snake, the enhancing layers of pleasure and power began to peel off her fragile frame. Yes, she was vulnerable … she was so weak. Now each footstep down the city block brought her one step closer to a sober awakening.
She played her role, spoke her lines. But this wasn’t a stage, and no audience applauded. Michael had been silent. What kind of show was this? This was reckless, emotional abandon. But … no, that’s not right. Why not express her frustration, her disappointment at his misunderstanding of who she was as an artist? She was free to say, to act, as she desired.
Things were wavering … fading within her … and in the vacancy came the old haunts.
How long had it been since she last took a pill? Her head pounded in time with the nearby jackhammer drilling into the pavement; thoughts and ideas spun in her mind with no compass or anchor to direct or ground them. Where was she going again? What was she doing? Too many people pressed all around her … crowding her on every side, waiting on the curb to go somewhere, anywhere—but where?
Panic came toward her like a tidal wave, and her legs shook. She had to keep calm and pull herself together. Ethan … where was Ethan? Maybe he was already trying to reach her, to save her from this downward spiral. She walked clumsily, digging through her bag trying to find her phone. She would have put it here—maybe. Her fingers closed upon the device, and she breathed a sigh of relief: an alert appeared that she had a voicemail message. Soon she would hear the soothing voice that was now the soundtrack of her life.
Instead, another familiar voice spoke in the recorded message, a voice that she had shut into a far corner of her mind because, in the haze of the past few weeks, she had forgotten about him: her dad.
“Hi, honey! Sorry to bother you. I know you’re probably extremely busy with all of your classes. I just … I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. You already know that, but I can’t help saying it again. To have my daughter at the only graduate art academy in the nation—it’s just a real honor. Anyway, I know you probably have a ton of projects, and that’s why I haven’t heard from you in a while. But when you have a chance, just give your old man a quick call, okay? Can’t wait to hear all about your classes. I’m sure you’re doing great. Well, anyway … Chiara says hi. We’ll talk soon. Love you!”
The last car sped by, and the mass of pedestrians began to move, but she retreated in an icy haze, seeking temporary refuge under the cool shade cast by the scaffolding overhead, where construction workers labored. A bedraggled man, eyes closed and graying beard covering his filthy plaid shirt, sat defeated on the sidewalk nearby, an open hat beside him with a few coins inside. A cardboard sign lay on his lap, reading: Homeless. What would her sign say—Lost … Confused … Failure …?
She rubbed her throbbing temples. The pill’s influence was waning, or maybe it was just the jarring effect of her father’s unexpected message.
Everything had been so simple, so relaxing. She had been happy … she could still be happy. But her dad. What would she tell him? She didn’t have to tell him anything. It was her life, not his. She was her own person.
Who was this person?
Her self-definition began and ended with her art. Or at least it had up until now. She’d had goals and dreams long sought after: go to the Graduate Academy of Fine Art and begin her career as an artist. Were those no longer true and real? How could she have forgotten?
Her father was so proud that she had broken the generational cycle of manual labor and service work. She was the first one in their family to ever be accepted to an Academy, let alone a Graduate Academy. She had been the trailblazer for their family, reaching a new stratosphere of society they had never yet experienced. It wasn’t just her dreams in jeopardy; it was her family’s hopes and aspirations too.
“I’ll do the sketch if I feel like it!” Her words, flung in irritation and resentment toward Michael, ricocheted back to sting her. Her dad seemed so certain she was “doing great” in her classes, but she didn’t feel at all confident that was the case anymore. She had started this assignment, had (unwillingly) entered into its mystery. She had to see this through to the end. If she willed it, she could do it.
It was a concrete enough resolution to keep her from drowning in the tsunami waves of the pill’s flickering presence. She didn’t know where she would be in five hours or five days, but for now she walked toward the Met.
Amanda reached the outside staircase leading up to the Met’s entrance, but got no farther than the first step. Surprise and then relief flooded her: a red Anaconda sat parked on the side of the road. She hurried to the passenger door, her heart fluttering in anticipation, and got into the vehicle. Ethan pulled into the avenue, tires squealing.
