Chapter 11

ROONEY

How do you pronounce star A-N-I-S-E?” Mom asks from the kitchen of her apartment, enunciating each letter individually. Outside the windows of the living room, where Talia and I lounge, the upper half of Manhattan twinkles against the evening sky painted a shade of amber.

“Is this the lead-up to one of your inappropriate jokes?” I ask, taking a sip of my chrysanthemum and honeysuckle tea that I special-ordered from an herbalist who was very reassuring that the combination would help calm me.

Mom grunts. “Excuse me. I take my learning very seriously. Chinese tea eggs call for this spice in the recipe.”

“I say it like ‘a niece.’” I google the question on my phone. “The dictionary says it’s pronounced like ‘anne-niss,’ with an emphasis on the first syllable. Talia, how do you say it?”

Talia looks up from her laptop on the other end of the deep-seated emerald velvet sofa. “The first way, definitely.”

Mom monitors her boiling eggs. “If there’s no clear answer, I’ll pronounce it my way.”

“Please don’t,” I mumble, my eyes glued to the television in the living room.

A Chinese drama plays out on the screen. A woman diagnosed with an illness has just been asked to marry a rich businessman for a marriage of convenience. She’s confused why he’s chosen her of all people.

“Wèishéme shì wǒ?” I ask, repeating the one Mandarin line from the show I can actually recognize and understand. I pay attention to getting the tones right.

“Did you read that off the caption or did you know that one?” Talia asks, amazed.

“When she said it, I could understand!” I say excitedly.

“Not bad,” Mom murmurs, opening and closing drawers in the kitchen’s built-in cabinets.

For the past year, Mom and I have been studying Mandarin together, using cookbooks, beginner workbooks, language classes, and Chinese dramas to round out our learning. Mandarin was her first language, but she moved to America from Taiwan at a young age. Once her family arrived here, they chose to mostly speak English to help their children integrate into school faster. She can still speak Mandarin, but mostly casual conversations and making plans. The cooking was a delicious add-on that we figured would help fuel the learning process.

“That’s an easy one,” Mom says as she removes the skin from a chunk of ginger with a spoon. “We need to be learning new words. Bigger sentences.”

“Asking ‘Why me?’ actually seems like a pretty useful sentence. When you’re having a bad day and nothing seems to go right, you can yell it into the sky with your hands up in the air,” I say, thinking out loud. String moves smoothly through my fingers as I work on a lemur animal portrait.

“For you, maybe. I don’t need to go around asking ‘Why me?’” Mom roughly measures out the recipe’s remaining spices and tosses them into a simmering pot of soy sauce, cinnamon, and Lapsang Souchong tea. The room smells cozy. “I know why me.”

Talia and I give each other a look and laugh quietly. Mom redirects her attention to the cookbook in front of her, and I pause the TV show to skim through new orders in my shop’s dashboard.

“Cute!” I say, clicking into one of the few new orders that have trickled in over the past week. “Someone named Bohai in Alhambra wants seahorses. That’s a new one.” I add the commission to my list of pieces to make.

“Where’s Alhambra?” Talia asks absentmindedly.

I take another sip of tea, the warm liquid comforting me. “Somewhere in California. I’m switching over to a movie. I need to focus on this lemur and can’t read the captions at the same time.” I grab the remote and flip through the options, settling on one of my favorites, Serendipity.

As the movie plays in the background, I step back from the board, looking for areas where I need to layer more string.

Mom approaches with a spoonful of liquid. “Try this. I used a smokier tea. If you like it, the cracked eggs get a soy sauce bath in it, and in a day, we can eat them. These recipes require too much patience.”

I take a sip. “Hot! Add a little more clove.”

“What’s up with all that?” Talia asks, nodding toward a corner of the apartment where my art supplies are organized into standing drawers. Next to it are poster boards with incomplete sketches of old ideas and completed pet portraits that need to be sent out. “You working on your next installation idea?”

“Oh. No. Just a few commissions for people who saw the installation on Instagram when it was still trash- and rat-free,” I tell her. “The one thing Entangled was good for: more pet portraits. I’m in no position to be giving this up anytime soon.” I rub the string-induced calluses on the tips of my fingers. “And I haven’t been feeling inspired lately.”

“You can’t wait for the muse to come,” Mom says, slurping the remaining liquid from the spoon. “You have to actively think about ideas or you’ll find that you’re still making pet portraits fifty years later, arguing with someone named Beth from Pensacola about whether or not you fully captured her shih tzu’s personality in the portrait.”

