Chapter 3

ROONEY

Twenty-five minutes later, I’m back at my installation with my newly printed Fate Notes.

I find Mom with an empty sketchbook in hand.

“Let’s see these babies,” I sing, lifting the box lid. My face drops as Mom laughs.

“You went an entirely different direction, I see,” she says, lifting a pamphlet with a high-resolution image of Mars on the front. “Leaning more into the science aspect?”

I riffle through the pamphlets and frown. “Dave must have mixed this up with another customer’s. This is really well done. I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

Mom slides on her reading glasses and holds the glossy paper up in front of her. “There’s ice on Mars? Who knew.”

“He was busy.” I’m just talking to myself at this point. Mom’s too engrossed in whatever this Mars mission is. “This is kind of perfect, right? Fate’s mix-up giving me the extra dose of science for this installation.”

Mom looks up from the pamphlet and shrugs. “Well, there’s no time to go back now. I’m out of sketchbook paper.”

“Okay. Yeah. This is good. We’re all completely fine. This is a blessing in disguise! Honestly, I wish I had thought of it,” I say. I track down Talia and signal for her to distribute the new Fate Notes while I stay hidden. Mom and I stroll along the winding string path, where there are more empty stretches of red than I’d prefer to see.

“How was it when I was gone? I see some white paper, but not as much as I expected,” I whisper, my forehead scrunched so intensely, I can see the edges of my eyebrows.

“You’re opening yourself up to new audiences, I’ll say that,” she says vaguely.

A shiny green gum wrapper catches my eye. “Oh no. It’s official. I’ve created the world’s most beautiful garbage net.” I pluck the wrapper from the string, confirm that there are no words written on the back, and crumple it between my thumb and pointer fingers.

“Somewhere a piece of gum just felt that,” Mom jokes.

I take a deep breath in, then out.

“You can’t be here right now,” Mom adds. “This has to exist on its own without your constant monitoring. That’s art, baby. You gave it to the world when you created it. It’s no longer yours.”

Out of nowhere, a loud truck screeches to a stop outside the Washington Arch. Six men in bright yellow construction vests with shears in their hands march toward my installation. One rushes up to Entangled and opens the scissors like he’s about to make a cut.

I run over to them, waving my arms in the air. “Stop!” I shout.

The man pauses, looking over at me and then over to his boss.

“What are you doing? What’s going on?” I ask, looking at Mom and Talia as they run up behind me.

“Are you the artist?” a man with a hard hat and a clipboard asks. The name written in marker on his vest reads Bill.

“I… work for the artist. I’m her assistant,” I lie. “We’ve been here all week. There’s no opening ceremony necessary.”

“Ceremony? We’re not here for a ceremony,” Bill says, lifting his own pair of shears. “These are Closing Down Scissors.”

“Whoa! Bill, let’s just talk this out,” I say, panicking. “This is Red String Girl’s big moment. She worked really hard for this. People haven’t been able to fully appreciate Entangled.”

“Well, tell Red String Whatever we’re real sorry, but no can do. The city told us to shut this down,” Bill says.

Talia holds her hands up. “Why? We have permits for the next couple of months. You can’t do this.”

“A woman does something great, and then a man has to tear it down,” Mom mutters. “You better be refunding us for the time and cost of materials.”

Bill shrugs. “My hands are tied. It’s an order coming from the top. We’ve got complaints about people lounging in the string like a hammock, drying their clothes, and using this as a garbage net. There’s a strange smell coming from that part over there, and this definitely isn’t pigeon-proof.”

I shake my head. “Wait. So that man really was about to make a cut? This is art!”

Bill holds up his hands to the man with the scissors to stop him. “The permits are revocable if what you’re doing becomes a public nuisance or a health hazard. This is clearly both. I got environmentalists calling me about red string and trash in the park. All I know is they’re worried that, when the snow melts, the water will be contaminated. I also can’t have pigeons or squirrels or, Heaven forbid, humans, eating rotten leftovers and getting sick on my watch. I’m not going down that way.”

I’m starting to feel light-headed. “Why punish us and not the litterers? This installation is clearly not for the disposing of goods! Go tell them to stop!”

Bill adjusts his face into something that looks slightly apologetic. “Sorry, miss.” He gestures scissor fingers to his crew as their signal to destroy my dreams.

With just a few snips, the entire installation will collapse. We watch, horrified, as the first cut is made on Entangled. The lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow. I don’t want to cry here in front of everyone like this, so I hold back my tears by taking deep breaths.

I can’t look at this monstrosity. I force my eyes shut and hum “My Favorite Things” to myself, changing the lyrics to match my own favorite things. But it’s not fresh snowflakes falling or matcha ice cream or kittens dressed up in tiny, knitted sweaters that I imagine. Instead, it’s Jack’s face that flashes into my mind. I can clearly see the bottom of his lower lip with its centimeter-long scar, a pale white line in the shape of a crescent moon. My heartbeat slows, his imaginary presence slightly calming me.

“If the artist thing doesn’t work out, you have a future in waste management,” Mom says, patting my back. I know she’s trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t help. I keep Jack’s face steady in my mind, something stable to hold on to.

As the string drapes down over itself, I realize I haven’t taken a Fate Note of my own yet. It can serve as a reminder that my installation really existed at one point.

I quickly reach for the nearest note before it’s too late. The string has gone slack, the notes—and all the garbage—falling with it.

The paper in my hand feels glossy and textured with wrinkles. I read the back of the note with the words of yet another person not taking my installation seriously. I tuck the note into my bag and stare one last time at my pride and joy.

I’m subject to the same fate of those before me. Good-bye, Washington Square Park.