“Am I happy to see you!” She reclined against the headrest and sighed. “How did you know I was here?”
“Process of elimination. I got a little concerned when I didn’t find you at your apartment. I was supposed to meet you there.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes, but apparently I’m the only one who remembers that.” He chuckled. “No worries though: I like a challenge here and there—a little hard to get.”
“I’m glad you found me. Paranoia almost got to me first.”
“That can be an aftereffect of the pill, if you aren’t careful. But what I would like to know is why—out of all the places I looked—this is where I found you.”
She groaned. “Michael said I have to go back to the Met and work on my sketch.”
He took advantage of a red light and turned his puzzled face in her direction. “I thought you told me you finished that.”
“Apparently I haven’t.”
“Is all that time and effort really worth it? The grade you receive in that class is arbitrary. It has little bearing on who you are as an artist. Michael won’t determine your career; that power lies in your hands. Maybe your immense talent is better spent elsewhere?”
“I have a rule when it comes to my art: finish what you start. I don’t like leaving something undone and incomplete. Plus, doing well at the Masters Academy … you know, it’s really important for me …. for my family. My family isn’t like yours. My dad works construction. My sister is probably going to spend her life taking care of horses. This is my only way into a high-powered career.”
“It’s not the only way.”
“What else is there?”
“I could get you into the NCP. They’d love you. You’ve got the creds. Just having graduated from an Academy distinguishes you. They would be blown away by your artistic abilities. You would be appreciated and affirmed. And they would help you advance.”
She mused, chewing on her lower lip. “And I could do art for them or something?”
“Absolutely. We just hired an artist a few weeks ago. We’re always expanding, so I’m sure there will be another opening soon.”
“I don’t think that’s the kind of art I’d want to be doing, though.”
“It might be a stepping-stone into what you would want to do. The NCP is like a big family. You could network and build connections with other people of influence. You could maybe get an internship there for now. You know, get your foot in the door.”
“Maybe, yeah. But first I’ve got to fix this sketch.”
“You’re bound and determined to complete it?”
“You like games, so you should understand. It’s a challenge I want to meet and conquer. I thought I did conquer it already, but I’ll keep at it. I can do this assignment: ‘If it’s meant to be, it’s up to me.’”
“I can’t argue with that logic, can I?”
“I sometimes have a one-track mind when it comes to my art.”
“I just hope that pretty mind of yours still has some room for me.”
“Do I detect some doubt in that confident voice of yours?”
“Doubt? Never.”
She glanced out the window. A billboard she hadn’t seen yet attracted her attention. It had nothing to do with the latest designer clothing or preview of a featured movie. Instead, the billboard displayed a large, stone tablet. The top of the tablet read in bold letters: THE ONE COMMANDMENT: DO AS YOU WILL.
They began to drive by and she craned her neck, taking one last look. “Did you see that?”
“The billboard? I did see it. Do you like it?”
“Yeah, of course.” She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at his growing smile. “Wait—did you have something to do with that?”
“It’s my design. One of the many projects I’ve got going right now.”
She beamed at him, pride effusing within her. “You certainly made your point.”
“I hope so. I want people to realize any religion that chains people to worshipping an empty deity is corrupt. It doesn’t matter what name they go by; it’s all the same in the end: Allah, Christ, Vishnu … all they do is give people a false idol they can worship and spend their lives trying to please when, in the end, they’ve forfeited opportunities they were perfectly capable of securing on their own. It’s bad enough that these extremists ruin their own lives, but then they try to force their fairy-tale philosophies and laws onto everyone. We’re a free nation—not a Christian nation.”
“I can’t wait to see your next work! Will you be doing another billboard?”
He put his car in park outside Little Pete’s. “Not sure. There’s talk of some big project coming up soon that they need everyone’s help on. I haven’t gotten details yet, though.” He sat silent for a moment, looking out the window. “Speaking of things we can’t wait for …”
“Yeah?”
“If you could have anything at all right now, at this moment, what would you want?”
The answer was easy; divulging it without the pill’s assistance was not.
“It’s okay.” He reached out and held her hand. “Don’t start closing up on me again.”