“Enlightening. Thanks.” I gently push her back toward the kitchen. “Commissions are my priority until I have enough saved up. I know you were making money off your art in your twenties, but that’s not how it is for me.”

Mom shrugs her shoulders. “Don’t wait around is all I’m saying.”

“I’m blocked creatively. It happens from time to time,” I lie. Never once have I ever had artist’s block. “Entangled was my best idea, and if people can’t respect an installation in a park, they absolutely won’t respect one in a subway station.”

Gravity came to me the week after that night with Jack. I sketched it out and everything. But then… nothing. That was it. No more ideas. It doesn’t feel worth it to pursue Gravity. It feels as though all my creativity and energy were cut down along with Entangled.

I watch from the couch as Mom removes the boiling eggs from the pot and places them in a bowl of ice water. “If you want public art, you’re always going to have to deal with the public. The ugly and the uglier. People can be cruel.”

I frown. “I know you’re right. Doesn’t make it easier, though.”

Next to me, Talia starts kicking her feet wildly and screaming. “Rooney!”

I jump up, pulling the string on the lemur harder than I want. I check to make sure the nail is still straight. “Whoa! Tal, what is it?”

Talia lifts her laptop up and leans in next to me. “Auction! Auction!”

I hook the red string over the lemur’s half-formed eyeball. “What are you talking about? Oh! Did you sell one of your new artist’s porcelain pieces? Her pieces are stunning.”

“No! Baby Being Born! Is going to auction!” she says, twisting her laptop to face me. “My friend at one of the art houses just let me know.”

“What?!” I take the laptop from her hands and read the email. I go over the words three times to confirm that what I’m seeing is real. “It’s happening in eight months,” I say. “And there’s no way to know who has it?”

“It’s as anonymous as you, Roo,” Talia says, her eyes bright. “But how great is this? They’ll still need to verify it and make sure it’s the original, and it’ll take some time to gather more video art to complete the theme of the auction, but yay! It’s what you’ve been waiting for!

Mom cackles while she wipes her hands off on a towel. “Are you really going to try to buy it back? How are you going to do that?”

I break out in a full-body sweat when I think about how many pet portraits I’d need to commission to be able to pay for the piece. It last sold in 2010 for $15,000. I hope it hasn’t tripled in price since then. “I haven’t thought through the money piece yet.”

“We have some time to figure it out,” Talia says calmly. “My source will try to find out more information, but this is huge.”

She’s right. Next March, I’ll have the chance to buy back Baby Being Born. Finally.

An idea forms. The only thing I ever want to accept from Mom is a room to stay. I want to be financially independent, but this shot might come around only once.

“Mom,” I say slowly, “you want to go halvsies on it? Didn’t you just sell some pieces of your last collection?”

Mom grunts. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going to buy back my own art for double, triple the cost. And you. You should not be going into debt for this video.”

I make a face. “You’re right. I want to do this on my own anyway. The buying-it-back part, not the debt part.” I pull a pillow onto my lap and study Talia’s expression. “You think it’s really going to sell for that much?”

“The value of art depends on what someone is willing to pay for it. And this is the video that made your mom famous. Not like I have to tell you that, but with your mom taking a break from making art, her pieces will become more valuable,” Talia says. “Even this one. Baby Being Born has only been sold once since the first time your mom sold it.”

“Yeah, I’m still taking a break,” Mom calls out preemptively from the kitchen. “I need some me-time.”

Talia’s cell phone vibrates against the glass coffee table, startling all of us.

“Who’s calling at six fifteen on a Friday night?” Talia asks. She lets the call go to her automated voice mail. “We have more important things to discuss.”

“Totally. Like how we’re going to get approximately thirty thousand dollars by March,” I say with a groan. “Casual Friday night chitchat.”

Talia’s cell phone buzzes again. Restricted number.

“Maybe this is something about the gallery. California’s three hours behind us. One sec.” Talia has her gallery phone calls forwarded to her personal cell phone when she’s not there so that she never misses an interested client. She taps the green button on her screen. “Hello?”

While Talia’s on the phone, I help Mom in the kitchen. We lightly crack the hard-boiled eggs and roll them against the wooden cutting board.

Talia hangs up and looks over at us. “Scammers are getting way more creative. Have you ever gotten one claiming they’re from a space agency?”

Mom groans. “Maybe they’re offering seats to the moon for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars apiece. You just missed out on a trip of a lifetime.”

Her phone rings a third time.

Once again, Talia answers. “The NYPD are on the line with me” is how she answers this time. A trick we learned that tends to freak out scammers.

After a few seconds, Talia still hasn’t hung up.