“Alright.” She sighed. “You really want to know?”
His intense stare confirmed an affirmative.
“I … would want to be in a relationship with you.”
He shook his head, a bemused half smile on his face. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I would venture to say that you and I have a relationship. What else would you call our interactions for the past couple of months?”
“Perhaps that is the de facto reality, but it’s nice to make things official, you know?”
“I think, ultimately, we’re both seeking the same thing: we want to be closer.”
“That’s the one thing you would want too?”
“Of course. But words aren’t going to accomplish that. Some standardized, predictable verbal exchange involving me asking you to be my girlfriend and your assent isn’t going to bring us any closer together than we are now. Maybe it’s commitment that you’re looking for, but a trite, social norm won’t satisfy that desire.”
“I think, at least for me, knowing that you want to be closer to me is all I require.” Even if she never heard the word love, just realizing he needed her the way she needed him was all she wanted.
“Don’t settle for so little. Aim higher. You want to become closer? Make it happen.”
“And how do you propose I do that?”
“Show me your painting.”
“Painting? Which painting?”
“You know the one. Show me the painting under your bed, wrapped up.” His eyes played upon her face, burning with excited fervor.
When had she told him about her favorite painting? She couldn’t place the time. She must have missed a lot during her drug marathon.
“I have an idea.” He caressed her hand, running his finger around her knuckles. “How about you and I take a drive to your apartment? Nikki is at Little Pete’s, so we’ll be all alone. Just you and me … it will be the perfect moment we’ve been waiting for.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Show me yourself. Show me your painting.”
“No.” Her answer was instinctual and left her lips before she could check it.
He reached over and embraced her, his strong arms wrapped around her. “We both want to become closer, but that’s impossible as long as you keep these walls up between us. How can this thing between us work if you keep shutting me out?”
He pulled back and fingered one of her dangling curls. “I’m not asking you to show the painting to everyone. I’m not even asking you to show me all of your paintings. I just want to see that one. It’s not that unreasonable of a request: artists show each other their work all the time; it’s perfectly normal. It’ll be an intimate moment between us.”
Revealing her painting to Ethan was an irrevocable act: forever after, he would carry this piece of her with him. Once she gave it to him—once she let him see the painting—it would permanently belong to him too. She could never undo it.
“I still need time …” She mumbled the words and stared at her boots.
“More time? We’re running short on time.”
“Wh-What do you mean by that?”
“Are you content with the way things are? I’m not. If we don’t keep growing closer, we will grow apart.”
“Well then … maybe once I’m no longer distracted by this sketch, we can go forward … we can become closer … just like you said.”
“If that’s the case, you should finish that assignment as soon as possible!”
“That’s my plan for tomorrow.”
“I’ve got a few extra busy days at work coming up. But I know we’ll find time to be together.”
She took a deep breath. Perhaps showing Ethan her painting wasn’t such a major life decision after all. Why should it be?
The next morning, she sat on the bench in front of Portrait of a Mother. She had unrealistically hoped Morgan would be sitting here for this final sketching session, but of course he wasn’t.
She pulled out her charcoal and examined the painting in front of her. I will do this. If it’s meant to be, it’s up to me.
Under her examining eye, Amanda was certain she could replicate the mother. Her charcoal had defined the rounded cheeks, the heart-shaped chin, the long eyelashes that turned outward, and the thin lines by the mother’s temples.
But it wasn’t quite right.
As much as she hated to admit it, Michael was correct. It didn’t look like her. Amanda pulled out her kneaded eraser and started from scratch once again. She poured forth more effort, examining every quality and facet of the mother’s face.
I will sketch you! Yet Amanda’s second sketch was just as erroneous as the first. She had drawn a lovely face, but it wasn’t the mother’s face. The singular characteristic that defined the mother was missing. She erased her work. The morning turned into afternoon, and the hours flashed by. Try as she might, nothing she did improved the image in her sketchbook.
Her eyes narrowed. Why can’t I sketch you? She sat, at a loss for the next step. What was she doing wrong?