“Who is it?” I shout-whisper.

She shakes her head and puts the phone on speaker. “How did you get this number?”

The voice on the other end comes out warbled. “I found this number on Red String Girl’s website. It was the only contact information listed.”

Talia shoots me a look when she realizes that I made her gallery my contact number.

“Sorry,” I mouth and give her an apologetic look.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s fine,” she mouths back. “Okay. Yeah. I’m her… assistant. Um… Officer, you can hang up now. How can I help you?”

I laugh quietly while I crack an egg gently under the weight of my palm.

“Uh,” the man says, sounding nervous. “Like I mentioned, I work at NASA. My apologies. I failed to remember the time difference. If this is too late to be calling, I will try again on Monday. I was looking for Red String Girl?”

This gets my attention. I gesture to Talia to keep talking.

“Wait. Red String Girl is unavailable at the moment.” Talia clears her throat. She lives for a good improv moment. “I handle all of Ms. RSG’s affairs.”

“Right. Ms. Sorry,” the man says.

Talia stifles a laugh. She is enjoying this way too much.

As Talia talks, Mom and I transport the cracked eggs into the cooled soy sauce and spice bath to let them soak.

“As I said, I’m calling from NASA.” He sounds stuffed up, like he’s in the height of a cold. The speaker makes him sound like he’s underwater. “I’m calling because NASA is reinstating its Artist-in-Residence program. We choose one artist to create art to represent the work we’re doing. The pieces are then displayed in museums throughout the country.”

“I’m listening,” Talia says to signify that she’s still there.

“We’re excited to share that Red String Girl has been chosen as our first artist,” he says in a professional, neutral tone that doesn’t match his choice of words. “Would this be of interest?”

My mouth falls open at the same time that Talia’s jaw drops. Despite bouncing on the couch, she manages to say coolly, “This might be of interest to Ms. RSG.”

I dry my hands and join Talia on the couch. I crouch forward over my crossed legs, eagerly listening.

“I’m told you’ll work out the details with the program director, but the artist… compensated… for the year,” he says, the line crackling.

“You broke up there for a moment. Could you repeat that?” Talia asks, leaning closer to the phone.

The static clears as the man says, “She’ll be compensated twenty-two thousand dollars for the year.”

I widen my eyes. Wow. That’s a lot of pet portraits.

Mom fast-walks over from the kitchen and lunges toward Talia’s phone. “Bullshit! You come at us with that number? We’ve got offers for days,” she says.

“Shh! Don’t you dare,” I whisper, pulling on her arm. “If you negotiate, they might not want to work with me anymore.”

Mom balks. “Multiply that number by six, divided by three, multiply it again by two, and add ten. That’s the number we want to see on a piece of paper.”

“I’m sorry. Who is this?” the man asks.

“Sorry about that. This is my… coagent,” Talia makes up. She shoots Mom a look.

“Names aren’t necessary unless we talk real numbers,” Mom says.

Talia covers the phone with my hand. “Are you trying to do an accent?”

I grab Mom from the waist and pull her back farther. “You sound like Keanu Reeves in Bram Stoker’s Dracula. You’re not convincing anyone.”

“I’m aiming for Elizabeth Hurley,” she whispers.

“As Vanessa Kensington in Austin Powers?” Talia asks, still covering the phone.

Mom grins. “As the Devil.”

“You’re both awful! And don’t you dare insult Keanu!” Talia whispers. “Sorry about that. Please, go on.”

NASA Guy continues. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the power to increase that number. We rely on grants for the money. But the attention your client should get will be significant.”

“We can’t pay rent with significant,” Mom says, pouting her lips Liz Hurley style. “How about less tellys and more monies for your artists.”

“Televisions?” the man asks. He sounds so confused at this point, I almost feel bad for him.

Mom exhales audibly. “Telescopes!”

NASA Guy sighs. “I hear you. I do. I wish I could do more in that regard.”

“Wishing is nice and all, but what can you do?” Mom smirks.

“I—I guess I can try to get a cafeteria card for Ms. RSG,” the man offers. “I can’t guarantee an amount. But it should cover or at least subsidize meals.”

“There we go. Next time lead with that,” Mom says bluntly. Her accent slips into something more like Lindsay Lohan’s version in The Parent Trap. It doesn’t know what it wants to be.

“NASA will also offer housing and travel allowances for the living and moving arrangements.”

Mom raises an eyebrow. “Better.”

I wave her off.

“How did you say you got Ms. RSG’s name? She didn’t apply for a NASA program,” Talia says.

There’s a long pause. “The team saw her Entangled installation.”

Hearing my installation name in this context hits differently. Instead of a pile of string, I remember the installation as it originally was. I feel a spark of excitement again.

“What is it about her work that you liked? I mean, enough for being picked as the artist-in-residence?” Talia pushes on.

He doesn’t respond for a few seconds but then finally says, “We think her ability to intertwine—excuse the unintended pun—science and… high concepts… works well for our ongoing missions. Her work is creative. She brings an interactive sensibility to ideas that often feel too far out to grasp. She’d help us convey high-level ideas visually and in an approachable way.”

“That’s right!” Mom shouts. “Our girl can do what you need.” She’s transitioned from the Devil into someone so posh, she could be a shoo-in for one of the Bridgertons.

Talia waves Mom off. “What kind of high-level ideas exactly?” she asks.

For a second it sounds like NASA Guy is blowing into a tissue. “Excuse me. Apologies for that. Unfortunately, I can’t give specifics until the agreement has been made. Confidentiality. I’m sure you can understand.”

“Me?” Talia asks.

“With your client’s identity remaining a secret,” he says, his congested voice blaring from the speaker.

“Yes. Oh! Yes,” she says, almost forgetting herself.

I stand to pace the room and process everything. I need to be doing something with my hands. I make my way to the kitchen and grab the ladle to push the marinating eggs back and forth in the mixture.

“Accepting this position would require living in the Los Angeles area for a year as Ms. RSG creates her art. I’d be her liaison, teach her about the work we’re doing. There’s some travel involved. As well as several showcases throughout the year.”

“Los Angeles? Multiple showcases? And for a year? A year is a long time,” I whisper to myself, not realizing Mom has joined me in the kitchen.

Mom makes a noise. “A year’s a drop in the bucket.”

“Not when you’re creatively blocked,” I tell her before turning away and watching as Talia remains impressively calm. She delivers good news all the time to artists she wants to represent. And bad news to clients whose work doesn’t sell.

“Ms. RSG will be fully integrated into our work. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience and opportunity,” NASA Guy adds, the line cutting in and out with more static. “It will be a lot of exposure.”

Talia watches me. “As you said.”

The pounding in my chest deepens.

“My understanding is that Ms. Red String Girl doesn’t want too much… personal publicity. We would honor her anonymity with nondisclosure agreements with people she meets around NASA. I will be the one to communicate with the press and working with Ms. RSG on what she wants to convey. At NASA, we put the missions—in this case, the art—first. It’s not about any one person,” he says with a sniffle. “Her anonymity is actually a compelling factor.”

Talia switches positions on the couch and leans against a pillow. “That’s all great to hear. When would this start? Ms. RSG is a very busy, in-demand artist,” she says with extra emphasis on “busy” and “in-demand.”

I nod dramatically, pretending it’s true. It’s literally the furthest thing from reality. But as I stare into the dark brown tea egg liquid, the cracked eggs bobbing up and down, it occurs to me that this could be how I buy back Baby Being Born. Not with the NASA money entirely, of course, but with the exposure. I can sell more pet portraits and maybe some bigger pieces with this type of coverage in the media. Maybe even line up more shows.

I ignore the pit in my stomach about the whole creative block thing. I’m sure I’ll figure it out. A lack of ideas has never been a problem for me before. Maybe this is the push that I need to get myself back on track.

“That’s another topic of discussion,” the man says. He’s so professional. “Because we’re reinstating the program, we don’t have an artist currently at work.”

I wave a hand in the air to get Talia’s attention and rush up to her, abandoning the eggs.

“Tell him I’ll do it, and I can be there in August,” I whisper.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Talia says quickly. “She’ll be there next month. Please email me with the details.” She ends the call, and we release our pent-up screams.

Mom brings over a bowl of mixed Asian rice crackers and cringes at the noises we’re making.

“Wait, what am I doing? I should think about this, right?” I say, my heart pounding. I drop into a wide, cushioned chair opposite the couch.

“Don’t you do that,” Mom says.

“It’s across the country,” I say, scooping out a handful of rice crackers. “How could I leave the city?”

“It’s a year,” Mom says.

“I don’t even drive,” I add.

Mom grunts. “You can learn when you’re there. They say it’s like learning how to ride a bike.” She thinks for a moment. “A three-thousand-pound bike, but still.”

“This skin doesn’t do well in the sun,” I say, rubbing my forearm. I pick out the flower-shaped rice crackers to eat first.

“Knit yourself a long-sleeve sweater or buy some sunscreen,” Mom responds.