Her mind drew a blank, but in that stillness, Morgan’s words echoed: “That’s my favorite painting! … If I tell you what the painting means to me, it will prevent you from seeing it with fresh eyes. You have to discover its beauty for yourself.”
Morgan would know what was missing in her sketch. Plus, she admitted, she missed him.
~~~
She strode into Ethan’s office, not bothering to knock. Of course he had an office. Daddy must have arranged it for him. Meanwhile, she was stuffed in a cubicle on the fourth floor, along with twenty other employees. But one day …
Ethan didn’t look away from his computer monitors but kept typing, his fingers flying along the keyboard. She flopped into one of the crimson armchairs, propped her feet on his mahogany desk, and helped herself to one of the mints in the crystal candy dish. She made sure to crumple the wrapper as loudly as possible and then tried to shoot a basket into the garbage can across the room.
Ethan at last sat back in his leather chair. “Nikki. What brings you off the fourth floor?”
“It’s reckoning time. I’ve kept my part of the bargain. Said my lines, acted my part.” She put her feet down and leaned her elbows on the desk’s shiny surface. “What dirt did you dredge up on Amanda? When are you turning her in?”
“I think you forgot my assignment. Maybe because it’s not your assignment at all. It’s mine, and I’m taking care of it. My job was never to apprehend Amanda; it was to keep an eye on her.”
“Okay, sure, whatever. What’d you see?”
He stood up and walked over to the tall window overlooking Park Avenue below. “The NCP asked me to investigate her, but I’m not stopping at that. You see, I’m going one step further: I’m converting her.”
“You can’t possibly be serious right now.”
“I know her far better than you do: she let me in, but you shut yourself out. She’s no enemy … she’s one of us. One day, she’ll be working here—not against the NCP, but for it.”
Nikki stared at him, dumbfounded. He was clearly an idiot, but this … this was a whole new level of stupidity. “Look at her family! The Academy she went to!”
“She rejects her family. She left them to move here, to start a new life. She doesn’t have the same values as they do. As for the Academy, she wasn’t involved in the opposition activity there.”
“And you believe those lies?”
“She’s not lying. I’m good at detecting lies. She’s genuine … refreshingly genuine, actually.”
She jumped up from her chair and whipped a piece of paper from out of her pocket, shoving it into his face. “Explain this then!”
He held up the paper and examined the photograph on it: a man with brown hair combed to the side, a gentle smile, and light blue eyes. “I’ve seen this face before. Who is it?”
“If you were doing your job right, you’d already know. That’s Amanda’s new BFF. They were spotted together at the Met and outside St. Patrick’s. His name is Morgan. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize the image: it’s on the wall of suspected offenders in the conference room.”
Ethan stared at the picture for another few seconds, then handed it back. “I don’t need your help, Nikki. I should say, I don’t need your interference.” He stopped, his face darkening. “How did you know Amanda’s whereabouts?”
She smiled back at him. “I had her tracked by the JPD.”
He stepped forward, his eyes slit, his jaw clenched. “Leave us alone. Amanda is with me.”
“Oooo … now we’re getting to the real heart of the matter, aren’t we? Amanda isn’t with the NCP. She’s with you. And isn’t she just what you need? Someone who will stroke your ego at every turn. Someone who will sing your praises on end. You need to be adored and worshipped, don’t you? She knows exactly how you tick, and that little bitch has you completely blind. That’s why I’m having her tracked. I’m not letting her damage the NCP. You might not get her detained, but the hell if I won’t!”
He grabbed her arm, his fingers clenching and twisting her skin. “If you harm her in any way …”
Despite the pain, she burst out laughing and bowled over in amusement. “I can’t believe it! That’s what this is about? You like her? … You do! You actually like that worthless piece of trash!”
He shoved her away, and she stumbled backward a few paces. His eyes blazed with fury. “Get out of my office! But I swear: you do one thing against Amanda and I’ll end any chances you have at moving up in the NCP. I’ll have you kicked right out of here onto the street. You’re completely expendable.”
Nikki smoothed her shirt and ran her fingers through her hair. She walked toward the doorway and then turned around, glaring at Ethan. “You know what? Amanda’s going to destroy you before you can even raise one finger against me.”