I gesture around the living room. “All of my supplies are here.”

“They have art stores in California,” Talia jumps in. She crunches down on a handful of Wasabi green pea crackers.

“You’re both here,” I reason.

“I’ll make stops in LA to visit during my time off,” Mom promises.

I hold back my last question.

“Out with it,” Mom says, tossing a sesame stick at me.

“What if I run into Jack?” I whisper.

It was a night that changed everything and nothing. It felt possible that, even among shreds of string and trash and ugliness, something beautiful could still come out of that day. But ever since then, the signs have practically disappeared. There have been barely there moments, but they didn’t lead to the person on the other end of my red string.

I sink lower into my seat. “Somehow my signals got crossed,” I say. “I misread the meaning of the night. I misread the meaning of him.”

Even though he gave me a wrong number, or I mistyped it, I tried texting as many variations of the one he gave me that I could think of until one of those numbers threatened to report me for spam. Then I turned to Google, but by now the J-A-C-K letters on my keyboard are all worn out from the different search combinations. Dave no longer works at Sprinters, which felt like a really big sign. I even called every hotel in the Financial District to ask if Jack stayed with them, but they weren’t allowed to reveal their guest list. All I know is that he was in the city for work. That’s it. That can mean anything! It’s become very clear that I wasn’t meant to get in touch with this man. Maybe it was meant to be one magical night sealed with a kiss. Ugh. That kiss!

“Los Angeles is a big place, Roo,” Mom says, interrupting my thought spiral. “Trying to locate him would be like trying to find other life in the universe.” She looks surprised. “That was pretty good. If you don’t want this gig, recommend me for it.”

“It’s true. He’s a hard man to find,” Talia says. “Even after I finally got the name of the party host, you explained what Jack looked like a thousand different ways and they still had no idea who you were talking about. Apparently, that was their biggest party to date.”

I gasp. “That’s where I went wrong. Maybe I could hire a sketch artist and—”

“And what?” Mom asks. “Post a thousand sketch photos of Jack up on news outlets? You’ll make the man look like a criminal! It would become a different kind of manhunt.”

I exhale slowly. “It’s clear I wasn’t meant to find him. Mangetsu Jazz, the souvenir shop, and the Chinese restaurant we went to were also dead ends. Apparently businesses value people’s privacy, and he paid for the dumplings with cash.”

Mom scoffs. “Privacy? Who do they think they are? Apple?”

“I’m just trying to let this sink in. This is a big undertaking. Probably bigger than I could even imagine. The first artist in their new program? I’m nowhere near experienced enough. I still make pet string portraits,” I say, holding up a tangled wad of red string. “What if I fail? What if I don’t make what they want? I’ll be done before I’ve even started.”

“What if a bird flies through that window and pecks your eyeballs out?” Mom lifts another handful of crackers from the bowl. “You’ve already had a public installation in an iconic park. You have commissions coming in. Give yourself a little credit.”

“How did this even happen? Wèishéme shì wǒ,” I ask. “Huh. That actually is useful.”

Mom throws her free hand up. “Why you? Why not you?”

Talia echoes Mom’s last question. “You’re never this fearful,” she says. “You’re the say-what’s-on-your-mind-act-before-you-think girl. Where did she go?”

“I’d love to know,” I say honestly, pinching the bridge of my nose. My theory is that that version of me went away when I became creatively blocked. When I felt like a complete imposter after having my installation cut down. When I had to say good-bye to Jack permanently. “Maybe doing this will help me find myself again, but I don’t know if I can do this alone.”

Talia’s eyes widen. “I don’t know if that’s an invite, but if it is, I’d love to come. I can work on the final touches of our gallery in LA and spend time with Isla. The gallery needs some love and attention from me.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” I say, peering up at her.

Talia waves me off. “You’re not asking. And I don’t know, I feel like there’s something for me there, too. Plus, I can coordinate with the communications team and help you install your showcase. Make RSG look legitimate.”

“I can’t believe you. If you’re sure, then yes a million times! I owe you forever,” I scream, leaning over to hug her.

“And we can showcase your pet portraits at the gallery. Do some other exclusive exhibit maybe? Definitely up the prices. It’s Los Angeles. They’ll fly off the walls like an Andy Warhol Marilyn Monroe silk screen. Use the NASA exposure to start making money for the auction.” Talia’s laugh is filled with excitement. “This will be a fun new chapter for both of us.”

After everything that’s happened, it’s time for a change. A new start. And that can only happen in Los Angeles.

I stand with newfound resolve, feeling lighter than I have in months. “Sounds like we’re going to California.”